Mewsette is still by Giuliana’s side, but now she rests her head on her mistress’s belly, dozing peacefully. Initially, I wonder why Giuliana chose to give her a French name rather than an Italian one. We don’t even know French. But then I remember a cartoon. No, it was not a cartoon, but an animated movie. Gay Purr-ee! That was the title. It was about cats, and the star was a white feline named “Mewsette.” Tears enter my eyes. Giuliana and I saw this movie when we were girls and fell in love with it.
I compose myself before Giuliana notices and sit down in the chair opposite her. How strange to be here with her after all these years. Can we finally come to some sort of understanding after so many decades of hostility and estrangement? Will I get to know once again the girl who used to be my closest confidante? Staying with Giuliana makes me realize just how much I have missed her. This is my chance—my last chance—to finally make things right between us.
I open the leather-bound cover of Rebecca and begin reading. But it is difficult for me to focus on the words—for I am too elated that my sister and I are finally reunited.
7
Pia
I’m walking up the block, on my way to the subway station to begin my third grueling week at Profile. I can’t help but note the difference in my feelings from the first day that I was headed to my internship. I’d been excited and couldn’t wait to get to the office. Now, dread fills me every morning as I anticipate another mind-numbing day spent proofing stories I wish I’d had some part in writing—hell, even researching. I’ll take research over proofing and typing up Colin’s memos and letters while he spends most of his time holed up in yet another meeting. How do these senior editors and executives get anything done when they’re too busy discussing how they’re going to execute their plans?
I had the privilege of attending the weekly editorial concept meeting last week. I say “privilege” because it’s rare that editorial assistants and interns are given permission to attend editorial concept meetings—at least at Profile. One rule everyone mentioned to me my first week is that the magazine does things differently from other magazines, and they’re quite proud of it. If anyone ever dares to bring up that procedures were done a certain way at a magazine where they worked previously, Colin or one of the other senior editors often replies with, “We’re Profile. We have our own rules.” The “own” is always given much emphasis. I’ve heard Colin say this at least six times in the couple of weeks that I’ve been there. I mentally roll my eyes whenever hearing it.
Last Thursday, Colin must’ve felt the daggers I’d been shooting into his back as he dropped off yet another round of pages that needed proofing. After taking a few steps, he’d suddenly stopped and asked me if I wanted to attend the editorial concept meeting.
“I’d love to!” I’d responded, much to my embarrassment.
The eagerness displayed in my voice had been too apparent, for Colin smiled as if he were God and had answered my prayers. A few interesting ideas came up at the meeting for possible articles in addition to which celebrities they should interview next. But a lot of the ideas were shot down by either Colin or Madeline Drabinski, Profile’s art critic.
Madeline spends a good part of her work day sashaying through Profile’s corridors. Apparently, Madeline had been a runway model in her native Poland; hence, the sashaying. I guess once you’re trained to do the catwalk you never forget it, kind of like riding a bicycle. Her hips rock from side to side as she steps one leg in front of the other quite dramatically. If it weren’t for the iPad she’s always holding, I’m sure her hands would be poised on her hips.
Madeline has to be six feet without her Louboutin stilettos. And I have yet to see her wearing the same pair of Louboutins. That goes for her designer handbags, too. Every day she sports a new bag that complements perfectly her clothing ensemble. Her hair, which is a brilliant shade of penny red with blond streaks, hangs all the way down to her tush. She could benefit from shearing a good two to three inches. For her hair length makes her look freakishly taller. Then again, the four-inch heels don’t help either.
She has to be in her mid-forties, and though she looks pretty good for her age thanks to the numerous Restylane and Botox injections that everyone rumors she’s had as frequently as her meals, the telltale signs of her true age are apparent in her wrinkled neck and décolletage. The latter is covered in numerous sunspots and moles.
I’ve made eye contact with Madeline a few times when encountering her in the corridors. She never returns my smile or greeting, so I’ve given up on saying hello. I can’t understand how she got the job at Profile given her modeling background. None of the editorial assistants or associate editors I’ve asked knows if she’d been in magazines before coming to Profile or if she had any sort of publishing experience. Our guesses are that she got the job through one of her fashion contacts. Though Madeline is intimidating, she’s also intriguing.
I turn my attention to the crowd in front of the Mussolini Mansion, which seems to have grown threefold since the previous day. Francesca Donata has now been in Astoria for two weeks. News of her visit finally leaked to the press a few days ago. All the major networks are doing regular segments on her, and they always end with the same question: “What has brought silver-screen legend Francesca Donata to Astoria? Is it really her?”
Though the residents of 35th Street are convinced, the media hasn’t been so quick to believe based just on our seeing her backside. Still, it’s enough to bring out a few paparazzi, who are now staked out in front of Signora Tesca’s along with the neighbors and other fans. As I near Signora Tesca’s house, the neighbors surround the paparazzi. They’re talking over one another, asking the paparazzi questions.
“They’re related?” reaches my ears from a few neighbors who stand on the outside of the ring containing the paparazzi.
My ears prick up as I slowly register what I’m hearing.
“There’s no way! They can’t be sisters!” Olivia DeLuca shakes her head in disbelief.
So this is why Francesca Donata is here. She’s visiting her sister—Signora Tesca.
“How could we not have known?” Torpedo Tits—I mean, Betsy Offenheimer—sounds mad.
“Signora Tesca has lived on our block for decades, and she’s never breathed a word that she even had a sister—no less a famous one! I can’t believe it! I tell you. You think you know the people you’ve lived with for all these years.” Betsy’s pointed breasts are heaving repeatedly as she takes several sighs. Her dog Mitzy seems jittery from all the commotion and is taking a few steps backward, tugging on her leash to try and signal to Betsy that she wants to leave.
“We all have our secrets, Betsy. I’m sure you have a skeleton in your cupboard.” Olivia has a faraway look in her eyes.
“You mean ‘closet,’” Betsy corrects Olivia.
“Closet, cupboard—same thing! You know what I mean.” Olivia looks at me, tilting her head slightly toward Betsy and then pointing with her index finger to her temple. And as if I’m dense and can’t get what she’s saying, she mouths the word “crazy” to me.
“Crazy” seems to be the popular insult Italian American middle-aged and old women love to hurl at someone they’re mad at. If I’m to believe Zia’s frequent barbs of “pazza” or “crazy,” the entire neighborhood of Astoria belongs in an insane asylum.
“You paparazzi are just looking for your sensational story. Show me proof that they’re sisters because you sure as hell can’t tell from looking at them. I mean, come on! One is hot, and the other is . . . well, the other is . . . different, let’s say.” Ciggy’s voice booms out. I can’t make him out in the thick crowd surrounding the paparazzi, but I see the smoke from his cigar swirling in the air as its odor burns my nostrils.
“She’s plain as vanilla!” Paulie bellows out.
I cringe, hoping that Signora Tesca isn’t standing behind one of the heavily draped windows, listening to everything.
“So I guess it’s safe to say the sisters don’t re
semble each other at all? Not even a little bit if you think about it?” I ask Olivia, who seems to be taking my question seriously as she ponders for a few seconds before responding.
“No, they look nothing alike, Pia. I’m trying to think if maybe their mannerisms are similar, but I just can’t see it. They truly are like salt and pepper.”
“Which one is the salt and which one is the pepper?”
“Signora Tesca is the salt with her fairer complexion and copper-red hair. Her eyes resemble a weasel’s and are light brown. She is very thin and has a slightly rounded upper back and shoulders. Signora Tesca often looks like a man when she walks because she keeps her hands clasped behind her back and takes slow, very careful movements. It’s as if she thinks she’s going to break a bone just from walking. There is something very delicate and fragile about her. Like her daisies.”
“Her daisies?” I ask, completely confused.
“Yes, the daisies in her front lawn? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. They’re overgrown, and people walking by, mostly kids, often pick them. No matter how many times her housekeeper sweeps the sidewalk, within a day at the most, daisy petals cover the ground again. They’re her favorite flower. She told me this once.”
Of course. I almost forgot the overgrowth of purple and white daisies that fill the front lawn of the Mussolini Mansion. The daisies themselves are beautiful, but the green weeds surrounding them and reaching over the gate are an eyesore along with the strewn petals on the sidewalk. Even if none of the passersby pick the flowers, they eventually shed their petals.
“For as long as I’ve known Signora Tesca I’ve only seen her wear two dresses—a navy-blue polyester dress and a brown one. They are similar to the dresses that were in fashion in the seventies. Her hair is cut in a sharp pixie style, and you can tell she doesn’t pay much to have her hair done even though she’s rich. Povera! The poor woman.” Olivia tears up a bit before she continues. “She lives a rather lonely life, and her sole child—a son—visits only occasionally. People are mean and have speculated that the sight of his mother probably scares him off. Signora Tesca is very quiet, but she has a pure heart. I will never forget how good she was to my daughter Valentina. We were all surprised when Signora Tesca came to me and told me we could hold Valentina’s bridal shower at her house. She was very fond of my daughter. You have to see the beautiful antique aquamarine brooch she gave to Valentina to wear on her wedding day. Signora Tesca even insisted Valentina keep it.”
“She does sound like a good person.” I’m mad at the callous remarks some of the neighbors like Ciggy are making about Signora Tesca right in front of her home.
“On the other hand, Francesca Donata is the pepper—not just with her darker, more exotic looks, but even with her fiery, aggressive personality. But I am just going by what I have seen and read about her. Naturally, Francesca loves the spotlight. That’s no surprise. And her . . . how do you young people call it now? Diva?”
“Yes, diva.”
“Her diva personality is well-known to the public.” Olivia shrugs her shoulders. “All I can guess is that maybe they’re half or even stepsisters. That would explain why they look nothing alike. Francesca has a perfect hourglass shape. Her bust and her derrière became famous all over the world in the seventies. The fashion experts of the time said hers was the perfect figure every woman should be so lucky to have. And of course her emerald green eyes helped to make her beauty famous. Who could forget those eyes that stand out so much with her wavy chocolate brown hair? Men were said to go crazy when she made direct eye contact with them. People said it was her cat’s eyes that bewitched men.”
I can’t help noticing the deep admiration and love in Olivia’s voice for her idol. Strange how people can get so caught up with a celebrity whom they know absolutely nothing about. The positive traits of a star are all fans ever talk about. Even when Olivia mentioned Francesca’s diva-like personality, she didn’t dwell on it. She was too absorbed in Francesca’s beauty and charisma that have won her the legions of followers she has.
An SUV comes screeching down the road and slams to a stop, diverting everyone’s attention away from the group of paparazzi. Two men who look like they’re also paparazzi get out of the SUV.
“We got it!” One of the men holds up a sheet of paper with a gold embossed seal on it.
The other paparazzi who have been talking to the neighbors run over, quickly taking snapshots of the official-looking document. One of the paparazzi who had been talking to Ciggy looks over to him and says, “So you wanted proof? Here you got it. A marriage certificate belonging to Signora Tesca, whose maiden name is none other than Scalini—the same as Francesca’s real last name.”
“Let me see that,” Ciggy snaps, hating to be wrong. “How do I know you guys didn’t just forge this? You rag mags are known for doing sleazy crap like that.”
“Oh, it’s real. Someone straight from the Italian consulate was able to help us out with this.”
Torpedo Tits starts her rant again. “Why didn’t Signora Tesca tell us? I don’t understand. Why all the secrecy?”
Torpedo Tits is right. Why all the secrecy, indeed?
My journalistic instincts kick in once again. There’s a story here; something much deeper is going on beneath the surface. I can feel it. Somehow, I have to find a way to score an interview with the star herself. Ha! I really am deluding myself. It’s one thing to believe that there is a slim chance Colin will let me do a small piece on Francesca’s coming to town, but to think that I can get a world-renowned movie star to grant me an interview is ridiculous. And as Olivia had put it, Francesca is known for her diva personality. In other words, she could be a major B-I-T-C-H.
I say good-bye to Olivia and pick up my pace, realizing if I don’t get to the subway station soon, I’ll be late to work. My mind won’t stop tumbling though. And then bingo! An idea comes to me. If only I can run into Gregory Hewson again. He knows Francesca. He is my ticket to gaining access to the star. But he seems just as tough to crack as Francesca no doubt must be. I have to give it a shot. Even if I don’t succeed in convincing Colin to do a story on Francesca, I still need to interview her and write the article. Some other magazine would surely want the interview. Hell! That’s how I’ll hook Colin. Francesca hasn’t given an interview in ten years. This would be her first interview since stepping back into the spotlight—well, if you can call being spotted in Astoria the spotlight. Colin hates nothing more than losing out to another magazine when a celebrity is being interviewed for the first time or when there’s some other event that constitutes a first for the luminary.
Running up the stairs of the elevated N train, I jump onto the subway train that’s about to depart from the platform. I nab one of the empty two-seaters adjacent to the subway car’s window and sit down. Taking my Kindle out of my oversized hobo bag, I try to focus on my reading. Currently, I’m reading The Thorn Birds. But I can’t stop thinking of Francesca—and all that she could mean for me and my career.
8
Francesca
Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, pearls . . . I love them all. On the night of the premiere of La Sposa Pazza—my acting debut—my director gave me my first gift of jewelry: a stunning emerald choker with matching teardrop emerald earrings. They were the perfect complement to my black taffeta Gucci gown, and the emeralds brought out the green of my eyes. From that day forward, my long affair with jewels began.
Over four decades, I have amassed quite a large collection of jewelry. And wherever I travel, many of my jewels come also, forcing me to hire an extra bodyguard and take out a hefty insurance policy for my precious gems. Since I had been unsure of how long my stay in Astoria would be, I packed most of my jewelry. Though my days of going to premieres and parties are long over, I like to wear my jewels even when my plans consist of nothing more than staying indoors.
I am staring at my vast collection, trying to decide which piece fits my mood for today and matches my outfit, when there i
s a knock at the door.
Frustrated over being disturbed, I open the door and snap at the maid.
“Si, Angelica?” I ask in a clearly annoyed tone.
“Excuse me, Signora Donata.”
“It is Signorina Donata. How many times do I need to remind you, Angelica?”
“I’m sorry, Signorina Donata, but this package arrived for you.”
She holds out in the palm of her hand a royal-blue velvet box that is tied with an elaborate pink satin ribbon. There is no mistaking the contents of the package. I am dumbfounded.
“There must be some mistake. This must be for Signora Tesca.”
“No, no. The messenger said it was for you, Signorina Donata. There is even an envelope with your name on it.” The maid takes out of her apron pocket an envelope on which my name is written boldly in script.
“Grazie, Angelica.”
“Prego, Signorina Donata.”
I nod my head, letting her know that is all and she can take leave of me. She quickly walks away, her footsteps making no sound in her rubber-soled maid’s shoes. Who could this gift be from? My heart is racing, as I anticipate what awaits me inside the beautiful velvet box. I am torn as I pull at the fluffy bow, hating that I must undo it and ruin the perfect shape. The bow comes apart easily. I slowly open the lid of the box and gasp. A sapphire and diamond bangle bracelet greets me. It is one of the most exquisite pieces of jewelry I have ever laid my eyes on.
I waste no time in lifting the bracelet gingerly out of the box and sliding my wrist through it. Ironically, I am wearing a blue sheath today that matches the bracelet perfectly. Staring at myself in my armoire’s mirrors, I cannot take my eyes off the glistening jewels. Ten minutes elapse before I realize I still have no idea who would give me such a lavish gift. Finally tearing myself away from the armoire, I pick up the envelope and immediately smell a light jasmine fragrance. How thoughtful—and romantic! This is simply too much. Smiling, I feel giddy like a schoolgirl—for it has been ages since someone has surprised me in such a fashion.
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