My second marriage was announced like this: Margaret Ames Merrill wore a mauve silk suit when she became the wife of Henry Elton Hodges, III yesterday at five p.m. at Saint Joseph’s Episcopal Church. Her pearls belonged to her late grandmother, also of the same name. Her hat was a white cloche, enlivened with a clutch of violets.
Is that funny? The clothes taking total precedence over the groom, who’s not mentioned again until paragraph three. Predictive. Something always came first before Henry.
We were wed for two months. We quarreled on our wedding night about train reservations and he cuffed me on the ear. Shocked, I kicked him in the groin and got another room. We partly reconciled the next day and boarded the train for Florida. That did not go well either. Like Jamie, Henry was all about Henry. Maybe it was the era. I soon was on the phone to my father, who said what a fine family Henry came from. He desperately hoped that after my youthful “troubles” and “mercurial personality,” I was on the road to normal happiness, a state that also eluded him since my mother absconded with the East Indian podiatrist she’d visited for bunions. Poor Dad. I separated, leaving Henry’s “personality in disarray,” according to his psychiatrists.
Both husbands were American Wasps; both studied at Yale. My dad thought my independence was too much of a challenge for both men. But he was wrong. Their psyches were too weak for them to realize that my independence was a plus for them.
Aftereffects? The acceptance that my talents were not conspicuously domestic/matrimonial. Being alone became something I cherished. And endured. Articles about me always say “elusive,” “rigorous,” “independent.” Not accurate. I’m just unwilling to submit to arbitrary control. I was back home soon, packing up again, this time for Europe. For good. I was finding American life to be, as H. L. Mencken said, “a powerful solvent.” Bye-bye.
Not a word of connubial bliss. No French toast brought to her bed on a tray. No quotes from love letters. No this hurt. All razor edge. Take no prisoners. Margaret hits it hard, down to the subcutaneous truth: Their psyches were too weak for them to realize that my independence was a plus for them.
They fell into the habit of sharing news over coffee in the mornings. Family troubles are avoided, as are politics—too upsetting this early. Only book reviews, art openings, food articles, travel, general news, and of course the small subjects: who’s shopping, who’s taking the cats for shots, and what was that website on ravioli with young nettles because they’re springing up in the ditches.
They’ve neglected messages for the past week. After Capri, the mornings are slow. They find it sweet to linger over a second cappuccino, although Camille not only has work she wants to do, there are details to handle about her show. The gallery is simply for hire, with no staff involved. She must see to publicity (a few flyers around town and an email to everyone she knows), hanging her work, and finding someone to sit in the gallery during open hours.
Chris is due in this afternoon. Lighting briefly in San Rocco, he’s booked at Luca and Gilda’s hotel. In preparation for his arrival, Julia has begun to research places of interest near vineyards he’s chosen in Sicily, and how a weeklong swing around the island might happen. She’s fallen in love with The Leopard and hopes some remnant of that majestic and primitive Sicily still exists.
Susan scrambles eggs. Mostly they’ve adopted the no-breakfast habit of Italians, but she’s ravenous. The prospect of a morning of work in the garden makes her hungry in advance. Now everyone wants eggs and toast. Sunday mornings with Aaron and the girls, newspaper spread out, the talk, the spills, Archie’s predecessor as a puppy, sticky jam, windows fogged from the air conditioning, the blue velour robe she wore for years. She beats the eggs to a froth and whisks them into the hot pan. She serves the plates, then flips open her laptop. Molly! Her friend at Artful Dodge Antiques in Chapel Hill, oh, good, she’s proposing what they should focus on for the next container shipment. Um. She reads this aloud:
It would be a blast to acquire some of this together. I could pop over for a week and we could go grazing around Tuscany. Would that work for you? Say when. We’ll catch up on all the news. Cheers, Molly
“Oh lord, a week.” Susan looks up. “I guess it would be fun. It would be fun.”
“What a coincidence. I just got this from my next-door neighbor in Savannah.” Julia reads:
Dear Julia, This will be a bolt from the blue. The girls are doing well. Bill and I, not. After thirty years, he is checking out of this marriage. With all your troubles, I didn’t keep you posted about our decline. We attempted various strategies. Weekends away. I won’t bore you. Tango lessons seemed like a romantic option. I guess it was. How degrading to have to say that he is running off with the tango teacher. I am not kidding. You can’t make up this stuff. I wish you were near. Would you consider having me come visit for a couple of weeks this fall? I need to sort out and regroup. Everyone knows about Wade and the young woman. Is it true that she’s PG? How did all this transpire in our lovely neighborhood? Let me know and if it’s not okay I will certainly understand.
Love, Alison
“The tango teacher! They’re tangoing off into the sunset. That is humiliating.” Susan shakes her head. “Fool! What is he thinking?”
“Old roosters wanting to crow,” Camille laughs. “Oh, I know, not funny. But it is absurd. I guess you can recognize some things better when you’re old: it is not going to work out with the tango teacher, it’s just not.”
“Oh, and this—more news.” Julia reads:
Dear Julia, Greetings from Bodrum where I’m reposing after twisting my ankle about ten ways. I’ll be fine but am considering a respite before I continue my project. You said to come visit. Would you be open to a week or so? I might look for a short-term rental to organize my files and even begin to work on a long article. Are you all settled and happy there? All the best, Hugh
Susan scrolls down and finds:
Dear Susan,
Hope you remember us—we bought the historic Baskins house on Franklin from you. I’ve heard of your interesting life change from your colleague Becka, who gave me your email. We are coming to Tuscany for a vacation, much needed. We’d love to stay with you for two or three days. Love to take you to dinner. It would be fun to catch up. Let me know if mid-June works for you. Arrivederci, hope that’s correct! Terry and Bob Morain
“Speaking of absurd. Who are these people with this much gall? Catch up with what? I remember them as quite pleasant, but we never socialized after the sale. Whoa. They want to visit?”
“Kit says you never lack friends when you have a vacation house in a great place. Word’s out. I’m surprised it took this long,” Camille says. “I’ve got one, too, last week. Let me find it.”
Dear Professor Trowbridge,
Remember me from Art 101? I’m going to Europe with Amy & Rick who were also in that class. It was a great class now we’ll see the art in person. I hope this is still you’re email and that we can stop by and visit. If you could put us up that would be awesome. We could help with the chores! We will be traveling all of July. Hope to see you. Your an awesome teacher.
Dylan Schultz
“Dylan was sweet. Never learned the difference between your and you’re, but he loved the Dutch landscapes. Oh, that life were so that you could just say to all these people, yes, come, door’s open, we’ve shopped and cooked and cleaned and there are flowers in your room. Stay. Stay as long as you can!”
“Seriously, we need a policy. Something like good friends three days, family fine if we plan ahead. This is one of the tricky areas of living together. You might not want my guests, or me yours.” Susan is already answering Molly. “I’m telling her, if it’s okay with you, that she should come here for a couple of days and then we’ll go on a road trip.”
“That’s fine. At least the house is big. We can refer most to an agriturismo—they’re wonderfu
l and they have pools. And we need to hone our skills at saying no, something none of us is good at. So, no to the students, no to the historic house owners. But, Julia, you’ll let Alison come, won’t you? And Hugh, oh yes, it would be lovely to see Hugh.”
“Yes, Hugh. He’ll be no trouble and I’m sure after a couple of nights he’d be happy to move into town. But Alison, not for two weeks, no way. She’s my friend, but since I can’t inflict a guest on you for that long, I’ll blame it on you! You work at home. Which is totally true. We all do; we are not just on vacation. The three-day rule. Then she’s going to love Luca and Gilda’s hotel. Spa, cooking class, wine tastings. I’m sure she’ll still have that bozo’s credit cards. He’s guilty as hell. He won’t peep. We’ll have her over, of course.”
“We’ve slapped into shape some good guidelines. We’re only inviting three guests, plus I think Charlie will fly over for my show. Rowan and Chris, but they won’t be staying here. We’ll be fine.”
“Oh, wait. My daughters. Here, Eva says they can’t stay away. We’ll deal with that later.” Susan reads on to more drastic news. “Eva and Caroline are going to China to search for their birth parents. She wants to know where the adoption papers are and if I signed any privacy agreement.” Don’t worry, Eva assures her. We just want to know. We’ll be taking over our DNA results.
She responds immediately.
Cara Eva—do come. Anytime. Keep me posted as there is much going on here and we’ll have to juggle dates. You’ll have to go to the safe-deposit box for the papers from China. The key is in my right-hand desk drawer and both your names are on the permission. I haven’t looked at them in donkey’s years. Password is Waretear. Let me know when you’re going. I can get the house opened and aired. Xxxx
Susan gathers the plates and loads the dishwasher. After all these years, why now?
“I’ve got to run. I’m getting a haircut. Chris wants to have a drink in town, then we’re going to the hotel for dinner. Can I pick up anything in town?”
“Thanks,” Susan says. “We can cook, my dear. Did it for years before we got you as a chef. I’m on a roll. Tonight I’ll make my soon-to-be-famous Carolina meat loaf. Camille and I will revel in a quiet evening.”
* * *
—
Without a bump in the sky, still the flight from California feels endless, the car rental desk always crowded, and the drive out of the airport, after nineteen hours of travel, not easy. Then two hours to San Rocco, radio blaring to keep him alert, with only one stop at an Autogrill for a double espresso. At last, the serene turn into Hotel Sant’Anna.
After kisses and hugs from Luca and Gilda and half the staff, Gilda orders pasta for him from the kitchen, which Chris devours. He starts to go over details for the Tuscany tour, but Gilda tells him that Julia already has nailed down every room selection, cooking school agenda, and pickup time. All he needs to do is show up.
Julia will be here at five. He already has asked Luca for a bottle of chilled prosecco and flowers in his room. Romantic for days, he’s packed a few votive candles. Suddenly feeling pretty jet-lagged, he calls Julia. “I’m here. I’m waiting.” He showers, rests for two blessed, deep-sleep hours, then meets Julia in the terrace garden. She’s wearing a filmy orange top and white pants. What has she done with her hair? It’s longer, pinned up on either side. He sees her before she sees him but when she does, her face lights, and then as if she knows how much, she covers her face with her hands for a second. Laughing, she opens her arms as he opens his and they crash into each other. “You know you smile with your eyes?”
“And you smile with your whole body.” The last thing he wants to do is drive, but he longs to sit in the piazza with Julia on this spring evening and talk and talk. Gilda has planned a spectacular dinner—ravioli with borage, pheasant braised with dried berries and thyme, asparagus, and Gilda’s silken panna cotta with wild strawberries.
* * *
—
Violetta brings a tray with two flutes of prosecco to their table. She kisses and hugs Chris, then Julia, whom she’s kissed and hugged earlier in the day. Violetta serves bowls of olives and chips. “Ever think there’s maybe a bit too much kissing around here?”
“Better than pulling out guns all the time,” Julia laughs.
First toast of many. “Here’s to our ventures, all kinds of adventures.” Chris clinks glasses with Julia. “Don’t we love it all? Don’t we love how the sun strikes the stones in the late afternoon? They have a sheen like wax.” He gestures around the piazza.
“Yes. I’m always trying to figure out if there’s some solstice or equinox marker, or if those Romans just sat out here drinking mead until they lost track of time. And let me right away toast you for making that trip to look for Lizzie. You were sweet to do that for me.”
“Let’s hope Wade finds her. Let’s talk about your book! About me heading off to Friuli with a van full of wild women on holiday. About Susan and Camille. Rowan. Archie! Everything. Tell me everything.”
Five months it’s been.
“I get to bring the flowers. What flowers go with paper doors?” Susan asks.
“Do you want austere and sculptural or various and tumbling? Roses in glass bowls or huge renaissance extravaganzas?”
They’re arranging the gallery, moving the table to the wall by the door, wiping down dusty windowsills, leaving four chairs in an alcove where people can pause and visit. The paper doors will ring the walls, not crowded. Along the center of the room six of Camille’s favorites, suspended by transparent fishing line, will float in the air. Leo, who seems to be able to do anything, and Valter, who owns the frame shop, take measurements. Camille sees them looking at her work with a what-the-hell-is-this expression.
She unpacks her doors and Julia helps lay them along the floor the way she wants them hung. “I’m liking this do-it-yourself exhibit.” Camille holds up two doors to see how they like each other. “Imagine just shipping your stuff off to New York and appearing when the caterers do.”
“I’m the caterer and thrilled to be so. You’re going to love my antipasti platters, which I am mixing up with a few southern goodies such as ham biscuits and cheese straws.”
“I’ll try not to be too nervous to notice. But I will be wearing my red velvet shoes. And Rowan is cutting his final classes to get here. Pretty gutsy, I think, since this is his last semester of teaching.”
Susan takes three tablecloths out of a box. “Choose which one you want and I’ll make the flowers work.” She shakes out a cream Busatti, makers of the traditional Tuscan linen, then a peach brocade from Grazia’s stash, and a renaissance-moment red and gold jacquard.
“Definitely the cream,” Camille decides. Susan already knew her choice but had a small hope for the jacquard’s drama. “Okay, now I’ll have fun. Lunch break, let’s go.”
At Stefano’s they order penne alla Norma. Camille asks Julia, “What was it like to see Chris again? Maybe I’m feeling iffy about Rowan’s arrival. You and I both sort of fell in with them quickly, but I’m thinking now what if we look at each other and think, What was that about?”
“I doubt that. He’s completely cool and arty. With Chris, this may sound unlikely, but we took up where we left off. We started talking about the tours and Sicily and his boy coming home to live. I feel like I’m already beginning to know his son, that everything will be quite natural, and if it’s not, if we later wear out, that’s not going to end my world. Maybe it’s my damaged sense that this is a—I don’t want to say posthumous relationship. That’s too dire. But this revised life has to unfold in a serene and good way. He feels like a best friend, and I happen to find him crazy attractive, too.”
“That he is,” Susan agrees. She runs her fingers through her hair, raising the spikes. “Not that I have run into anyone other than Riccardo—and I think he’s gay without even admitting it to himself—so this is theoretical, but it seems
like you’re both ferreting out what love is at this stage.” She laughs wickedly. “Love in the time of chin hairs and vaginal moisturizer!” They start laughing so loud that everyone turns their way. “Anyway—you sound like you’ve totally got it straight. The relationships are nothing like what any of us has known before—that passion that makes you overlook flaws, the arc of a long marriage, the comfortable complacency that sets in, the decades and decades where being a part of something seems big and whole but also splits you into twos and threes.” She slaps her hands against each other. “Over and done. Now it’s seize the day. People who like to be side by side, as you once said, Julia. Didn’t you say you imagined you and Chris walking down a foreign street arm in arm? I love that.”
“Did I? You’re so good and succinct, Susan. But does it make you feel—what? Lonely? That we have these part-time men and you haven’t met anyone? Well, there’s Riccardo; he’s interesting—about saffron and roses and translation and the inner workings of the Vatican. You have a lot in common. Are you sure he’s gay?”
“I don’t care. Truly. He likes to have lunch and dance at parties and he’s passionate about literature and gardens. He’s a friend, a good one. Sex? Actually, he doesn’t appeal to me that way. I seem to want to throw all my—as you know, considerable—energy into my interests. For now anyway. I’m glad you found, at least, great dates and maybe soul mates. Don’t worry about me. I’m way past thinking I need a bicycle built for two. You all having dessert?”
Julia takes her at her word. Camille shrugs. Paper doors, she thinks. Always opening.
Rowan rents a Fiat 500X, surprisingly ready and waiting with his name on it. He heads north, stopping only at a wine shop in Orte, where he once spent a few days, and next at his apartment on the edge of San Rocco. He made excellent time. He opens the shutters, letting in sudden strong light. Although he knows it’s constantly rented, the place looks untouched since his exit. His landlady, Marianna, scrawled Benvenuto on a piece of paper sack. What a sweetheart—she left fruit, bread, cheese, and coffee. He showers and changes, putting on the green sweater Camille gave him for Christmas, then drives straight to Villa Assunta. He’s bringing a suitcase full of Paper Doors exhibition catalogues—letterpressed, with one of the doors that Matilde sent him in a high-res photo on the cover. She wrote the intro, staking large claims for the brilliance and originality of the work. For Camille’s birthday, Rowan made something else, too, a hand-sewn book for guests to sign. The papers are those he made at the bottega, with a blue, heavier-stock cover embossed with Camille’s initials and a painted design of a mosaic hand. Immensely pleased he feels to offer her these tokens.
Women in Sunlight Page 31