Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  He looked at her a long time before responding. “This garden gives me great comfort, in a time of great loss. Perhaps it does the same for you, when you think of your Charlie. I remember when we met in New York, how heavy your eyes were, how broken your heart was. I hope that what you see here will help you to mend. As it has helped me.”

  “Charlie. Charlie who?” she said.

  A thought of Charlie couldn’t steal her away from the brilliance of the sun-lit strands of gold in Sal’s dark hair, providing a fitting background as he pointed out the statuary deities of the garden.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m so mired by my own losses that I haven’t even considered your stories. Your life, which I am curious about. People know I am a reporter and instinctively hide their true thoughts from me, I suppose. Could you tell me about your loss? I promise everything we speak of will stay between us.”

  “Another time,” Sal said. “Now is your time to relax. This is your vacation. I shall not trouble you with sad news on your vacation. Come, let’s continue.

  “This entire area,” he went on as they approached a gentle incline of an arcaded loggia, “was transformed into a portrait of palm trees under-planted with camellias and iris. The palms were delivered from the isle of Bali.” The vista past the trees inspired awe, as did the gentle sloping of soft green grass leading down to the babbling brook surrounded by wildflowers. Past the brook on the farthest bank stood a tunnel of cypress, oleander, and umbrella pines, flanked by a pergola of pink bougainvillea, and bordered by a brick wall clothed in ivy.

  “How long have you worked for the Marchese?” Skye asked.

  “Since I was a child.”

  “Serving him must be difficult. He seems quite Machiavellian.”

  “Selfish. Yes. Things have come easy for him. He spent his entire life teaching himself how to withdraw. To avoid becoming emotionally…investito? Is that close to what you say?”

  “I understand.”

  “One day, he looked around him and realized he was made of nothing that could not be taken away. Perhaps he should find who he truly is. What exists of him that is immaterial. I think he fears if he does such a thing, he will find he is nothing.” Sal caressed the bloom of a blood-red rose.

  “Impermanence,” said Skye. “The most liberating, yet embittered fact of life.”

  “He has yet to experience the liberating part.”

  They lay side-by-side on the bank of the stream as Skye pinched a handful of grass and slid the blades between her fingers, back and forth. “The freedom of letting go,” Skye said. “I’ve always struggled with desire. Desire gives people a reason to live; contrarily, desire steals one’s capacity for reasoning.”

  “Perhaps the Marchese believes desire only harms, for that which is attained becomes easily tarnished by touch, and that which is impossible to attain loses its luster, and that which is precious can be taken away and leaves only a terrible pain in its people don’t want what they have. Someday, I must tell you the story of a gladiator. His name was Savorno, and legend says he wrestled with a beast so strong he could not kill it, nor could the beast kill him. The spectators tired of their matches, so the Emperor disguised the brute, calling him Collera, Gelosa, and Vendetta.”

  “Jealousy, Anger, Revenge. Tell me the story now.” Skye felt eyes on her and looked back at the villa, seeing Marcellus standing at a large picture window on the second floor. “The Marchese is watching us. How can you stand to keep the company of someone so controlling?”

  “He’s not the only spy on these grounds,” Sal responded as Skye blushed. “Marcellus was a boyhood friend, who stood by me at a time when no one else would. When we were twelve, I borrowed a luxury car from my friend’s father. Most people say I stole it, but that was not my intent. We rode around the city, but on the way back to my friend’s home I crashed into a divider. The police came to my home and handcuffed me like a criminal, and word around town pegged me a thief. Mothers warned their sons not to associate with me. Marcellus would not listen to his parents and fought many battles in my defense. He would sneak around to spend time with me, and I was truly grateful to have the company. Perhaps the negative qualities of friends are easier for outsiders to see.”

  He looked toward the area of the villa where Tabitha was in residence.

  “I think I’ll try to get her up and go sightseeing,” she said. “I’m going to devour Rome with my palate and pocketbook. Would you like to join us?”

  “I believe Marcellus has other plans. I hope you do not mind changing yours. I would be happy to accompany you if so, after I work on the palms. Shall I meet you soon?”

  “I would be delighted. Amerei a, Sal.”

  “Amerei a, la bella Skye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Marcellus greeted them in the grand salon. “I have a surprise for my lovely guests,” he announced. “We leave now for three days of dancing, feasting, and shopping in Venice. Gather your things, and I shall have a car for us promptly.” He clapped his hands. “Sal.” His voice echoed throughout the parlor. “Sal? Sal!”

  Sal appeared in the hallway. “Sì la sua Eccellenza.” A mocking tone rang out in his voice.

  “Preparare l’automobile. Fretta!”

  “Sì, oh uno magnifico.” Sal smiled his familiar, crooked smile that tugged on Skye’s heartstrings, and winked at Skye as he left.

  “Venice. Perché non?” said Skye to Tabitha.

  “What?” Tabitha asked as she removed a dark red lipstick from her purse and painted her puckered lips.

  “Why not?” Skye translated.

  Minutes later, a dark-blue Aston Martin pulled into the circular driveway. Marcellus leaned over to the driver’s side and honked the horn. Sal wrestled with Marcellus, pulling his hand from the steering wheel. Marcellus elbowed him in the upper arm, and Sal jumped from the car and opened the doors for Skye and Tabitha.

  “Are you forgetting something?” Marcellus asked.

  “Many things. Purposely,” Sal replied as he put the car in gear. “What more does the Emperor possibly need?”

  “Our bags?” Marcellus growled.

  Sal shifted the car back in park. “Of course. The bags.” Sal pulled and pulled at Tabitha’s heavy suitcase. The muscles on his strong arms striated through his skin, rubber bands straining to retract with his grip on the heavy bag.

  Tabitha shrugged at Skye. “I brought everything. Just in case.” The trunk slammed down heavily, and the car made its way to the seaside city of San Marino.

  “My yacht is docked there,” Marcellus said, turning around toward the backseat to face Skye and Tabitha. “The Graziela is an old girl; not fancy but rustic, and very comfortable. You will enjoy the ride to Venice. Beautiful coastline. Weather forecast is good.”

  He turned up the radio. An announcer spoke rapidly in Italian, the day’s news given in snippets and overrun by commentary.

  Nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Skye curled up on her side and slept. Miles of countryside passed. Tabitha shifted in her seat. Skye woke from her nap.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Tabitha.

  Tabitha leaned forward and tapped Marcellus on the shoulder. “How much longer?”

  “Only half an hour,” Marcellus replied. He whistled into the wind cheerfully.

  Tabitha swallowed. “The road is spinning,” she whispered. She leaned her head against the back of the front seat, holding onto the headrest. A string of saliva spider-webbed down from her mouth onto her knee.

  “Here we pass through the region of Umbria, near the city of Perugia,” Marcellus chattered on. “If you are familiar with the painter Perugino, you will appreciate the vista of the soft hills and sparse trees on your right, for he is famous for painting pictures of his beautiful homeland. The city, Perugia, is the birthplace of those tasty little chocolates filled with hazelnut cream. Have you tried them? Moist and succulent. They are called—”

  “Stop! I’m going to be sick!” Tabitha cried as she slapped her
hands into an X on her mouth. The Aston Martin settled into a smooth stop at the side of the road. Tabitha jumped out of the car, running a short distance away before projectile vomiting onto the gravel.

  She turned toward the hills and retched into a grassy pasture as the cows mooed in dismay. Skye ran after her and held her hair back, trying not to identify portions of their breakfast.

  “I can’t go,” Tabitha said, her voice thick with spittle. “We have to turn around. I can’t go.”

  Marcellus and Sal glanced over their shoulders and turned forward quickly. They spoke in hushed voices. Tabitha leaned on Skye as she brought her back to the car, sitting her down gently in the backseat.

  “We should turn back,” Skye said.

  “We’re only minutes away,” Marcellus cajoled. “Tabitha, if you do not want to board the ship, we can find a hotel and dine there.”

  Tabitha’s face turned green.

  “Or simply book rooms and rest. It will be better than riding all the way back to Rome, si?”

  Tabitha nodded, and the foursome set out again for the harbor city. They reached the dock of The Graziela without any further gastronomic catastrophe. Tabitha lay strewn on an armchair in the galley, holding on tightly to the armrest, even though the boat hadn’t moved, save for a gentle rocking back and forth from the shallow waves.

  “This is kind of nice,” she said. “This rocking.” Her eyes fell on the wet bar. “Perhaps a drink?”

  Marcellus mixed cocktails, all the while humming pleasantly.

  “This is wonderful for a queasy stomach. A little Vodka Peppar, soda water, and a dash of ginger ale. You will feel yourself again in no time.”

  He mixed Skye a Kir Royale. She relished the taste of the champagne, unfurling sweet and cold on her tongue. Marcellus poured dark, malty liquor from a decanter and handed it to Sal, who declined. Skye leaned back, picked up a magazine from a leather ottoman and flipped through it while Sal busied himself about the cabin, opening and shutting doors.

  “How about you, Annoiare?” Marcellus said to Sal. “Would you like a spreetz?”

  Sal shook his head and refreshed the ice bucket.

  Tabitha leaned her head back, her mane of luxurious red hair draped over the armrest of a cream-colored leather couch.

  “I can feel this in my toes,” Tabitha said. She finished the drink. “Mmm. I’ll take another.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Marcellus grinned. He mixed her another drink, pouring himself another from a crystal decanter, and pressed a button by the bar. The interior of the yacht lit up with soft, recessed lighting, and lilting melodies of Italian jazz hummed from invisible speakers.

  “I shall prepare to depart. When and if,” Sal said. Skye nodded at him while Marcellus ignored him, and Tabitha lay there, semi-comatose. Marcellus dropped two cubes of ice into his own glass. He checked his reflection in the mirror above the bar, running a hand down his black shell-head of hair, ensuring nary a strand fell out of place.

  Marcellus handed Tabitha her drink. “So tell me, Donna Bella, what brings you to Rome?”

  Tabitha laughed. “First, another drink.”

  “Of course. Would you like to try something else?”

  “Anything. Just make it strong.”

  Marcellus raised his eyebrows and mixed a concoction of several spirits. He splashed water from a bartender’s hose into his own drink. “Donna Bella,” he sang as he danced over to Tabitha and set her drink down on a side table. He placed his hand on her knee. “That is quite a wedding ring you are wearing. May I?” He picked up her limp hand and examined the diamond. “Beautiful. With a pink diamond. Very rare.”

  “That’s what he said. I wonder what he gave her.”

  “Ah, he has another woman, si?”

  “I think so.”

  “That is why most of American marriages end in divorce. American women do not tolerate what is perfectly natural,” Marcellus took a sip of scotch. “Men are fashioned by God to spread their seed.”

  “Not in this day and age,” Skye said. “What about housing, alimony, child support? Modern civilization makes male promiscuity unaffordable.” She took a sip of her champagne and admired a sequined sheath dress in an advertisement.

  “I agree. That’s bullshit,” Tabitha said to Marcellus, opening her eyes for a moment. “If behaving like animals is natural for humans, why all these diseases and emotions involved?” She stopped short. “Let’s not talk about him.”

  “Very well. If you do not want to talk, I will,” Marcellus insisted. “In Italy, when a man is around a woman he loves, she comes first. He opens doors for her, he waits on her, he wraps his arms around her as if he is hers and hers alone. But when she is not around, he is gioco leale, how do you say?”

  “Fair game,” Skye quipped, not looking up from her magazine.

  “Your Italian is improving. Esattamente,” Marcellus responded.

  Tabitha straightened up her posture on the sofa. “When Jonas is around me, he is tap, tap, tapping; or talking on that stupid little machine called a cell phone. When he gets off that stupid little machine, he looks at me and says, ‘What’s wrong?’ What does he think is wrong? He’s a smart guy. He should figure it out.” Tabitha paced back and forth across the cabin. “Would you treat a friend like that?”

  “I would if it were someone I saw every day. There’s no excuse not to stay connected to my profession,” Skye said. “I have to make a living. It’s what separates the superstars from the worker bees.”

  “You don’t need friends. I do. I need a husband who pays attention to me. I’m not needy,” Tabitha’s voice trailed off.

  “You’re needy,” Skye quipped. “Admit it.” Tabitha’s emerald eyes narrowed. “Even a little bit?”

  “No! I want what every wife wants. Just a little bit of attention while I sacrifice my life to be his…emotional support system.”

  “Precisely my point, Signorina,” Marcellus continued. “What would you rather have? The Italian man, who dotes on his woman but for whom there is an unspoken right to carry on with another woman regardless of spoken commitment, or the American man, who generally ignores his woman, but remains faithful and obedient when it comes to matters of the bedroom? You cannot have it both ways. A man’s nature is not as such. If he were really cheating, he would give you his full attention while with you, and spend very much time away from home, to cover up his guilt.”

  “But he was cheating,” Tabitha said without conviction.

  “You doubt yourself,” Marcellus said between sips. “Anyone can see that.”

  “If I wasn’t raised to have proper etiquette I would say something very nasty to you, right now,” Tabitha replied.

  “I would like that. I am Italian. The bar is stocked, and I have all day to listen. Shall we go to Venice?”

  “Anchors away,” Tabitha said.

  “Sal?” Marcellus picked up a decorative harpoon hanging on the wall. He walked toward the far end of the cabin and pounded the ceiling with the it.

  “Sal. Sal! Cominciare il motore!” The engine roared to life, and a satellite fixture in the shape of a white bow spun on the bow. Tabitha wandered out onto the rear deck, sitting down on a curving padded bench. She leaned over the side, watching the white-crested sapphire water rushing by.

  “Skye.” Marcellus turned to her. She looked up from her magazine. “You seem familiar. You are someone of public notoriety. A soap opera star, perhaps?”

  He looked her, his eyes narrowed. He adjusted his red pants around his protruding belly. “You are a friend of Alfred’s. Let’s see. An entertainer?”

  “A broadcast journalist for a former show on TNBC. ‘Around The Clock.’”

  “This is where I have seen you before. May I say, you are even more beautiful in person.”

  “Thanks. Cheers.” She raised her glass.

  He shifted. She watched him curiously. Finally, he spoke. “Since the moment I met you, I have desperately wanted to discuss this. I am a man of few words, an
d if I fumble them I hope you will forgive me. I have traveled the world and found only one woman who made me feel such a fool—”

  “That’s good.” Skye smiled. “Let me guess. Me?”

  Marcellus stared out at the sea. “No doubt, you have heard this many times before. I shall come to the point. I have a vast fortune and I have loved many women, but I tire of that. I long to establish a marriage with someone strong, independent. An American woman of good breeding and stature would make a fine union. Stay close to me and love me, for I can bring the world and all it contains to your feet.”

  “That’s very…kind of you, Marcellus. However forward.”

  “Very well. We shall have dinner first. Is that what you would like?”

  “Truly, I’m flattered. But, no.”

  “Look around you, Skye. All these things can be yours. This ship, homes, luxuries beyond anything you have ever imagined. Your clothes are cheap compared to the garments I can buy you. Even your friend’s jewels would look like trinkets in comparison.”

  The shorter layers of her hair fell forward as she tilted her head to watch the bubbles in her champagne rise to the surface and pop, contemplating the irony of the situation.

  “Marcellus. Though you are a gentleman, and handsome in the way of someone…who has indulged in many recreational pleasures…you are not the one for me. Loneliness can fool a person into placing importance on hiding behind material wealth. A good dose of trauma and guilt is like a bucket of ice cold water. No matter what you have or what you’ve worked for, it still leaves you sopping wet like everyone else, whether you’re wearing Dolce and Gabbana or—” she pinched the shoulder of her linen shirt—”Ann Taylor.”

  “You are a wise woman,” Marcellus said. “I apologize for taking part in a game we decided to play with you. Truly, I must confess my own selfish intentions are far removed from this farce, which is why I didn’t try very hard.”

  “Game? What game? And who is we?”

  He took her hand in his chubby, white fingers. “Sal and me. You see, he believes you are a woman whose head is turned by riches.”