The Widows' Gallery

by Marilyn Baron

  She wished she could pretend Louis was just back on the ship. I’ve got a little headache, Abby. Why don’t you go into Florence? I wouldn’t want you to miss “Venus on the Half Shell.” That’s what she and Louis called La Nascita di Venere, a painting they both loved. That was where it had all begun for them. That’s where she’d first met Louis. The Birth of Venus was the birth of their whirlwind courtship and romance. Abigail had been a student studying art history in Florence, Italy, and Louis had been on the Grand Tour, a college graduation present from his parents before he returned to Maine to go into the family business. As serendipity would have it, they were standing at the same time in the same place in the Uffizi Gallery, staring at the same painting—The Birth of Venus—when Louis looked at her and back to the painting and remarked, “You’re the goddess in the picture. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” He snapped her picture so he could “capture the moment they met.”

  Just one look was all it took for Louis. He told his Harvard friends to go on without him, and he stayed in Florence with Abby until she graduated. They traveled together throughout Europe, to every city in Italy and on to London, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Paris, Madrid, Munich, and the Greek Islands. Then he brought her home to his parents in Lobster Cove and told them this was the girl he was going to marry. It had been a dream come true for Abby. They had been deliriously happy, totally devoted to each other, rarely spent a day apart until the very end, which had come much too soon. They had everything—all the money in the world—and each other—and at the same time, nothing to leave behind. No children. No trace that Louis had existed in this world except the memory of how much she loved him.

  Who was she kidding? Louis was not back on the ship. His little headaches had turned out to be a big brain tumor. A big, inoperable brain tumor. And one agonizing year later she was here, by herself, in a city meant for lovers, without one. And in her late thirties, who was ever going to love her again?

  Revisiting her favorite city had seemed like a good idea when she booked the cruise. But whoever said “You can’t go home again” was right. She didn’t want to go back to Maine, to Longley House, that big mansion in Lobster Cove. Not alone. She hadn’t really made friends in Lobster Cove. She hadn’t even tried. There were only about 2,000 people who lived there. The population swelled to 2,500 during tourist season. She barely knew any of them, never associated with them. She and Louis had used Lobster Cove as a layover between international trips and business meetings. So now she was an outcast. She didn’t belong. Maybe she could stay in Europe, perhaps settle in Switzerland or Italy, or France, or maybe England. She’d also considered buying a residence on a cruise ship and living there part-time—traveling to exciting destinations, enjoying gourmet dining and a world-class spa right outside her door. There was nothing for her back in the States. She was sick down to her soul, and so lonely it hurt. She needed something, but she couldn’t articulate what that something was.

  After dabbing her eyes, Abigail handed the handkerchief back to the Jennifer Aniston lookalike.

  “Keep it.”

  “Thanks,” she sniffled.

  The three other women turned to look at her, then the painting, then back to her.

  “It’s you,” exclaimed one of them.

  “What?”

  “The painting. Venus. It could be you. Venus looks exactly like you.”

  “She could be your twin,” agreed the second woman.

  Louis had thought so, too. He’d called her his Venus. It was a compliment. The artist’s model for The Birth of Venus must have been spectacular. Her long, blonde tresses, her chiseled face, her perfect body. A person could do worse than to look like the goddess of love and beauty. So she had accepted the compliment gracefully.

  “Nice bag,” Abigail commented, in an attempt to keep the conversation going. She’d been mumbling to herself or talking to Louis in her head for so long, it was nice to know her voice still worked.

  “Thanks. I got it at—”

  “Furla, I know. I got one too. I saw you there.” She had seen the other women walking down the Spanish Steps, gazing forlornly at all the lovers—the couples kissing, wrapped around each other, or with his arm slung around her shoulder, happy, complete. And she had recognized their pain.

  “Oh, were you on that excursion?”

  “Yes. It was exhausting, wasn’t it? I almost died when that tour guide walked us through the Coliseum in the hundred-degree heat. And then we did the Vatican tour. Fast-paced was an understatement. But nothing was worse than Stefano, our guide, force-marching us through Pompeii. I almost tripped on those cobblestones. I was definitely wearing the wrong shoes. Those petrified ash people looked better than I did.”

  “Jennifer”—or Furla Girl, as Abigail now designated her—looked at her and exposed a crooked, adorable smile. “I enjoyed it. And weren’t you there at the farmhouse in Sorrento?”

  “We all were. I loved the homemade olive oil and the mozzarella-tasting. I had some of their homemade honey shipped back to the States. And some bottles of wine. And I couldn’t get over the size of those lemons. Although I would have preferred to spend the day in Capri, but that excursion was already booked up.”

  Suddenly energized, Abigail turned to the other women.

  “Look, we’ve been traveling together for four days. I’ve seen you all over the ship, and we’ve had conversations during the excursions, so it’s not as if we were strangers, but we’ve never been properly introduced. Do you ladies want to get a cappuccino or something out on the Piazza della Signoria and get to know each other better? My treat.”

  The three women standing shoulder to shoulder with her, eyes raptly fixed on the Botticelli masterpiece, shook themselves out of their trances, took one last longing gaze at Venus, sighed, and shrugged like they had nothing to lose. Like they’d already lost it all.

  Abigail strolled out of the gallery and, after a brief hesitation, the women followed her one by one, like a line of obedient little ducklings, into the warmth of the Florentine sun.

  “Ciao, bella,” shouted one Italian man, dogging them from a safe distance. Italian men were harmlessly lecherous. They were basically cowards, at heart.

  Abigail turned. A young man thought she was beautiful? Oh, probably he was catcalling to get Furla Girl’s attention. She ventured a look at the catcaller. No, he was definitely ogling her. Probably hungering after her Sophia Loren body. Being in Italy was good for a fat girl’s soul. Even the women in the paintings were curvaceous. Italian men liked voluptuous women, if she remembered correctly from her college days, when she’d spent those six months in Florence studying art history and Italian as part of a junior year abroad program. But she’d been younger then, and more appealing. And madly in love.

  “Signorina?” The man was indefatigable.

  “Senora,” she corrected. Well, that wasn’t right either. What was the Italian word for widow?

  Here came the waterworks again. Maybe the women would think the noise and droplets were coming from the fountain across the cobblestones.

  Furla Girl handed her another handkerchief. “Keep it. I won’t be needing it.”

  Abigail gave her a quizzical look.

  The women gathered at two tables under umbrellas at the Caffe Rivoire in the shadow of the statue of David. Not the real David. Abigail chuckled as she wondered how many clueless tourists had oohed and aahed over this David, and his most famous body part, leaving Florence without knowing this marble sculpture wasn’t Michelangelo’s David. The real McCoy had been moved from its original location in 1873 and was safely tucked away in the Accademia Gallery. This statue, delicious as it was to look at, was an imposter.

  The waiter approached their table.

  Abigail ordered in Italian. Why did she have to be such a fucking show-off? Her Italian was rusty, but these women didn’t know that.

  Furla Girl ordered a chocolate and a pastry—in English.

  The woman next to her was wearing a chi
c Tadashi Shoji midnight-blue lace with Alexis Bittar earrings. She had that whole Jackie Kennedy mystique going on. Perfectly coiffed, rich sable brown hair, probably her crowning glory. No wedding ring. Looked to be near her own age, maybe about to hit the Big 4-0. She didn’t look like a widow. What did a widow look like, anyway? Unlucky? “Jackie” ordered a cappuccino and biscotti.

  Speaking of unlucky, Abigail had killed her lucky bamboo Louis had bought her just over a year ago. Instead of facing the reality that she was a plant killer and that everything around her was dying—including her in-laws in a plane crash, soon after Louis’s death—she decided to ignore it and buy a new plant, as if the first one hadn’t withered away from lack of attention. She was really going to try to take better care of the plant this time around.

  Then the quiet one of the group ordered. The waiter had to bend down practically to her face to hear her. “Cioccolata,” she whispered, and pointed to the raspberry layered cake with custard on the menu.

  So the mouse knew a smattering of Italian, although she spoke it like a child. Impressive.

  Abigail looked around the piazza and covered her head with a Memoire Vive scarf from Hermès. She loved to people-watch, but she could do without the aggressive pigeons.

  She turned to Furla Girl. “Did you know that in classical antiquity the seashell Venus is standing on was a metaphor for a woman’s vulva?”

  Furla Girl choked on her water and crinkled her nose, Jennifer Aniston-style. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. You’ve ruined the painting for me—and my appetite.”

  Abigail laughed.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like—?”

  “Yes, Jennifer Aniston.”

  “Well, you do,” Abigail said.

  “I know, and what did that get me? My life still sucks.”

  Abigail blew out a breath. She didn’t even know this chick, and yet she was intrigued. She felt a connection. She felt…protective of this unhappy kindred spirit.

  “You don’t have a corner on the ‘shit happens’ market,” remarked “Jackie.”

  Furla Girl shook her head. “What’s your problem?”

  “How long do you have?”

  Miss Mousey just sat there looking like she was about to dissolve into tears. Like she had just lost her best friend.

  Way to break up a party, Abby. “Okay, ladies, we’re in Florence, one of the most beautiful places in Italy—on earth, if you ask me. And all we can do is drown our sorrows? Let’s celebrate.”

  “What’s there to celebrate?” Furla Girl said, frowning.

  Abigail looked pointedly at her. “We’re alive.”

  The Jennifer Aniston lookalike let out a big laugh. And she wouldn’t stop laughing.

  “Inside joke?” “Jackie” asked.

  Furla Girl paused. “The joke’s on me. I can’t do anything right. I can’t even manage to kill myself, as one of you well knows. How hard is it to jump off a moving ship?” Then she gave the Neptune Fountain a run for its money.

  Stupefied, Abigail turned to her and whispered, “You said you were just practicing. You weren’t serious, were you?”

  “Apparently not serious enough. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.”

  Abby’s heart melted. She had a new mission in life. Saving “Jennifer Aniston,” aka Furla Girl. Whatever the hell her real name was.

  “Okay, ladies, what’s next on the agenda?” Abigail asked, in her new role as self-appointed take-charge director of this private tour. Louis always thought it best to face uncomfortable issues head on. She looked at Furla Girl.

  “What are you going to do when you get back to the ship, besides take a swan dive off your balcony?”

  The women at the table were silent. Furla Girl mopped her eyes and frowned.

  So Abigail said, “I’m registered for the art auction at the gallery on the ship. I saw a Picasso I’m interested in bidding on.”

  Miss Mousey’s eyes bulged. Abigail knew what she was thinking. What they all were thinking: How could this woman afford a Picasso? Well, it just so happened she could afford a roomful of Picassos, if she wanted to. Hell, she could buy them each a Picasso and it wouldn’t make a dent in her bank account, which she was depleting at an express-train rate. But much as she tried, the damn thing kept growing. Apparently she had a money manager who was a genius.

  “Of course, I’m just kidding,” Abigail said, trying to lighten the mood. “We can check out the gallery, relax, enjoy some free champagne, just have some fun.”

  This crew didn’t look like they knew the meaning of the word. They ate the rest of their food in silence, each lost in her own thoughts even as they headed for the pickup spot and Francesca, the tour guide, who was holding an orange umbrella above her head.

  “You ladies have plans for dinner?” Abigail tried again.

  “No,” said Furla Girl.

  “Well, would you like some company?” Abigail asked.

  “I guess,” the woman responded.

  “How about you?” Abigail asked, looking at “Jackie.”

  “I’m free.”

  “And you?” Abigail asked Miss Mousey.

  “No plans.”

  “It’s a date, then. I’ll make us all a reservation at the Italian specialty restaurant. The food is great, a step above the regular dining room. I’ve already eaten there twice.”

  “But doesn’t that cost extra?” Miss Mousey asked.

  “Thirty-five dollars, but, hey, it’s my treat,” said Abigail. “For all of you. I’m Abigail, Abigail Adams Longley, by the way.”

  “Like the wife of the second president?” Miss Mousey’s eyes widened.

  “I’m related to her husband, somewhere back in time.”

  “Seriously? That’s amazing. I’m Natalie,” said “Jackie.” “Natalie Jasper.”

  Yes, that fits, Abigail thought. Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood. That dark, brooding classic beauty. Abigail wondered what her story was. She was curious about people. Just not the people back in Lobster Cove.

  Abigail turned to the woman with the Furla bag as if they had just met. “What about you? What’s your name?”

  “Victoria,” she said. “But my friends call me Vickie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vickie.”

  All three turned to Miss Mousey, who blushed.

  That girl is a librarian if there ever was one, Abigail mused. “Let me guess. Is it Marian?” No one laughed. No one got the reference to “Marian the Librarian” from The Music Man.

  “No, it’s Jane,” she said. “Jane Nash.”

  Plain Jane. No, she wasn’t exactly plain. Hard to tell her age. She was tiny, so maybe in her late twenties, but the way she dressed, so prim and proper, she might be closer to thirty-five. She could be pretty, but the way she covered up her figure, wearing no makeup, hiding those gorgeous blue eyes behind those serious tortoiseshell frames, who could tell? She was hiding out in there. She wasn’t mousey. She was miserable. Her grief was fresh. And it was etched all over her face.

  Chapter Three

  The waiter at Lucca’s, the onboard Italian specialty restaurant, filled their crystal goblets with water and began flirting with the women at the table, upholding the reputation of Italian men everywhere.

  “How about some wine?” Abigail suggested, noting that the waiter’s Italian accent was affected, but she was too bored to call him on it.

  “None for me,” Jane said. Jane was on the bony side. She was probably wearing her nicest cocktail dress, but the total effect was just sad.

  “Nonsense,” Abigail insisted. “You’re on a Mediterranean cruise. Do you prefer red or white?”

  “Either is fine. Whatever you’re having. I, uh, I’m not sure I drink wine.”

  Abby tried not to register shock. “You’re not sure? Have you ever had wine before?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “She will have a glass of Zinfandel,” said Abigail decisively, attracting the waiter’s attention. “What about the rest of yo
u? Come on, now, this is a celebration.”

  “What are we celebrating again?” asked Vickie.

  “Our friendship.” Abigail ordered a bottle of red and a bottle of white for the table. She studied the menu. The waiter stood poised to take their food orders.

  “I’ll have the spaghetti carbonara,” Abigail announced.

  “Excellent choice,” said the waiter, nodding and writing down her order.

  The women each made a selection from the menu. Victoria went for the sea bass. Natalie chose shrimp scampi, and Jane went for plain spaghetti and tomato sauce. No meat or meatballs to spice it up. No sense of adventure.

  When the waiter returned with the wine and poured it into her goblet, Abby swirled the liquid in her glass and took a whiff, followed by a small sip. She nodded appreciatively. He filled the other goblets on the table.

  “Come on, you don’t think it was an accident that we met, do you?” Abby posed. “We’ve all been on the same excursions since we set sail from Barcelona. I’d be willing to bet that if we compared notes, we’ve all chosen the same excursions for the rest of the cruise. We probably have a lot in common. We were meant to meet—for a reason.”

  “You believe in fate?” Vickie wanted to know.

  “Of course,” answered Abby.

  Natalie picked up her wine glass. “What reason could there possibly be?”

  “I don’t know, but I think we owe it to ourselves to find out,” Abby stated. “Now, maybe I’m getting too personal, but are there any husbands in the picture? Are you married, single, divorced?” Abigail paused and swallowed the lump threatening to form in her throat. “Widowed?”

  “I’m recently widowed,” Natalie explained.

  “Me, too,” responded Abby. “How recently?”

  “Five years.”

  “Five years?” Abby blanched. “I’m only one year out. Is this what I have to look forward to?”

  “Howard was a wonderful man,” whispered Natalie. “He was irreplaceable. I mean, he wasn’t perfect, by any means, but I never really appreciated him until he was gone.”

  “I’ll never get over my Zach,” echoed Vickie.