“She has that effect on people. I’m just so happy to be away from her, that seems like years ago already.”
“That’s the right attitude. Moving on …”
“Yes. Just not quite sure where.”
“To the top, babe,” he says, and we clink glasses.
CHAPTER 43
THE VILLAGERS
The doorbell rings and Julian does about fifty things in twenty seconds, then takes off his apron and dashes toward the door. I see him hugging a woman with a gray bob and thin black glasses, carrying a bag that looks like it’s made of straw.
“Giovanna! Don’t you look precious. Come in!”
The woman looks like she was born in these hills, like she might have grown the peaches we just finished chopping. She gives me a wide smile and opens her arms.
“You must be Luna. I have not seen you in ages!”
She hugs me and her shawl smells floral, as if she’s just spent the afternoon trimming roses. She could be thirty or fifty, I have no idea. She steps back to have a look at me. “You were in diapers before and now you look like a woman!” She touches my shoulder and then turns to Julian. “Have you any vino? I’m parched.”
“Of course. White, or would you prefer a sidecar?”
She turns to me and stage-whispers, “I think he’s trying to take advantage of me.”
I feel myself blush a little and sip my own glass.
“No, I’ll stick with some white, please. Tell me, Luna, how old are you now?”
“Fifteen.”
“Going on thirty,” Julian adds, handing Giovanna her glass of wine.
Richard comes down the stairs in a white embroidered shirt, glowing from his shower, and kisses Giovanna on both cheeks.
“Hi, beautiful.”
“Oh, I thought you meant me,” Julian kids, adding a fake hair-flip.
Richard rolls his eyes like he’s used to it. It’s funny, but the way they are acting around each other is exactly like my parents. I know Mom and Dad were in love, I just don’t know when, or why, it all changed.
The doorbell rings again and this time Richard heads over to open it. A couple with a toddler comes in loaded with baby gear. The man is skinny and gangly, the woman curvy and short. The little girl has red hair and freckles. She runs right up to me and stares. I’m not quite sure what to do, so I just smile until the woman says, in a thick British accent, “Sorry, she’s a bit forward. She’s called Tamarind, Tam for short. And I’m Bridget.” She reaches out her hand and I shake it. Tam makes a snort noise and runs outside.
“And I’m Charles,” the man says. “Chopped liver, I suppose.”
I smile. I already like these people and I don’t even know them.
We all sit outside by the pool and eat grapes and crusty bread with the neighbor’s olive oil. Isabella arrives last, a stunning woman with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a thin dress that reminds me of something my mother would have worn. Here I go again.
“I’ve heard so much about you. Your mother … she was like a summer day,” she says, “warm and sweet, always lingering. She taught me a lot, actually.”
What am I supposed to say? I settle for “Great,” which comes out weird. Then she’s whisked away by Julian, who apparently needs a private conference.
Eventually we’re all seated around their huge wooden table, which used to be a door in a church. Candles line the room and the lights are dimmed. Julian serves the dinner while Richard keeps the drinks flowing. I’m seated between Giovanna and Charles, who with my help gets Julian to tell the story of how he and Richard met.
“The Raleigh Hotel in South Beach. I had a few days off from my superhetero Van Morrison tour—in case you were wondering, the song was not called ‘Brown-Eyed Boy.’ ” Giovanna almost spits out her sip of wine. “Anyway, I thought I’d get a little diversion in South Beach, which was not the gay mecca it is now.…”
“Julian, let’s pick a lane and keep driving,” Richard says.
“Okay, there’s this teeny-tiny bar, and they were serving some nut that was really spicy, so Richard comes in, all suave and debonair as usual, and orders a gin martini. He smiled at me, and I thought to myself, yes, I want to look into this face tomorrow. We start chatting, and I learn he’s in town researching the biography he’s writing, which I thought was molto impressivo. To show off, he throws up a macadamia nut and catches it in his mouth and proceeds to choke on it!”
The table starts howling. Giovanna whispers to me, “I’ve heard this story a zillion times—sometimes the nut is an almond.”
“So he’s sitting there convulsing and his whole face is purple and the thing flies out and lands, I’m not kidding you, in my lap.”
“Passare,” Isabella says with her long fingers waving. I glance over and notice that her other hand is on Giovanna’s thigh.
“So, did you pick it up and eat it?” Charles asks.
“I said, sorry, I already have two of those!”
The table laughs again, this time including Bridget, who seems to be drinking wine at a rapid pace. Tam is in her high chair, staring wide-eyed at everyone.
“But seriously, he wouldn’t stop coughing, so I suggested we go outside. Sure enough, he was better there. It was all very art deco and palm trees and even a moon.” He glances at me quick enough for only us to get the reference and continues, “I told him he should be in pictures.”
“How clichéd,” Bridget says.
“No, it’s romantic,” Isabella points out.
“And he just stood there and looked at me, and something told me”—Julian gets a little choked up but holds it together—“that there would be no more searching. And here we are nine years later.” He raises his glass and indicates for everyone to do the same. “To my wonderful Richard and his darling niece, Luna!”
We all clink and I make sure to look everyone in the eye. My mother told me that whenever there’s a toast, you must look everyone in the eye. I always liked that, because then it means something more than just a boring ritual you do every once in a while.
Isabella and Bridget get up to help Julian serve dessert. I can tell the three of them are talking about more than how many peach slices go on each plate. The room feels a little deflated with Julian gone, like he was the warm air holding everyone’s spirits up. Giovanna goes to the bathroom and Richard dangles a flower in front of Tam. Charles and I sit in silence.
All through dessert I notice Isabella constantly touching Giovanna, and Charles seems to be flirting with Julian. It’s all very confusing to me, so I offer to take Tam outside for a while. Bridget says, “Please, take her for a week if you wish.” Charles winces a little.
It’s very dark outside but there are small yellow lights on the edge of the garden, creating a halo around it. Tam pretends to smell one of the plants but it’s only a weed. I watch her do this for a while and it’s a welcome distraction. Then I hear the sliding door open and turn to find Bridget walking toward me and swaying a little.
“She’s very keen on you,” she says, pointing at little Tam.
“She’s cute. That hair!”
“Right? It comes from Charles’s mum.”
“Cool. How long have you been married?”
Bridget laughs a little. “We’re not. Not the marrying type, either of us.”
“Oh.”
I feel confused again. Bridget senses this, and puts her hand on my shoulder.
“We don’t need a piece of paper to prove our love. Some people do, but we’re sorted. Besides, no matter what happens, Tam will have both of our love and support. I think if we got married we’d loathe each other!”
She laughs again and I see there’s a calm about her. Maybe my parents shouldn’t have gotten married. Would that have taken some of the pressure off? Tam spins around really fast and falls down. She looks up at us to gauge whether she should cry or not, and decides to just wipe herself off and keep exploring the plants.
“Not sure if I ever want to get married either
,” I say.
Bridget finishes her wine and says, “Well, there are also different types of marriages. I mean, look at Isabella.”
“Yeah,” I say, pretending to know what she’s talking about.
“Well, the pudding with the peaches bit is heavenly, you must go in. I’ll stay with Tam.”
As I come inside, Julian is setting out a plate for me, and Richard is in the kitchen making coffee. I sit with Isabella.
“It’s not pudding,” I say. “It’s cheesecake.”
“That’s what we call dessert in England,” Charles says, appearing out of nowhere. Isabella gets up and heads to the powder room. I eat the “pudding,” which tastes amazing.
After a bit I decide to head upstairs to wash up, and see Isabella in the hallway, lightly kissing Giovanna. It’s all too much for my brain to handle. I call good night from the top of the stairs and dip into my little room.
CHAPTER 44
PERSONAL ITEMS
Before I fall asleep, Richard slides into my room and gently sits on the bed.
“Everyone loved you,” he says.
“Thanks, it was so much fun. I can’t believe your life here.”
“Well, it’s not always about the glamour. Although we seem to infuse it every chance we can. Listen, about Isabella …”
“She’s a lesbian.”
He laughs. “No, actually. She has what is called an ‘open relationship’ with her husband. They are allowed to, well, stray, as it were.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes, it seems that way, but in some cases it’s fairly natural. Anyway, Julian and I, we don’t have an open relationship and neither did your parents.”
“Maybe they should have,” I say.
Richard looks at me with new eyes, as if I just said something profound, which is strange, because it was actually kind of a joke.
“Richard, when you look at me, do you see your sister or your niece?”
Again, he gives me a surprised look.
“I would have to say both,” he says, his eyes collecting moisture.
“Why did she have to die?”
I know this is a stupid question. But it’s one I don’t think I’ll ever stop asking. Richard doesn’t answer. Instead he kisses my cheek, puts his hand over my forehead for a second, then walks to the foot of the bed to retrieve the box.
“They are mostly inconsequential things, but I saved them for you.”
I open the box, and the first thing I see is a hairbrush that’s encrusted with what looks like diamonds.
“These are fake, right?” I ask.
Richard chuckles. “You kidding? I would have sold it for a Rolls-Royce by now.” He grabs it from me and runs his long, tanned fingers across it. “She got it at an airport one time. She liked shiny things. In moderation, of course.”
The next thing I pull out is a white scarf, with small red flowers embroidered into the edges. Exactly something she would wear. It strikes me as unbearably sad. I put it on the table and grab the next item, a watch with Snoopy on the face.
“She loved Snoopy,” Richard says. “Ever since we were kids. She had this stuffed animal of him, and the ears came off and it looked a little sinister. She kept it until the thing was just a pile of shreds.”
I put the watch on and decide this will be the thing I keep forever. At the bottom, there are some letters addressed to Richard and postmarked from New York.
“Can you imagine?” Richard says. “The days before email.”
I see her curvy, tall handwriting, the same as mine.
“I figure there’s nothing in those letters you don’t already know, and having a letter someone wrote is probably the closest you’re going to get to them. This,” he says, taking out a small red pillbox, “was our mother’s, so I will keep it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Is there anything else?”
“Just this.”
He hands me a yellowed photograph of Tile and me sitting on a bench in Central Park. Our legs dangle in the air above the ground. Tile is smiling brightly, and I seem to be staring off into the distance at something that might be scary. The future?
I put the photograph and the watch next to my bed and say, “Well, that’s about enough nostalgia for one night.”
“Agreed.” Richard kisses me lightly again and says “Sogni d’oro” before he closes the door. I know that means something like “Sweet dreams.” My mother used to say it to me. At first I thought it was silly, but then I knew it was unique, that she wasn’t your average mother. She was larger than life, and even now that she’s gone, she is everywhere: in my wide-set eyes, in Richard’s soft voice, in the Snoopy watch, the bling hairbrush. Even though I loved her more than anyone, sometimes I wish she would leave me completely alone for a day. But I get the feeling that will never happen. Death is harder on the living.
I hear voices by the pool and get up to look out the window. Charles is holding his sleeping daughter in his arms while he kisses Bridget, and I can see their reflections on the dark water. Their body language is completely in harmony, as if everything in the world has led up to this moment.
I get back in bed and simply close my eyes.
In the morning I notice one more thing at the bottom of the box among the letters. It’s Cole’s business card, with an Italian address. On the back is his cell phone number, handwritten, with a happy face and what looks like a sloppy heart. Sloppy indeed. I dress, slip the card into my jeans, and go downstairs. There’s a note from Julian with arrows leading to blueberries and oatmeal. I pour myself some juice and end up drinking two glasses. The oatmeal is steel-cut and perfectly cooked, of course. I have the house to myself, so after breakfast I take a long bath, then read my book, then take a nap. When I wake up, I tell myself I’m over the jet lag. I put on my mother’s scarf and tie it the way Isabella did. I go back downstairs and make myself a little cheese sandwich. The phone rings about ten times so I finally pick it up.
“Moon! So glad I caught you!”
“Yeah, sorry Dad, it’s been kind of a whirlwind.”
“You okay?”
“Yes, great. Coming here, I think, has given me that word you always use, perspective.”
“That’s a good thing.”
I run my fingers through the end of the scarf.
“How are you? How’s the film?”
“Great and great. Haven’t seen Elise in a while, but we’re supposed to be getting together this evening.”
“Good.” I can’t believe I’m being so supportive of him and Elise. Shouldn’t I be bitter?
“Listen, I sent you a FedEx with those pita chips you like, and your report card, and Tile put some stuff in for you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Well, say hi to the guys for me, okay? And please be careful. I know you’re beyond your years, but you’re still fifteen and in a foreign country.”
“I know, I might run off with a band of gypsies.”
“Listen, check in via email at least every other day, deal?”
“Deal.”
“Okay, Tile wants to say hi.”
“Bye, Dad.”
When Tile gets on the phone, I can sense he’s nervous but am not sure why. I hear a door shut and he says, “Sorry, I was waiting for Dad to leave. Listen, Oliver told me that he saw something, that he knows something about Dad.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s the thing, he was being really strange. He didn’t really tell me, he just hinted at it.”
This is getting weird.
“Well, what did he hint at?”
“Moon, just chill. You can talk to him when you get back. Have you had any pizza yet? Better than Ray’s?”
“No pizza, Tile, but pretty good lasagna.”
“Okay, get me soccer shirts. But nothing yellow. Gotta scram.”
He hangs up and for a brief moment, I sigh and miss New York.
CHAPTER 45
BEETLEMANIA
As I clean up the
kitchen, someone knocking on the glass doors startles me. When I get closer I see it’s a girl my age, maybe a little older. Her hair is blond with two streaks of dark red and she has a tattoo of a star behind her ear.
“Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you,” she says, barging right in and opening the fridge. “We need some young energy around here bad. This town is filled with winos and white-hairs. I’m Beatrice, but everyone calls me Beetle. Don’t ask.”
Before I get to open my mouth, she goes on.
“Holy crap, have you tried Julian’s cheesecake?”
She gets some lemonade out of the fridge and spills a little while pouring some into a coffee mug.
“Wait a second, who are you?” Then it hits me. She must be Isabella’s daughter. I remember her saying I should meet her.
“Are you Isabella’s—”
“Yes, but you’d never know it. She treats me like a friend. It’s strange, really. I think it’s just denial. She can’t face the fact that she’s old enough to have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Besides, I’m usually in Hong Kong with my father. That’s where all my friends are. I’m here for a funeral—my mom’s cat, if you can believe it. A funeral for a cat! Anyway, she mentioned you were here, so I thought I’d stop by.”
Beatrice’s confidence is infectious. I take the business card out of my jeans and show it to her. “Do you know where that is?” I ask.
“Superclose,” she says, running it through her fingers. “Maybe ten kilometers.”
I feel dorky that I don’t know how long that is. She senses my apprehension and says, “About six miles. Why?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s do it.”
Just like that, Beatrice is out the door and hopping into one of those miniature euro cars. I scrawl a note for Richard and follow suit. I’m in Europe and anything’s possible.
On the way she asks me who Cole is, and I fill her in on everything. It feels good to talk to someone completely outside my life, one who won’t judge the situation or be biased.
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