“For?” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“I need to take care of my nephews.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your nephews? They are how old? What happened to you Vic?”
I shrugged avoiding her gaze. I was hungry, I was cranky, and I would need to find clean sheets before I could sleep tonight. Sleep sounded like an excellent idea. “Life happened,” I muttered.
She didn’t say any more. “I’ll take what you have, I know the collection. Do you want me to send someone around for the rest of it?”
“Yes.” With limited time here, I didn’t want to squander Venice on trips up and down those treacherous stairs balancing awkward and occasionally valuable paintings.
“You need cash now?”
I nodded.
“You need also.” She gestured at me.
I nodded, not meeting her gaze. My round toed tennis shoes looked like cruise ships docked next to her pointed toed leather sling backs.
“You know Nic is in town.” She dropped that bomb, oh, so casually.
I jerked out of my slumping posture. Shit.
“Is the beauty shop still open up the street?”
"My cousin just bought it.” Rachael said softly. She pulled out her phone. “She will stay.”
Chapter 9
Rachael’s cousin looked just like her: fabulous. I love the Italian style, the insouciance, slender legs encased in tight jeans or leather pants, thin sweaters worn year-round in defiance of the damp. Unapologetic breasts loaded into La Perla push up bras.
The effortlessness that is the Italian brand. It looked easy, but it took hours and thousands of dollars as well as the right lighting and good postproduction Photoshopped fixes. But if you are all alone in a small split-level ranch house bristling with wheelchair ramps and endless news stories predicting the end of the world, why color your hair?
Francisca was comfortable in her own skin and even more comfortable critiquing mine. She declared we would stay at the salon for as long as it takes. Which meant we worked into the night. She cut, colored, and made calls. While the color and highlights set, my head a UFO-deflecting halo of foil, her niece blew in: tight leather slacks, baggy sweater with a deep V that showed off her tiny perky breasts barely contained in a matching leather bra. She flipped her long black braid over her shoulder, took one look at my nails and almost burst into tears.
“We fix.” She declared. And did.
She threw in a quick pedicure and I let her, not wanting to make her to cry again.
We ordered pizza, the thin crust, fresh ingredients, the Italian kind. Francisca pulled out a bottle of red and we continued. The wine and pizza helped my mood, as did the emerging new look.
By the time I was declared finished and fit for the street, I was hundreds of euros into the program, but Francisca, the salon owner, refused my cash.
“You pay later, I know.” She looked at my outfit, now completely at odds with my hair—colored a dark auburn with dark gold highlights, very high maintenance. My nails were short and gelled blood red. The cut was short, but not old. If I didn’t straighten it, the coloring and conditioning would keep it to a short wavy look. It took ten years off me. So much for my cloak of invisibility.
On the other hand, I no longer looked like an easy purse-snatching mark.
“Now.” Francisca tapped her lips; her own nails were the same color as mine. “You need clothing, no? Is everything.” She gestured to my ensemble, carefully curated from the perpetual caretaker collection.
I nodded.
“You need new.” She decided. She glanced at her watch and made another call.
“Simone will open for you.”
“It’s already nine o’clock.”
Francisca shrugged. “For emergencies, she will open and you…” Her eyes traveled up and down taking in my sensible polyester ensemble.
“Are an emergency.” I finished. Very well, If I was going to do this, I may as well go big. The very real possibility of encountering Nic in my present finery was gut-wrenching. I’d rather have my purse stolen again.
I took Francisca’s business card and over her protests, promised to pay her back.
Simone’s shop was located a street off the plaza in a tiny area crammed with designer shops, all too expensive for the average tourist, but perfect for those in the know.
I knew, I just didn’t have the wherewith all to follow up.
That was about to change.
“Simone?” The woman, like me, was older, wiser around the eyes, but the same, oh yes, very much the same.
“Carina!” Simone emerged to the front of the store. In full light she looked her forty years, but for a second, I was looking at the young model from Aix-en-Provence, determined to make it in the business, eating tissues and smoking a pack a day, thin, beautiful and really angry.
During those first few months, I talked Simone into eating food, pulled her from the front of the camera to wardrobe where she proved to be a brilliant stylist. We spread the word and between her beauty and her family contacts, she quickly became the in-demand stylist for most major photo shoots. For the next ten years I read her name in the credits for most of French and Italian Vogue spreads. She could make even the oddest bleeding edge fashion look good, even on increasingly hanger-like models. She was a vocal supporter of the European model rules. She sparkled with energy.
“So, this is where you are!” We kissed, we hugged, we hugged again.
“I am so sorry about Max.”
“Thank you.”
“You were so good to him.”
“He helped me.” An understatement.
“He helped us all, you would think he loved girls.” She twinkled as she said it.
I smiled. As a photographer then designer assistant, I worked with hundreds of models. Most were hard working and naturals for the job, but enough were in the wrong place: the wrong agency, the wrong man, the wrong business. What do twenty-year-olds know about anything? I was determined that they would get the same help as I. Max had taught me everything about the industry, the ins and outs. He introduced me to influencers, helped me make a game of it, and gave me permission to eat again. I wanted us to do the same and Max agreed. We invested in people found them, burnished them, and sent them on their way, better, stronger and in his words, able to make the world a better place.
He was a fashion icon who hated the fashion world and what the careers did to people. That’s why I was with him. That’s why I was there at the end. He deserved that much.
“How did you end up here?”
“One does not end up in Venice.” She chided. She flipped on the lights and locked the door. “Tourists.” She sniffed.
Most stores on this street were devoted to one thing or one designer or one designer of a single thing. Think leather purses, think shoes, think fur. Think a single mannequin complete with alert nipples, a single tiny purple cross bag displayed over the plastic shoulder.
Simone’s was not that store. The small outlet was lined with racks of clothes. I did not immediately recognize the styles or the designers. Leather skirts shared space with wool jackets. Silk peeked out between heavy tweed. I wasn’t sure if the stock jumble was on purpose or accidental. Sometimes shoppers think they have found a bargain simply because the blouse was so difficult to free from the rack
“Consignment.” She correctly interpreted my expression. “Like walking into your big sister’s closet. Of course, in Venice. We trade, we drop off, we borrow. I take some seconds, I take some designer, but not small, never size two, never size zero.”
“Venice?” I couldn’t let it go. What was she doing here of all places? She could be in Paris, living off her considerable talents and reputation. She could be in Milan, at the heart of the action. For her world, Venice was quite literally a backwater.
“Ah,” she sighed. “You remember the Milan show of 1995?”
I nodded.
“The organizer, Maurice?”
Maurice w
as talented, even brilliant. A portly man given to bright blue suits and navy cowboy boots; he was as wealthy as the Gucci family but was not disposed to good works. He liked the models in his shows to be so thin they were constantly on the verge of passing out and falling from their shoes. No size zero indeed.
“Remember his son Andre?” Maurice had one son, flamboyant, handsome. During his school breaks, Maurice spent all day behind stage. He loved to flirt and was good at it. Drove his father to distraction. Which I am sure was the point.
I frowned trying to recall the end of that story. Did Andre inherit his father’s title and more important, business?
She read my expression. “Yes, Andre. Remember you told me to flirt back? Remember you coached me on how to flirt?”
I nodded, that sounded like me.
“He lives here in Venice.”
“And you live in Venice with Andre.”
She grinned, “Maurice doesn’t like me. I’m too vocal, have too many opinions, but Andre, he is a catch. I flirted, he flirted. We live on the island.” She held up two fingers. “Girls. They love science, refuse to wear anything but jeans and hoodies.”
I was delighted and a little lightheaded. It was probably the good wine. It was all like a dream. That’s a stupid thing to say because in a dream you don’t get hungry, tired or drunk. I suspected I was also a little drunk and more than tired, how else to explain turning over my whole image to strangers? But they were not of course, strangers, they were friends, old dear friends. That was something I had missed. In California, I had family. In Italy, I had friends.
She waved to the colorful garments crowded onto the rods. “We will dress you, how many days?”
“I’ll go to the embassy tomorrow. I should get my new passport by Thursday.” It was Tuesday, still. I think.
As if to emphasis the point, my phone pinged again. I pulled it out and make a mental note to return Tina’s call.
Simone moved to the first rack and pulled out three pairs of slacks. “You’ll need clothes for at least a week.”
By 11:15 P.M., I was beautiful—unlike myself as possible. With a wave to Simone and a promise to reimburse her once the credit card arrived, I had no desire to waste all this good work to a lonely night in Miranda’s apartment. I had cash in my pocket and an appetite that would make the perfect dinner companion. I headed to the quay off the lagoon and found a charming trattoria offering dozens of versions of homemade pasta and a table by the front window.
I was treated far better than even twelve hours ago.
My waiter explained that this trattoria was one of the few survivors of the changing gentrification of the city.
“We hold on. But all the young people, you know.” He shrugged.
I did know.
And after life-altering a
Alfredo made with genuine organic, fresh ingredients: eggs and cream and bacon and everything bad for you, I was ready to forgive Venice for stealing my purse.
I even slept well under the scary Nevelson sculpture. But really, it did have to go.
Chapter 10
I woke with nothing on my agenda except making an appointment with the embassy at 9:00. It was more expedient to make the apartment livable for me and call a housekeeper later. Every other minute I checked the phone for a return call from the embassy confirming my appointment, a missive from Chris that all was well, a text from Tina assuring me it was not. I moved the couch to the center of the room to take advantage of the view and carried two thirds of the chairs to the spare bedroom to wait for the next gathering. I swept out the last of the sand from the Egypt party. Maybe I could make a career of styling homes for sale. This was my second one. Did that make a career?
I needed help with the sculpture over the bed, I didn’t want to break it. How had Miranda managed to get it up the stairs?
I admired my manicure as I texted Rachael to ask for a cleaning service recommendation. Tiffany promised to send over help, but I didn’t believe her.
Once the small apartment was clean and ready for its close up, I focused on clearing out the rest of Miranda’s drawers and closet. I pulled out arm loads of clothes: the thin designer outfits; the impractical event dresses, many, many fat jeans. She had a great deal to donate. I found a Max Peters duster from his last collection—2005. I slipped it on against the morning chill.
While digging out all (except the one notable one) drawers, I discovered the perfect purse. It was made of bright green patent leather, structured and elegant. And also covered in stamped MP logos. I considered it a tribute and liberated it, replacing the heavy travel bag.
It made me feel more Italian.
I also discovered more jewelry. I remember Miranda’s delight at finding the necklace and bracelets at the Paris Flea Market. Big handfuls of shiny things. The gilt had worn away, exposing the base metal but the long necklaces of paste rubies and emeralds complemented the duster. I layered all four, they clanked and caught at the pile of clothes I hauled down the stairs, but I didn’t care.
I felt more fabulous by the minute.
I would love to report that I discovered a clue to the blue statues in the lining of Miranda’s purse. But I didn’t. I did find a Kate Spade wallet though.
Even loaded with clothes, I felt an old swagger creep into my walk as I made my way to Simone’s.
Simone assured me that the first delivery of clothes I brought from Miranda’s closest was fair trade for what I wore today. Rachael was delighted with the additional paintings. I explained they were doing me a favor by taking all this stuff, they pretended to believe me.
By high noon, the apartment looked more restful than I ever remembered. Miranda was many things, none of them calm. I would have taken care of Miranda, even in her exuberant clutter. If she had asked me to come, to help her, and nurse her through a damaged heart, I would have hopped on a plane and been there. Funny, staying with friends felt like an act of compassion, a calling. Staying with my parents dug out my soul like a melon baller taking scoops out of a cantaloupe.
The locksmith gave me a once-over before settling down to change the locks.
I tipped him just for the lascivious look in his eye. I left the old key under the cherub and threaded both new keys onto my lucky key ring. If Nic was at large, the least I could do was prevent him from bursting in while I was in the shower.
I was on the verge of making a comeback as a competent adult.
Nic. Nic was not to be faced on an empty stomach, I indulged in my promised lunch, finishing it off with two scoops of gelato. Is there such a thing as too much gelato? No, no, I do not think so. Paris may always be a good idea, but gelato is an even better one. Especially if one is stranded in Italy.
And the texts.
My nephew Chris, my special guy, is the only reason I even hesitated when Tina and Vince suggested I care for the boys. Matt, the oldest, may be the boy who could get his brother to and from school, but Chris is the guy who helps Matt stay in school. I never considered Chris difficult, he simply focuses on one thing at a time. To the complete exclusion of everything else. Including showers and meals. This focus comes with a price. For instance, to my everlasting chagrin, Chris was completely obsessed with Egyptian digs, both past and present. If I thought I could ever forget Dr. Nicholas Ratzenberg, my unaware nephew would remind me. He always asks if I knew about this dig or that discovery, was I there? No, Chris, I was not there, not anymore.
The first text of the day was from Matt—Do we have a fire extinguisher?
I typed in the location.
He texted back—what time was it back home? I didn’t want to know.
Found it— crowbar?
I had no answer. I should go home. As soon as the passport came through, I would board the next plane.
I’ll be back soon.
Hurry. Now that sounded like Tina, not Matt.
Can’t hurry Italy.
I finished my gelato and licked my fingers. Nic. How would I face Nic?
Nic was one
of those men unmoved by emotional displays. I could beg, I could scream, I could cry, but he would just shake his head and comment on how emotional and fragile women were. It drove me crazy and eventually, drove me back to Miranda.
No crying. Be strong. Man up. Be solid.
By the time Tiffany dropped by, I was back to contemplating the sculpture over the bed.
Tiffany parked her white hard sided case and matching travel bag at the door. She was dressed for travel in head-to-toe Lululemon looking very Vogue International.
“You can take care of this now?” She glanced around. “Looks good. We’ll be in touch.” She didn’t offer her hand, she didn’t thank me, though I didn’t expect she would. She just nodded and backed out of the apartment. At least she had the courtesy not to ask me to carry her bag back down the stairs.
I resisted saluting. There was little else to say, and I had the Nic thing to deal with.
Absently rubbing the small of my back—is there an ergonomically sound way to wrestle large canvases down narrow stone stairs?—I walked to the kitchen. I had put off opening the small refrigerator. It only takes a week for anything kept in this ancient piece of crap to disintegrate into organic matter than only eight-year-old boys can appreciate. I hadn’t wanted to face it.
I held my breath and jerked open the door.
Nothing but three bottles of Prosecco, a desiccated lemon and a small jar of caviar. Are there any large jars of caviar? There is an item I have not seen at Costco, then again, I could have been shopping the wrong aisles. I shut the refrigerator and opened the casement window and leaned on the gritty windowsill. I knew enough to snatch a peaceful moment when I could. The canal glittered beneath me. Speed boats passed the vaporettos that in turn sped by the larger flat boats lumbering with tourists. The air was clear, and the stench of low tide hadn’t completely overtaken the breeze.
I was different in this city. I was a caretaker here as well as in California, but here was different. Max had a strong emotional bank account from which to withdraw. He had taken an interest in my career, helping me with contacts and industry secrets so I had a leg up even though no one wanted to photograph my legs. He never berated me for my choices, it was all about support and I suppose, love.
After I'm Buried Alive Page 8