“Here we go,” Gabriel said, “and we’ll end up with three massage tables, a lap pool, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a five-star restaurant.”
“What’s wrong with a five-star restaurant?” Juliette said, but even she had to laugh; Gabe’s grin always was irresistible, even when he was being a jerk, and he seemed so solid and reliable in his blue work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick capable arms and wide callused hands. He was like a figure from some WPA mural somewhere, an artistic emodiment of Honest Labor; just looking at him made Juliette feel slight and shallow.
“I could help,” Mercy said, looking from one to the other. “I could make an investment. Or a contribution. I really admire what you’re trying to do here. There’s no reason this couldn’t serve as a model for other agricultural reclamation projects, other conservation initiatives. Though I think you’re right to keep things small, take things slow. Overreach, and the whole thing could so easily collapse.”
Juliette stared at her. One minute she sounded like a little girl complaining about the mean kids at school, the next a spokesperson for Greenpeace. Even the way she held herself was suddenly different, more adult. More self-assured. Gabriel noticed, too; now he was watching her as she had watched him. A frown hovered over his glasses, but Juliette could see a shift in the way he looked at Mercy, as if he were considering her as a grown-up.
“Well, thanks,” he said. “But the patronage system didn’t work out so well in the long run. I was thinking about setting up a foundation, but it’s complicated.”
Mercy shrugged and leaned back in her seat. “Well, I could always call Bono. Or George Clooney,” she said, with that same mischievous grin Juliette had seen on top of the campanile. “I’m sure they’d love it here. And they could bring all their friends. A string of horrifyingly famous people demanding stacks and stacks of very good towels.”
For a moment Gabriel looked startled, then indignant, then a little guilty as he realized Mercy had heard every word he had said on the night she arrived. Watching her handiwork make its way across his face, Mercy laughed, a sound as bright and distinct as her hair, and soon Gabriel was laughing, too. Like the tumblers of a safe, Juliette felt the conversation click into place—Mercy was seducing him. No, not exactly seducing, but doing reconnaissance, figuring out what tact to take—wounded bird, defiant child, saucy benefactor. For a moment, Juliette felt the searing prod of envy—how easy it was, always, for people like Mercy to get what they wanted, which was mostly attention. Even from men like Gabe, who must have been so tantalizing in his initial disinterest.
Still, there was something satisfying about the startled look on her cousin’s face; Gabe was always so certain of himself, always so sure he knew the best way of handling anything, always so condescending toward Juliette about Hollywood and the Pinnacle. A few days after she arrived, she had tried to tell him about Michael O’Connor, about how the star had secretly stayed at the Pinnacle during his cancer treatment, about the intimacy that had grown between them during the events surrounding Josh’s death, about the essential humanity that made him not just another movie star. And Gabe had reacted with a callousness just short of contempt.
“I don’t know why you want to waste your one and only life taking care of terminal narcissists, Jules,” he had said with a sigh. “If you get off on making people happy, at least pick people who are capable of happiness.”
Watching Gabriel finally notice the wicked elfin beauty of Mercy’s famous face, watching as words failed him at last, Juliette couldn’t help smiling to herself. A fling with Mercy would probably be good for him; it would certainly be good for Mercy. It didn’t get much realer than Gabe, who didn’t think twice about discussing the exact nature of black water over breakfast.
Glancing at the girl, however, Juliette was startled by the look on her face. In mid-laugh, she had frozen, her eyes glued on something just over Gabriel’s shoulder.
“Mercy?” Gabriel said, and he and Juliette turned together. A woman stood in the doorway who looked, for one moment, like Mercy’s twin. Same face, same hair, same slight build, but, Juliette quickly realized, years older—her figure was thicker, her face fuller, the white-blond hair carefully styled. When she caught sight of Mercy, her silhouette shrugged with impatience; as she headed toward the table, her high heels made small quick clucks of disapproval against the flagstone. “Tell me you’re not actually eating that,” she said, nodding at Mercy’s plate of tiramisu. Mercy did not answer. In the time it had taken Angie to walk ten feet, Mercy had simply shut her face down. As if it were a window gone suddenly dark and silent. In the now-sullen features, Juliette could barely recognize the person who had been sitting across from her just a moment ago.
“Hello, Mother,” Mercy said, putting a huge forkful of dessert into her mouth. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Mrs. Talbot said, pulling the plate out of her reach. “You look like you’ve put on six pounds, and you know what the wardrobe situation is—the gowns for the flashbacks took weeks to finish and they’re very fitted. Have you been taking your medication? Your vitamins? Do you even have your inhaler? I cannot believe you are eating dairy. You know how dairy makes you bloat.”
“Inhaler?” Juliette asked, startled. “I didn’t see an inhaler. Do you have asthma?”
“No,” Mercy said, “I do not have asthma.”
“Not technically,” said Mrs. Talbot, fingering her daughter’s hair with obvious disapproval. “She has a preasthmatic condition that we control with steroids and an inhaler. You look awful, sweetie, just puffy and awful,” she said, eyeing Mercy as if she were a used car she might buy. “But never mind, I suppose you’ve been through a lot. And we have three days. We’re shooting in Siena now. Apparently the permits ran out in Rome, but Siena will do just as well and Bill says it’s cheaper. I’ve booked us a suite at La Coronet. It’s small but it’s owned by the same company as the Pinnacle, so I’m sure we can find someone who does pores and colonics. Perhaps Juliette could help us. Hello, Juliette,” she said, finally acknowledging the presence of anyone except Mercy. She extended her hand. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done. Such a strange coincidence you being here, isn’t it? But Devlin said you’d take good care of our girl and it looks like you have. Good Lord, Mercy, what have you done to your hands?” She lifted her daughter’s right hand, gazing in horror at the calluses and ragged nails. She closed her eyes with a pained expression. “I don’t even want to know. Do we owe you anything?” she asked, opening her eyes and returning her attention briefly to Juliette. “No? Well, then, darling, if you’re done, we can be on our way before it’s too late. The driver almost hit some sort of vaguely prehistoric creature—he said it was a porcupine—on the way up and it was quite upsetting. Is there luggage?” she asked. “Shall we call someone?”
Juliette sat there, frozen. She could not think of one single thing to say. Angie Talbot had barely paused to draw breath and now she stood, her face a Botoxed blank, fairly vibrating with disapproval and anxiety, her desire to leave rolling off her like waves.
“And suddenly it all becomes astonishingly clear,” Gabriel murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mercy said flatly, finishing the tiramisu with a fork-swiping flourish, avoiding both her mother’s eyes and Gabriel’s. “So you might as well just get back in your little rental car and drive away.”
Now it was Angie’s turn to freeze, though only for a moment.
“Didn’t you hear me? Production is back on. You’re due on set in three days.”
“So I’ll be on set in three days. Meanwhile, I’m staying right here.”
Angie stared at her daughter. “You can’t be serious,” she said, her voice losing whatever lightness it had attempted. “Listen, my dear, you’ve had your little vacation in the country, I get it, that’s fine, Lloyd was a lovely young man, but now you have to get back to work. Think of how hard we fought to get you on this project. A cost
ume drama. Finally. It will take you to a whole new level. Meryl won her first Oscar for The French Lieutenant’s Woman.”
Mercy gave no sign of hearing her, so Angie increased the volume. “I cannot believe how selfish you are, Mercy Talbot. You’re not the only person who was upset by Lloyd’s death, you know. And while you pulled a disappearing act, who do you think had to cope with the reporters? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through trying to keep your little midday swim out of the mainstream press? I had to get Becker to agree to shoot a fountain scene so we could pass the photos off as location shots, but it’s been hell. Even your sober buddy quit after you left Rome; she claims you spiked her orange juice with Ambien. Did you?”
Mercy shrugged. “Now, how on earth would I get Ambien, Mother? You count yours every night.”
Angie ignored her. “She’ll probably sue, which is just what we need. You’re teetering on the brink of being uninsurable, do you know that? Uninsurable. I spent hours on the phone with Bill Becker promising that I’d be there every day, that I’d make sure you’d be up and running on time every single day. Steve Usher had to write an affidavit. You can just imagine how much that cost me. If you’re not careful, you’ll wind up having to pay your own way like Downey.”
“He’s doing okay,” Mercy said defiantly. “He’s doing just fine.”
“Yes, now, but it took him ten years to get his career back. You’re a woman. You don’t have ten years.”
Mercy crossed her arms, and drew her knees up and settled back into her chair. Her mother sighed. “Fine. I see you are running a bed-and-breakfast here,” she said, turning to Juliette. “I’d like a room. With a phone. And,” she added with a little shiver, “a bathroom, if that’s possible.”
With a swift movement, Gabriel rose from his chair. For a moment Juliette was afraid he would bodily eject Angie from the property, and she had to admit she would certainly do whatever it took to help him. But when he spoke it was with all the Italian charm, and accent, he could muster.
“I am sorry, signora,” he said, taking her hand. “My cousin, she is very rude. I am Gabriel Delfino and I run the Villa de Cerreta, where we would be more than happy to accommodate you. If only we were able to. But as you see,”—he swept his hand around, gesturing unironically toward the dozen or so guests—“we are fully booked. Tuscany in springtime, it is very popular. But the Coronet is a fine hotel, and Siena is only twenty minutes away. I would offer you coffee, but”—he glanced at his watch—“they do close the gates to the city at eleven and I am afraid if you do not hurry, the only room I will be able to offer you is with the sheep.”
“Good night, Mother,” Mercy said. “If you go peacefully,” she said, relenting, “I promise I will come to the hotel tomorrow morning. And get a new cell phone. And answer it if you call. All right?”
For a moment Juliette thought Angie would simply explode with anger and frustration and whatever chemical was currently fueling her—she had that tightly strung look of a Pilates and ephedrine addict. But Angie was also apparently shrewd enough to take a graceful exit when she saw one. Heaving a quick, martyrlike sigh, she then swooped in and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Oh, all right, Mercy,” she said, making a great effort to smile indulgently. “If that’s what you want. Just do try to get some rest. We’re weeks behind, so it’s long days ahead and we don’t want you getting sick or dehydrated.” She made a move to caress Mercy’s hair, but Mercy jerked away and Angie’s hand tugged at the bottom of her linen jacket. “Well, the car’s waiting. Bonne notte, Juliette, Mr. Delfino. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
“Oh, I certainly hope,” Gabe said, putting his hand on his heart. “Arrivederci.”
With something between a smile and a grimace, Angie turned on her heel and, spine erect, clacked her way back the way she had come.
“Not bad for a boy from Boston,” Juliette murmured.
“Oh, Mercy,” Angie said, turning in the doorway as if she had forgotten something. “You’ll never guess who Bill got to play Inspector Huddle.”
“Who, Mother?” Mercy asked, her face still motionless and seemingly bored. “George Clooney?”
“Even better,” the older woman said with a satisfied smile. “Michael O’Connor.”
Mercy started packing the moment they got back to Casa Padua.
“What are you doing?” Juliette asked. “I thought you were staying here.”
“Did you see the look on his face?” Mercy asked, tears thick in her throat, as she threw one thing after another into a suitcase. “He was horrified. And he’s right to be horrified. She’s horrifying. I’m horrifying.” She sat down on the bed and wept into her hands.
“Good Lord, Mercy,” Juliette said, sitting down beside her. “You’re totally overreacting. Gabe got rid of your mother, not you. Believe me, if he was horrified by you, he would have sent you off, too.”
After a few moments, Mercy nodded, grew calmer. “I know,” she said, defeat tugging her voice down half an octave. “I know. The problem is, my mother’s right. If I have to be on the set in three days, then I do have to lose six pounds. I do have to stop eating wheat and dairy and unclog my pores. I do have to focus, at least start reading the script.”
“Wait, you really haven’t read the script yet? I thought you were joking.”
Mercy shook her head. “I only read the treatments. My mother says when I think about a part too much, I lose it. So it’s better if I don’t read it until we’re close to shooting. She says my process is that I have no process. Which means,” she added bitterly, “I just memorize the words and say them. Half the time I don’t even know how they’re going to come out. Mother says it’s all in my subconscious, that my neurological system does most of the work. She says it’s all about my relationship with the camera and has been since I was a baby, practically. Everyone seems to think it’s some great gift, except the part that makes me such a freak.”
Juliette looked at her doubtfully. It did not seem possible that Mercy Talbot just regurgitated lines, or that her performances emerged whole and intact from some synaptic fluke. On-screen she was a wonder; the critics invariably fell all over themselves praising her ability; her “dedication to craft” was one of the most-cited reasons for the Industry’s patience for her other, less professional qualities.
“It’s okay, Juliette,” Mercy said, seeing her frown and smiling kindly. “You did your best. You talked to me like I was a real person, and I appreciate that. It doesn’t happen all that often anymore. And I made my little stand tonight, which is something. Something I’ve never done before.” She looked around the room wistfully, at the high ceilings and white stucco walls, the window seat with its built-in shelf full of books. “This has been a lot of fun, and maybe you can come visit. Hold my hand when things get rough. Michael O’Connor,” she said, and shook her head. “Shit. That’s just what I needed.”
“What?” Juliette said, mortified to realize that just hearing his name made her chest grow warm. “He’s good. I mean, he’s a good actor.”
“Of course he’s good,” Mercy said, with a small look of disgust. “But I’ve heard he’s hell to work with, like a total control freak, a perfectionist. And he already hates me. I mean, I tried to get a part in that mobster movie he did three years ago and he said, ‘No way.’ That he wanted a ‘grown-up’ in the role. A grown-up to play a teenage hooker. Whatever. He’s a dick. And now I have to spend the next three weeks kissing him. Yay for me.”
“Well . . .” Juliette hedged, trying not to bristle at Mercy’s dismissive tone, not to mention the thought of her kissing him. “He’s not so bad, I don’t think. And that was a while ago, and this was your project first, so he wouldn’t have come on board if he didn’t want to work with you.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right,” she said. “He’s been MIA for a year now; I heard he was sick. His last two movies tanked. So I don’t think this has anything to do with his suddenly wanting to work with me. God,” she said, b
rightening, “I bet the screenwriter is shitting bricks right now. I mean, O’Connor’s like eighty-five years older than Lloyd.”
“Oh, come on,” Juliette said defensively. “He’s not that old. He might not be able to play twenty-eight, but he could play thirty-five. Or at least thirty-nine.”
Mercy looked sharply at her and smiled. “Oh,” she said, suddenly sounding like a child again. “You like him. Do you know-him like him, or just like-him like him?”
Juliette felt her hackles rise at the implication that she was just another fan, but she wasn’t about to exchange girlish confidences with Mercy Talbot. The time she had spent with O’Connor, including those few scattered hours of passion, now seemed unreal. Like Mercy, O’Connor lived in an alternate universe of fame and wealth and possibility. While you were there with him, it seemed almost normal, but when you returned to the real world, it took on the qualities of a dream, which made it more tantalizing and yet unreliable. Many things had been said, and pointedly not said, when they had parted—Michael had left L.A. even before she had, to finish his treatment in peace. He had promised to call her as soon as he was done, which by Juliette’s calculations should have been a week or so ago. What was he doing, signing on to this already troubled film so soon?
“He’s an acquaintance,” Juliette said, attempting indifference. “A guest at the hotel.”
“Really?” Mercy said, with that keen-eyed look, that viciously infectious laugh. “A ‘guest at the hotel.’ Michael O’Connor . . . well, well, this will be interesting. A Tuscan reunion.” She fell backward onto her pillow. “Maybe you can keep him the fuck off my back.”
Juliette spent much of the next week pretending that she was not waiting for O’Connor to call. Mercy called. Seven or eight times a day for the first few days after she left. While this was not particularly conducive to work or relaxation, Juliette was relieved. She had driven Mercy into Siena but Mercy would not let her come into the hotel, would not let her speak with her mother. Watching her disappear into the stately dim recesses of the Coronet, Juliette remembered the shrill desperate expectation in Mrs. Talbot’s voice, and she felt, if not fear for Mercy, then certainly trepidation and not a little pity. But Mercy sounded fine. She was busy, she was irked—by a change in cinematographer, by the director’s judgmental eyes, by her mother’s insistence she talk to Steve Usher every night—but she sounded sane enough.
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