Opening the envelope carefully, I pull out a pale green sheet of stationery. The note is written in elegant cursive similar to the type that was used for my name on the face of the envelope.
“I gioielli perfetti per la donna perfetta.”
“The perfect jewels for the perfect woman,” I read aloud.
How lovely! But there is no signature. It must be from one of my fans—a very wealthy fan. How can I think that this bracelet is from someone who wants to romance me? I try to ignore the disappointment I feel.
“Stupida!” I whisper to myself.
I stare at myself once more in the armoire’s mirrors, but this time instead of focusing on the glittering sapphires and diamonds adorning my wrist, I only see my flaws—the faint but discernible crow’s feet around my eyes, the rings that circle my neck, the slight hollowing of my cheekbones.
“Sei vecchia!”
I am too old to be seduced. The gift must be from some obsessed fan who remembers me from before old age paid me a visit. But still. Someone cares enough to send me such an extravagant gift. I walk over to my vanity table and pick up the velvet box. On the inside, underneath its lid, there is just the outline of a diamond, but in the center—where the jeweler’s name would have been imprinted—it is blank. Turning the box over, I inspect its underside, but there is no indication as to which jewelry store this bracelet came from.
I shrug my shoulders. Jewelry is jewelry, and I’ll accept it no matter what. My spirits have been lifted considerably from receiving new jewels. Though I am happy Giuliana seems to finally want a relationship with me, my stay here has been quite difficult. She is very different from the young girl who ran with me through the sunflower fields behind our house in Sicily. I close my eyes. If only I could go back and change everything that happened between us.
Fighting back the tidal wave of pain threatening to surface, I twirl my bracelet around my arm. The sapphires glisten darkly, and the light from the overhead chandelier reflects off the diamonds’ facets. It has been a long six months since I bought any jewels for myself. Usually, I treat myself every other month.
My bedroom door opens a few inches, startling me.
“Meow!”
“Mewsette! Sei cattiva! Si, si! You are a very, very bad cat. But that is all right. You just wanted to be with me, vero?” I laugh softly as Mewsette looks up at me, pleading to be petted.
Bending down, I stroke her lustrous white coat. I hold out my free arm, showing off my new prize.
“Ti piaci? È bello, vero?”
Mewsette purrs lazily in agreement. She has good taste just like my secret admirer.
9
Pia
It’s a hot, muggy Saturday morning. At nine a.m., the temperature has already climbed up to eighty degrees, and forecasters are predicting triple digits for today. A week has gone by since the news that Signora Tesca and Francesca Donata are sisters first broke. Though I’ve been hanging out with the other stalkers in front of the Mussolini Mansion every night, I still haven’t spotted Francesca or Gregory Hewson. Three weeks have now passed since the star was first spotted arriving in Astoria. I can tell the crowd is getting restless, too, but most of them, especially the old-timers on the block, have nothing better to do. If they were not hanging out in front of Signora Tesca’s house, then they would be on some other neighbor’s stoop, gossiping. So it might as well be here where there’s a chance they can finally see their idol—hopefully her front side this time.
I’m beginning to feel lame. Megan has invited me several times to hang out with a few of her artist friends who live in Hunters Point—the up-and-coming trendy neighborhood in Long Island City, which is about a twenty-minute car ride from Ditmars Boulevard. I am curious to explore more of what New York City has to offer and to make friends, but I have to stay focused on my goal for coming here. Scoring an interview with Francesca will be the only way I’ll get real journalism experience, since it’s becoming more apparent every day that’s not going to happen at Profile.
I can’t stop yawning. The two cups of espresso I had with Zia this morning aren’t doing the job of waking me up. Deciding to give my vigil a break, I head over to the bakery to get an iced cappuccino.
Delivery trucks line Ditmars Boulevard. A few early risers are already making their way out of Trade Fair supermarket with their groceries. Most of them are senior citizens. A trio of old Greek ladies is chatting in front of the Hellenic Imports grocery store as they wait for its doors to open. An elderly couple argues in Sicilian as the wife pushes her empty shopping cart. The husband makes gestures with his hands and waves them in his wife’s face, but she manages to keep her stony gaze straight ahead while throwing insults right back at him. I laugh silently to myself.
Whenever I pass Sposa Rosa, the bridal boutique Olivia DeLuca owns with her daughters, I love to see which gowns are currently displayed. I usually just glance as I walk by, but the image hanging in the front window today stops me in my tracks. It’s a poster from Francesca Donata’s first movie, La Sposa Pazza, featuring a stunning, very young Francesca in the wedding gown her character Rosa Bianca wore the third time she walked down the aisle. But of course, like the previous two times Rosa Bianca tried to get married, she got cold feet and ran out of the church. The dress on display is an almost exact replica of the gown in the poster.
I know that Sposa Rosa’s specialty is designing and sewing couture knockoff wedding gowns, but I had no idea how closely their creations resemble the original, pricier designs. Now with the image on the poster displayed next to the knockoff, I’m rendered speechless. This dress is truly a labor of love. The third gown Rosa Bianca wears in La Sposa Pazza is the most elaborate of the three dresses. It had been a brilliant move on the director’s part because when audiences saw the gown, they assumed the director had saved the best dress for last and that this would be the wedding scene in which Rosa finally tied the knot.
Newspapers had reported that the women in the audiences cried when Rosa ran away after her third attempt at getting married. The audiences kept repeating, “Such a shame! That gorgeous gown was wasted!”
Apparently, a few reputable bridal shops in Milan and Rome during the seventies had knockoffs of all three wedding gowns from the movie, thinking they’d be a huge hit. But most brides-tobe had shunned the dresses, believing they were bad luck and would either ruin their weddings or their marriages. I’m surprised that Olivia, who no doubt must be superstitious like many other Italian women, would replicate one of the gowns from La Sposa Pazza. Surely, she knows what happened in Italy.
I can’t pull myself away from the ballroom gown, whose cathedral train swirls out to either side of the display window. From bodice to train, the dress is covered in the most exquisite lace I’ve ever laid eyes on.
In the original gown, the lace on the bodice had been sewn onto a sheer panel of organza, and it was strategically placed so that tantalizing glimpses of Francesca’s skin and perfect hourglass shape were revealed. In the knockoff gown, the only differences are that it doesn’t have the high neckline and long sleeves. Instead, it’s been modernized to give upon first glance the appearance of a sleeveless lace dress. But once the bride comes into closer view, one can see the slightly scooped organza neckline, which features a delicate lace trim—the same lace that covers the bodice and skirt. The sleeves are three-quarters length. Unlike on the original dress, they’re simply covered in organza with the exception of a thin vine of lace that wraps around the sleeves’ edges.
“You like it?”
I hadn’t noticed Olivia observing me from the entrance of her shop.
“Yes. It’s breathtaking. Olivia, did you sew this dress or was it one of your daughters?”
“Do you think I’d let my daughters work on the dress that my favorite movie star wore?”
“That’s true. How could I forget how much you love Francesca Donata?” I wink at Olivia and laugh.
“I only put it up on display this morning. We’ll see how it s
ells.” Olivia’s face shines with the glow that comes from feeling proud of one’s own work.
“But, Olivia, Francesca has only been in town for a few weeks. You couldn’t have made this dress in such a short amount of time.” I suddenly realize I’m choosing the wrong words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that I’ve heard how long it can take to make wedding gowns.”
Olivia pats my shoulder. “It’s okay, Pia. I knew what you meant. And you are right. There is no way anyone could’ve sewn this dress by hand—or even with a sewing machine—and been done in a few weeks. I’m good, but I don’t want to go into the grave just yet. Actually, I started this dress about six months before Francesca even came to town.”
“Really? How ironic.”
“No. It was not irony. It was fate! It was meant to be that I finally created this dress and that Francesca came here just as I was almost done sewing it.”
Just as I’d suspected, Olivia is superstitious.
“But, Olivia, aren’t you concerned people will worry that the dress will bring them bad luck since it’s a copy of one of the dresses the cursed Rosa Bianca wore in La Sposa Pazza? You heard what happened with those other knockoff dresses in the seventies?”
“Si, si. But most young brides today don’t even know about that movie or how women refused to buy those dresses out of fear of bad luck. I’m surprised you do. But just in case any of my young clients’ grandmothers tell them what happened, I’ve taken care of that all by changing the dress slightly. You did notice it’s not an exact replica of the original gown?”
“I did. That was smart of you, not just for the bad luck, but also this dress feels more modern.”
“Would you like to try it on?” Olivia’s eyes are gleaming.
“Oh no! I couldn’t. Besides, I’m not even engaged.”
“It’s never too early to start thinking about the wedding dress you’ll want.”
“I don’t even have a boyfriend. I can’t. But thank you.”
“Pia, it’s okay. I would love to see how the dress looks on you.”
I pause for a few seconds. A large part of me is actually tempted. I’ve never been one of those girls who has fantasized about her fairy-tale wedding since the age of five. But something about this dress is calling to me. Stop! Reason shouts at me. What is the matter with me? I refuse to try on a wedding dress when I don’t even have a boyfriend. Besides, I don’t even know if I ever want to get married.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. But I really can’t right now. I’m meeting a friend at Zia’s bakery.” I look at my watch. “Oh, wow! I’m actually already late. But thank you so much. That’s sweet of you.”
“That’s a pity. I think that dress would’ve looked perfect on you. Some other time. Eh?”
I can’t help but feel that Olivia knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t seem cross with me. I nod my head, still not wanting to commit myself verbally. Olivia runs into her shop at the sound of her phone ringing. I’m amazed by how loud she has the ringer set.
I take one last look at Olivia’s masterpiece. Maybe I should’ve tried it on, since it might be my only chance at ever wearing a wedding dress.
Shaking these crazy thoughts out of my mind, I continue to Zia’s bakery. There’s a long line of patrons waiting to buy their Saturday morning biscotti, Danish, and doughnuts. Even though the bakery features Italian sweets, Zia is clever enough to also include other popular treats. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I haven’t had any breakfast this morning. Fortunately, since I know the owner, I don’t have to wait on line. I go to the kitchen, where Giovanni, the head pastry chef, is pulling out trays of just baked almond biscotti.
“Good morning, Giovanni.”
“Hi, Pia. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Thanks. How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Want a few biscotti?”
“Please.”
Giovanni takes a sheet of wax tissue, which the bakery employees use when handling the pastries, and pulls off two giant biscotti. One would’ve been enough, but I’ve learned quickly not to refuse and just accept what’s being offered. These New Yorkers can be mighty persistent.
“Thank you.”
Giovanni smiles. “Anytime.”
I return to the front of the bakery. Zia and Tommy, a teenage boy she’s just hired, are juggling the morning crowd.
“Zia, do you want any help?”
“I might have said ‘yes’ about fifteen minutes ago, but the line is getting shorter now. But thank you. Go enjoy your biscotti. Megan is at one of the tables with her friends.”
I strain my neck over to where Zia indicates. Megan is seated at a corner table with two guys whose backs are turned toward me. Great. She’s probably going to try twisting my arm again to join them, since this is the day she and her friends are planning on going to MoMA PS1, the modern art museum in Long Island City. Megan is the only person I’ve confided in about my goal to try and interview Francesca Donata. She hasn’t made me feel like a complete idiot for even entertaining such an idea. Instead, she’s been nothing but supportive and knows this is the reason why I haven’t hung out with her yet.
Walking over to the huge Lavazza machine, I decide to have an espresso macchiato instead of the iced cappuccino I’d originally planned on getting. Zia introduced me to espresso macchiato the morning after my arrival. Adding a drop of milk turns an ordinary espresso into an espresso “macchiato” or “stained” espresso. Just a drop of milk is enough to take away some of the espresso’s bitterness. As the machine sprays my espresso, I bend down to the small refrigerator behind the sales counter and take out a quart of skim milk. Standing back up, I almost jump out of my skin.
Gregory Hewson is at the sales counter, holding his chin in his hand and smiling at me.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me. You . . . startled me a bit.”
“How are you?”
“Good. Thanks. You?”
“Fantastic, now.”
Normally, I would mentally roll my eyes at such an obvious pickup line, but for some reason, I can’t help but feel flattered.
“Are you visiting Francesca?”
“Ahhh, the obsession still lasts.” Gregory rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s just feigning exasperation.
“It’s not an obsession. I’m just . . . an admirer.”
“Yeah, you keep saying you’re a fan, but my gut’s telling me you’re lying. Why would you lie to a face like this?” Gregory pouts his lips and opens his eyes wide, much like an innocent boy. I can’t help but laugh.
“Let me help you with that.” Gregory takes my demitasse cup of espresso macchiato from me. “Just tell me where you’d like to sit.”
“That table in the corner where the girl with the jet-black hair is sitting.”
“Oh, so you were planning on joining me? I’m flattered.”
I look at him, confused. I notice that Megan’s now only sitting with one of the guys I saw her with earlier. Then it hits me that the other guy was Gregory. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. Well, it was dark the last time I saw him.
“You know Megan?”
“Yup. And apparently you do, too. She’s told me all about you.” Gregory’s smug face says it all. And though he’s hot as hell, I can’t help but want to slap him right now. It wasn’t just his gut feeling telling him I was lying to him about being a fan of Francesca’s. He knows I’m a writer if, as he says, Megan has told him everything about me. Anger quickly seeps in. How dare Megan? Did she also tell him my plan of wanting to score an interview with Francesca?
“Hey, Pia! Great to see you here. I see you’ve already met Gregory.”
Plastering on my best phony smile, I force myself to sound cheery. “Yes, we’ve met. Hasn’t Gregory told you we actually met a few weeks ago?”
Megan is stunned.
“No! He didn’t.” She playfully swats Gregory’s arm.
“Yeah, it’s no b
ig deal. We ran into each other on her street the other night.”
No big deal, huh? The arrogance. But it’s my turn to turn the tables on him.
“He was coming out of Signora Tesca’s house—the same day everyone spotted Francesca Donata.”
“What? !” Megan and her other friend cry out.
Now Gregory looks flabbergasted and even mad. Pangs of regret immediately wash over me. Why isn’t this feeling as good as I thought it would?
“Gregory, you’re holding out on us? What were you doing there? Did you see Francesca Donata?” Megan’s shiny bob is swinging back and forth with each animated movement of her head.
“Yeah, Greg. What’s the deal?” Megan’s friend seems just as amazed that Gregory’s been keeping this secret from them.
“Hi. I’m Pia.” I extend my hand to the friend.
“Oh, sorry, Pia. This is Paul.” Megan gestures toward Paul with her thumb, a quirky trademark of hers. Whereas most people use their index finger to point, Megan always uses her thumb, much the way a hitchhiker would.
Paul shakes my hand. He has faint paint stains on his palm. He’s sporting what I call a trendy nerd look and is wearing straight-leg jeans with the cuffs turned up, scuffed black oxford shoes, and a plaid button-down shirt. His black-rimmed eyeglasses are a throwback to glasses that were in fashion during the fifties. Paul’s sandy brown hair is shaved close to the nape of his neck, but the top is cut in chunky, spiky pieces that are combed in different directions—a popular style many guys in their twenties are now getting. Even Gregory’s hair is cut the same way, but his is a little longer than Paul’s.
I can’t help noticing how Gregory’s hair is almost as black as Megan’s and thinking that they match. They’d make a good couple. Suddenly, at this thought, jealousy courses through my veins. What is the matter with me today? First, I find myself fantasizing about wearing the knockoff bridal gown in Sposa Rosa’s window, and now I’m acting possessive over a guy I’ve only seen twice. I mentally shake my head. For all I know, Gregory might be Megan’s boyfriend.
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