"Signorina Bartolomei, did Kyle—has my son told you where I should meet him?" Awkward.
"Please, call me Pia. I'm to drive you to the condo. Kyle hopes to be able to come up to Venice in two days after they wrap the interior shots."
"You mean in two days he'll be completely done filming? I had no idea."
"No, not really. A few retakes are scheduled here. That's why he thought it would be easier for you to stay put. Jet lag and such."
We crossed an airport parking lot reminiscent of similar large, generic parking areas in America, like those at Walmart. The wheels of my suitcase made squeaky sounds. While the inside arrival space had been packed with people, the parking lot looked empty.
I had visited Italy two years before, but this was my first time landing at Marco Polo in six years. A glimpse of the Laguna and St Mark's Campanile had delighted my eyes as the plane started its descent. I always felt sorry for first-time visitors when they realized that Venice's airport was actually not in Venice.
I trailed Pia by a few steps. We didn't have a thing to talk about. She stopped beside a two-door, faded green VW and clicked a remote in her hand. The hatchback opened. She waited, her eyes on me. Got it. I slid my suitcase into the back of the car, and she slammed it shut. A weathered I heart NY sticker on the back bumper made me smile.
The tension between us—palpable. When I turned to buckle the seatbelt I noticed a lanyard dangling from the rearview mirror, a square badge attached to it. Even without my reading glasses the name stood out: Pia Bartolomei. The word above her name was in even larger print. PRESS. And then I remembered.
"Mio Dio, the girl from RAI TV. How silly of me. You were at Kyle's hearing two years ago, in California. You were doing a special about second-generation Italians in America."
She kept her hand on the ignition key without starting the car, and smiled. "He did tell you about me." A long sigh.
I went on. "Yes, he did, and I must say he was quite smitten. Apparently he still is." I smiled back.
We went from silent strangers to gabbing friends thanks to a single word—PRESS. I asked her to call me Lella.
October hadn't affected the trees lining the access to the airport. Perhaps the warm weather accounted for the green lingering on the branches. Anywhere but here such a stately entrance would suit a high-end private school better than an international airport. Then again, Marco Polo was unique, built for modern comfort amongst splashes from the past—a statue here, a fountain there.
"So where is this condo? Is it Kyle's?" I asked
"Lella, I can't believe Kyle hasn't even talked to you about the accommodations. The condo belongs to Cruz."
"Tom Cruise?" I assumed she mispronounced English names.
"Oh, no, no." A short laugh. "Manuel De La Cruz, you know—the actor?" She glanced at me sideways, apparently astonished by my ignorance. The name meant nothing.
"Kyle and Cruz are working together. That's partly why they're sharing the condo. The place belongs to one of Cruz's…friends." Another laugh. More snort than laugh, really. "She hardly ever comes to Italy. Anyway, Cruz plays the long-lost older brother. It would be correct to assume he is the main attraction, as the movie title is The Lost Heir. I'm not saying Kyle's part isn't important, but Cruz is well known in Italy, while Kyle is new to the game here."
"Game?"
"Yeah, you know, he doesn't have any major motion pictures in Italy yet. Cruz is a household name. This is not a reflection of talent, only of popularity among moviegoers." The last part was added in a hurry, as if she were making sure not to offend me. "By the way, Kyle sent a telefonino for you to use. I'm afraid your phone doesn’t work here."
He did think about his mom after all.
We drove in the opposite direction from the arrows indicating Venezia, entering a busy industrial area with many intersecting roads. Where were we headed? Pia's driving was a little jolting. Each time she changed gears was a reminder the car had a manual shift. The road signs Pia seemed to follow clearly stated Ravenna and Chioggia. That confused me.
"Pia, where is this condo? Isn't Venezia the other way?"
"We are driving to Chioggia, the miniature Venezia, as the locals like to call it. This is no ordinary condo. It comes with its own story, and it's all connected to the film industry."
I didn't know what to say. Too many sleepless nights left me mentally exhausted and dazed, in no small part due to my last-minute decision to fly to Italy, which resulted in an atrocious schedule with several connecting flights.
She glanced at me. "The mother of the present owner was an extra in a French movie made in Chioggia. She had a major crush on Jean-Paul Belmondo, the actor. Was there more than a crush? Who knows? That was in the sixties. I wasn't even born."
I was.
"Anyway," Pia went on, "when the old palace used in one of the scenes was remodeled, subdivided, and sold, she bought one of the apartments. Upon her death it became property of her only daughter, who lives in France. The heiress apparently finds Chioggia too small and boring for her tastes, but she hasn't gotten around to selling the place, so she lets Cruz use it. I'm sure he knows how to show his appreciation."
The idle chatter kept my driver's attention occupied. For that I was thankful. The last thing I wanted was for Pia to notice my own state of turmoil and ask questions. Even I wasn't ready to face the reason I boarded that flight to Venice.
CHAPTER TWO
What have I done?
I spent two years convincing myself I was a changed woman—positive, strong, sure of myself. Ready to speak my mind, no matter the consequences. Done pretending all was well. No more smiling while my heart ached.
Wasted years. Nothing had changed. When it came down to it, I didn't speak my mind. I ran.
I lay staring at the artsy plaster medallion centering the ornate ceiling of a bedroom in someone else's home. I had been drifting in and out of sleep for the last two hours, aware I broke another one of my clever self-appointed rules: never go to sleep upon arrival just because you're tired. Always wait at least until nine p.m.
I have to do something. Anything to keep the unbearable ache of missing Larry from assaulting my heart again.
It's five p.m.
Morning in California. He should be up. What about her? Would they be sharing the first cup of coffee of the day or lingering in bed following a night of passion?
Stop it. Drowning in loneliness.
After a quick tour of the place, Pia mumbled something about an assignment out of the region. Before leaving she showed me how to work the citofono, an old-fashioned intercom that allowed communication with the concierge. She assured me Kyle would call as soon as he was done working and would answer my questions.
The telefonino played a familiar tune, "California Girls." Kyle's sense of humor.
"Mom, welcome to Italy. Sorry I couldn't be there to meet you. Is everything okay?"
Everything okay? "Um, well, we can talk about it when I see you."
Would I have jumped on a plane and flown halfway around the world uninvited if everything were okay?
"I'm hoping to get up there by tomorrow afternoon. You didn't give me much notice you were coming. What's gotten into you? Itchy feet, like they say?" He laughed, or pretended to. "What did you do with Flash?"
Flash was my cat and my beloved companion. "Sabrina, from the mission. I hired her teenage daughter to take care of Flash." Silence.
"Look." We spoke at the same time.
"You go first," I suggested.
"Mom, I'm not sure what's going on, why you decided to come visit. I'm happy you did, whatever the reason. There should be food and drinks, clean towels, and all that stuff at the condo. If you don't find something, use the citofono. Augusta, the concierge, will get you whatever you need ASAP. She's really good that way. Oh, before I forget, Cruz is on his way up."
"Up? You mean up the stairs? Now?"
His laugh, real. "No, no, he is coming up to Chioggia. He left Rome this mornin
g, but you never know with him. Anyway, he has his own key and he's very…noisy. I don't want you to be frightened. He's stopping by the condo to pick up some stuff, then he'll probably be gone. You should write down my number in case you need to reach me."
"Kyle, where are you staying?" Why did Larry have to bring her to his place, our place?
"Me? Oh, you mean here in Rome? The studio maintains a place for out-of-town personnel. Very nice, actually. They also provided me with a car. It's sort of a cute story. I drive a newly redesigned Ford Focus with automatic transmission, very rare in Italy. Their personnel liaison didn't think I could drive a stick shift. Should have brought pictures of my Porsche." He sounded so carefree and happy. "But Carolyn is in town, and I've been her chauffeur and tour guide a couple of evenings after work."
"Carolyn? Your agent is in Italy? I had no idea."
"Yes, she's good friends with Cruz's agent. They're talking international partnership."
"Whoa, sounds impressive." Tiptoeing around the big question neither wanted to tackle: What really happened to prompt me to leave home?
"I'll tell you all about it when I get there. So, you okay?" Running out of safe subjects? "Then bye for now, and don't hesitate to call me if you want to talk."
"I will, and I think the ring tone of the telefonino is so—appropriate. Grazie."
After we hung up it hit me that we never mentioned Pia or Larry.
When Pia had unlocked the door and swung it open, the condo had that unmistakable moldy smell of closed-up places. Not that unusual in such old houses. Not enough direct sun to keep the thick stone walls dry, especially in these coastal towns.
Daylight was fading. Should I turn on the lamp? I shivered in my light robe. I touched the radiator. Cold. The heating system wasn't working, and I had no clue what to do. I assumed Kyle warned Cruz of my presence. What if he forgot? Damn. Talk about feeling out of place. Maybe I should go for a walk. I had a key. I couldn't decide. It wouldn't make any difference. The hurt inside would travel with me regardless of where I went.
My bedroom faced the same busy street we drove in on, but only faint noises rose to the third-floor windows.
I ventured into the living room to get an idea of what was on the other side of the building. This place reminded me of those fantasy movies with princes and princesses who lived happily ever after.
I didn't belong here. The furniture was as plain and neutral as could be, probably to counteract the walls, which exuded nothing short of opulence—silky tapestries, narrow windows from floor to ceiling. And the height of those ceilings? Incredible. Maybe they had to build them so tall to accommodate the massive chandelier. Must cost a fortune to warm the place during the winter months. I wished I could have made a fire, but the gilded fireplace looked more like a movie prop than a functional one. From the living room window I noticed the water. Dark, so dark and green. It gave me shivers. Seawater. Not the kind of sea crashing on sandy beaches. No, this was similar to the water in the deep canals of Venice. Chioggia, the miniature Venezia. That was what Pia had called the town. Across from the window a row of two-story buildings with arched porticos sat on the opposite bank of the canal.
Like in Venice, the palazzo backed into a waterway. That alone could account for the moldy smell, the lingering cold. I tried to open one of those tall, narrow windows, but it wouldn't budge. A thermometer hung on the wall outside the window. I had to use my reading glasses to see what the temperature was. I wasn't sure why, but it seemed important to know. Thirteen. It showed thirteen degrees—Celsius, of course. I had become so Americanized I couldn't remember the conversion between Celsius and Fahrenheit. I wasn't alone. On the opposite side of the same window another thermometer showed fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.
What temperature would it be in the foothills of Orange, where Larry sat and sipped coffee brewed from his favorite blend of—
Stop it.
I didn't come all the way here to sit in a stranger's home and cry. I wiped my face and headed into the bedroom. Then it hit me. Something about this place was odd. There wasn't anything personal. No photos, no knickknacks, nothing out of place. Everything organized and, dare I say, catalogued? Like a suite at a fancy resort, even down to the fresh flowers and a welcome basket of fruit. That would explain the neutral furnishings and generic rug.
I turned on the shower. The bathroom, too, was set up like a hotel. White towels stacked high, neatly folded, hair dryer and countless small bottles with colorful labels. The white towels and assorted toiletries reminded me of my first morning in Larry's house. Two years ago.
I picked a chamomile shampoo and stepped into the shower. In spite of the modern look of the bathroom, the showerhead made a loud noise. Old pipes. We had the same problem in my mother's house. Mom—I hadn't thought about her in so long—why now? I should go to visit her grave; it's maybe a few hours away. Kyle could drive me.
My stomach gurgled while I dried my hair. Not surprising. I'd had nothing but the airplane food in the last twenty-four hours. That was it. I'll get dressed and go grab something to eat. Italians didn't eat until late in the evening. I would fit right in.
While I showered moonlight slipped in and sprinkled blue hues over the whole bedroom. Outside the window, a full moon held court up among the stars in the Italian sky. Larry would love the sight. Oh, Larry. Why?
In my blind rage and rush to run away, I packed little that was suitable for autumn in Northern Italy. Plus, a lot of my belongings had been at Larry's. Clear your mind. The clock on the night table said seven p.m. I could stop by the concierge desk and ask directions to a small nearby restaurant, one that was easy to find. I wouldn't want to get lost on my very first evening.
Better take the telefonino. Fully dressed, my hair dry, lipstick on, I grabbed my purse and the keys to the condo, and walked out of the bedroom. The living room also displayed a blue stream, courtesy of the incredible beam of moonlight spilling through the tall window. It was so well defined it looked like a sliver of moon pie, narrow but elongated, reaching all the way to the thick rug covering the inlaid wood floor.
Wait…no…what?
In the center of the silvery slice, a dark figure lay motionless on the carpet.
Dio Mio. I took a step. The body moved, and I screamed.
CHAPTER THREE
"Buona, sta buon. Son io, Cruz."
Be good. I'm Cruz?
The chandelier suddenly lit so brightly my eyes hurt. What? The dark shadow that had been sprawled on the rug was my host Manuel De La Cruz? I blinked but didn't budge from where I stood.
"Am sorry," he said in an attempt to speak English. "Do you speak Italian?"
"Of course I speak Italian. I am Italian." I wanted to slap his silly smile away. What had he been doing on the floor in the dark?
"Italian Italian?"
"I don't know what constitutes an Italian Italian, but I was born a little north of here, province of Vicenza. Is that Italian enough for you?"
"Ah, Kyle's mamma, you are mad at me." He smiled with his eyes. His mention of Kyle reminded me in whose living room I stood. I smiled back. This was the great Cruz? Casanova Cruz? I had pictured him like the Italian version of George Clooney. But this was a middle-aged man in need of a good meal. Such a bony face, thin lips. Interesting, in a strange way. Imperfect features and unsettling eyes. Perhaps fame added an aura of charm to everything he did or didn't do.
"It’s the moon." He hummed. "I like to meditate by the full moon. It reinvigorates me, clears my mind. Didn't mean to frighten you. How are you? Did you find everything you need? Have you had dinner?" His sentences ran together. As he spoke and grew more animated, personality began to seep through. He had a childlike smile, probably well rehearsed. He moved closer, right under the chandelier where I had parked myself. Thick lashes shadowed his eyes. Odors of tobacco and cigarette smoke lingered on his clothes.
"I didn't hear you—did you say you have eaten?" My stomach growled, and Cruz had his answer. "Oh, Kyle's mamma
is hungry."
"My name is Lella."
"Hungry and spunky. What are you hungry for—Lella?"
The double entendre wasn't lost on me. Now I really wanted to smack this overgrown adolescent. Did he catch my annoyance? "Sorry," he said. "Habits. But seriously, anything in mind? Pasta? Fish?"
Forget eating, I still couldn't get past his sudden appearance. "Cruz, I didn't know you had arrived. The place is so quiet. I'm puzzled or maybe simply curious. I wonder…if you don't feel like answering it is totally fine, but I understand you are a famous movie star. A household name, according to Pia Bartolomei, right?"
He nodded. The glow on his face was bright enough to compete with the chandelier.
"How do you manage? The anonymity, I mean. No paparazzi hurtling at your door, no admiring fans screaming under your windows."
He bobbed his head to the cadence of my voice. "True, so true, Lella. But I am smart. Everything was planned carefully years ago. This is my place for tranquility. When I'm here, I'm not Cruz."
"I see. You are not Cruz, and how do you convince the town of that? You wear a mask? A wig? You buy their cooperation?" What's gotten into me? It's none of my business.
He laughed in a spontaneous way, maybe for the first time since we met.
"Come on." He took my hand. "Let's go talk to Augusta. You will understand."
We had made it to the door when he stopped. "Almost forgot. I'll be right back." He disappeared behind the door of what Pia had indicated was his bedroom and returned carrying a Prada gift bag. The blue lettering on the white background was hard to miss. "Now I'm ready. Let's go."
"We are going to talk to Augusta the concierge?"
No answer. He pulled me along to the elevator, down to the street level and into Augusta's office. He raised his hand to knock, but when his knuckles met the door, it opened.
Pia had introduced me to the older woman known as the concierge when we arrived around noon. Distracted, I hadn't paid much attention.
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