I go inside to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There’s so much food in it that my mouth drops open for a bit. Everything seems to be homemade, yummy leftovers in Tupperware. Before I can even choose something, a voice startles me.
“Early bird has arrived. How was the water?”
I realize my hair is dripping onto the floor and for a moment I feel like an intruder, caught in a strange house. Julian’s friendly gaze immediately diminishes my fear. Instead of scrutinizing me, his eyes drape me with kindness. His body is long and lean and from what I can see, doesn’t have an inch of body fat. I smile back and he tells me to sit down, hands me a mug of tea.
“This place is so amazing.”
He beams proudly for a moment, then starts picking some fruit out of a giant bowl. As he expertly arranges a fruit salad, I try to picture myself living here, but it doesn’t really work. I go upstairs to get dressed, and when I come back down Julian is still chopping fruit.
“I hear you’re a photography sensation now.”
Coming from Julian, this makes me blush. From what I know, he used to be a Gucci model, and then he toured the world as Van Morrison’s piano player. During that time he developed an exercise regime that was a combination of yoga and Pilates, which he taught privately to people like Meg Ryan and Sandra Bullock in L.A. Now he runs bike tours here for people in the British aristocracy. Suddenly my Brooklyn photography show sounds like I starred in a grade-school play. I promptly turn red, smile, and put up my hands.
“I like the one that the Times printed. The sidewalk art? It has this animated quality, almost like you could step into it and watch it come to life.”
I blush even more. He serves me a bowl of the finely chopped fruit with a dollop of yogurt, topped off with thin almond slices. It’s simple, but it tastes like heaven.
“One of the great things about living here is the produce. Even the processed food is not as processed as it is in the States. I get the yogurt from a family up the road, and the oranges are from our tree.”
“So you’re a cook, too?”
“I dabble. I’m making some lasagna for the villagers tonight. In your honor, of course.”
“The villagers?”
“That’s what we call our close group of friends. They’re quite the bunch.”
Richard comes down the stairs in a robe with his hair ruffled and his eyes watery. Despite his disheveled appearance, he still looks totally handsome. He kisses Julian on the cheek and starts a pot of coffee. They speak a few words to each other in Italian.
“Okay,” Julian says, seeing that I’ve finished. “Next course.”
Richard stands behind me and rubs my shoulders while Julian fries an egg in olive oil, topping it with black pepper and what looks like fresh Parmesan cheese. He puts it in front of me and I take the first bite.
“So,” Julian says as he cooks himself and Richard eggs, “you said things were crazy in New York. How do you mean?”
“Well, I get the feeling I’m far too young to be learning some of the things I did, and to have my heart broken, but that’s the way it worked, so …”
The two of them sit down with their eggs on the other side of the breakfast island, and suddenly I feel like I’m at a job interview.
“I don’t know, I guess you could say it was a lot to take in.”
Richard turns to Julian and says, “Nostra ragazza granda sta imparando che le relazioni sono complicate. All but ours, of course.”
“English at the breakfast table, please,” I say.
“Richard was just saying how lovely you look today,” Julian says.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, even though Dad lied to me, I feel so bad for him. As far as I knew he was a mostly perfect husband.”
They give each other what is supposed to be a clandestine look, Richard slightly rolling his eyes, and I wonder if they’re holding something back. If there’s more, I might just lose it.
After we finish, Richard heads to Rome for his weekly conference, and Julian goes on a “private” ride, taking an Australian couple on a thirty-two-mile loop through Tuscany. I spend the day relaxing by the pool with my iPod and the latest Twilight book. I doze off, swim, read, tan, doze off again, then go inside for Julian’s famous tuna salad with cranberry and walnuts.
In the late afternoon I decide to take a walk along the road toward the square. When a car goes by, it kicks up dust in the afternoon light and it strikes me as romantic. I think about Richard and Julian’s secret look when I mentioned my father.
You hurt me, but I love you.
I know it’s strange, but I wish Oliver were here. He and Julian could jam together. We could laugh in the pool and splash each other like they do in the movies. If only.
I get to the small square, where some old men sit smoking pipes in the shade of a tree. A woman walks her baby in a stroller that looks like it was built in 1920. There’s a small store, and I see what Julian was saying about the produce. It looks so colorful and fresh, like it all just fell off a tree into these cute little wooden boxes. I try to buy a peach but have only a five-dollar bill in my pocket. The shopkeeper lady is wearing some kind of bonnet that actually looks cool. Only an Italian woman can pull off a bonnet. She smiles and waves her hand, giving me the peach for free.
I sit in the square and watch the world go by: mostly little European cars, a couple of kids in what look like school uniforms, a hippie guy strumming a ukulele. On my way home, I pass a man on a pony. He looks at me like everything is totally normal, just taking his pony to the store.
When I get back to the house, I go into Richard’s den and email Janine, describing the town and the house and the man with the pony. I email Daria basically the same thing, except I go easier on the exclamation marks. Then I call my dad.
“Yes, I made it safe. Richard and Julian are so nice. And everything is … just right.” Well, almost everything. “How’s Tile?”
“He’s okay. Lucky he’ll have the distraction of camp soon.”
Whenever anyone says the word camp, my heart breaks a little. That was where I found out Mom was gone, almost a year ago. On a dock, on a lake, the sun almost down, the water reflecting the trees, the sky a swirl of colorful clouds. A beautiful, terrible night.
“Where is he now?”
“I’m not sure, but I think he may be hanging out with your friend from across the street.”
My breath cuts short.
“Oliver?”
“Bingo.”
“What?”
“I think they have something in common.”
I sink down to the floor, unable to fight gravity.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Missing you.”
CHAPTER 42
MY NEW BEST FRIEND
I draw a bath in the claw-foot tub, the window open with a breeze coming in from the garden. I smell the herbs, mostly basil, and I start to imagine what the lasagna is going to taste like. I’m probably going to gain ten pounds being here, but I really don’t care. I’ll just have to swim a lot. When I was little and we’d go to the beach in Nantucket, my parents could barely get me out of the water. I would lie in the surf pretending to be a mermaid, or jump through the waves like a dolphin. And sometimes I’d float on my back and close my eyes, letting the ocean hold me up, the vast sky open above me, kind of like flying.
When I get back into the room I notice an old box on the table, the top of which says Luna in pencil. These must be the rest of my mother’s things Richard wanted me to have. I sit down and hold the box on my lap for a long time. Before I get to open it, I hear Julian come home. I walk to the window and watch him wheel his bike into the shed by the pool. Then he peels his bike clothes off and steps into the outdoor shower. I get a glimpse of his butt, which is smooth and hard as a rock. When he’s done, he dives into the pool, still naked. He starts to swim laps really fast, doing that special flip-turn thing. Unbelievable. As if a thirty-two-mile bike ride through the mountains weren’t enough, why don�
�t we swim laps afterward? I open the window and lean over, resting my elbows on the sill like a swimming coach observing my star athlete. Eventually, I get my digital camera out, the fancy one I hardly ever use, and take a shot of Julian swimming. You can’t make out his butt, but one sinewy arm is extended and the water is a rich, burning blue. He almost looks like a fish.
I walk downstairs and out the front door and take a picture of the house. It looks more like a home than anything I’ve ever known.
I’m in the kitchen drinking water when I hear Julian come out of the pool. I don’t look until a few minutes later, when I know he’ll be dressed. Surely he’s not going to walk back into the house naked?
I look out and he’s picking basil, the towel around his waist. I snap a picture of his muscular back, the basil protruding all around him. A few minutes later he comes in and says, “Okay, girl, are you ready to be my sous-chef?”
I put the camera down and smile. “Sure. But you’re going to have to put something on other than that towel.”
He laughs, and for a brief instant his eyes sparkle. They’re almost as green as the basil he’s holding. He hops into the small bathroom off the kitchen and comes out a couple seconds later in a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt that probably used to be red but has faded to more of a salmon color. I remember my mother’s good friend Ben, a fashion designer from London, who would always describe his collection with fruits and vegetables. “Lots of eggplant this season,” he would say, “and limes.” At first I couldn’t figure out if he was a designer or a chef.
Julian plops a large bag of artichokes onto the table, then produces a pot that looks like it was made for a horse.
“Okay, we have to boil all these and then scrape out the hearts.”
“Sounds painful.”
He smiles. While the water boils I tell him about Oliver, and how he sort of scraped out my heart.
“Boys will do that,” he says. “When I was in high school, I was in love with my next-door neighbor, Roddy Johnson. On the night of the prom we were going to elope, and go to the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard.”
“That’s where my dad stays!” Suddenly I feel like an overanxious kid. I tell myself to tone it down.
“Yes, well, what can I say? I had good taste at an early age.” He gently starts to drop in the artichokes. “Anyway, he stood me up, so I went to the prom anyway, only to find him dancing with Jackie Bell. A pretty girl if you could get past the underbite. Broke my heart. I sat under a table the whole time.”
“Somehow it’s hard for me to picture you brokenhearted.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, sweet thing. Everyone,” he proclaims, putting the lid on the giant pot, “gets their heart broken at least once, some repeatedly. It’s a fact of life.”
“So, was that the only time? For you?”
“That was the one that really struck me. If I saw Roddy Johnson today, I’d probably kick him in the balls.”
The phone rings and Julian expertly multitasks while zesting a lemon.
“Ciao. Eight o’clock, dear. Tuscany time, not Fiji time. Okay, ciao bella.” He hangs up and moves from zesting to washing some lettuce. I’ve been assigned to chopping basil. “That was Isabella. She’s a rock star in Canada. She’s spent the last two years in Fiji and her sense of time and responsibility is, well, let’s just say ‘off.’ Not that rock stars are ever on time, but she’s learning, I suppose. She’s got a husband who’s her polar opposite. The man, bless his heart, has maps and codes and lists for everything he does. When he’s not around, you really have to stay on top of her.”
I give him my first pile of finely chopped basil.
“Nicely done! We’re going to make a chef out of you yet. Now, I always say, a little wine while you cook helps bring out the love in the dish.” He pours himself a half glass of red wine, and for me just a taste. There’s no label on the bottle.
“It’s from our neighbor’s vineyard. The stuff is mind-blowing.” He takes a small sip, swishes it around his mouth, then swallows with a smile. “It’s all blackberry all the time. Jam in a glass.”
I taste it and try to swish it around like he did but spill a little over my lip. After the artichokes are boiled, Julian takes them off the stove and puts on a CD of Italian opera. Maybe it’s the dramatic and triumphant music, but for a moment I feel like a real chef. He’s already cooked the noodles, so we begin the process of layering the lasagna. Ricotta, mozzarella, artichoke, tomato paste, basil, sweet Italian sausage, and so on. I’m a little lightheaded and starting to get really hungry. When it’s all done, Julian says, “We’ll finish the salad later. Let’s go upstairs and make ourselves pretty.”
I put my hair up and decide to apply a little of the mascara Janine gave me before I left. “You never know,” she said. I’ve never been one for makeup, but it does seem to highlight my eyes well. They’re far apart, like my mother’s. I used to think it was freaky, but people tell me it’s exotic. Whatever it is, the mascara helps. I can’t decide what to wear—everything I have seems too unsophisticated. After some time, I settle for a gray skirt with a simple flowing top.
Back downstairs, Julian’s slicing some peaches for the dessert. He pours us each some Pellegrino, and without fail, I think of Dad. I remember when I was in sixth grade and I got really sick. My mother was away on a shoot and Dad flew home from his filming in Vancouver. At the time we had a nanny who cooked us strange food and smelled like peppermint. Tile loved her because she sang to him. When Dad came home he served me soup in bed and forced me to eat crackers. Later, I read that it cost the movie $150,000 for the delay. That’s a pretty expensive stomach flu. But I was glad he thought I was worth it. I realize he has always been so perfect in my eyes, and part of me is still wondering what Richard and Julian’s secret look was about.
“You, my friend, have one more job.” Julian hands me four yellow tomatoes and says, “The size of a quarter.”
I start to dice, curling my fingers like I saw on the Food Network. Julian secretly admires my technique.
“I saw that box of stuff Richard left for me. Did you know my mother well? Was she ever, you know, here with you?”
He stops his own chopping and his eyes settle on me.
“Standing in that very spot.”
I start to feel very hot, like my skin is on fire. “I’m just gonna step outside for a minute.”
I walk past the pool and see the hills beyond, dappled with the last light of day. The edges of the trees and the fences have an orange glow. I want to scream. How can I be mad at her? Right now, I am. For leaving me behind in this world, for screwing up what she had with my father—which I happen to know was something special.
For being the beautiful woman everyone always remembers, the one whose footsteps I will always walk in. I want to experience this on my own, but she is everywhere, and in everything I do.
When I come back in, Julian gets all wide-eyed.
“Darling, come here.”
He leads me into the powder room and sits me on the little chair, dabs a tissue with warm water and cleans up the mascara that has run down my face. Then he sits down on the closed toilet lid and says, “I miss her too. I’d see her after a year and it would feel like yesterday. That’s how you know when you really connect with someone. You can just click back on track.”
I stand up and check my teeth.
“Did you know Cole?”
“Met him a few times. He has a villa a few towns away. Seemed very nice.”
“That’s what everyone says! I mean, it’s kind of hard for me to blame him. But at the end of the day, someone has to be blamed, right? My dad was there, but he never would have been there if Cole … Oh my god, Julian, I’m sorry I’m going on and on and we have mangoes to marinate or whatever.”
He laughs, and the sound of it makes me feel better for an instant. But when we get back into the kitchen, it’s my mother’s brother’s house. I stand where my mother stood, probably drinking from the sam
e glass. I start to sing the lyrics from an old eighties song: “Always something there to remind me.…”
Richard comes in, kisses me on the forehead, and says, “Did you get the box?”
“Yes, but I haven’t opened it yet.”
“No rush. We can do it together if you like.”
“Okay.”
He puts his briefcase down and says, “I’m off to wash.”
Julian watches him go up the stairs and smiles. He pulls me into the hallway while he fixes a flower arrangement. “You know, that uncle of yours, it’s been nine years and he’s still, if I may quote R.E.M., ‘my everything.’ ”
“How come I only met you a couple of times?”
“I was on tour for four years. Richard and I would always meet in London. But I came to the island once. You were about nine. Do you remember?”
I try to think back.
“Yes! You had longer hair, though, right?”
“Frightfully so. You had a friend there … Rachel?”
Figures he would remember her name.
“Yes.”
“She kept grilling me about Richard. I finally had to come out to her.”
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