Charla had mentioned Roxbury inhabitants were wealthy. Roxbury was one of those special, trendy, old time artistic places that no one tired of, she explained. Artists, writers, movie stars: there were a lot of them around there, apparently. I wondered what Richard Rainsferd did for a living. Had he always had a house here? Or had he and Sarah retired from Manhattan? And what about children? How many children had they had? I peered through the windshield at the wood exterior of the house and counted the number of windows. There were probably two or three bedrooms in there, I supposed, unless the back was bigger than I thought. Children who were perhaps my age. And grandchildren. I craned my neck to see if there were any cars parked in front of the house. I could only make out a closed detached garage.
I glanced at my watch. Just after two. It had only taken me a couple of hours to drive from the city. Charla had lent me her Volvo. It was as impeccable as her kitchen. I suddenly wished she could have been with me today. But she hadn't been able to cancel her appointments. "You'll do fine, Sis," she had said, tossing me the car keys. "Keep me posted, OK?"
I sat in the Volvo, anxiety rising with the stifling heat. What the hell was I going to say to Sarah Starzynski? I couldn't even call her that. Nor Dufaure. She was Mrs. Rainsferd now, she had been Mrs. Rainsferd for the past fifty years. Getting out of the car, ringing the brass bell I could see just on the right of the front door, seemed impossible. "Yes, hello, Mrs. Rainsferd, you don't know me, my name is Julia Jarmond, but I just wanted to talk to you about the rue de Saintonge, and what happened, and the Tezac family, and--"
It sounded lame, artificial. What was I doing here? Why had I come all this way? I should have written her a letter, waited for her to answer me. Coming here was ridiculous. A ridiculous idea. What had I hoped for anyway? For her to welcome me with open arms, pour me a cup of tea, and murmur: "Of course I forgive the Tezac family." Crazy. Surreal. I had come here for nothing. I should be leaving, right now.
I was about to back up and go, when a voice startled me.
"You looking for someone?"
I swiveled in my damp seat to discover a tanned woman in her mid-thirties. She had short, black hair and a stocky build.
"I'm looking for Mrs. Rainsferd, but I'm not sure I've got the right house."
The woman smiled.
"You got the right house. But my mom's out. Gone shopping. She'll be back in twenty minutes, though. I'm Ornella Harris. I live right next door."
I was looking at Sarah's daughter. Sarah Starzynski's daughter.
I tried to keep perfectly calm, managed a polite smile.
"I'm Julia Jarmond."
"Nice to meet you," she said. "Can I help in any way?"
I racked my brains for something to say.
"Well, I was just hoping to meet your mother. I should have phoned and all that, but I was passing through Roxbury, and I thought I'd drop by and say hi."
"You're a friend of Mom's?" she said.
"Not exactly. I met one of her cousins recently, and he told me she lived here."
Ornella's face lit up.
"Oh, you probably met Lorenzo! Was that in Europe?"
I tried not to look lost. Who on earth was Lorenzo?
"Actually, yes, it was in Paris."
Ornella chuckled.
"Yup, he's quite something, Uncle Lorenzo. Mom adores him. He doesn't come to see us much, but he calls a lot."
She cocked her chin toward me.
"Hey, you want to come in for some iced tea or something, it's damn hot out here. That way you can wait for Mom? We'll hear her car when she comes in."
"I don't want to be any trouble . . ."
"My kids are out boating on Lake Lillinonah with their dad, so please, feel free!"
I got out of the car, feeling more and more nervous, and followed Ornella to the patio of a neighboring house in the same style as the Rainsferd residence. The lawn was strewn with plastic toys, Frisbees, headless Barbie dolls, and Legos. As I sat down in the cool shade, I wondered how often Sarah Starzynski came here to watch her grandchildren play. As she lived next door, she probably came every day.
Ornella handed me a large glass of iced tea, which I accepted gratefully. We sipped in silence.
"You live around here?" she asked, finally.
"No, I live in France. In Paris. I married a Frenchman."
"Paris, wow," she cooed. "Beautiful place, eh?"
"Yeah, but I'm pretty glad to be back home. My sister lives in Manhattan, and my parents in Boston. I've come to spend the summer with them."
The phone rang. Ornella went to answer it. She murmured a few quiet words and came back to the patio.
"That was Mildred," she said.
"Mildred?" I asked blankly.
"My dad's nurse."
The woman Charla had spoken to yesterday. Who had mentioned an old, bedridden man.
"Is your dad . . . any better?" I asked tentatively.
She shook her head.
"No, he's not. The cancer is too advanced. He's not going to make it. He can't even talk anymore, he's unconscious."
"I'm very sorry," I mumbled.
"Thank God Mom is such a tower of strength. She's the one who's pulling me through this, not the other way around. She's wonderful. So is my husband, Eric. I don't know what I'd do without those two."
I nodded. Then we heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel.
"That's Mom!" said Ornella.
I heard a car door slam and the scrunch of footsteps on the pebbles. Then a voice came over the hedge, high-pitched and sweet, "Nella! Nella!"
There was a foreign, lilting tone to it.
"Coming, Mom."
My heart walloped around in my rib cage. I had to put my hand on my sternum to quiet it. As I followed the swing of Ornella's square hips back across the lawn, I felt faint with excitement and agitation.
I was going to meet Sarah Starzynski. I was going to see her with my very eyes. Heaven knows what I was going to say to her.
Although she was standing right next to me, I heard Ornella's voice from a long way off.
"Mom, this is Julia Jarmond, a friend of Uncle Lorenzo's, she's from Paris, just passing through Roxbury."
The smiling woman coming toward me was wearing a red dress that came down to her ankles. She was in her late fifties. She had the same stocky build as her daughter: round shoulders, plump thighs, and thick, generous arms. Black, graying hair caught up in a bun, tanned, leathery skin, and jet-black eyes.
Black eyes.
This was not Sarah Starzynski. That much I knew.
S
O YOU FRIEND OF Lorenzo, si? Nice to meet you!"
The accent was pure Italian. No doubt about that. Everything about this woman was Italian.
I backed away, stuttering profusely.
"I am sorry, so very sorry."
Ornella and her mother stared at me. Their smiles hovered and vanished.
"I think I've got the wrong Mrs. Rainsferd."
"The wrong Mrs. Rainsferd?" repeated Ornella.
"I'm looking for a Sarah Rainsferd," I said. "I've made a mistake."
Ornella's mother sighed and patted my arm.
"Please don't worry. These things happen."
"I'll be leaving now," I muttered, my face hot. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
I turned and headed back to the car, trembling with embarrassment and disappointment.
"Wait!" came Mrs. Rainsferd's clear voice. "Miss, wait!"
I halted. She came up to me, put her plump hand on my shoulder.
"Look, you make no mistake, Miss."
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"The French girl, Sarah, she my husband's first wife."
I stared at her.
"Do you know where she is?" I breathed.
The plump hand patted me again. The black eyes seemed sad.
"Honey, she dead. She died 1972. So sorry to tell you this."
Her words took ages to sink in. My h
ead was swimming. Maybe it was the heat, the sun pounding down on me.
"Nella! Get some water!"
Mrs. Rainsferd took my arm and guided me back to the porch, sat me on a cushioned, wooden bench. She gave me some water. I drank, teeth clattering against the rim, handing her the glass when I was through.
"So sorry to tell you this news, believe me."
"How did she die?" I croaked.
"A car accident. Richard and her were already living in Roxbury since the early sixties. Sarah's car skidded on black ice. Crashed into a tree. The roads very dangerous here in winter, you know. She killed instantly."
I could not speak. I felt utterly devastated.
"You upset, poor honey, now," she murmured, stroking my cheek with a strong motherly gesture.
I shook my head, mumbled something. I felt drained, washed out. An empty shell. The idea of the long drive back to New York made me want to scream. And after that . . . What was I going to tell Edouard, tell Gaspard? How? That she was dead? Just like that? That there was nothing to be done?
She was dead. She died at forty years old. She was gone. Dead. Gone.
Sarah was dead. I could never speak to her. I would never be able to tell her sorry, sorry from Edouard, tell her how much the Tezac family had cared. I could never tell her that Gaspard and Nicolas Dufaure missed her, that they sent their love. It was too late. Thirty years too late.
"I never met her, you know," Mrs. Rainsferd was saying. "I only met Richard couple of years later. He a sad man. And the boy--"
I raised my head, paying full attention.
"The boy?"
"Yes, William. You know William?"
"Sarah's son?"
"Yes, Sarah's boy."
"My half brother," said Ornella.
Hope dawned once more.
"No, I don't know him. Tell me about him."
"Poor bambino, he only twelve when his mother died, you see. A heartbroken boy. I raised him like he mine. I gave him love of Italy. He married Italian girl, from my home village."
She beamed with pride.
"Does he live in Roxbury?" I asked.
She smiled, patted my cheek again.
"Mamma mia, no, William lives in Italy. He left Roxbury in 1980, when he twenty. Married Francesca in 1985. Has two lovely girls. Comes back to see his father from time to time, and me and Nella, but not very often. He hates it here. Reminds him of his mother's death."
I felt much better all of a sudden. It was less hot, less stuffy. I found I could breathe easier.
"Mrs. Rainsferd--," I began.
"Please," she said, "call me Mara."
"Mara," I complied. "I need to talk to William. I need to meet him. It's very important. Could you give me his address in Italy?"
T
HE CONNECTION WAS BAD and I could barely hear Joshua's voice. "You need an advance?" he said. "In the middle of summer?"
"Yes!" I shouted, cringing at the disbelief in his voice.
"How much?"
I told him.
"Hey, what's going on, Julia? Has that smooth operator of a husband turned stingy, or what?"
I sighed impatiently.
"Can I have it or not, Joshua? It's important."
"Of course you can have it," he snapped. "This is the first time in years you've ever asked me for money. Hope you're not having any problems?"
"No problems. I just need to travel. That's all. And I have to do it fast."
"Oh," he said, and I could feel his curiosity swelling. "And where are you going?"
"I'm taking my daughter to Tuscany. I'll explain another time."
My tone was flat and final. He probably felt it was useless trying to glean anything else from me. I could feel his annoyance pulse all the way from Paris. The advance would be in my account later this afternoon, he said curtly. I thanked him and hung up.
Then I put my hands under my chin and thought. If I told Bertrand what I was doing, he'd make a scene. He'd make everything complicated, difficult. I couldn't face that. I could tell Edouard . . . No, it was too early. Too soon. I had to talk to William Rainsferd first. I had his address now, it would be easy locating him. Talking to him was another matter.
Then there was Zoe. How was she going to feel about her Long Island frolic being interrupted? And not going to Nahant, to her grandparents' place? That worried me, at first. Yet, I somehow did not think she would mind. She had never been to Italy. And I could let her into the secret. I could tell her the truth, tell her we were going to meet Sarah Starzynski's son.
And then there were my parents. What could I tell them? Where would I begin? They, too, were expecting me at Nahant after the Long Island stay. What on earth was I going to tell them?
"Yeah," drawled Charla later on when I explained all this, "yeah, sure, running off to Tuscany with Zoe, finding this guy, and just saying sorry sixty years later?"
I flinched at the irony in her voice.
"Well, why the hell not?" I asked.
She sighed. We were sitting in the large front room she used as an office on the second floor of her house. Her husband was turning up later on that evening. Dinner was waiting in the kitchen, we had made it together earlier. Charla craved bright colors, as did Zoe. This room was a melting pot of pistachio green, ruby red, and luminous orange. The first time I had seen it, my head had started to throb, but I had gotten used to it, and I secretly found it intensely exotic. I always tended to go for neutral, bland colors, like brown, beige, white, or gray, even in my dress code. Charla and Zoe preferred to overdose on anything bright, but they both carried it off, beautifully. I both envied and admired their audacity.
"Stop being the bossy older sister. You're pregnant, don't forget. I'm not sure all this traveling is the right thing to do at the moment."
I said nothing. She had a point. She got up and went to put an old Carly Simon record on. "You're So Vain," with Mick Jagger whining in the backup vocals.
Then she turned around and glared at me.
"Do you really have to find this man right now, this very minute? I mean, can't it wait?"
Again, she had a point.
I looked back at her.
"Charla, it's not that simple. And no, it can't wait. No, I can't explain. It's too important. It's the most important thing in my life right now. Apart from the baby."
She sighed again.
"That Carly Simon song always reminds me of your husband. 'You're so vain, I betcha think this song is about you . . .' "
I let out an ironic chuckle.
"What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?" she asked. "About not coming to Nahant? And about the baby?"
"God knows."
"Think it over, then. Think it over carefully."
"I am. I have."
She came up behind me and rubbed my shoulders.
"Does that mean you've got it all organized? Already?"
"Yup."
"You fast one."
Her hands felt good on my shoulders, making me drowsy and warm. I looked around at Charla's colorful work room, the desk covered with files and books, the light ruby curtains moving in the gentle breeze. The house was quiet without Charla's kids.
"And where does this guy live?" she asked.
"He has a name. William Rainsferd. He lives in Lucca."
"Where's that?"
"Small town between Florence and Pisa."
"What does he do for a living?"
"I looked him up on the Internet, but his stepmother told me anyway. He's a food critic. His wife is a sculptor. They have two kids."
"And how old is William Rainsferd?"
"You sound like a cop. Born in 1959."
"And you're just going to waltz into his life and set all hell loose."
I pushed her hands away, exasperated.
"Of course not! I just want him to know our side of the story. I want to make sure he knows nobody has forgotten what happened."
A wry grin.
"He probably hasn't either. His mom car
ried that with her all her life. Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded."
A door banged downstairs.
"Anyone home? The beautiful lady and her sister from Paree?"
The thud of steps coming up the stairs.
Barry, my brother-in-law. Charla's face lit up. So much in love, I thought. I felt happy for her. After a painful, trying divorce, she was truly happy again.
As I watched them kiss, I thought of Bertrand. What was going to happen to my marriage? Which way would it turn? Would it ever work out? I pushed it all away from my mind as I followed Charla and Barry downstairs.
Later on, in bed, Charla's words about William Rainsferd came back to me. "Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded." I tossed and turned most of the night. The following morning, I said to myself that I'd soon find out if William Rainsferd had a problem talking about his mother and her past. I was going to see him, after all. I was going to talk to him. In two days, Zoe and I were flying to Paris from JFK, then on to Florence.
William Rainsferd always spent his summer vacation in Lucca. Mara had told me that when she had given me his address. And Mara had phoned him to say I'd be looking him up.
William Rainsferd was aware that a Julia Jarmond was going to call him. That's all he knew.
T
USCAN HEAT HAD NOTHING to do with New England heat. It was overly dry, devoid of any humidity whatsoever. As I walked out of the Florence Peretola airport with Zoe in tow, the heat was so devastating, I thought I was going to shrivel up on the spot, dehydrated. I kept putting things down to my pregnancy, comforting myself, telling myself I didn't usually feel this drained, this parched. Jet lag didn't help, either. The sun seemed to bite into me, to eat into my skin and eyes despite a straw hat and dark glasses.
I had rented a car, a modest-looking Fiat, which was waiting for us in the middle of a sun-drenched parking lot. The air conditioner was more than meek. As I backed out, I wondered suddenly if I was going to make the forty-minute drive to Lucca. I craved a cool, shady room, drifting to sleep in soft, light sheets. Zoe's stamina kept me going. She never stopped talking, pointed out the color of the sky--a deep, cloudless blue--the cypress trees lining the highway, the olive trees planted in little rows, the crumbling old houses glimpsed in the distance, perched on hilltops. "Now that's Montecatini," she chirped knowingly, pointing and reading out from a guide book, "famous for its luxury spa and its wine."
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