Island in the Sea

by Anita Hughes

  “My father is a linguistics professor at Sarah Lawrence and my mother writes for The New Yorker. When I was young I wanted to be a poet.” Juliet fiddled with her silver necklace. “But when I was twelve I got my first Ipod and realized words were too quiet. Music makes me feel alive and excited.”

  “Let me tell you about a career in the music industry.” Jane leaned back in her chair. She had straight blond hair and brown eyes and a wide mouth. She wore a purple Alice and Olivia dress and platform shoes. “You’ll spend your days in recording studios drinking vending machine coffee and eating Chinese fortune cookies. Your skin will never see the sun so no matter how much Lancôme revitalizing cream you lather on, you’ll always look like a figure in a Henry James novel or one of those deathly pale models in a Robert Palmer music video.

  “While your friends are meeting hedge fund managers at the Monkey Bar after work, you’ll be backstage at the Brooklyn Bowl fending off pre-teen girls wearing sparkly sneakers. You’ll spend weekends riding on a tour bus surrounded by smelly socks and dirty magazines.

  “You’ll never meet a guy who can discuss French literature or applied physics because most musicians stop learning in the seventh grade. And you’ll turn thirty-five and realize you’re eggs are getting stale and the lines on your forehead are deeper and your friends are getting bugaboo strollers for Christmas.” She paused and looked at Juliet. “Do you still want to work for a record label?”

  Juliet glanced at the platinum records and silver album covers and bookshelves lined with Grammys. She smoothed her hair and smiled.

  “There’s nothing else I want to do.”

  “I should make you walk out that door and think about applying to business school or law school. But I know if music flows through your veins there’s nothing you can do about it.” Jane held out her hand. “Welcome to Sony.”

  * * *

  Juliet wrapped her arms around her chest and remembered the last proper date she had, with an entertainment lawyer she met at a Coldplay concert. He had curly blond hair and brown eyes and liked The Foo Fighters and Imagine Dragons. He invited her to go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center and they drank Irish coffees and talked about the music industry’s crazy hours and demanding artists.

  Juliet listened to the excitement in his voice when he talked about Billboard charts and foreign sales and thought Jane was wrong. But then he had to go to Tokyo to babysit a client who took too many Ambien, and by the time he returned, Juliet was on a tour bus to Philadelphia. After three weeks of voice messages and texts they admitted it probably wouldn’t work.

  That had been almost two years ago and since then Juliet immersed herself in her job. She loved the strange pit in her stomach when she knew a song was going to work. And she loved the buzz of standing backstage at Madison Square Garden and watching fifty thousand fans wave their arms. Music was like discovering an unknown Rembrandt or owning a vintage Valentino dress or eating the finest gourmet chocolate.

  * * *

  She leaned over the balcony and heard the sounds of laughter and music. Majorca was filled with young people from Australia and New Zealand and Scandinavia. She had two weeks and nothing to do but listen to Lionel’s story. Maybe she would finally meet a guy who loved homemade soup and the farmer’s market and watching Italian movies on Netflix.

  Suddenly she didn’t want to soak in the porcelain bathtub listening to Spotify on her iPhone. She was going to an outdoor café and eat tomato confit with Mallorcan cheeses. She was going to inhale the sweet night air and watch the streetlamps dancing on the cobblestones.

  She walked inside and stood in front of her closet. She selected a floral dress and silver sandals. She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and dusted her cheeks with powder. She grabbed her purse and hurried down the staircase.

  * * *

  Juliet walked along the promenade and gazed at the lights reflecting on the water. She saw ice cream stores with neon signs and souvenir shops with racks of glossy postcards. She felt the evening air settle on her shoulders and suddenly wished she were back in her hotel room, sipping a cup of hot tea with milk and honey.

  She had decided to take the tram to Puerto de Sóller and have dinner at one of the harbor-side restaurants. It had been exciting to board the tram with tourists speaking German and French and Italian. It had been lovely to feel the wind in her hair and inhale the scent of citrus and jasmine. And it was wonderful to arrive at the port and see the sparkling Mediterranean.

  But now she saw couples holding hands and stopping to study the menus. She saw families with young children, carrying sand buckets and shovels. She glanced in the windows of sleek restaurants and saw tables set with delicate champagne flutes and flickering candles. She inhaled the damp sea air and felt suddenly alone.

  She was about to turn back to the tram stop when she saw a tall house with a wide stone porch and lush gardens. It had blue shutters and window boxes filled with peonies and daisies. The front door was open and she heard a violin playing and smelled butter and tomatoes and garlic.

  She climbed the stone steps and entered a foyer with lacquered walls and polished wood floors. There was a dining room with high ceilings and gilt picture frames. The tables were set with royal blue china and gleaming silverware.

  “Can I help you?” a young woman asked. She wore a navy dress and ivory pumps. Her dark hair was knotted into a low bun and she wore pale pink lip-gloss.

  “The concierge at my hotel gave me the address of Casa Isabella, but there’s no sign.” Juliet frowned. “The front door was open and something smelled delicious.”

  “That’s the grilled suckling pig with lemon confit,” the woman replied. “My father doesn’t believe in advertising, he likes to imagine our patrons are casual acquaintances invited over for dinner. He prepares one five-course meal and the menu changes daily.” She consulted the leather-bound reservation book. “Unfortunately we’re booked every weekend from May until October.”

  “I’ll try another night.” Juliet sighed, suddenly realizing she was starving. She hadn’t eaten anything except half a sandwich with Lionel. She glanced at the marble fireplace and tall bookshelves and wanted desperately to sit at a table and have a glass of Roija Cabernet and a plate of seafood linguini.

  “Antonio Banderas reserves the same table every Saturday night and never arrives before nine P.M.” The young woman smiled. “If you promise not to linger over the chocolate fondant, I can squeeze you in.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Juliet exclaimed, following her to a table by the window. “What a beautiful room, it’s like a private home.”

  “My grandfather was a wealthy citrus trader.” She handed Juliet a menu. “He loved my grandmother so much he hated being away at sea. He built a house on the promenade so he could see her standing on the balcony when he sailed into the harbor.”

  Juliet nodded. “That’s so romantic.”

  “Unfortunately his ship sunk and he lost all his money. The only way to keep Casa Isabella was to turn the downstairs into a restaurant,” she explained. “After my grandparents died, my parents took over. My mother is the maître d’ and my brothers catch the fish and my father runs the kitchen. My mother loves flitting around the dining room; she thinks every night is a party. But my father would rather be upstairs in his study reading a book on medieval history.”

  “Why doesn’t he hire another chef?” Juliet asked.

  “In Majorca everything is about family.” The woman straightened Juliet’s silverware. “No one else would care as much that the monkfish is perfectly sautéed or the lettuce is fresh from the garden or the tomatoes are sliced so thinly they melt in your mouth. My father grumbles but he doesn’t let anything leave his kitchen unless it would be fit for the prince and princess of Spain.”

  Juliet ate cold tomato soup and watched the young woman fill breadbaskets and smooth linen napkins. She listened to the violin playing in the garden and suddenly felt warm and happy. She was in one of the most beautiful spots in the
world, eating a salad of feta cheese and red peppers and scallions.

  She thought about Lionel and wondered how he could be depressed surrounded by so much beauty. She pictured his living room with its grand piano and French doors and floral sofas. She saw the garden filled with birds of paradise and dahlias. She pictured Gideon with his salt-and-pepper hair and patterned shirts and shuddered. He had made it clear that if Juliet didn’t return with a packet of Lionel’s songs her job was in jeopardy.

  * * *

  Juliet finished the last bite of almond cake and blotted her mouth with a napkin. It had all been delicious: the Sóller prawns cooked in sea salt and olive oil, the salmon in a marsala sauce with baby carrots, the selection of fruits and local cheeses. She glanced around the room, wishing to thank the young woman but she had disappeared and been replaced by an older woman with dark wavy hair and green eyes.

  Juliet walked through the foyer to search for a powder room and heard a woman singing. She listened closer and remembered when she was young and discovered her mother’s Carly Simon album. She remembered listening to Carly’s bright, clear voice and feeling her lungs expand and her heart race.

  She gingerly opened a door and saw the young woman standing at a double sink. She wore a white apron over her navy dress and her hands were covered in soap. She glanced up at Juliet and her cheeks flushed.

  “I wanted to thank you for a lovely dinner.” Juliet hesitated. “The grilled salmon was delicious.”

  “My father will be pleased.” She beamed. “He refuses to serve fish that wasn’t caught the same day, he says you should be able to taste the ocean.”

  “You have a beautiful voice.” Juliet entered the kitchen. The counters were stacked with silver trays and square white plates. Brass pots hung from the ceiling and a planter box held round red tomatoes.

  She shrugged. “I’ve always sung, it helps pass the time when you’re peeling potatoes or slicing mushrooms. My brothers used to stuff their ears with cotton wool and I’d get back at them by hiding their soccer ball.”

  “Have you ever considered singing professionally?” Juliet asked.

  “When my mother was young she wanted to be a dancer, she spent hours practicing arabesques in the garden.” She untied her apron. “She ran off to Paris when she was nineteen and performed at the Moulin Rouge. She lasted eight months and returned to Majorca and married my father.”

  “I’m sure she would have been a success if she had continued,” Juliet murmured.

  “Men sent her flowers and perfume and waited outside her dressing room.” She wiped her hands. “She had three marriage proposals and a jewelry box full of gold necklaces and earrings. She drank champagne and ate caviar at smoky cafés and realized there was nowhere she’d rather be than Majorca.”

  “I don’t understand.” Juliet frowned.

  “Why would I want to sing professionally when I have everything I need right here?” she asked. “A beautiful house and a wonderful family and the Mediterranean outside my front door?” She stopped and held out her hand. “My name is Gabriella, please come back another night. You have to try my father’s seafood risotto, it’s the best on the island.”

  * * *

  Juliet opened the door to her room and slipped off her sandals. She unzipped her dress and pulled a cotton robe around her shoulders. She climbed into bed and thought about her meeting tomorrow with Lionel. Whatever Gideon had done, she had to convince Lionel to write some new songs.

  She closed her eyes and pictured the Casa Isabella. She remembered the dining room with its round tables and high ceilings and marble fireplace. She saw Gabriella standing at the double sink with an apron tied around her waist. She remembered her high, clear voice and a tingle ran down her spine.

  chapter two

  LIONEL PRESSED HIS FINGER ON the alarm clock and waited for his head to stop throbbing. He stumbled to the closet and pulled a bottle of scotch from the box of Bruno Magli loafers. He fished a glass from under a pile of Paul Smith silk shirts and filled it to brim. He took a quick gulp and let his shoulders relax.

  He thought about last night and tried to remember when he started drinking. It was probably early, right after the new maid insisted he eat a bowl of paella and plate of green asparagus. He would have to tell the service he didn’t want the maid preparing his meals, he felt like a small boy at boarding school forced to eat his vegetables.

  He remembered sitting on the porch with a glass of Château Rothschild Chardonnay and a copy of Ivanhoe and groaned. Not even a fine wine discovered in the villa’s vast wine cellar and a poem by one of his favorite poets could stop the weight pressing against his chest. He finally replaced the wine with straight bourbon and Sir Walter Scott with the latest issue of GQ and went upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  Now he drank another sip of scotch and glanced at his alarm clock. Juliet would be arriving in an hour and he hadn’t shaved or showered. He thought about calling her and telling her he was sick but she would probably arrive with a carton of chicken soup and a box of Kleenex. He pictured her smooth brown hair and blue eyes and thought she wasn’t the type to let a summer cold interfere with what she wanted.

  He glanced at his phone and thought about calling Gideon and demanding he put Juliet back on a plane to California. But Gideon would probably send someone who didn’t have long legs and wear Dior perfume. He could send an e-mail saying he didn’t care if he sent Mariah Carey or Beyoncé, he wasn’t writing any new songs. But he pictured seeing Gideon’s name in his inbox and decided he would handle Juliet himself.

  He put the glass on the bedside table and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He couldn’t remember eating anything last night except a Cadbury Fruit &Nut bar and suddenly he was starving. He’d have a piece of toast or a bowl of muesli and then come upstairs and get dressed. He glanced in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and chuckled. If Juliet saw his drawn cheeks and unbrushed hair she might get scared and never come back.

  * * *

  Lionel heard a knock on the door and hurried down the staircase. He inhaled the scent of furniture polish and fresh cut flowers and admitted the daily maid service had its virtues. At least Juliet wouldn’t be able to criticize his housekeeping the moment she entered the stone foyer.

  “You’ve cleaned up,” Juliet said, gazing at the plumped floral sofas and neat stacks of magazines. The silk curtains were pulled back and light streamed through the tall French doors.

  “My mother did teach me to clean my room before I invited a pretty girl over,” Lionel said. He fished in his slacks for his gold cigarette case.

  “I think you cut yourself shaving,” she said. She motioned to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

  “We are the only species that purposely uses a dangerous weapon on our face,” Lionel said. He touched his cheek and winced. “I’ve always wondered what would happen if you sneezed while holding a razor. But nothing makes you feel more alive than a close shave. When I was performing I had a barber come to the house every morning before I ate my porridge.”

  “Gideon told me you were terrible at managing your expense account.” Juliet smiled.

  “He seemed happy to indulge me in Brioni suits and Santoni shoes when I was lining his walls with gold records.” Lionel grimaced. “I once met a psychiatrist who insisted I could blame Gideon for my expensive tastes. Weaning yourself off Turnbull & Asser shirts is harder than giving up Cuban cigars.”

  “Do you see a psychiatrist?” Juliet asked.

  “God, no.” Lionel flicked open a pearl lighter. “Psychiatrists have no desire to cure you, then who would pay for their holidays in Ibiza? I met a female psychiatrist at a party who wanted to give me a free session. But the only time I want to recline on a sofa with a woman is when we’re nibbling caviar and drinking Möet & Chandon.”

  “It’s a gorgeous day, should we sit outside?” Juliet walked to the balcony. The swimming pool was a sparkling turquoise and the fishpond was filled with orange goldfish. Two lounge chairs were
littered with striped cushions and there was an outdoor bar lined with brightly colored bottles.

  “The sun is so strong, I never go outside before three P.M.” Lionel inhaled slowly. “You think you’ll be young forever but one day you’ll look in the mirror and see a character in a horror movie. You’ll climb into bed thinking it was the fourth martini or the extra slice of pannetone but in the morning you’ll shuffle to the mirror and see the same figure.

  “By then it will be too late to reverse the damage so you’ll say you don’t care that your eyes are puffy and your stomach sags, but secretly you’ll long for the days when you could roll out of bed and pull on a white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.” Lionel gazed at Juliet’s smooth brown hair and slender cheekbones. He saw her red linen dress and low white pumps. “Youth is the greatest gift and we don’t give a fig about it until it’s gone.

  “I sound like one of those VHI flashbacks,” he groaned, rubbing his brow. “Let’s go into the library, I found a very nice sherry hidden behind a copy of T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland.”

  Lionel walked down a narrow hallway and entered a room with high ceilings and paneled walls. There was a wide ebony desk and leather wingback chairs. Oriental rugs covered a worn oak floor and a carved elephant stood in the corner.

  “The villa has a marvelous collection: Melville, Cervantes, Paul Theroux.” He ran his fingers over the leather-bound books. “I love a thick novel or a juicy memoir, but poetry is the greatest form of literature. A poem can’t rely on plot or dialogue, it has to move you with six lines of iambic pentameter or terza rima.”

  “My mother writes for The New Yorker and hosts a literary salon once a month,” Juliet replied. “She insisted I minor in English in college because she said you can learn everything you need to know by reading Shakespeare’s sonnets.”