Rococo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “You must see the statue of the Virgin Mary there.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “My favorite.” She pauses. “Unknown.” Eydie sits cross-legged on the couch. “There is something so pure about an artist creating something for the sheer joy of it, then sharing it with people and claiming no credit. To me that’s the height of romance.”

  All my life I’ve searched for someone with the same level of passion that I have for things. I have found it in Eydie. I could talk to her all night. Maybe I will!

  “You said an amateur did the fresco at your church,” she says.

  “Yes, it was painted by a man who made the signs for the roadside vegetable stands. Our Virgin looks like she’s hawking Jersey corn. The stained glass needs restoration too.”

  “You need a team, then. I’ll make you a list.” Eydie pulls a pad out of her purse. “I wrote an article for Life magazine about frescoes a couple of years ago.” Eydie chews on the tip of her pencil for a while, then says, “There are three people who I would meet with if this were my project.”

  “Three? In the whole world?”

  “In my opinion. There’s Gian Angelo Ruttolo of San Remo, Asher Anderson of London, and Rufus McSherry of Brooklyn.” Eydie hands me the list. “I’ll send you their particulars from my office on Monday.”

  “Rufus McSherry. Irish Catholic?” I ask her.

  “We’ve never talked about it. Rufus is a brilliant painter of frescoes; he also restores them. He works with a guy from Mexico who does stained-glass windows.”

  “He sounds perfect!”

  “Oh, he’s perfect, all right. A perfect pain in the ass.” Eydie smiles. “But he’s worth it.”

  “Sounds like you know him well.” I feel a pang of jealousy. Clearly this Rufus character has a history with Eydie. Romantic or professional—I can’t tell.

  “Oh, he’s something.” Eydie looks away. The lights are low, but I’m certain she’s blushing. “Gian Angelo is in New York a lot, so you can probably see him here. He’s an architect, mainly, so he can tell you if your building is structurally sound and what to do if it isn’t. Asher rarely travels anymore, but he keeps up with correspondence, and he can be very helpful. He’s the master of the treasure hunt. He can find anything anywhere—the right fixture, the perfect door, vintage molding no one else can get their hands on—that sort of thing.”

  “I figure if I design it this summer, and we get it under way in October, we should be ready a year later for the rededication. I like the sound of this Rufus.”

  “We’ll see if he’s available. I know he was offered the cathedral in Providence to restore but he wouldn’t take the job. He doesn’t want a bunch of clerics with Ph.D.’s in art history telling him where to put his paintbrush.” Eydie stands and stretches. “Now, I hate to do this, but I have to throw you out. I have a big day tomorrow, and I’m starting early.”

  I don’t want to leave, but I spring to my feet. “And so do I. Thank you for a wonderful evening. I had a lot of fun.”

  Eydie walks me to the door, giving me the file of research on Gothic churches. “Thank you for that lovely dinner.”

  We smile at each other and say nothing. It’s that strange moment between two people that feels as delicate as a silvery spiderweb. It’s a little presumptuous of me to expect a kiss, so I pull away just enough to break the spell. After all, she is getting over a bad breakup, and I still haven’t cut Capri Mandelbaum loose. Eydie Von Gunne doesn’t need another unavailable man in her life; not yet, anyway.

  “Good night, Bartolomeo.” She gives me a little wave before closing the door behind me.

  “Good night, Eydie,” I say softly as I go.

  “Okay, B. What do you remember about the miracle at Fatima?” Christina opens her notebook in a bright red vinyl booth at the Tic Tock Diner as I lower the shade to block the bright morning sun. Route 35 buzzes with rush hour traffic outside as Christina and I have our first official staff meeting of the House of B.

  “Three kids saw the Virgin Mary up in the sky in a farm field in Portugal,” I tell her. “Pass the syrup.”

  “Right. In the spring of 1917, Lucia dos Santos, Francisco Marcos, and Jacinta Maro saw the Blessed Lady while they were tending sheep. She appeared to them several more times. The kids told their families and the local priest what they had seen. Soon, the story spread throughout Portugal. The Blessed Lady promised Lucia that she would return on May 13. Seventy thousand people showed up that day to see her.”

  “And then what happened?” I douse my French toast in enough syrup to float a tennis ball.

  “It was wild. The Blessed Mother promised them a miracle, so she spun the sun out of the sky and sent a storm.”

  “Okay, that sounds like a bout of bad weather rather than a miracle.”

  “Well, that’s sort of what it was. The Blessed Lady stopped the storm, though, and everyone who was soaking wet and everything that was flooded was dry in an instant.”

  As miracles go, Fatima has none of the glamour of Lourdes, where there was a mystical spring and saintly Jennifer Jones as Bernadette. But first things first. I need to begin with a clean slate. Everything in Fatima Church must go. “How are you with a camera?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “I want you to go to the church and take pictures of everything inside. I don’t need wide shots or anything general. I want an accounting of what’s there; every chair, every table, every offering basket. Then I want you to type up a full inventory. Come fall, everything will be put in storage so we’ll have nothing but a blank canvas to work on.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Christina snaps her notebook shut. “Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  “B?” Christina stuffs the notebook into her purse.

  “Yes?”

  She looks down at the table. “Thanks for the job.”

  “You’re a smart girl with a marginal personality; why shouldn’t you have a great career?” We laugh.

  “You know”—tears fill Christina’s eyes as she looks at me—“I think I had almost given up.”

  “No, you didn’t. You’re still in the middle of it. Grief doesn’t hit and run; it stays. And sometimes for a very long time. Anyone with a heart knows that. I just want to help. I don’t expect you to be the Christina you were before Charlie died, I just want to see you smile again. That’s all. And if it’s a few years away, that’s fine too.”

  Christina takes her purse and goes. I watch her walk to her car as I wait for the bill. Why her? I wonder. It doesn’t make any sense, but I guess nothing does. Why those three little sheepherders in Fatima? They were probably playing stickball when a divine revelation knocked them on their tushies and changed the course of their lives forever. Who knows what’s in store for any of us?

  Route 3 is jammed, so I take the service road to Toot’s house. I have a slab of Reggiano Parmesan cheese from Little Italy to drop off. As I come around the corner of Corinne Way, I catch a rear glimpse of a woman wearing hot pink track pants and a matching sweatshirt chuffing up the hill. Poor dear. How are her bones taking that incessant pounding? I carefully navigate around her, then glance in my rearview mirror. It’s Toot! I stop the car and she jogs slowly up to my window.

  “What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

  “I have a date!” she says, panting.

  “Where is he?”

  “Not here. Not this minute. On Saturday night.”

  “With who?”

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? I haven’t had sex in thirteen years. Eleven since the divorce, and the two before that Lonnie complained of sciatica, so it’s a total of thirteen I’ve been living like a nun. Toward the end of my marriage, I had to beg for any slight remembrance of human companionship, believe me.”

  “Resemblance, Toot. Resemblance of human . . .” I give up. “Please, this is none of my business.”

  “I know. It’s gotta be tough to hear that your only sister was chaste ev
en while in the married state. But it’s true.” Toot pulls a handkerchief from under her bra strap and wipes her face. “Do you know Sal Concarni?” She stuffs the handkerchief back where she got it.

  “From Belmar?”

  “Yeah. The plumber. He’s divorced too. Sixty-one years old. Is that too old for me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It sounds old. I mean, I don’t want to date a guy and then end up having to crush his pills, give him baths, and help put him back in his chair.”

  “Sixty-one isn’t what it used to be.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Women age so much better than men, though. I mean, I’m dyeing my hair, but at least I have hair. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Sis, get in the car.”

  “Oh, I’ll jog it. Meet you at the house.”

  I drive ahead and watch my sister put one foot in front of the other as though her sneakers are made of cast iron. I don’t know if jogging is the right sport for her; something involving flotation might be a wiser choice. I pull into her driveway and grab the sack of cheese. As she jogs into the driveway, Toot raises her arms in victory as if she’s just won an Olympic gold medal for track and field. “One mile!” she shouts. “Whoo-hoo!”

  “Wonderful.” I follow her into the house.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna wear. The last time I was on a date was with Lonnie, and when was that? Truman was president. Sweet God. I can’t eat a thing tomorrow. If I lose another couple of pounds, I can fit into a lightweight Pendleton wool chemise I got for Lucy Caruso’s wedding. It’s pink plaid. Is plaid all right on a date?”

  “Is he taking you clog dancing in the Scottish Highlands?”

  Toot rolls her eyes.

  “Skip the wool. You need something soft and touchable. Like Qiana. Have you got anything made with Qiana?”

  “Some panties.” Toot cackles and pours herself a glass of water.

  “If you’re not going to take this seriously—”

  “Oh, B. Come on. All I’ve done is take things seriously for the past thirteen years. Thirteen? What the hell, all my life. I want to laugh again. I want to giggle like those girls in braces on the boardwalk who travel in packs and think everything is funny. I want to be silly. Romantic. I want to hold hands in the park and kiss under the moon. I need some . . . touch.”

  “Okay. I get it. Here’s what you need to do. Go to Bamberger’s and get yourself some new lingerie. And then—don’t laugh—go to the men’s department and buy a pair of black satin pajamas.”

  “I don’t know Sal that well yet.”

  “They’re not for him. They’re for you. You’re going to wear a pair of simple black slacks with a satin pajama top.”

  “Out in public?”

  “No one will know it’s pajamas but you. It will fit with a little blousing, which you need. It will be very alluring.”

  “Wow, I never thought of that.” Toot looks off in the distance, imagining herself in a sexy pajama top.

  “And throw on some pearls and your diamond earrings. Black with cool white accents. You’ll look like a Thin Mint. One of those Girl Scout cookies.”

  Toot’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s almost as if you want this for me more than I want it for myself.”

  “Your happiness means the world to me, sis. It’s time for you to be a girl again.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monica Vitti’s Chandelier

  Sunday dinner at Toot’s with the boys has been a continuation of a family tradition since our parents were alive. Occasionally one or two of us is missing, but the open seat is quickly taken by a cousin or some great-aunt who’s visiting from out of town. Stragglers are welcome, and Toot makes enough stuffed artichokes, manicotti, bracciole, and tiramisu for the College of Cardinals and their secretaries. Even Two would make the drive from Villanova to join us. Everyone leaves with enough food for lunches the following week.

  Toot has yet to invite Ondine to our family dinner, and for the past several weeks Nicky has made an excuse and stayed away. So, after much negotiation and many phone calls back and forth, Ondine has been included at last. While Toot and I arrange the food in the kitchen, Ondine is serving cocktails to the boys in the living room, which harkens back to her boffo career in Atlantic City waiting on the craps tables in hot pants.

  “I almost invited Sal to dinner,” Toot says as she moves a Corningware dish of Clams Casino from the oven to the table. “It’s our seven-week anniversary this Saturday. But I thought it was too much, too soon.”

  “You shouldn’t hide Sal from the boys. You’re dating, and you should sit them down and be a grown-up and tell them that this is what adults do. They date and they have friends. I wouldn’t worry. They’ll be happy for you.” I follow Toot into the dining room with a basket of hot garlic bread. She places the clams on the buffet.

  “You think?” Toot knits her brow into a small checkerboard. “I don’t know. When Natalie Covella started dating after her divorce, her sons almost killed the guy.”

  “That’s because she’d been seeing him for the last ten years of her marriage. Yours is a completely different situation.”

  “What situation?” Two comes into the dining room carrying the crystal side dishes of celery hearts, black olives, and carrot curls artfully arranged.

  “Oh, Two, I don’t want to hurt you,” Toot wails, beginning to cry.

  “Oh, for godsakes.” I hand my sister a clean moppeen.

  “What is it, Ma? Are you sick?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to think I’m a puttana.”

  “What?” Two is aghast.

  “I’m seeing Sal Concarni. You know, the plumber from Belmar. There’s nothing wrong with my pipes, it’s strictly social. Anyhow, I’m so lonely, Two, and he’s a nice companion.” Toot is sobbing uncontrollably now.

  Two takes her by the shoulders. “Ma, that’s fantastic.”

  “It is?” Toot dries up.

  “Yeah. I mean, you should be with someone. You’re a beautiful woman with a lot to offer. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

  “I’ve lived like Bernadette of Lourdes for thirteen years. I’ve sacrificed in order to enjoy whatever small morsel of happiness is in store for me. Whatever God has in mind—”

  “Toot,” I say, warning in my voice. “He’s on your side. Don’t pile it on.”

  “Sorry. But it’s true.” Toot wipes away her tears by giving a quick swipe under each eye with a clean moppeen, careful not to smudge her mascara.

  “Two, please call the boys and Ondine to dinner.”

  Two goes into the living room. “How did I do?” She checks her lipstick in the butter knife.

  “Sensational!” I say. “I don’t know what I liked better, the wailing or the gnashing of the teeth.”

  “Hey, Unc.” Anthony ambles into the dining room and gives me a hug.

  “Hello, Anthony.” My nephew slides into his chair and slumps low. Maybe his posture is so poor because he’s hunched over working on tiny gold chain links all day, but I wish he had some manners.

  “Where do you want us, Ma?”

  “Nicky, you go there.” She points. “And Ondine, you go there.” Toot points to the seat farthest from Nicky.

  “Can’t I sit next to Nicky?” Ondine says softly.

  “Oh, I guess so. B, you sit there instead.” Toot switches my place card (from Lillian Vernon, small china flower baskets that you write on with a washable marker) with Ondine’s. “You know, Ondine”—from my sister’s tone I can tell an insult is coming; it’s like the gurgle before the pipe bursts—“many hostesses—the Duchess of Windsor comes to mind—split up the couples at their dinner parties so the individuals can talk to people they don’t see on a daily basis, thus giving the party some pizzazz and fresh conversation.”

  “But”—Ondine looks around—“there’s only the six of us here.”

  “Right, but you do get my point, don’t you?”

  Ondine nods,
but I’m certain she doesn’t. Neither do I or any of my nephews who’ve never heard their mother invoke the Duchess of Windsor before.

  “Okay, sis, shall we eat?”

  We form a line at the buffet; the serving dishes cover the table like a completed puzzle. We load up our plates. When we’ve taken our seats, Toot says, “B, will you say grace?”

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit . . .” I look at Ondine, who is not Catholic, and drop the traditional “Bless Us Oh Lord” in favor of a more ecumenical choice. “Thank you, God, for this beautiful meal made with loving hands by my sister. Amen.”

  “Everything’s gone to hell since Vatican II,” Toot says.

  “Ma?”

  “Yes, Nicky?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I invited Pop over for dessert.”

  Toot puts down the Parmesan. “Is he bringing Doris?”

  “She’s his wife.”

  “That wasn’t the question. I asked if he was bringing her.”

  “They go everywhere together.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now, is there?” Toot leans over and whispers into my ear. “Thank God I didn’t invite Sal.”

  “You were nice to Doris at Unc’s birthday party,” Nicky says meekly.

  “For the record, I can’t be nice this close together. It’s a strain for me to be friendly this close together, okay? When it comes to ex-husbands and their current wives I’m, at the most, a once-a-year girl.”

  “Two, tell us about your work at the studio.” I change the subject swiftly, like Mario Andretti changes lanes at the NASCAR finals.

  “I’m learning a lot from Hattie, the upholsterer. She showed me how to pipe a slipcover in grosgrain trim this week.”

  “Are you going back to college?” Nicky asks.

  Toot interrupts. “He is taking off a while. That’s all. Then he’s going back to get his degree. Three sons, I want one with a diploma that’s not from driving school.”

  “I plan to go back eventually.”

  “I’m sure the theater department misses you terribly,” I tell Two as I pass him the hot bread.