Full of Grace

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Massimo looked at her with a tiny question on his face that was almost instantly hidden behind his mask of professionalism. Italians knew that Coca-Cola came from America, but there was no significance in getting more specific. Atlanta? Peoria? Chicago? I mean, did Italy care about anything besides Italy? A cure for cancer would be good, but where Coke came from? The average Italian could not have cared less.

  “Come, let’s sit on the terrace,” I said. “It’s beautiful outside.”

  The glass doors parted automatically and the harbor of La Costa Smeralda—the Emerald Coast—was before us.

  Dr. Post stood rooted to her spot, hands on her hips, looking out into the distance. “Whew!” she said. “There must be ten to twenty colors of blue in that water. Beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty breathtaking,” I said. “Gorgeous blue water, mountains in the distance…just like the brochure.”

  My travel-speak broke the spell and she looked at me, shaking her head. Then she reached into her oversize shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s my suggested itinerary for the week. Let me know what you think. ASAP, okay? Sorry I never got to Charleston.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Actually, it’s nice to have this little slice of time to review and I’m sure whatever you have planned is fine.”

  “Well, first it was my dog-sitter. I especially hate leaving Hambone at the kennel because he gets cage anxiety, you know what I mean?”

  “Hambone?”

  “Yeah, he’s an old bloodhound—got too old to hunt, so I took him from a friend who runs a hunt club up near Clarksville. Anyway, he’s a drooler but I love him. Drools on everything. So finally the sitter shows up and she’s got a cast on her leg from her toes clear up to Bangor, Maine. So I say to her, This ain’t gonna work, sister, and she says she’ll be fine. But I’m not so sure, so I hung around for the next two days so my mind could rest. Turns out she gets around just fine and dandy.”

  Hambone the drooler was in good hands and the world can rest easy now.

  “So you just have the one dog?” I said.

  “What? Oh, Lord no! I’ve got Hambone, Alvin and Bessie Mae, my two Scotties, Elvis and Liberace, my two old fat toothless Persians, and Scarface, my parrot.”

  “You have a parrot? Can he talk?”

  “Are you kidding? He never shuts up! Every time I give him a treat he tells me I’m wonderful. I love him.”

  She went on and on about her pets, the Cokes arrived, I shook the itinerary in the air and she finally stopped yakking. We began to go over it.

  “Okay,” I said, “tomorrow night at seven-thirty, we have cocktails in the bar by the pool, and dinner is at nine at Da Gianni Pedrinelli.”

  “And I suspect it’s a nice place, this Gianni Pedrinelli joint?”

  “Massimo, the concierge who looks like a movie star, says it’s the finest fish on the island.”

  “Then I’ll bet it is. And first thing the next morning, we take the group to the Cathedral of Cagliari and have lunch around the piazza. I’ll ask Mr. Hollywood for a lunch recommendation.”

  “Good idea. I’ll come, too. Then we can come back to the hotel for a swim and a siesta or what? Golf? You know somebody will show up with clubs, right? Probably half the men. I’ll ask Massimo about a golf course. I know there are some guys who travel the world trying to play every golf course there is. My father plays. Personally, I don’t get it.”

  “Me either. Takes too much time and you don’t learn a thing. Boy, it sure is hot here, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s almost one hundred. The U.S. didn’t corner the market on heat, right?”

  “No. We surely did not. But Sardinia sure is gorgeous. This is work?”

  “Right?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  That night I had a long bubble bath, and swaddled in the hotel’s velvet cut terrycloth bathrobe, I had a small feast delivered from room service. My room was so beautiful that I hated Michael not being there. He would have loved it. We both loved the water and the Mediterranean was so different from the Atlantic around Charleston. It was at least fifteen degrees cooler and clear, like a piece of handblown glass. No sharks—a meaningful selling point for my money. But the water had jellyfish and prickly sea urchins, so you would be well warned to watch where you went. No, Michael would have loved this place and I knew it. I pulled back the sheets and slipped in. Linen. Oh, how I loved linen sheets! There was something so natural about them. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought they were cooler to sleep in during the summer and somehow warmer in the winter. They were so impractical I would probably never own them, never mind the expense. But for the next few nights, I could wrap myself in gorgeous Italian linen and pretend to be a real principessa. It was just one more imagined bonus of my crazy job.

  I tried to call Michael. There was no answer at the house and his cell phone didn’t answer either. I left messages in both places and told myself he was all right. Surely someone would’ve called me if something had happened. But who? A neighbor? One of Michael’s friends? Maybe something happened to his mother. The thought of Michael dealing with his mother’s illness or death alone was so upsetting that I finally took a sleeping pill and washed it down with a dose of vodka from the minibar. This was the major drawback of my job—I might have been sleeping in Italian linen, but I was sleeping alone, incommunicado with the outside world.

  The next morning, I was up at six, showered, dressed, fed and in the lobby by eight. Guests began to trickle in. No doubt the Olbia Airport was littered with GIVs and GVs, and rolling racks probably groaned under the tonnage of designer luggage. I was there to greet them with Massimo and Geri at my side.

  The board president, Stan White, and his wife, Liza; Harvey and Marilyn Gross; and Dylan Holmes and his meaningful other, Caroline Sutter, were the first to check in. At first glance they all seemed nice enough. Liza White and Marilyn Gross were Stan and Harvey’s original wives, but Caroline Sutter was at least thirty years younger than Mr. Holmes. Liza and Marilyn had endured numerous surgical procedures—lifting, tucking, peeling, enhancing and paralyzing—and Caroline Sutter was oblivious. In minutes I realized that Liza and Marilyn were barely speaking to Caroline the Younger, and by that evening the reason was obvious.

  We were gathered at the bar by the pool with another dozen of our group. Although it was seven-thirty, the temperature still clung to the midnineties. After a day of sweltering heat, everything, even the bamboo furniture, was warm to the touch, everything except the highball glasses the new arrivals clutched. Liza and Marilyn, thin as rails, were dressed and accessorized beautifully. Despite years of personal trainers, salon treatments and plastic surgery, their hair showed traces of chemical ravage, their hands were cruelly freckled with liver spots, and their earlobes drooped with age. But they were gorgeous and gracious and wonderful women inside and out. They just weren’t in their thirties anymore.

  Thirtysomething Caroline, bejeweled in ropes of turquoise to match her eyes, was wearing a fabulous Indian skirt of sheer aqua gauze encrusted with tiny opalescent paillettes. Her silky camisole barely covered the goods, and her rock-hard tanned abdomen was exposed, revealing a rose tattoo on the top of her right hip. Her embroidered espadrilles brought her to nearly six feet in height and her shoulder-length blond hair was layered, swinging and moving every time she tossed her pretty head. Mr. Dylan Holmes couldn’t keep his hands off her bare shoulder, bare arm or bare waist. The eyes of Stan and Harvey were riveted to her every move and their ears perked for any cookie she might toss their way. If great looks and being totally chic weren’t bad enough, Caroline was the head of pediatric oncology at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta. If she had only been a moron she would have been a lot easier to like. They had all flown from Atlanta together on Dylan’s GV, but there was little question that Liza and Marilyn were considering a commercial flight home.

  “This part of Italy is so beautiful,” Liza said. “Maybe we should stay and go to Corsica for a fe
w days?”

  “I think that sounds like a marvelous idea,” Marilyn said. “Maybe our tour guide could help us arrange it.”

  I inwardly bristled at the title “tour guide,” but who was I kidding? That’s what I was—to them at least. The hired help—not the principessa.

  “I’d be delighted to,” I said. “Just let me know.”

  Caroline Sutter, M.D., was a constant reminder to women like Liza and Marilyn that if their Jedi husbands so chose, they could be dumped in an instant for a rising superstar. If someone like Caroline Sutter could burn brightly in the company of a fat old coot like Dylan Holmes, then someone like her could also be very satisfied with their balding Stan or paunchy Harvey in his Madras sport coat. All the men were on guard, and after the initial henpecking, icy glances, pinched inner arms and whispered remarks, they finally settled into behaviors that put their long-suffering wives slightly more at ease. After all, their attention to Caroline could cost them a trip to Buccellati. In this crowd, everything had its price.

  I turned to see Massimo stepping sprightly down the walkway toward us. He wore a black suit, a white shirt and a black tie. Even in the intense heat, he seemed perfectly at ease, but a lifetime in the climate was probably the reason why.

  “Are the buses here?” I said.

  “Sì. Whenever your guests are ready…”

  It was long after nine when the sun finally sank into the sky and we were all gathered, three tables of eight, in Da Gianni Pedrinelli, enjoying the cool breeze. Without any menu or any consultation, we were served a creamy gazpacho garnished with tiny shrimp, followed by spinach ravioli stuffed with Pecorino cheese topped with grilled langoustines and, finally, branzino baked in a thick paste of salt. It was the most delicious meal I had ever enjoyed on Italian soil and I was wishing I could pack up the chef and take him back to the States with me.

  I finally began to relax a little, thinking with relief that Massimo had delivered on his promise. And, of course, as soon as I stopped obsessing about the success of the trip, I started obsessing about Michael. He had not called and I had been unable to reach him. I pulled out my cell and checked the messages. No messages. No missed calls. Well, maybe no news was good news, I told myself, and turned my attention back to the dinner and my clients. I went from guest to guest, inquiring about their rooms and asking if I could do anything for them. One guest couldn’t get his wireless connection to deliver his e-mail. I said I would have it running smoothly by nine in the morning if he would give me his laptop that night. Another guest said she would love a massage the following afternoon and I said it would not be a problem. A few others had small requests, but overall, they loved their rooms and couldn’t wait to have a swim in the gorgeous saltwater pool.

  We lingered over gelato and coffee, no one really wanting to end the first night. Perhaps they were too weary from travel or too entranced by the setting. It had been a magical night, to be sure. But finally the men began to stretch and the women left to use the powder rooms, the signal that dinner was over.

  “That was absolutely delicious,” a guest said.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I said, helping her up the steps of the bus.

  Back at the hotel most guests returned to their rooms and a few of the men ambled over to the bar to smoke a cigar and have a whiskey. I went to my room to call Bomze and Michael. Bomze was first. It was just before five o’clock in Charleston.

  “Hey! Just wanted to let you know that the group is all here and we are doing fine.” I told him about dinner and the plans for the next few days. He was pleased and then became especially animated when he broke the news that he and the Baroness were headed to Moscow with the management of a huge software company and then on to St. Petersburg for a black-tie soiree at the Hermitage. Bomze liked nothing better than a chance to sport a white silk scarf, and heaven knows the Baroness was probably doing tiara inventory. My next assignment, he told me, was to take a group to Napa for a think tank on the food and wine industry.

  “Wanna swap trips?” I said, knowing the answer in advance.

  “Not a chance, tootsie.”

  “Well, Napa’s better than Poughkeepsie,” I said, adding, “You haven’t heard from Michael, have you?”

  “Michael? Heavens, no. Why would I hear from him? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine. Well, not really…I just thought…Well, he wasn’t feeling great when I left and I’ve been trying to call him…Anyway, if you do…”

  “Did you e-mail him?”

  “No, my BlackBerry’s signal isn’t that great, so…Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s okay.”

  “Okay, then…”

  We chatted for a few more minutes and hung up. Bomze didn’t sweat my competence and I was surely glad for that. I dialed home again and let the phone ring eight times. Voice mail didn’t answer as it was supposed to and I wondered if Michael had received my other messages at all. Just as I was about to hang up he answered.

  His voice didn’t sound right. Was he sleeping?

  “Hey! Loverboy! It’s the woman of your dreams! Are you asleep?”

  “Hey, sweetheart. Yeah, I just came home and took a nap.”

  “What’s up with that? You sick?”

  “No, no. I just keep having these headaches and today I got so nauseated…so I came home and decided to lie down for a while, that’s all. I’ve been a little dizzy. But I’m fine. Really.”

  I knew he wasn’t fine. Something wasn’t right.

  “Listen to me, Dr. Wonderful, lawyers shouldn’t represent themselves and doctors shouldn’t diagnose themselves. I want you to go see someone, okay? You work in the Medical University of South Carolina, for heaven’s sake. There has to be somebody who can take a look at your gorgeous head tomorrow. Promise me, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll go in and see who’s there. How’s the trip?”

  We talked for a few minutes and then hung up. Michael did not sound like himself at all. Something was definitely wrong. Was there another woman? No. Michael wouldn’t do that. Would he? No. Not in a million years. I just hated it when I couldn’t reach him.

  I went to my makeup bag and pulled out my sleeping pills. I couldn’t afford a night of tossing and turning. It was going to be me, Mr. Smirnoff and the wonders of chemicals that would get me to sleep.

  And they worked.

  The morning brought cottonmouth, but two cappuccinos and a lot of water cured that. I wandered down to the breakfast buffet tent, and although it was early, you could already sense that the day ahead would bring no relief from the heat. Two couples from our group were at one table. Another couple was having breakfast with Dylan and Caroline. Everyone seemed chipper and anxious to start the day.

  “The bus leaves at nine-thirty,” I told everyone, and advised them all to bring bottled water and sunscreen.

  We were an army of Burberry tote bags as we descended on the little town of Cagliari and its Cathedral of Santa Maria.

  “It was built in the year 1200 by the Romans…”

  Geri Post had begun her lecture and the group followed her like ducklings from side chapel to side chapel. I hung back, preferring to focus on the locals, who were there in the middle of the day, lighting candles and mumbling prayers, pushing along from one decade of the rosary to the next. A young woman kneeling before a statue of the Blessed Virgin caught my eye. She seemed so distraught and sincere, as though the statue would come to life and solve her problems. Wouldn’t that be nice, I thought. And then I thought of Michael.

  I looked at the statue of Mary and stared at her face with curiosity. I spent more time in churches than a saint, with all the tours I ran. But it had been so long since I had considered them to be anything more than historic buildings. The reality was that they were a brick-and-mortar extension of man’s desire to connect with something greater than himself, something good and all-powerful who resided there, waiting for mankind to just ask if he/she/it/they could please take away the pain of the w
orld. And it was then that I knew I was at risk of losing the only man I had ever loved. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. Danger has its own internal stench.

  I looked at the face of the Madonna and began to panic. What was I supposed to do? Pull out a rosary from thin air, shake off the mothballs, wipe off the dust and start to pray? Yeah, sure. Like every other woman in the world who senses an imminent disaster, was I supposed to suddenly have this spiritual rebirth and connect with God? Forget God. After an absence such as mine, did I think God was waiting around for me just so He could grant me my wish? I had a better odds on finding a genie in a bottle. But a woman might understand. A woman who had lost her own child would surely be more sympathetic. Still, with all the devout petitioners out there in the universe, would she even hear my rusty, creaking question? I knew I had a long trip to travel if I wanted access to Mary’s heart—if there was a heart there or somewhere that would hear my plea. Hear my plea and show me the way to salvation? The thought of going to Mary in prayer made me shiver with trepidation. If she was in earshot, why would she listen to me?

  All at once I was weak. I began to tremble and I couldn’t control it. I had to get out of that church immediately or I was going to be sick.

  I stumbled out through the heavy doors into the sunlight of the Piazza Palazzo and sat on a low wall. Despite the searing sun, I had chills and continued to shake. The last thing I remembered was closing my eyes to try to regulate my breathing and gather my composure.

  “You okay?” I looked up to see Geri Post and some of our group.

  “What? Oh, gosh. I must’ve passed out.”

  “We thought you were like dead sitting here like I don’t know what.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Is everyone here?” I stood up and felt okay then. Whatever bizarre physical reaction I had experienced had passed. “Are we ready for lunch? How did you like the cathedral?”

  I chattered on like a magpie, trying to convince myself that everything was normal. After all, the act was half the battle. If you acted in control, people thought you were. If you appeared to have just had a religious experience and then passed out cold on the outside wall of a cathedral, people thought you were a lunatic. I was the lunatic in control. But what the hell had happened to me?