Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “Of course! You’re right,” Denis said. “We could. We should. We will!”

  I jumped up and gave him a hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said, relieved to be back on the trail of the costumes, grateful that Denis had the means to arrange it. “This’ll be amazing. Maybe we’ll find him. Do you think we will? Do you think he’ll still have the dresses?”

  Denis laughed. “I hope so. Hey, in this case, we can honestly say that the butler did it.”

  “I’ve always wanted to say that,” I said. I don’t know why I said that. When have I ever wanted to say the butler did it? Never, that’s when.

  Denis took my hand and led me to the street, where he hailed a cab. “Come, bella, the Eternal City awaits us.”

  Roma, Italy

  Fly Me to the Moon

  NOTHING STARTS A TRIP off on the right foot like a private jet.

  There are three reasons for this. First, you don’t have to deal with security checkpoints, pat downs, liquid carry-on restrictions—all the indignities that make flying so torturous; second, the food is even better than in first class (not that I’ve flown first class, but hello! We had our own chef); and third, you can have sex at thirty-six thousand feet and they won’t arrest you. Denis and I did not join the mile-high club on this flight, but we could have and that’s my point.

  When we landed in Roma (that’s how they say it in Italian), a uniformed driver was waiting with a stretch limo right on the tarmac to whisk us to our hotel. It was almost nine P.M. Denis (or his staff, I suppose) arranged for us to stay in a two-bedroom suite at the Hassler Villa Medici, a small, old-world, five-star hotel located at the top of the Spanish Steps. Everyone who is anyone has stayed there, including Audrey Hepburn when she made Roman Holiday. How do I know? Let’s just say there is very little about Miss Hepburn that I don’t know.

  The king-sized beds in each room were made with 1,020-thread-count sheets and topped by feather duvets so thick that you could disappear right into them. Believe it or not, there were real antiquities in a display case in the living room of our suite. I wondered if anyone would notice if I took a really small one for a souvenir (tee-hee!). The bathrooms were enormous, finished in pink marble and twenty-three-karat gold-plated faucets. Near the tub, fresh cucumber slices were set in a bowl of ice. I could barely tolerate all that luxury at once, but somehow I managed.

  The first order of business was to draw a cool bath to soothe my burned skin. With the water running, I poured in the orange-scented oil the hotel provided and the room became humid and smelled of citrus. I lit a candle, lay cucumber slices over my face and eyes, then relaxed in the tub until the bubbles disappeared. It was heavenly to just soak and feel fresh again, but then I remembered that I had no clean clothes. So I dried off and put on the thick terry-cloth robe that had been warming on the heated rack.

  When I stepped into the oak-paneled living room, Denis was wearing his robe and standing on the balcony that overlooked the city. He had ordered room service. A tuxedo-clad waiter was setting up the table while another lit candles. There was an open bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. A few stars peeked out from behind a curtain of gray clouds in the night sky. I could smell the aloe vera gel on Denis’ skin. “Want some?” he asked, offering me the bottle.

  I squirted out a dollop and rubbed it on my face and chest. It was just what the doctor ordered.

  Then I noticed all the food on the table. “What did you do?” I said. After the rich meal we’d had flying over, I wasn’t very hungry (did I mention the private chef? Oh, yes, I believe I did). Still, a glass of wine would be perfect.

  Denis turned and smiled. “It’s only a snack. See, there’s stuffed mussels, fried anchovies, some gnocchi, cheese.”

  “Ooh, goody,” I said, taking a seat while the waiter politely bowed out.

  Denis raised one eyebrow. Pouring us each a glass of wine, he made a toast. “To finding what we’re missing,” he said, as we clinked our glasses together.

  “You mean the dresses?”

  “That and anything else we might be missing,” he said mysteriously.

  “What are you missing?” I asked, ever the sleuth.

  “You said it before. The affections of a good woman.” He gazed into my eyes in loverlike fashion. “You know something? I wish to make a statement,” Denis declared. “I adore you.”

  I choked, and coughed out the fried anchovy I’d just popped in my mouth. “Excuse me. Cheese?” I said, cutting him a slice and offering it. He took it out of my fingers with his mouth, chewing it slowly. Exotic-dancer slowly, if you know what I mean. I was starting to see where this was going and for reasons I can’t possibly explain, I panicked.

  “You know, cheese is one of my favorite foods, always has been,” I said. “When I was growing up, we didn’t have much money and I always put cheese on my Christmas list. Goat cheese, very unusual in those days, but Pops was something of a gourmet. I asked for a pony too, a miniature one so I could keep it in the apartment. Never got that either. When we moved to Queens, I put Canadian ice wine on my list. I’d tasted it at a bar Pops played at and it was so delicious. But I was underage so he wouldn’t give it to me for Christmas. Do you think children should be allowed—”

  Mercifully, the phone rang, interrupting my holiday rant.

  “Wait, slow down,” Denis said. “You woke up and he was gone? Did you check the whole suite? Are you sure?”

  He listened for a while, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “Annie, don’t be scared. You’re safe on the ship,” he said. “But I want you to go to Grandma’s cabin.”

  “She’s not? Where is she?” he said evenly. “Okay, fine; put me on hold, call Sydney on the other line, and tell her I said you have to stay with her.”

  Denis ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “She didn’t answer? Where could she be?”

  Oh, dear, I thought. Doesn’t Denis realize the ship is a veritable Peyton Place? I waved my arm like a nerdy schoolgirl. “If she can’t find Lucille, tell her to call Carleen. I’ll bet she can stay with her.”

  Denis told her to ring Carleen, and if she wasn’t available, to call him back. “Jeez,” he said, “she woke up and Manny was gone. Syd’s not answering. Neither is my mother. Where is everyone?”

  I checked my watch and realized it was after eleven. For some intuitive reason, I said, “Maybe they’re at the bar.”

  “You’re right.”

  I backed up my chair and yawned. “You know, I’m beat. Do you mind if I go to bed?”

  “Sure, of course,” Denis said, standing like a gentleman. “I want to call the bar anyway.”

  “Well, good night,” I said, giving him a friendly wave. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Oh, you are lame, I thought miserably, toddling off to my room. Alone.

  Mad About the Boy

  WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning, my first thought was not of the possibility that I had blown it with Denis the night before, not of the luxurious hotel room or luscious feather bed in which I found myself, not of the fact that for the first time in six months, I hadn’t slept with my headgear and it felt great. No, the first thing that came to my mind was the missing trunk and the very real possibility I would go to jail if it wasn’t found. This did not feel liberating in the least. So I put all thoughts of incarceration out of my head and told myself that we’d find the dresses today.

  Making my way to the bathroom, I took a shower and got back into the soft, fluffy robe. My stomach was making little noises that I hoped Denis would find cute, if not adorable. Poking my head into the living room, I spotted him reading a coral-colored newspaper.

  “Morning,” he said, looking up, smiling. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “I want to take you out to breakfast, but in keeping with our tradition, here’s some pink champagne to tide you over.”

  “Ooh, yummy, how nice of you,” I said. Our first tradition, I marveled, and what better tradition than champagne for breakfast!
Looking at that sweet face, those earnest brown eyes, the cleft in his chin, the dimples when he smiled, even that teddy-bear frame, I realized what a good heart he had and how much I wanted him. That was why I couldn’t be with him last night. I needed him to care. A casual fling would kill me after what happened with Alessandro. Well, maybe not kill me, but it would seriously wound me.

  “Was everything okay with Annie?”

  Denis took a sip of bubbly. “Yes, Mom was in the bar like you thought. She took care of her.”

  I held out my flute and Denis filled it with champagne.

  “I ordered us some clothes,” Denis said. “They were delivered this morning.”

  “I could get used to this kind of service.”

  Denis laughed. “Wait’ll you see the clothes.”

  The two of us made quite the pair with our bright sunburned faces, matching Nike trainers, and Adidas running suits (in red and green like the Italian flag) with white T-shirts that said “Roma.”

  “I hope nobody thinks we did this on purpose,” I said.

  “Oh, but I specifically asked for matching outfits in the national colors,” Denis said. “You don’t like?”

  “You did?” I said. “That’s so sweet. I—I love it.”

  Denis burst out laughing.

  I am so gullible.

  “There’s a Prada boutique a block away, but it doesn’t open till ten thirty,” he said. “We can shop later.”

  “If we have time,” I said. “These are fine.”

  The hot sun made for lazy weather. We meandered down the Spanish Steps, which was flooded with tourists, locals, lovers, backpackers, and the like, to the Piazza di Spagna, where we found a quaint English teahouse called Babington’s. Outside a jeans-clad musician strummed a guitar, his case open and filled with coins. The place was buzzing (with tourists mostly), but we snagged a table in the back room where the air-conditioning was blowing the hardest. The place looked just like a quaint English cottage. I ordered a Blushing Bunny, which was grilled tomato, creamy Italian cheese, and mushrooms on toast. Denis had Canarino, a poached egg on rice pilaf with cheese sauce. Plus, we ordered tea. “Maybe we should go for Italian food tonight,” I suggested. “We are in Roma.”

  Denis agreed, then pulled out a map, which he studied. “According to this, John’s family lives right off via Boncompagna, which doesn’t look like it’s too far from here. We can rent a Vespa at the hotel.”

  “You just want to show up at his house? Unannounced?” I said. “Do you think that’s wise? Mmm, this Blushing Bunny is delicious.”

  Denis reached over with his fork and took a bite, smacking his lips in approval. “If it’s his parents’ house and we tell them what their son did, maybe they can pressure him into doing the right thing,” Denis said. “Kids want their mother’s and father’s approval.”

  “You mean like you,” I said. “The way you chose law school over baseball, the way you’re marrying Sydney? Can I try yours?”

  Denis cut me a bite of his poached egg with rice and put it on my plate. “Here,” he said. “What can I say? Where I come from, duty trumps pleasure. Nothing was more important to my parents than seeing me run the family business, make the right marriage, that sort of thing.”

  “Mmm, yummy,” I said, tasting his Canarino. “You are a good son. But a lowlife like John doesn’t care what his parents think. Haven’t you ever watched Law & Order: Criminal Intent?”

  “And I disagree,” Denis said, standing, putting some cash down on the table. “That’s why we’re going to talk to his mother. No boy wants to disappoint his mother.”

  To get to via Boncompagna, we hiked back up the Spanish Steps, beyond the throng of tourists, toward the Trinità dei Monti (the ancient church at the top of the Steps), and swung behind the hotel, where we rented a Vespa. Denis almost backed out when he found out the vendor didn’t have helmets. But I talked him into living on the wild side.

  I had no idea how wild until we started driving on the uneven streets with all that crazy loud traffic. The city was chaotic, proud, and utterly beguiling. We drove off, weaving through tourists as we sped down narrow cobbled roads. There were crumbling buildings, ancient walls, choppy brick streets, charming boutiques, greengrocers, fish markets, and baroque fountains on every block. Cars were honking, taxi drivers were shouting, Vespas were shooting in and out of traffic—the pace was more frenetic than New York City when the president was in town.

  “Hold on,” Denis yelled as we careened around a sharp corner.

  I grabbed his waist for dear life. We hit a bump and I squeezed him even tighter to stay on the Vespa.

  As we traversed a crooked side street, an old lady snoozed on a park bench with a basket of daisies by her head, a black cat sunned himself on a stone wall, a hunched-over man begged for change, a fruit vendor gave an apple to a little boy who was holding hands with his young, stylish mother. Each living tableau we passed made me feel like I was watching a movie about a place I’d been to a thousand times, yet had never seen at all.

  Denis kept pulling over so I could take pictures. This was a trip I never wanted to forget. Plus, I was stalling. What if John became violent when we showed up at his house? I’ve never known a butler to be violent before, but there’s always a first time. Come to think of it, John was my first butler ever. How sad that my impression of butlers would forever be marred because my first one turned out to be a criminal.

  We whizzed around the corner of via Boncompagna to via Piave and finally came to a stop at an ochre-stained home bearing the name Villa Savoy.

  “That’s it,” I said. “John’s last name is Savoy. He told me.”

  Denis checked the paper. “Yep. It must be his family’s home.”

  We parked the Vespa in front, opened the creaking gate latch, and entered a courtyard. The little square was dotted with cherry trees. Vines of sweet-smelling honeysuckle climbed along the stone walls. A chipped mosaic floor surrounded a once-elegant (but now crumbling) fountain. The water bubbled out of a carved fish’s mouth in the center, sounding just like the brook from Alessandro’s sleep machine. There were coins on the bottom of the fountain.

  “Wait,” I said, lollygagging. “Do you have any more change?”

  Denis reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. I closed my eyes and thought real hard before wishing that I’d get the guy, but not the prison term. Then I tossed them into the water.

  “Stand by the fountain,” I said. “Let me take your picture.”

  Denis smiled at the camera, looking adorably dorky in his Italian tourista tracksuit.

  “Say grazie,” I said, snapping the picture.

  Suddenly, the gate swung open. A bald grandfather, all stooped over, wearing a heavy black suit, his arm around the shoulders of a younger man, appeared in the doorway.

  My stomach dropped like a bungee jumper. “John,” I said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  I Got a Right to Sing the Blues

  JOHN GRINNED WHEN HE spotted me. “Ciao, Miss Ross,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He escorted the old man to a wrought-iron bench by the side of the fountain and helped him sit down. “Look how ripe your skin is,” he said, taking us in. “You must put vinegar on your burns.”

  The gate opened again and a tiny, gray-haired woman in black orthopedic shoes, wooly tights, and a dark kerchief ambled through carrying a white cake box tied with red-and-white string. Behind her came a procession of men, women, and children all dressed in their Sunday best, many holding covered dishes of food or fresh baguettes from the panetteria. John spoke to them in Italian, pointing to Denis and me. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah pedophilo blah blah blah blah blah” was all I heard him say. People gasped and shook their heads. He gestured toward the house. Two gangly teenage boys helped the old man go inside.

  “Did you just tell them my pedophile boyfriend dumped me?” I asked, my voice higher by an octave.

  “Oh, yes, do you mind?” John said. “I was exp
laining who you were.”

  “How did you even know?” Denis asked.

  “There are no secrets on the ship. I know that the woman you are to marry has taken a lover.”

  Denis’ face grew redder than it already was and his jaw flapped open.

  “That’s right,” John said gently, “the caregiver for your daughter. I saw them together with my own eyes. And I know that your father has taken a lover.”

  “What!” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, “Miss Carl—”

  “That’s okay, I can guess,” I said, sticking my fingers in my ears.

  “A luxury cruise ship is like a small village,” John said. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business. So what brings you to my neck of the forest?” John said.

  “The woods,” I said. “My neck of the woods.”

  “Is your mother home?” Denis asked. “We’d like to speak to her.” If John was going to shock Denis with his revelations, Denis would return the favor.

  The butler’s face fell. “She has passed away. We’ve just come from her funeral. That is why I left the ship.”

  Denis and I looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We didn’t realize.”

  John’s eyes filled. “It was too soon. She was young.”

  “My condolences,” Denis said. “But why did you take Holly’s trunk with you?”

  John cocked his head and appeared puzzled. “I promised Miss Ross that I would deliver it to the Istituto di Moda.”

  “So you were still planning to do that?” I asked.

  “Of course,” John said.

  “Can we see it?” Denis asked.

  John hesitated and bit his lip. “There is one small matter I must confess.” He sat on the iron bench and looked at his feet. “Please forgive me. I borrowed one of the dresses for my mother to wear at her viewing. It was the beautiful white shiny gown with the red sash and tiara. You see, we are descendants of Italian royalty and I wanted her to look regal in her casket.”