There’s a hubbub of fuss and people saying that I must do exactly as I feel and to take my time and that it’s totally okay for me to want to be alone and they’ll be right here and blah blah blah, et cetera et cetera. They’re still babbling as I walk across the sitting room into the foyer, concentrating on keeping my steps even, telling my legs to walk straight. Once the door closes behind me, I start to run. I’m heading for the lift, but when I see a fire door I dash through it instead and down the stairs, taking them two at a time, the relief of some physical action huge; I hammer those steps so hard that by the time I’m down however many flights there were to the ground floor, I’m breathing hard and feeling at least a little better, as if some tight knot has loosened itself inside me.
I can see daylight and sunshine flooding through the glass doors of a bar area, so I walk toward them, white-jacketed waiters smiling and nodding at me as I pass. Emerging into the fresh air, seeing the green grass of the garden, with its stone fountain playing into a lily pond surrounded by a deep-red circle of rich geraniums, instantly makes me feel calmer. Set into the stone wall built along the boundary of the island are a series of wrought-iron embrasures with white cushions in them, and I sink down on one, kicking off my sandals, curling up into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees. I stare out over the blue lagoon, listening to the waves slapping against the stone foundations below, breathing in the salty air, listening to the seagulls.
Trying to make a small quiet place in my head where I can just be. Letting it all sink in.
Luca is definitely my half brother. We’re related by blood.
Ironically, everything else that I’ve discovered today is hugely positive. I couldn’t possibly have imagined a better solution to the mystery of the way I look. My mum is my mum. My dad is my dad. My aunt is, very firmly, my aunt. Nothing, truly, has changed. I’m testing the ground beneath me and finding it firm and solid. No holes for me to fall through.
Apart from … Luca.
Eventually, I realize that my hands are cramping, my legs getting stiff. I straighten up and emit a little yelp at the sight of the principessa standing by the fountain watching me. She starts to walk toward me, slowly, tentatively, as if she thinks that I might bite, or scream, or run away if she startles me.
And though I want to run away, I slip my sandals on and I wait. I have no idea what she wants to say to me. But if there are any more secrets, anything else that needs to be said, I want to hear now, today. To wake up tomorrow morning with the knowledge that nothing else is hanging over my head.
“Ciao, Violetta,” she begins cautiously. “I know you must feel … strana. Confusa.”
“It’s okay,” I mutter. “What is it?”
I know I’m not exactly being gracious. But she can’t really expect perfect manners under the circumstances. A waiter glides elegantly down the gravel path toward us, pauses, takes in the awkward atmosphere, and demonstrates his five-star training by swiveling on his heel and gliding away again rather than disturb us.
“May I?”
She gestures at the seat beside me. I nod abruptly.
“I ’ave something very important to tell you,” she says, smoothing down the back of her skirt, lowering herself neatly onto the cushion, and sitting with as straight a back as if she’s in a full corset. Her face isn’t white anymore, or at least not all over. Her cheeks are bright dots of pink, and on her neck I can see a red flush rising, ugly, nervous blotches.
But she was right. What she proceeds to tell me, in a halting mixture of English and Italian, truly is very important. More than important: crucial.
Because it literally changes everything.
L’amore è bello
I’m going back the way I came, on a high-speed Silver Arrow train tearing down the spine of Italy. From Venice to Florence, the train rocking with speed, the landscape shooting past. And it still isn’t fast enough. Nothing would be. I want to be there so urgently that I’m biting my lip, tapping my foot, fidgeting so much that eventually Paige threatens to throw her phone at me if I don’t calm down, and I smile reluctantly.
It’s just me and Paige, sitting in the dining car, drinking cappuccinos and feeling hugely grown up. After yesterday’s dramatic family reunion, both my mum and dad and the di Vesperis pretty much threw themselves at my feet and asked me how I felt, what I wanted to do, what they could give me to make up for all this. I probably could have grabbed a Tiffany catalog and circled everything in it.
But as it happened, I knew exactly what I wanted. And I made them go along with it without even asking why.
Only the principessa knows why I’m rushing back to Chianti. No one else. I haven’t confided in any of the girls. I’m lucky that it was Paige who volunteered to come with me, because the only stipulation my parents placed on me setting off first thing this morning was that I had to have a travel companion. Kelly, amazingly, has performed a hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround; she said she’d messed up by moping through her first days in Venice, and wanted a chance to really enjoy it before Catia packs them all up and onto a later train back this evening. Kelly and Kendra are going out together to do the Ca’ Rezzonico again, and then a couple of modern art museums they’ve chosen together.
Whereas Paige was extremely, enthusiastically keen to give up a last day in Venice and get up at the crack of dawn to throw herself on a train to Florence. Not only that: she hasn’t even asked why I want to head back so badly. She’s too busy texting and fiddling with her phone and smiling to herself, playing with her hair and repeatedly touching up her makeup. It’s a relief, but it’s also a bit disconcerting not to be asked a single question about why I’m so keen to make this trip. I was braced for an interrogation, and yet Paige, bizarrely, seems entirely uninterested.
Which definitely isn’t normal. She’s the only one who hasn’t asked a single question. Last night, when I got back to the palazzo after having a quiet dinner at the Hotel Cipriani with my mum and dad and aunt Lissie, Kendra and Kelly were dying to know why I’d been whisked away, why my mum had suddenly appeared. And I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell them. Not yet. Not until tonight, when they all get back to Villa Barbiano. When, hopefully, the last piece of the puzzle will have been put into place. I can’t wait. I just can’t wait.
“Stop tapping!” Paige says, widening her eyes at me. “You’re like Road Runner in a cage! You’re driving me crazy!”
She grabs my cappuccino and pulls it away from me.
“No more caffeine. That’s the last thing you need.”
“We’re nearly there!” I say excitedly, looking at my watch. “We stopped at Bologna ages ago. I think there’s only about twenty minutes more, if we’re on time.…”
“Yeah,” Paige says, sipping my cappuccino and looking thoughtful.
“So, look,” I say, “Giulio will be waiting on the platform to collect us”—Giulio is the husband of Benedetta, Catia’s cook—“and he’ll drop you at Villa Barbiano, and then he’ll take me on to—”
“Here’s the thing,” Paige says. “I’m actually not coming with you to Villa Barbiano. Not, like, right now.”
“You’re what?”
“You’re going to need to cover for me. Say I decided to spend the day shopping in Florence. I’ll meet Catia and the girls off their train and get a ride back with them this evening.”
I stare at her blankly. This makes complete sense; Paige would much rather shop in Florence than laze around the villa with nothing to do. But why is she just springing this on me now?
“Paige,” I ask, and for the first time since all of yesterday’s family drama, I realize that I’m not thinking about myself. “What’s up?”
She’s looking serious now, but her eyes are sparkling.
“You have to have my back, Violet,” she says firmly. “I came with you today, and you couldn’t have come without me, because no one else wanted to, they wanted an extra day in Venice—”
“Paige, tell me!” I lean forward, planting my elbows o
n the smart brown fake-wood table of the restaurant car, my voice rising so much that the waiter looks over at us. “What on earth is going on?”
I have absolutely no idea what she’s about to say. And even so, her answer absolutely gobsmacks me.
“I’m engaged,” she says.
The train jolts. My elbows bounce painfully on the table. And I barely even notice. I’m staring at Paige, who looks positively transformed; she’s glowing. Her face is prettier, more gentle, than I’ve ever seen it.
“My folks are completely against it, of course,” she says calmly. “They say we’re much too young. Which is way hypocritical, ’cause Mom was twenty-three when she had Evan. But you know, blah blah blah, I have to go to college and have a life and date a lot before I’m ready to settle down, and you know what? I want to go to college and have a life, I just don’t want to date a lot! I want to be with Miguel.”
I’m so taken aback by all this that I focus on the least important part of her entire speech.
“Miguel?” I echo. “Is he Spanish?”
“Hispanic American,” Paige corrects, rolling her eyes. “He graduated West Point last year, and now he’s a second lieutenant in the army.”
“He’s in the army?” My voice is getting weaker and weaker.
“He’s been serving in Afghanistan,” Paige says proudly. “When he finished his tour he was shipped back to Germany, to a military base. But he’s wangled some favor or something, and he flew into Pisa this morning. There’s a big US base there called Camp Darby. So he got the train down and he’s at Florence station now, waiting for me. We’re going to spend the day together.”
I shake my head slowly in disbelief.
“I just—” I say feebly. “You totally didn’t act like you had a boyfriend, at all, this summer. Fiancé!” I correct myself. “You totally didn’t act like you had a fiancé! You were so flirty with everyone!”
“Exactly,” Paige says complacently; I’m hugely grateful she didn’t take offense. “I was flirty with everyone. I let off steam but I didn’t do anything with anyone. Did I?”
She raises her perfectly groomed and penciled eyebrows. “All I did,” she points out, “was have fun.”
I think about it; she’s quite right. Paige flirted madly, but now I think about it, I never even saw her kiss a boy at a party. I nod slowly.
“Was it all an act?” I ask, a bit confused.
She tilts her head from side to side, blond ringlets bouncing.
“Yes and no,” she says. “I really did want to have a good time. And I couldn’t see Mig anyway, because he was overseas. And I knew my mom had told Catia that she was sending me off to Italy to distract me from thinking about Miguel.” She pulls a face. “Mom thought if I met some sexy Italian boys I might decide I wasn’t ready to settle down after all. Mom and Dad really like Mig—he’s one of Evan’s best friends—but they don’t want me to get married so young. And that he’s an officer in the army freaks them out. I mean, they’re really proud he’s serving our country and all, but they’re worried about how I’d cope. Which is stupid! I’ll go to college, I’ll be fine. I’m tough. I don’t panic. I can totally deal with having a husband serving overseas.”
Her jaw is set determinedly: she looks like she’ll pick a fight with me if I don’t agree. But I’m already nodding. I think Paige will cope brilliantly as a military spouse.
“How do you know that’s why they sent you to Italy?” I ask curiously.
“ ’Cause I heard Mom on the phone to Catia,” she says instantly. “I knew something was going on, so I was super sneaky. Believe me, I’m really good at that when I need to be.”
“Honestly, Paige,” I say, shaking my head again in disbelief, “I really underestimated you. Does Evan even know?”
“Well, he knows about Mig, but not that we’re meeting up today. Look, I’m not super clever, not like Kendra and Kelly,” she says frankly. “But I’m really good at getting what I want. And I know I’m not going to change my mind about Mig. He and I are meant to be together. But, if Catia tells Mom that I had a really good time in Italy, and went out with tons of boys, and partied my head off, Mom’s going to relax and think I forgot about Mig while I was away. And then it’ll be way easier for us to see each other when we’re back in the States. They won’t be watching what I do or where I go all the time.”
The train is slowing down. We’re coming into Florence.
“Paige,” I say slowly, “I’m beyond impressed. Oh!” I realize something else. “That’s why you yelled at Evan when we went swimming in the river—why you got cross and told him not to say you were showing your junk all over town! You didn’t want him saying anything to, um, Mig.”
“Exactly!” she says in a heartfelt tone. “Can you imagine? Ev knows how serious I am about Mig, and he was totally messing with me. Brothers! I could have slapped him!” She shakes her head crossly as she remembers his teasing. “Soo”—she leans across the table—“you’re going to cover for me, right? We’ll go meet Giulio, and then I’ll say I’m staying to shop—meeting Catia and the girls when they get in tonight and coming back with them. You act like it’s all totally normal. He won’t care.”
I nod. Giulio won’t give a toss; he’s as taciturn and grumpy as his wife is vivacious and chatty. Besides, it is totally normal that a teenage girl like Paige would grab the chance to spend the day in Florence hitting the shops.
“Okay, Violet?” she asks, grabbing my hands. “Please? This is so important to me—I haven’t seen him in months, and we’re dying to have some time together in Florence; it’s going to be so romantic.…”
What can I say? One thing about Paige, she’s incredibly practical. Look at the way she’s organized this whole thing, volunteering to come down to Florence with me, arranging with Miguel to meet her here, covering her tracks so smoothly no one suspected a thing.
“Was he always going to come to Florence?” I ask, suddenly curious. “I mean, if I hadn’t decided I wanted to come back here, what would you have done?”
“Oh, I had it all planned out,” she says instantly. “Mig was always going to come see me, but when we got packed off to Venice he was going to catch a train up there instead and I was going to pretend I was sick and then sneak out while you were all off on one of the day trips. Lucky Italy’s so small!” she adds, grinning. “You can, like, get anywhere on a plane or train in a couple of hours! But this worked out even better. I get the most time possible ’cause I don’t have to keep worrying about how long you’re going to be out for. Catia’s train doesn’t get in till eight tonight—we have ages.”
She heaves a big, happy sigh. The train comes to a halt, and we hear the hiss as the pneumatic door locks disengage.
“Firenze Santa Maria Novella!” the guard says, walking through the restaurant car. “Signori, signore, Firenze Santa Maria Novella, siamo arrivati! Prossima fermata, Roma.”
“We’re here!” Paige jumps up. A tall figure appears in the aisle, almost filling it completely.
“Paige!” he says, and she turns, sees her Miguel, screams, and throws herself against him with an audible thud. They’re pretty much the same height, especially with Paige in heels; I can’t see much of Miguel, just his wide frame, his arms wrapping around his fiancée, and a shaved dark head. They’re kissing madly.
“Ah, l’amore è bello,” comments a woman sitting across from us.
“Love is beautiful.” I have to agree with her.
“Guys?” I tap Paige. “We better move, ’cause the next stop is Rome, and none of us wants to go there.…”
Locked together, Paige and Miguel move along. We jump down at the far end of the platform. Squinting, I can see Giulio leaning against the buffers at the other end waiting for us, smoking a cigarette, not even looking down the platform; the lovers are pretty safe from being spotted—by him, at least. Because almost everyone who’s getting off or on the train is pausing to look at Paige and Miguel embracing, and commenting audibly with approval an
d encouragement. That’s Italy for you. If you kissed passionately in public in London, people would judge you as attention-seekers and deliberately ignore you: in Italy, they practically applaud.
“Violet, this is Mig,” Paige eventually says. “Second Lieutenant Miguel Ramirez,” she adds proudly, detaching herself for long enough to manage a few words. Her face is pink and beaming, her eyes twin stars, and Miguel is in exactly the same condition. It’s beyond sweet.
“Nice to meet you, Violet,” he says, taking my hand and pumping it up and down, dragging his gaze from Paige for long enough to look at me politely. “We’re grateful to you for giving us this opportunity to get some time together.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say, going all formal for some reason—probably because of his military good manners.
What maybe impresses me most of all about Miguel is that he isn’t that handsome, though he has a really lovely, kind smile. Paige has gone for character rather than looks. He’s wide and square, with a friendly, solid face that looks as if it might have been in a couple of fights. He seems poised. Mature. As if he can handle Paige with one hand behind his back. Which is good, because Paige, frankly, needs someone who won’t let her ride all over him.
“We should get going,” I say, glancing at Giulio, who’s stubbing his cigarette out with his foot and starting to look down the platform for us.
“Yes, Mig, get lost,” Paige says flirtatiously. “Meet you by the McDonald’s.”
“Hey, I did not come to Italy for a day to eat McDonald’s!” Miguel says with a grin. “I’m taking you to an Italian restaurant for lunch. Pizza, pasta, the works.”
“Silly! You never eat pizza and pasta together in Italy! You have a lot to learn,” Paige says, pushing him back into an embrasure in the station wall. “Catch me up, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
He salutes and ducks out of sight as we walk quickly down the platform, waving at Giulio.
“I love him soo much,” Paige says in a soft, dreamy voice that I’ve never heard from her before.
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