“Whomever you both choose,” she said, “must be willing to live under a plan that’s been determined, no room for her own choices, or her own life. I’m sure someone will be more than willing, but I’m not that sort of girl.”
She glanced at Jack, her heart tugging as her eyes began to soften.
“I’ve loved you greatly, Jack Kennedy, and I’ll remember you with the fondest of thoughts. I’m going to get my citizenship, fast as I can, so that I can have the honor of voting for you when the time comes.”
“Alicia…” he said with a whimper.
“Thank you for a magnificent year. I’ll remember each moment, every one of your smiles. Our time together was even sweeter, knowing that it wouldn’t last. But, as Ulysses says, ‘Every hour is saved.’”
Alicia kissed him on the cheek, then sashayed out of the room. But she stopped one last time in the doorway, and peered over her shoulder.
“Oh, and Ambassador?” she said. “There’s something I should mention.”
“Yes?” he said, both brows spiked.
“I’d like to educate you on the painting you bought. The one that hangs in your bedroom.”
“Er, uh, what now…?”
“I was sad to let it go, but I greatly appreciated the twenty dollars. You should know, that’s my favorite of all my work. It’s the grand synagogue in Łódź, where my family attended services each week.”
“It’s a synagogue?” he balked.
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Kennedy, for supporting the Jewish arts.”
* * *
Alicia stood at the postal counter, the tattered valise at her feet. In the side pocket was a train ticket to Boston. A plane in Boston would take her to Hollywoodland.
She read the letter one more time. Jack deserved a more personal good-bye, but if Alicia saw him face-to-face she’d never find the nerve to leave.
Dearest Jack,
You called twenty-three times last night, and knocked on the door twice. A bit onerous to the sweet Mrs. Neill, who’s been nothing short of grace. It’s nice to feel loved, but darling, you’re not the only person in the world.
Please, don’t contact me. I’m sure it’s agonizing not to get your way but, rest assured, you’ll “win” in the end. I’m letting you off the hook, as the saying goes. Your dad is dead right. You need a Catholic, American wife. Someone who will strike the right pose, and give you gobs of kids to boot. It will all be fine, just as you’ve always said to me.
And so I am off, to the golden coast. I’ll recall nothing but the best of you, dear Jack. Because the best is all you are.
All my love,
Alicia
“I’m about to close up!” called the postmaster. “It’s now or never, Miss Darr!”
“Sorry, sorry, give me a second.”
She sighed, and folded up the note. She stopped to admire the ring still on her finger, and wondered if she should return that, too.
“You be sure to call with your forwarding information,” the man said as she crammed the letter into its envelope. “When you get to California.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Alicia teared as she licked the envelope and then pressed it closed. For a second, she let herself picture Jack’s face, the very best version of him, at the helm of the Victura, sunglasses on, wind stirring his hair.
“We are tied to the ocean,” he once said. “Our bodies have the same percentage of salt. Seawater is in our sweat, it’s in our tears.”
Alicia wiped one last tear of her own, and shuffled toward the postmaster. She reached into her handbag for a pen.
“One last thing,” she said.
Smiling, Alicia scribbled two lines from “Ulysses” on the envelope’s seal.
Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
“Seems like you’re stalling,” the postmaster noted. “Maybe whatever that is—” He pointed. “—you should hold on to it for a night or two. I can’t tell you how many people walk in here every week, hoping to retrieve some letter or package they’d sent in haste.”
Alicia shook her head.
“I’m sure about this,” she said. “It has to go out.”
She pushed the stamped, sealed letter across the counter. The postmaster smiled, then tipped his hat. He tossed her envelope into a bin, said good-bye, and then slammed the gate closed.
JUNE 2016
ROME
“Let me grab the post,” Serena Palmisano says to the tall American boy as she fumbles with her mailbox.
It’s odd she does this now. Sometimes she goes days—weeks—without checking. But for some reason, she is compelled. Perhaps it’s because of the mail carrier, who materialized from behind a potted plant, giving Serena a minor fright. He seemed similarly alarmed to encounter her. God forbid someone catch an Italian postal worker doing his job.
“Bella,” he’d said with a nervous twitch before hurrying off.
“Was that a mailman?” the American had asked.
The American’s name is Lee Perenchio and they’ve known each other for one week.
“Yes, of course,” she’d answered.
Now Serena slides out her mail. There are a few flyers, a bank statement, and an envelope addressed to her in purple ink. She thinks to throw it out but the bin is overflowing.
“He delivered one letter?” Lee asks, still stuck on the postman.
Serena has taught him much about the vagaries of Roman life. Like how traffic lights are suggestions and it’s best to follow a nun across the street to avoid being squashed. But the postal system is something else entirely.
“Allora,” she says, “the successful delivery of one letter is a banner day in the Italian postal regime. Come, follow me.”
She moves toward the stairs.
At the landing, Serena peers through the window, toward the courtyard where the mail carrier is scuttling off. Lee Perenchio might have a point, she thinks. The mailman doesn’t have a bag. Then again, somebody somewhere is probably on strike.
When they reach the apartment, Serena pulls out her keys and begins to unlock. Lee ogles the nine-bolt system. She explains that crime is rampant, even on Margutta. Lee shakes his head. He will never get used to this city.
Serena opens the door, wondering if she’ll regret bringing this stranger to her flat. She hopes he doesn’t expect any funny business. Then again, maybe she wants funny business, which is why she brought him here.
Meanwhile, Lee is still mulling over the locks. Somehow, he is always one step behind, which is why he’s so frequently in danger of being hit by motorinos.
When they walk inside, Serena throws her post onto the kitchen table. Her eyes shift toward the letter. It is mangled and much abused. Also: who hand-addresses an envelope these days? Never mind that, who writes a letter and then posts it? It’s quaint, almost. Like a wartime telegram.
“Your apartment is gorgeous,” Lee says, admiring the parquet floors, white walls, and arched doorways.
Serena nods. The home has undeniable charm, even with Nonna’s mismatched furniture, French telephones, and quirky objets d’art. One day she’ll clear out Nova’s things, but Serena can’t muster the resolve quite yet. Her grandmother’s not been dead that long.
“Grazie,” Serena says, stalking back toward her mail. “It’s a bit cluttered, especially with the newspaper clippings on the walls. I don’t have the heart to take them down.”
Again, she regards the funny envelope and finds herself unable to leave it be. As Lee inspects one of her grandmother’s paintings—a whipped-candy cat with turquoise eyes—Serena tears into the envelope and begins to read. She squints.
Dear Miss Palmisano,
I am executor of the Estate of Alicia Corning Clark. I’m sad to report that Mrs. Clark passed away in February. She left behind a considerable estate.
It does not take long for Lee to notice her distraction.
“Whatcha got there?” he asks.
“Some very peculiar correspondence,” Serena answers, realizing her brows have been stitched together for several minutes.
Her eyes flash to the envelope.
“From a lawyer,” she says. “In Los Angeles.”
“Don’t sound so disgusted,” Lee says, and forces a laugh. “At least a few good things come out of that hellhole.”
Lee is from Los Angeles, too.
“Mind if I take a gander?” he asks.
She loosens her hold, and Lee slides the letter from her hand. She watches as he reads.
Though I cannot be sure this letter will reach you, I’ve written to say that you—Serena Palmisano—are potentially a beneficiary to Mrs. Clark’s estate. While this means you might be an heir, I cannot guarantee that the courts or probate law will deem you as such. There are many complicating factors, not the least of which is that Mrs. Clark left all legal and financial documentation in a state of bedlam.
“An inheritance?” Lee’s face lights up, as if he were a cartoon. “I thought Novella…”
He stops himself. I thought Novella was your last remaining relative is what he’d started to say.
“She was,” Serena snaps, finishing his sentence in her mind. “I’m sure this…”
She waggles her hand toward the letter.
“I’m sure it’s some sort of swindle,” she says. “A Nigerian hustler.”
“Oh.” He frowns, disappointed. “That’s another Roman thing, then? People faking inheritances?”
“Not that I know of,” she replies as he scans the paper a second time.
“I’m not an expert,” Lee says, “but it looks legit. I’ve heard of this law firm. It’s large, and very well known. Plus, the letter is from America, so we can’t chalk it up to squirrelly Roman street moves.”
Serena should be offended, but it is a fair characterization.
“There are many non-legit aspects to your culture, as well,” she says.
“I don’t disagree, but there aren’t any red flags in this instance. Like I said, I’m familiar with the firm and we can find out in two seconds if this lawyer really works there. Also, he doesn’t ask for money, or your bank account information, or anything like that. He’ll pay for any expenses you might incur.”
Before you can be legally attached to her estate, you will need to come to Los Angeles to discuss the matter in person. You will be reimbursed for your lodging and airfare. You will also receive a per diem of $50, payable out of the estate.
“Aren’t you curious?” he asks. “Don’t you want to find out more?”
“Who just gives someone money?”
“Anyone who has assets when they die,” he says. “That’s why there are wills.”
“A con job,” she grumbles.
Beautiful, elegant Serena has an edge to her, a certain skepticism usually found in aged and grizzled men. It’s no wonder Lee thought that she was older than her twenty-one years when they first met. From the minute Serena spoke—rapidly and with heavy use of hands—he developed a crush on what he thought was an older woman. Then Lee discovered he had her by two years.
“What is that expression, Lee Perenchio?” she says.
“I was thinking about how I’m going to miss you,” he answers honestly.
Serena bats the air.
“The letter,” he says, redirecting the conversation. “Why are you so skeptical?”
“Look at the scrabbly handwriting.” Serena points to the paper. “You can’t mail something to Rome and handwrite the address. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t. Though it does seem strange that it was stapled shut.”
“That’s the least suspicious part! I’m sure it was opened and then reassembled.”
Lee makes a face.
“Who would open it?”
“La posta, naturally. They take all the good stuff. We’re lucky this person didn’t send a check.” She snorts. “Not that he actually has money to send.”
Lee reviews the letter.
I’ve been Mrs. Corning Clark’s lawyer for some fifty years, and have her best interests—financial and emotional—at heart. I want to make sure what’s left goes to the right person. I want to make sure her wishes are carried out.
Lee puts down the letter and picks up his cell phone. He begins to type.
“Holy shit!” he yelps, then jabs a finger at the screen. “This woman. She was wealthy, like crazy wealthy. Heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune. It’s hard to imagine there’s still a sewing machine fortune to be had, but apparently there is.”
“I am well acquainted with the woman and her sewing machine dollars,” Serena says, and rolls her eyes.
“Wait.” Lee gawps. “You actually know this person?”
“Sì, certamente,” she says. “Of course.”
Serena can hear her grandmother’s voice from across the years. Oh, that Alicia! You won’t believe what she’s up to these days! Che donna! What a woman! On Alicia Corning Clark, Nonna Nova had a lot to say, mostly using words like “era un disastro,” “catastrofe,” “sciagura” … peppered with a generous does of “strabellissima” for balance. Alicia had always been beautiful.
“She was close with my grandmother,” Serena says. “They lived together, right here in this flat, during the fifties, la dolce vita.”
“So, you’ve met her.”
Lee is confused, so very confused.
“Yes,” she says. “I haven’t seen her in many years. Probably close to a decade. But when I was a girl, we spent a week or two each year at her garish estate in the Bahamas.”
“My god. Serena!” Lee throws back his head. “That alone should eliminate any questions about the validity of the letter. How would a random swindler make that sort of connection?”
“Dai, Alicia … she got around.”
“According to this article, her estate is worth over seventeen million dollars, possibly as much as forty.”
“Is that all?” Serena says with a small snicker. “The way she spoke, you’d think seventeen million is merely what she carried in her purse for emergencies. Or in the pocket of one of her minks.”
Che brutta!
“Alicia was very colorful,” Serena adds.
“I’ll say. Apparently, she dated JFK?”
“Ah. Yes. Among others. Gary Cooper. Ty Power. Name a matinee idol and he was on the register.” Serena is quiet for a second. “I don’t mean to sound uncharitable. Alicia made a grand life for herself out of a very questionable start, but she could be a handful, ‘high maintenance.’ Nova was bohemian, so Alicia got on her—how do you say—nerves. She loved and hated her both. What is the term they use in the States? Friend, but also nemesis? Fremesis?”
“Frenemy?” Lee says with a smirk.
He sets down his phone, and the letter. Damn, Serena is cute. He doesn’t entirely understand his emotions about her.
“Avajo!” Serena says. “Yes. ‘Frenemy.’ That’s the word.”
Mere months ago, Serena was living in Washington, D.C., taking classes and attending college parties. She’d fancied herself mostly American, save the matter of her passport and country of birth. Alas, she’d misjudged her own status if the colloquialisms are slipping away. Serena wonders how her Italian—her Romanesco—sounds in the ears of true locals. She is neither one thing, nor the other. It is a distressing thought.
“Frenemy,” Lee says. “I thought grandparents were too wise for that sort of nonsense.”
“My nonna was not a typical grandmother.”
“The muse of la dolce vita,” Lee says, remembering what she’d said. “The world’s most famous gadabout.”
Serena chortles.
“So, there is a possibility this woman left you money?” Lee asks.
“A remote one.” Serena nods slowly. “She divorced or outlived all of her husbands and never had children. Her parents died in the war. But it doesn’t make sense that she’d leave the money to me, instead of Novella. They died a few weeks apart. I doubt Mrs.
Clark knew my grandmother was gone.”
“Technically,” Lee says, “the letter states that you might be a beneficiary. Maybe your grandmother was named, but the lawyers figured out—”
“She’s dead,” Serena says. “Perhaps.”
“You need to pursue this,” Lee says. “You must go to Los Angeles.”
“Who has time for that?”
And who has the money? Though she’s inherited Nova’s estate—however grand or insignificant that might be—it will be a great while before the money is in hand, if the Italian legal system has anything to say about it, which of course it will, and for years.
“You have time,” Lee says. “You’re on leave from college. You’re working as a contractor for a tour company.”
Serena shoots him a look. He holds up both hands.
“It’s not an insult,” he says. “The point I’m trying to make is that you have greater freedom now than you’ll ever have again.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I’ve received one inheritance this year, and it’s more than enough.”
Serena glowers and Lee understands.
Thanks to intimate conversations held in front of awe-inspiring canvases or, better yet, over bottles of wine in quaint, brick-walled trattorias, Lee knows that Serena was raised by her grandmother. Her father died, her mother left, and Nonna took charge. She gave Serena the best of everything: a Roman childhood, boarding school and university in the States, plus unconditional love all the way through. Breast cancer took Nova a few months back, and now Serena has no family left. Money is great, but not when it reminds you of what you’ve lost.
“I’m sorry,” Lee says. “I sound like an ass.”
“No, you sound Milanese. Which is really the same thing.”
Though she is not joking, Lee chuckles. The Rome-Milan rivalry matches anything he’s seen in American sports. To accuse a man of being Milanese means he’s a rapacious money-grubber, fueled entirely by ego and greed.
“Milanese?” Lee says. “I’d never step foot in that city!”
“Ah, so you have been listening.”
Serena sits. She pulls forward her long, thick hair to cover her ears.
“To journey to California seems like a hassle,” she says. “Why can’t this be conducted via telephone?”
The Summer I Met Jack Page 25