Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  Hallie thought about Riccardo’s mistress stashed in Milan, about his declaration that he wanted to divorce Portia and marry Veronica.

  “I hope so,” Hallie murmured, fiddling with the gold tassels on the sofa.

  “Tell me everything.” Francesca’s voice was warm and engaging. “Are Sophia and Pliny treating you well? Have you seen Marcus?”

  “Marcus and Angelica are visiting her parents in Tuscany,” Hallie replied. “Sophia is still a dragon, but Pliny has been very kind.”

  “He does have a charming side,” Francesca agreed. “I can’t imagine Sophia mellowing with age. That would be like the Pope becoming less Catholic.”

  “I saw the most beautiful villa,” Hallie mused. “It’s in Lenno and it looks exactly like Versailles.”

  Since she returned from Villa Luce she hadn’t been able to think about anything else. When she closed her eyes she saw the glittering chandeliers and the elaborate frescos. She pictured the bubbling fountains and magnificent chestnut trees.

  “Have you thought about Peter?”

  “San Francisco seems so far away,” Hallie replied. “I don’t know how I’ll feel when I see him.”

  “Distances can seem very great or terribly small,” Francesca said thoughtfully. “I must go; I have a six-tier vanilla custard wedding cake to deliver.”

  “How do you fit that into your car?” Hallie giggled, suddenly missing her mother’s light vanilla custard and rich chocolate icing.

  “Very carefully.” Francesca laughed. “Give my love to Portia.”

  Hallie hung up and flipped through the magazine. She wished she could go for a run on the Marina Green or buy dinner at Safeway; do all the normal things that filled her life. Without Portia, the day stretched ahead like a blank sheet of paper.

  “Hallie!” Portia blew in the door. She wore a silver Versace dress and gold Gucci sandals. Her cheeks were tan and her hair tumbled down her back.

  “You look very elegant for eleven o’clock in the morning.” Hallie smiled. “I take it you didn’t run away to the ballet school in Milan.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” Portia threw herself on the sofa. “Riccardo took me to the Villa d’Este. It was such a whirlwind; I didn’t even have any clothes. I had to buy this in the gift shop.”

  Hallie raised her eyebrows. The Villa d’Este was one of the most famous hotels in the world, patronized by kings and rock stars. Hallie had seen pictures and Alfonso had pointed it out from the boat, but she had never been inside.

  “We wanted to be together after the feast,” Portia explained. “I couldn’t take him up to my bedroom.”

  “Why didn’t you go to your villa?”

  “Riccardo wanted to do something more romantic.” Portia fell back against the cushions. “We ate on the terrace overlooking the floating pool, we danced under the stars. It was like being on honeymoon.”

  “Are you back together?”

  “Riccardo doesn’t think we should live together yet,” Portia replied evasively.

  “You mean he’s keeping his mistress in Milan, and humoring you on the side?” Hallie asked, suddenly angry.

  “At least he still wants to be married to me,” Portia argued. “He didn’t mention divorce.”

  “Villa d’Este is hardly the place you take someone to discuss divorce,” Hallie muttered. “Do you want to date your own husband?”

  “If Riccardo leaves, no man will want to marry a divorced woman.”

  “This isn’t the Dark Ages.” Hallie sighed. “Remember your vows: in sickness and in health, through good times and bad. They didn’t say anything about two nights at a five-star resort when you’re horny.”

  “It wasn’t just sex.” Portia pouted.

  “You deserve better; Alfonso agrees.”

  “When did you see Alfonso?” Portia asked.

  “I ran into him in Bellagio yesterday. He took me to see the most amazing private villa. He said you always brought home bad boys.”

  “Alfonso and Marcus think they know everything.” Portia shrugged. “Men are like little boys, they are good and bad at the same time.”

  “A husband isn’t a child.” Hallie closed the magazine. “Let’s go exploring. I’d love to see the castle at Varenna.”

  “Are you trying to get my mind off Riccardo?” Portia asked suspiciously. “You think I’ll meet some romantic Frenchman and fly off to the City of Lights?”

  “It could happen.” Hallie grinned.

  Portia shook her head. “A Tesoro has to marry an Italian.”

  “Pliny married Francesca,” Hallie protested.

  “When he was a university student on a ski vacation.” Portia sighed. “Sophia didn’t know about it until he carried Francesca over the threshold.”

  “It’s your life,” Hallie argued.

  “But it’s the Tesoro name,” Portia mumbled. “I’ll go upstairs and change and then we’ll sightsee. Promise that you won’t say anything bad about Riccardo.”

  Hallie looked at Portia’s narrow cheekbones, her dark luminous eyes. She saw pain and joy flit across her face. She crossed her fingers behind her back and nodded.

  * * *

  Hallie and Portia sat in the Piazza San Giorgio, sharing a wood-fired pizza. They spent all day exploring Varenna, climbing higher until they reached the ruins of the Castello di Vezio. They learned about Queen Theodolina who was sentenced to death in the seventh century, and imagined what it would be like to know your days were numbered when you were surrounded by so much beauty.

  Hallie thought maybe Portia was right about Riccardo. Portia was almost her old self. When they reached the Castello di Vezio, Hallie was breathless from the long hike, but Portia twirled around the ruins like it was a stage. Portia ran all the way down to the Piazza San Giorgio like a child testing a new bicycle, while Hallie navigated the uneven cobblestones, trying not to feel dizzy.

  Now, sitting in the charming square surrounded by its medieval buildings and stone fountain, Portia devoured her pizza like a teenager. She washed it down with a glass of wine and licked olive oil and tomato sauce from her fingers.

  “I had forgotten what sex does for the appetite.” Portia smiled wickedly. “I’m going to have a double scoop of gelato for dessert.”

  “I’m glad Riccardo is good for something,” Hallie said warily.

  “You promised you wouldn’t say anything bad about Riccar-do.” Portia scowled. “Tell me about the fabulous villa you saw yesterday.”

  “It’s owned by a man named Max Rodale. He’s a complete recluse. The dimensions of the rooms were overwhelming,” Hallie replied, picturing the smooth gold floors and dramatic ceilings.

  “Lake Como is full of mysterious villas,” Portia said, and shrugged. “I’m going to get a gelato, would you like some?”

  Hallie shook her head and waited for Portia to return. She sipped sparkling water and watched tourists try on souvenir T-shirts. She saw a tall man flipping through magazines at the newsstand. He paid for the magazine and walked toward her, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “You’re the intruder.” He stopped at her table, frowning in the late-afternoon sun.

  Hallie noticed that his eyes had yellow flecks, and his hair was the color of chestnuts. “Interior designer, not intruder,” she mumbled, swallowing a bite of pizza.

  “Are you sure you’re not following me?” Angus smiled. He wore beige shorts and a plain black T-shirt and carried a cloth shopping bag.

  “I’m sightseeing,” Hallie replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Max likes a special olive oil they only sell in Varenna,” Angus explained. “I take the opportunity to stock up on American magazines. I miss reading about the Red Sox.”

  “I love everything Italian.” Hallie wiped her mouth with a napkin. “They don’t sell pizza like this in North Beach.”

  “May I sit down?” Angus pointed to the empty chair. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure.” Hallie nodded. “But I promi
se I didn’t take any pictures of Villa Luce, you can search my phone.”

  Angus sat opposite her, cramming his long legs under the table. “I mentioned to Max your suggestion about the paintings.”

  “What suggestion?”

  “About housing them in a bigger space,” Angus replied.

  “I’m gone two minutes and you give away my chair?” Portia demanded, licking a cone of rainbow gelato.

  Hallie blushed. “This is Angus Barlow. I met him yesterday at the Villa Luce.”

  “You didn’t tell me the villa came with a sexy estate manager.” Portia fluttered dark eyelashes.

  “Am I interrupting?” Angus started to get up.

  “Please stay.” Portia pulled up another chair. “I love to listen to American accents.”

  “Max thought it was a great idea; he’s been thinking about redoing the monastery wing for some time,” Angus continued.

  “Alfonso said the original owner closed it up because it was unlucky,” Hallie said, frowning.

  “There is a story about an unfaithful noblewoman buried under the floor.” Angus shrugged.

  “Italian men.” Portia shivered. “Treating their wives like chattel.”

  “That was four centuries ago.” Hallie turned to Angus. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Max wondered if you’d be interested in designing the whole wing,” Angus replied.

  “Me?” Hallie stammered.

  “He checked out your work online,” Angus continued. “You could set your own budget and make all the decisions.”

  Hallie pictured the villa perched above the lake like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She saw the endless halls like reflections in a funhouse mirror. She imagined combing stores in Milan for fine silks, traveling to Paris for Louis XIV armoires.

  “That’s a huge job,” she said finally. “It would take months.”

  “And Hallie would love to do it,” Portia broke in. “She has nothing but time.”

  “It’s a tremendous opportunity,” Hallie murmured. “But I didn’t plan on staying that long.”

  “Will you think about it?” Angus asked.

  Hallie watched a couple walk by sharing a slice of pizza. She saw a boy and girl fight over an ice-cream cone, two scoops falling on the cobblestones. She watched a young man in a leather jacket buy a dozen roses at a flower stall.

  Hallie turned to Angus and nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ve got your card.” Angus pushed his chair back, smiling. “I’ll call you.”

  “Did you forget that I have a job and a boyfriend at home?” Hallie asked when Angus disappeared down the alley to the boat dock.

  “You’ve been saying for years you want your own design firm,” Portia replied. “If you have the Villa Luce on your resumé, clients will line up to work with you.”

  Hallie pictured showing Libby Taylor or Patsy Mane photos of Villa Luce. She imagined them clamoring to use the same drapes and furniture in their Pacific Heights mansions.

  “What about Peter?” Hallie demanded.

  “You can Skype him every night.” Portia shrugged. “If he wants to see you, he can hop on a plane and be here in ten hours.”

  The young man in the leather jacket approached their table. He presented Hallie and Portia with two red roses and murmured, “Ciao, Bellissima.”

  Portia picked up her rose and grinned. “It looks like you have a new admirer.”

  * * *

  Hallie sat at the desk in her room, waiting for the dinner bell to sound. After they returned from Varenna, she took a long bath and slathered her skin with Acqua di Parma. She put on a navy silk dress with Gucci pumps and a white leather belt. Glancing in the mirror she felt young and sophisticated, but her stomach was filled with butterflies.

  She opened her laptop, suddenly missing Peter’s boyish smile. She clicked on Facebook and saw photos of Peter cycling, drinking a beer with his buddies after a race.

  She clicked through to Kendra’s page and saw pictures of the Symphony Summer Ball. She saw Patsy Mane and her new husband, Libby Taylor sporting a baby bump, Kendra wearing vintage Dior.

  She scrolled through photos of San Francisco’s young elite: Mark Zuckerberg and his fiancée, Marissa Mayer and her husband, Jennifer and Gavin Newsom. Suddenly she froze. There was a picture of Kendra and Peter, their heads tilted toward each other.

  Hallie searched through the photos faster. There were pictures of Kendra with a dozen men, all in the same intimate poses. She flipped back to the picture of Kendra and Peter to see if she could read some signal in their eyes. They both looked directly into the camera, smiling clean white smiles.

  Hallie shut the computer and paced around the room. Of course Peter had been at the ball, it was packed with Silicon Valley techno-celebrities. She inhaled sharply, trying to erase the seed of doubt that formed hard and jagged as a diamond.

  She wanted to call Peter but it was five in the morning in San Francisco. Her phone buzzed and she answered, not recognizing the number.

  “Hallie?” a man asked. “It’s Angus. I wondered if you thought about the job.”

  Hallie walked onto the balcony. The lake was forest green and the villages hugged the shore like colored Lego sets. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with cool, alpine air.

  “I can’t say no.” She hugged her arms around her chest. “It sounds wonderful.”

  chapter nine

  Hallie put down her tape measure and tapped notes into her computer. She had worked at the Villa Luce for a week, arriving each morning as Angus set out two cups of steaming hot espresso. She showed him her sketches and then he disappeared into the endless rooms of the villa. Hallie was left alone to mull over fabric and wallpaper swatches, to draw pictures of marble fireplaces and crystal chandeliers.

  The ideas came so fast; Hallie had trouble getting them down. At night she kept a pad by her bed, scribbling designs before she was fully awake. She rose before Sophia or Pliny appeared downstairs and walked to the ferry terminal. Pliny offered to take her in the motorboat, but she loved the delicious quiet of the lake in the morning. She sat in the back of the ferry, straining to see Villa Luce as the mist cleared.

  * * *

  Constance had been distraught when Hallie called to tell her she was staying in Lake Como.

  “Six months,” Constance’s voice wavered. “You’ll miss the fall season. Who will I take to the opera?”

  “You can ask Francesca,” Hallie replied. She sat at her dressing table, brushing her straight, blond hair.

  “Francesca won’t see any opera that’s performed in Italian.” Constance sighed. “It sounds wonderful, but are you sure it’s what you want to do?”

  “You told me to come to Como and be with Portia,” Hallie argued.

  “But she’s seeing Riccardo again,” Constance replied. “Does Peter know you’re staying so long?”

  Hallie put the hairbrush down. “I’m going to call him next.”

  “I’ll ask Peter to the opera,” Constance decided. “We can discuss the wedding. We’ll have to move quickly, if you want to get married next summer.”

  Hallie looked in the mirror, picturing a scooped neckline and a white gauze veil. “The villa is like a siren,” she explained. “I have to do it.”

  “Then I’m proud of you,” Constance replied. “Send me lots of pictures.”

  Hallie hung up, feeling guilty for not telling Constance that she still had doubts. Peter and the apartment on Russian Hill seemed so far away, as if they were part of a movie she had watched on the plane. When she closed her eyes to picture the Bay Bridge, she saw speedboats zipping across Lake Como. She craved paella and risotto instead of cheeseburgers and enchiladas.

  “You’re doing what?” Peter demanded. “Hallie, are you crazy?”

  “Any designer would kill for this job,” Hallie replied with more bravado than she felt. It took two cups of Lea’s strong dark coffee for Hallie to get up the nerve to call him.

  “You
live in San Francisco,” Peter snapped. “The job is in Italy.”

  “Would you turn down writing a biography of Bill Gates because he lives in Seattle?”

  “Italy is another continent, another time zone,” Peter pleaded. “I can’t be without you.”

  “If you saw it you’d understand; it’s a magnificent canvas and I can choose the materials.” Hallie brushed her hair with slow, methodical strokes.

  “I will come,” Peter insisted. “Next month, after I wrap up my exposé of Apple.”

  Hallie couldn’t sleep, thinking she had made a terrible mistake. But lying in bed staring at the angels painted on the ceiling, she knew that six months apart would be good for them. She would discover if she truly missed Peter or just the idea of him.

  * * *

  “Am I interrupting?” Angus poked his head in the door.

  Hallie started. She never saw Angus during the workday. He was usually directing the staff or running errands in Tremezzo or Menaggio.

  “I’m choosing colors for the anteroom,” Hallie explained. “Powder blue walls and black-and-white marble floors.”

  “I like it.” Angus nodded. “I wondered if you wanted to have lunch with me. The cook made shrimp paella, and it smells delicious.”

  Hallie hesitated. She planned a buying trip to Milan and was anxious to complete her sketches. But she hadn’t eaten lunch and her morning espresso carved a hole in her stomach.

  “I’m starving,” Hallie admitted. “And I’m addicted to shrimp paella.”

  Hallie followed Angus out to the balcony. A table was set with a checkered tablecloth and white china. Silver tongs rested in a ceramic salad bowl. There was a loaf of bread, a jar of olive oil, and a plate of mixed berries.

  Angus returned from the kitchen with two plates heaped with shrimp paella. Hallie ate greedily, mopping up rice with crusty bread and sprinkling brown sugar on the berries.

  “This is delicious.” Hallie put down her spoon. “I’ll have to ask the cook for her recipe.”

  “I’m actually the cook.” Angus tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in olive oil. “When Bella has a day off, I love messing around in the kitchen. Max is a vegetarian, and I make too much food for one person.”