“There you are,” Fortunata growled. “I see you ended up with Miss Goody-Goody. Bravo, Nick.”
“Fortunata, don’t foul things up any worse than you already have,” Serafina scolded.
Fortunata glared at the psychologist, but directed her venom at Lia. “Make sure you lock the door and hide the key before you let him screw you,” she said. “He is a slippery little shit.” With that, the actress brushed her hand under her chin at Nick, reverting to Italian for her vulgar gesture.
Lia turned back to him, seemingly too shocked and angry even for tears. “Is this true?” she demanded.
“No,” Nick said, even as he realized it probably would have been if not for Fortunata’s second show enabling his snooping expedition. He thought about adding that hoary old cop-show line: “She set me up!” But he doubted it would be a successful defense against Lia’s fury. So he said the only other thing that occurred to him: “I’m sorry.” Before he could add, “I can explain everything,” she was halfway up the stairs.
“She is married, by the way,” Fortunata said as he sat there stunned, “Maybe I will look up her husband and give her a taste of her own medicine.”
Fortunata wasn’t anybody’s Juliet, Nick realized as he gunned the car away from the curb and watched the redhead rant in his rearview mirror. She was a late-model Lady Macbeth.
Chapter Fifty
“He probably slept with that bitch while Antonio was playing his sick little game with me,” Lia raged.
“I thought you said he denied it,” Salvatore offered.
“What else would he say?” she demanded. “He has been playing games the entire time.”
Salvatore was immensely relieved to have his daughter home safe, but he wished Nick had waited just five more minutes before dropping her off. He had called Serafina and Fortunata over to end the festival star’s manipulation of their poor guest. It had been a tense conversation but, he felt, a productive one. If only he’d then had a chance to clear the air with Nick while keeping Lia at arm’s length of the situation…
“Are you even listening to me, father?” she demanded.
“Yes, Lia. Of course. I’ve hurt so many people this week with my stupid ruse, you and Nick most of all.”
“Why are you feeling sorry for him? He is a grown man with a wandering eye.”
“But he thought…”
“Who could think that a cow like Fortunata wrote those beautiful letters? No one!”
“He was confused. We all duped him.”
“Not me, father,” she said, shaking with tears.
“No, not you, Lia,” he agreed. “You wanted to do the right thing for Nick from the beginning. Perhaps after a bit of rest and reflection, you will do the right thing for yourself.”
“And what is that?”
“Fortunata told me Nick’s first letter was for a class,” Salvatore said. “Did you know that?”
She nodded. “I just found out.”
“Well then, we know he’s not crazy. And what else do we know? That he is a kind, decent young man. And that you have felt a powerful connection to him every time you’ve met. That is what I had with your mother, Lia, and it only got stronger as the years passed. It hasn’t gone away even now. I sit by the river and her words flow through my pen as if she were still sitting beside me.”
The old man rose and held out a sheaf of papers. “Here are Nick’s letters,” he said. “Read them again. If they still speak to your heart, do yourself a favor for once and listen. And then talk to him before dismissing him as a cheating liar.”
Lia snatched the papers from Salvatore’s hand. But then she saw the pain in the old man’s eyes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I love you, father,” she said. “Your head may be stuck in the clouds, but your heart is always in the right place.”
“Well then, you’ve got me beat,” he said. “You have a head on your shoulders as good as your heart. That is a rare combination.”
“It’s hard to find the balance sometimes,” she said with a rueful smile.
“Have faith, cara. You will figure it out. Cattaneo women always do.”
Chapter Fifty-one
While Lia cleaned up, Salvatore slipped out of the apartment and walked the damp streets to Nick’s hotel. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the few remaining clouds and the tourists were once again out in force to soak up the festivities. The performers and vendors he encountered along the way all paid their respects. He was proud to have a hand in bringing a few hours of joy into so many people’s lives. It gave him a sense of purpose.
The old man spotted Nick in the hotel’s small bar. It looked out onto the plaza, but his young friend had his face buried in the glass. Salvatore made his way through the crowd and ordered two shots of grappa. He set one down in front of Nick as he took the stool next to him.
“This stuff will really put the hair on your chest,” Salvatore said. “Salut!”
Nick appraised the old man warily, but then gave in to his hospitality and clinked his glass. They downed the potent wine and sat silently for several moments, waiting for the burn to subside.
“So you’re the woman I’ve been looking for my whole life?” Nick asked.
“It certainly looks that way, no?” Salvatore couldn’t suppress a half-smile.
“I just can’t figure it,” Nick said. Then he swiveled on the stool to face the Juliet impersonator. “You’re not gay are you?”
“No, I am Catholic.”
“Where I come from the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Nick said.
The old man chuckled. “Not where I come from, either, come to think of it.”
Nick swirled the ice in his other drink. “I guess you’re just really in touch with your feminine side,” he ventured.
Salvatore nodded. “I suppose you could put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“You probably will not believe this, but I did not really write those letters.”
“Don’t even tell me!”
“No, no, it is not like that,” the old man interjected. “No more charades. I promise. I mean to say, it was me who put the pen to the paper, but I had a little help. I always do.” He told Nick about Viola and their spot along the Adige.
“So I didn’t fall in love with you after all,” Nick said, clearly relieved.
“No,” Salvatore agreed. “We just have the same taste in women.”
Nick nodded, taking it all in. “Well, this has been one crazy mess. But I guess I’m still glad I got tangled up in it. At least it gave me the chance to meet your daughter.”
“It is no wonder you are so fond of her,” Salvatore said softly. “Giulia is exactly like her mother.”
The old man watched Nick do the math and find it all added up—almost. Grinning, he asked Salvatore excitedly, “What did you call her?”
“Giulia. That was her first nickname. She did not become Lia until her teen years.”
“Her first nickname?” Nick asked.
“Yes,” Salvatore replied. “She might hate me for telling you, but Lia and Giulia are both short for Giulietta.”
They sat silently for a while, watching the happy crowds pass by. Salvatore didn’t know exactly what Nick was thinking, but he could guess: It must feel like winning the lottery of love to attend this festival and find your very own Juliet.
Chapter Fifty-two
Nick felt so elated that he barely noticed when Salvatore took his leave with a fond clap on the shoulder. He wasn’t crazy. He had been smitten with the same woman all along. Better yet, it appeared she felt the same way about him. Against all odds, the kaleidoscope had spun until all the colored stones converged to form a clear, spectacular vision of… Lia.
If only she could forgive him for his stupid misstep with Fortunata, they might finally be together. He knew he had to make it up to Lia somehow, lay bare the contents of his heart, show her she had always been the one.
He would have to write her a love let
ter.
Nick grabbed a notebook and pen from his room, and then set out for Casa di Giulietta as twilight fell.
Thankfully, Fortunata’s evening performance had ended more than an hour before. She and her adoring audience were long gone. Nick smiled at the couples strolling the square and affixing little love notes on the stone wall with their shared chewing gum. He found a dry spot at the base of Juliet’s statue and sat down to write under her soft, watchful gaze.
Cara Giulietta,
All that once conspired to keep us apart finally has been revealed and cast aside in a bracing series of third-act twists. But on the stage of life, the third act can be but the merest prelude to decades of exciting turns, spins, swoops and pirouettes. By my count, we may yet have before us some 5,700 weekends through which to cavort on all manner of journeys most carefree and romantic. And if that should not suffice to quench our yearnings, we have but to carve time from the other nights as well.
Before you yet again think me mad and dismiss this dazzling, dizzying journey as too perilous even to consider, I beseech thee—give me one week in which to prove the soundness of my plan. One Monday, one Tuesday, one Wednesday, and so on, a night at the opera, an afternoon on the city’s battlements, an evening’s stroll along the river where your mother still communes with her forever love.
Seven days, I beg you, and then commence with—or dispense with—our possible life together. I may not be Romeo, but you, sweet Lia, are my one true Giulietta. Come down from on high and dance with me.
Forever Yours,
Nick
Walking to Lia and Salvatore’s apartment just before midnight, Nick briefly got lost in a dark residential district, but nothing could dampen his mood, and he soon found the building. Thankfully, the orange cat was either inside or out prowling. He didn’t want the old tom to raise the general alarm. After sliding the piece of paper under the door, he crept downstairs and practically floated back to the hotel.
Chapter Fifty-three
As Nick had hoped, there was a letter waiting for him at the front desk the next morning. He unfolded the paper right there to read it, but had to retreat to the couch near the window when an old woman stepped up to ask the clerk for directions.
He leaned back into the soft cushions and held the note aloft, first skimming it in giddy anticipation and then savoring it on a second read:
Dearest Nick,
I make no promises, save that I will spend the week with you and approach our time together with an open mind—as long as we put the games behind us and pledge to tell the truth in all things. You got quite a running start thanks to my father, and it might take me a while to catch up. But come with me to the opera tonight and we shall see what we shall see.
Fondly,
Lia
The morning passed glacially, and finally Nick could stand it no more: He had to see Lia right away.
He arrived at the ristorante just as a large group was squeezing through the narrow doors. Darting under the waving hands of a tour director pointing out open seats to his American charges, Nick made a beeline for the kitchen, where Lia wore a look of horror as she contemplated handling the unexpected rush.
“Looks like I arrived just in time,” Nick said.
“Do you know how to cook?” Lia asked, only half-joking.
“It’s not my strong suit.”
“Can you bus tables?”
“That I can do.”
“I knew you must be good for something,” she said. “But first you can help me prep some dishes. Nobody watches in this kitchen.”
“I’m game,” Nick said as she threw him an apron and pointed toward the sink where he could wash up.
“Grab some mozzarella,” she ordered, though not unkindly, as the salad orders started coming in.
Nick looked at the line of refrigerators and pulled open the closest one. He must have yanked the handle too hard, as several pork loins came hurtling at him as the door swung clear.
“Try not to get killed on your cheese mission,” Lia called.
He found it on the third try, and soon Lia was showing him the most popular pasta, meat and fish dishes, how long the pizzas needed on the oven stone, and some basic presentation techniques.
He dolloped a splotch of red sauce on a plate and showed it to her.
“Interesting,” she said.
“I call it ‘The Gorbachev,’” he said.
After that, she sent Nick into the dining room on a water-and-bread run in support of the lone waiter, and soon had him arranging salads, slinging sauce and baking pizzas like a semi-professional assistant.
As the rush reached its crescendo around 2 p.m., they grooved to the rhythm of the orders, moving fluidly around each other up and down the line in a culinary conga that even had the harried waiter smiling as he hustled back and forth to the dining room.
“He’s never seen anyone have fun back here,” Lia said.
“See, I’m not always such bad luck in the kitchen,” Nick said as he helped the dishwasher load plates into the machine.
An hour later, they shared a plate of pasta at a break table set up for employees in the alley.
“It’s just like Lady and the Tramp,” Nick said.
“Yes,” Lia replied. “Except we don’t have to share the same strand.”
“But that’s the fun part.”
“Here,” Lia said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “That was the only part you cared about, anyway. Now stop complaining and finish your meal.”
Chapter Fifty-four
After walking Lia home, Nick returned to the hotel to shower and change. Making sure to slip her letter into the jacket pocket nearest his heart, Nick dressed up as he would for any night at the theater and then headed out to meet her at the arena entrance.
But just like Ashland’s Shakespeare festival, opera in Verona drew a diverse audience—mostly swells in evening attire down front, with tourists, families and locals in casual clothes up on the stone steps.
Lia led him to their seats up above and then excused herself. She returned with rented cushions and something hidden in her hand.
“High style,” she said, passing him the plastic seats. “But without them, we would be singing an aria of pain by the end of the night.”
“What’s in your hand?” Nick asked.
“A present for you.” She held out a small white candle.
“Thank you,” he said. “In America, these usually come with a birthday cake under them.”
“Just wait.”
As they settled in, a man toting a large wicker basket ascended the steps crooning, “Vino, birra, pannini.”
“No peanuts and Cracker Jack?” Nick whispered.
Lia gave him a quizzical look.
“Vino, per favore,” he said, rising to pull out his wallet.
After securing glasses of a robust red, they took in the scene. An arena where gladiators fought and bled two millennia back was now abuzz with some 15,000 genteel music fans. Children ran down the aisles as their parents shared sandwiches and beer. Down below, in the view seats, couples in gowns and suits sipped champagne while studying their programs.
As twilight fell, a hush fell over the crowd as the huge chorus took the stage to sing the national anthem. “Play ball,” Nick said to himself when they finished.
It was getting dark, and soon pinpoints of light started showing up all around the arena. He turned to Lia for an explanation and found her lighting the candle for him.
“You want a cake?” she asked. “Think of it this way: We are all sitting on it.”
The arena did look like a giant birthday cake as everyone stood quietly with their candles blazing. The effect was even more stunning after the small flames had all snuffed themselves out and they found themselves in blackout conditions for a long, delicious moment. Lia took his right hand in her left and gave it an anticipatory squeeze.
And then the lights came up and the elaborate stage set burned to life. The only other time Nick h
ad seen a backdrop so elaborate was at a Rolling Stones concert at Safeco Field in Seattle. But instead of giant inflatable women and lascivious fire-breathing tongues, this scenery was both elegant and awe-inspiring.
A pyramid constructed of rough wooden poles rose several stories into the night, with a giant, Sphinx-headed statue standing at its middle. Four kneeling Sphinxes were arrayed along the sides. From the chorus members in their brilliant red and diaphanous blue costumes to the principal players in their ornate headdresses, this was a spectacle that would have made Cecil B. DeMille weep. And the idea of re-creating the glory days of ancient Egypt in a beautifully preserved Roman arena at the dawn of the twenty-first century was as intoxicating to Nick as its elaborate execution.
While the opening scenes progressed, a full moon rose over the back of the arena, just to the left of the stage, as if it wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The moon, and everyone else, stuck around for the music, which matched the staging exactly in its passion, lift and grandeur. Nick had spent so many years collecting artifacts of concerts not held when he should have been seeking out experiences exactly like this.
“Thank you,” he whispered to Lia.
“For what?” she replied.
He spread his arms out before him. “For opening my eyes.”
She touched his forearm and leaned in, almost grazing his ear with her lips. “I am glad you like it,” she breathed. “It is one of my passions.”
As she settled back in, Nick slipped an arm around her shoulders and she scooted in close. Soon, she was resting her head on his chest and he felt himself soaring along with the notes coming from the stage and orchestra pit. None of the singers wore microphones, he realized, and yet the arena’s incredible acoustics brought their voices directly to the cheap seats—not that he could understand a word the fine sopranos and tenors delivered.
Finding Juliet Page 13