“Yes, Silvia, but then you could fight if you were wearing a ball gown and high heels,” Giacomo said.
“Hmmph,” Silvia muttered, but she had a blank look on her face that meant that she was extraordinarily pleased.
Giacomo picked up a shirt from a stack on the counter and held it in front of him. “This might work.” It was snowy white; in the dim light of the shop, it seemed to glow. It was simply cut, open at the throat, with long, full sleeves and floppy cuffs.
“Mercutio could fight wearing that,” Benno said grudgingly.
“He’ll still die, though,” Tom reminded him. He grinned, feeling more secure on this familiar ground. “Stab, stab, stab, die, die, die.”
Benno punched him in the shoulder. Tom punched him back. As Benno pulled back his arm, Kate hastily grabbed another item off the shelf. “Here, Tom, if you’re going to start a brawl, you can at least test these out while you’re hitting each other.”
He stopped in midscuffle to look at what she was holding out to him. “What’s that?”
“I think,” Kate said, “they’re breeches.”
An hour later, Tom, Benno, and Giacomo had picked out their costumes. Actually, Tom had selected his clothes in fifteen minutes flat, and he could have done it in ten if he hadn’t had to sit around and wait for Benno to be done in the fitting room.
All things considered, Tom was pleased with the way he looked. As it turned out, breeches were pants. A little close-fitting, maybe, considering he always wore baggy shorts or jeans, but at least they weren’t tights. And even Tom had to admit, once he added the boots, shirt, and sword, that he wasn’t going to be totally embarrassed on the night of the party.
In fact, he thought he looked rather dashing.
Not that he would admit that to anyone, even under threat of torture.
Benno, on the other hand, had gone over to the dark side. He was standing in front of a full-length mirror, turning this way and that, checking out his reflection, and asking for the hundredth time if he should go with the burgundy coat instead of the chestnut.
“Benno,” Tom finally said. “Stop it.”
Benno looked at him, eyes wide. “Stop what?”
“You’re—you’re . . . preening!” he finally said in exasperation. He had no idea where that word had come from, but he felt a little glow inside that he had come up with it.
Then he heard something. It sounded like a small, raspy chuckle—the kind of laugh that an ancient, wizened crow would make, if someone said something that an ancient, wizened crow found amusing. Tom shot a glance at Silvia, but she was intent on examining the lining of a skirt and didn’t look up.
Silvia? Laughing at something he said? No. Couldn’t be.
“I am not preening, as you say,” Benno answered sulkily. “In Italy, we take fashion and appearance very seriously. It is important to, well . . . fare bella figura.”
Tom felt his jaw tighten. This summer was turning into a tutorial on all the things in life he didn’t know, starting with Shakespeare and sonnets, continuing right down the line to Renaissance dance and waistcoats, and finishing up with the Italian language. All of Tom’s friends back home knew him as the most laid-back guy in the world, but now he had to admit that he was beginning to feel just a little bit fed up.
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What’s that?”
“It’s, um, the way you dress, only more than that, it means style and and and . . .” Floundering, Benno gestured toward his reflection. “Everything!”
Tom tilted his head inquisitively to one side and waited.
Benno opened his mouth to go on, thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
“It means taking pride in how you look,” Giacomo explained kindly. “A good haircut, nice shoes, the best-quality clothes, even if you’re only wearing”—he indicated his own clothes—“shorts and a shirt.”
“Oh.” Tom nodded slowly. He wasn’t the kind of guy who looked at clothes. So now he examined what Giacomo was wearing more closely. Just shorts and a white cotton shirt, but the shorts were linen and the shirt had a collar. And buttons.
He glanced down at his faded T-shirt and noticed, for the first time, several old stains and a small tear at the hem. He looked in the mirror. His shorts were old and baggy. And his running shoes were pretty battered. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by Silvia handing him a dress. “Hold that up,” she snapped. Startled, he did as she said. She shoved another dress at Lucy, the third one at Giacomo, and snapped her fingers. “Now stand over there, all of you! I must see each dress next to the other in order to make this decision.”
Giacomo grinned at Lucy and shrugged one shoulder; she grinned back in a knowing way. Watching, Kate felt an odd sensation in her stomach, but before she could consider what this meant, Silvia was telling Giacomo, Lucy, and Tom to move this way, hold that dress higher, stand closer to the window, twirl around a little to make the skirt flare out. . . .
“No,” Tom said flatly. “No twirling.”
“Oh, very well!” Silvia snapped. She stood in front of them, her arms folded, looking at the three dresses appraisingly. One was a deep, rich red silk; the second was gold satin with elaborate embroidery on the bodice; and the third was coal black velvet with a sprinkle of jet beads around the low neckline.
Dramatic colors, Kate thought. Just like Silvia.
“The red dress is the color of arterial blood,” Kate pointed out astringently. “If that helps.”
“Thank you,” Silvia said. “It does not.” She paced slowly back and forth, tilting her head to one side and the other, until her three assistants finally began to protest.
“I think you should just pick one,” Tom said. “You’ll look great no matter what.”
She gave him a scathing look, and he blushed. “Of course I will,” she agreed. “That is not the point.”
“Surely the velvet is too hot for summer?” Giacomo suggested. A faint sheen of sweat had appeared on his face, just from holding the black dress. “Perhaps you can eliminate this option, at least.”
Lucy sighed and shifted from one foot to the other. “Silvia, honey, I know it’s hard to decide, but my arms are getting really tired,” she said.
“Mmm.” Silvia didn’t seem to hear her. “Just one . . . more . . . minute . . .”
As Silvia turned to examine the dress Tom was holding, Lucy caught Giacomo’s eyes and made a comic, despairing face. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear, and she giggled.
Kate felt as if a small ice cube had slithered down into her stomach. She considered the dress she was holding. It was gray satin and relatively simple, with a modest lace edging on the bodice and a small amount of discreet silver embroidery. She seemed to hear Sarah’s voice in her mind (“Honestly, Kate, are you trying to look like you’re Amish?”). She looked back across the room. Silvia had finally listened to reason and eliminated the black velvet, but she was still frowning back and forth between the other two dresses. Giacomo was leaning over Lucy’s shoulder and whispering; she glanced up at him and said something that made him laugh.
Kate impatiently thrust the dress back on the rack and began rummaging through the other costumes. No, the apple green gown would make her look as if she had jaundice. No, the lavender would make her look as if she had stomach flu. No, the white would make her look dead.
As she shoved the last offending gown to the side, Kate could feel tears begin to prick in her eyes. It shouldn’t be this hard to find something that she looked halfway decent in, should it?
She bit her lip and considered grabbing the pale pink gown—the one she knew would make her look like a dish of raspberry ice cream—and hurling it to the floor and stomping on it.
Just then, a voice behind her said, “Do you need some help?”
Kate looked into the mirror and saw Giacomo, who lifted one eyebrow meaningfully. “We’re back on stage, I think.” She looked past his reflection in the mirror and saw everyone else, busily engaged in look
ing at their costumes or out the window or at one another—anywhere except at her and Giacomo.
Then Lucy sneaked a quick peek in their direction, caught Kate’s eye, and startled as if a mouse had run over her foot. She turned hurriedly away to say something under her breath to Tom.
Kate’s spirits lifted in spite of herself at the sight. She smiled up at Giacomo from under her eyelashes. “Thanks for the cue.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled back. “Oh, just a quick note—the way you looked up at me just then? Excellent flirting technique.”
“But I wasn’t trying . . .” She stopped.
“Even better,” he said with approval. “Now, as for your costume . . .”
“I know,” Kate said, trying not to sound dejected. “I know.”
Her voice trailed off. He had walked away from her, but only to begin sorting through the rack of dresses at the far end of the store. “Now this,” he said finally, bringing a gown over to her. “This might do.”
He turned her to face the mirror, then swung the dress in front of her with a flourish, holding it with his right hand. His left hand rested lightly on her waist. She glanced in the mirror and saw that he was looking at her. In the store’s soft lighting, she saw that his brown eyes had flecks of gold. It was strange, she thought, that she hadn’t noticed that before.
She forced herself to look back at the dress. It was a subtle fawn silk with ivory lace at the neckline. Dark gold embroidery and pearls were sewn on the bodice. Kate stared at herself. The dress seemed to make her blond hair look golden, her skin rosy, her eyes a deeper, richer brown. And she felt all sparkly and confident and alive. . . .
It was amazing, she thought, how much difference the right dress makes.
“What do you think?” she asked, a little breathless.
Giacomo glanced over his shoulder. Benno and Tom had their backs to Kate and Giacomo as they carefully examined a plumed hat. Lucy’s eyes were fixed on the two necklaces she was comparing, and Silvia had turned her head away, elaborately uninterested in anything Giacomo might be doing.
He lifted Kate’s hand to his lips, then turned it over to kiss her wrist. His eyes met hers in the mirror. He smiled.
“Perfetta,” he said.
Act III
Scene II
Silvia walked up the three flights of stairs to her family’s apartment, feeling strangely cheerful. This wasn’t an emotion she had experienced much lately, so it took her several blocks to identify it and most of the long walk home from the costume shop to accept it.
As she pushed the door open, she was still dreamily remembering the way the long skirt had swayed around her ankles, the rich color glowed in the light, and the silk felt brushing against her body. When she smelled the familiar homey scent of cooking pasta and simmering tomato sauce, her heart lifted even more.
Then she heard the cheerful babble of babies. Her smile disappeared. She slammed the door behind her and walked down the hall toward the living room, where the causes of her current discontent were crawling on the rug, looking adorable, as always. Silvia stopped just outside the doorway and silently watched her father. As usual, once he stepped inside his own home, he was a changed man.
The short, pompous mayor with the red sash that the world knew was gone. In his place was a man with a vacant, doting look on his face, a man who could spend hours staring at three babies, a man who was captivated by the smallest, most insignificant action, as long as it was performed by someone under the age of two. Tonight he was watching the triplets attempting to stand and failing miserably.
“I see we are in for another entertaining evening,” she said. “No need for television, eh, Papà? Not while we have the Baby Channel. All babies, all the time.”
“Silvia, cara, how are you?” he asked, not even bothering to look up. One of the triplets threatened to tip over. He caught the baby quickly and set her upright again, cooing, “There you are, you’re all right, aren’t you?”
Silvia shot him a poisonous glare. “Terrible, thanks for asking.”
“Ah, good, good,” he said. He hurried over to where Giovanni was reaching for a light plug. “No you don’t, little man,” he admonished, lifting the baby and placing him at a safe distance from the outlet.
Giovanni’s mouth formed a perfect square, his wispy eyebrows drew together, and he took in a deep lungful of air. Silvia, who recognized the warning signs, put her fingers in her ears.
The anguished wail that echoed around the room brought her mother and grandmother on the run. “Ah, no, my poor Giovanni, what is the matter?” her mother cried, lifting the little boy in her arms.
Giovanni’s wail had set off his siblings, Rosa and Lorenzo, who were now crying even more loudly than Giovanni. Nonna picked up Rosa, Silvia’s father picked up Lorenzo, and the living room was filled with the hiccupping snuffles of babies who were reluctantly letting themselves be calmed.
Silvia came close to stamping her foot in disgust.
“My day was more than terrible,” she continued. “My life has been ruined, my future shattered, my hopes and dreams dashed to pieces!”
Her grandmother murmured to Rosa, “There, there, little one, all is well!”
Her mother lifted Giovanni above her head and made a face at him that was so ridiculous that he burst into giggles.
Her father did that silly thing with his lips, the thing that sounded like a motorboat sputtering and that always made Lorenzo laugh and laugh.
Silvia hesitated. Part of her wanted to go to her room, slam the door and leave the rest of her family in the happy little cocoon they had created. Another part of her knew that going to her room would feel like exile, even if it was her decision.
After a brief inner struggle, she stepped into the living room just as her two little brothers and her little sister were put down on the floor. As they caught sight of Silvia for the first time, they greeted her with happy cries and crawled rapidly in her direction, occasionally tumbling over in their haste.
“Oh, how sweet, they are so happy to see their big sister!” Silvia’s mother said, beaming and casting a look of hope in Silvia’s direction. “They can’t wait to say hello!”
Silvia bit her lip before she made a snarling response that she was sure to regret. After the triplets had arrived so treacherously on the scene, she had discovered that babies have the power to turn every adult within fifty meters into complete idiots. Case in point: All grown-ups insisted on attributing motivations and inner lives to infants who clearly only cared about three things: eating, sleeping, and pooping. They did not, Silvia was quite sure, count the minutes until she arrived home so that they would be sure to awaken from their nap in time to greet her.
Rosa, the youngest, took two tottering steps, fell over, and chortled madly. Lorenzo, the middle triplet, managed to stand, then put his head on the floor and flipped over in a neat somersault that would have been quite impressive had it actually been planned.
“Oh, look at that!” Silvia’s father said. “They’re showing off for you!”
Silvia gave her father a stony look. She refused to be charmed. These triplets were, after all, usurpers. Tiny, innocent usurpers—they hadn’t asked to be born—but usurpers nonetheless.
Then Giovanni, the oldest, asserted his leadership role by crawling across the perilous expanse of living-room rug, grabbing the arm of the couch, and pulling himself upright. He reached up to place one small hand confidingly on her leg and proceeded to make a long, involved and earnest speech. No one, of course, had any idea what he was saying. Some of his phrases sounded vaguely Japanese.
“Oh, listen, he wants to tell you all about his day!” her grandmother cried.
His day? What about her day?
“I’m going to my room,” she muttered.
But Rosa chose that precise moment to reach for a glass candy dish, so her departure went completely unnoticed.
Silvia stomped down the hall to her bedroom, locked her door, and threw herself on her
bed, not even bothering to take off her black boots. She gazed at her latest creation, hung on the wall like a work of art. Well, of course, it was a work of art. A dress, certainly, but also a work of art. She had taken a relatively simple pattern and added her own touches: slashed sleeves, an asymmetrical hem, dozens of tiny buttons, a winged collar . . . it looked like something that a time-traveling Edwardian might wear on a visit to the year 2039.
Silvia sighed. Usually anything to do with her fashion creations made her happy, from sketching her initial ideas to sitting at her sewing machine until late in the night. Even looking around her room, which was a riot of color, with fabrics tossed everywhere and various projects in different stages of completion, usually gave her a contented and quiet feeling that was totally at odds with her normal emotional state.
But lately even her room, her projects, her fabrics and buttons and ribbons, did not soothe her soul. She considered the dress on the wall more thoughtfully. It was the best thing she’d ever done. But there was something a little unnerving about the way it hung there, empty, like a dress worn by an invisible girl.
She tore her gaze away and stared up at the ceiling, where she could still see the faded constellations her father had painted for her eighth birthday. The luminescent paint had faded over the years, but there was the pale outline of Orion and the faint tracing of the Big Dipper. She remembered the thrill of joy that had run through her when she had first seen them. Her parents had led her into the room at bedtime, smiling the excited smiles of grown-ups with a secret. Then they had turned off the lights, and it was as if the roof had been lifted off the house and she was staring straight up into the universe.
The stars blurred in front of her eyes. She jumped up and tore off her tattered black cotton jacket, which had been too much for the hot day, really, but which she had been determined to wear because she fancied that it made her look sultry and dangerous.
She had just leaned down to unlace her boots when she heard a soft knock at her door.
“Silvia? Are you hungry?” her mother called.
“No!” Silvia shouted back, even though she could have eaten everything in the house and then gone out for a pizza.
The Juliet Club Page 17