by Jan Moran
Mr. Wyler’s gaze fell on Niccolò. “This young man certainly acted quickly on your behalf. What’s your name, son?”
Niccolò introduced himself, and the director nodded. “You play the part of the ice cream vendor.”
“That’s right.” Niccolò beamed.
“Quick reactions. I appreciate that. But we’ll make sure this won’t happen again.” Mr. Wyler paused. “Miss Raines, do you want to sit out this scene?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Like my mother always says, ‘chin up, on we go.’”
Mr. Wyler chuckled. “Chin up. I like that.” He motioned to the prop master, and then he turned to the crowd. “We’ll take a ten-minute break while we inspect the scooter and set up the scene again—safely, to be sure.”
As the director left to tend to business, Ruby gazed after him in awe. Many actors loved to work with him, and she could understand why. He seemed to bring out the best in people. Whispers were already circulating that Audrey Hepburn would be a star after this film, and she might even win an Academy Award.
Ruby sighed. She could hardly imagine how exciting a life like that would be. Why, an actress like that would have her pick of any fella—fellow, she thought, mentally correcting herself. Not just the rancher her father had picked out for her. Oh, Granger Johnston was all right. He could break a horse like nobody’s business, and he was a church-going man, but Ruby wanted more. She wanted all of this. Exploring the world, meeting new people, wearing fancy costumes—but most of all, she yearned to breathe life into characters and whisk people away with a story. Folks needed that.
Niccolò caught her hand. “Mr. Wyler liked you.”
She felt her cheeks color. “He liked you, too.”
“Maybe he’ll use both of us in his next film. He sure knows who you are now.” Niccolò held his thumb and pinkie to his ear like a telephone receiver and spoke in a girlish voice. “Hello, Mr. Wyler? It’s me, Ruby, the girl who almost got run over by a Vespa on your set in Rome.”
Ruby playfully punched his arm. “Cut it out. He might see you.”
Laughing, Niccolò pecked her on the cheek. “I hope so. I do a lot of imitations, too.”
“A man of so many talents. Let’s see,” she said, placing a finger to her temple. “Clairvoyant—”
“And aren’t you glad?” he said, adopting a Cary Grant demeanor.
“Does a dreadful Italian Cary Grant impression.”
“Aww.” He clapped a hand over his heart as if wounded.
“Can you at least cook?”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Ah, sì, sì.”
“Then prove it,” she teased.
“This Friday. You’ll come for supper.”
“To your place? I don’t know…” Though she thought she could trust Niccolò, her mother had specially told her not to be alone with any man. They didn’t have the money for her mother to chaperone her in Italy as Audrey’s mother had. As I should have, her mother had said. You have to behave yourself.
“I shouldn’t,” Ruby said regretfully.
“No, no, no, no,” Niccolò said, instantly understanding her hesitation.” I live with my parents. How old do you think I am?”
Ruby nearly burst out laughing. “How old do you think I am?”
Niccolò lowered his voice. “Just between us, I’m seventeen, but everyone says, ‘Niccolò, you look much older,’ so I tell them what they want to hear. Capisci?” He waggled his eyebrows. “But, I’ll be eighteen next week.”
As if locking in his secret, Ruby twisted her fingers at her lips, though she took care not to damage her lipstick. “I always liked older boys,” she said softly. She cupped a hand to his ear and whispered.
Niccolò’s eyes grew wide, and then he threw his head back and laughed. “I could kiss you for that,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, shielding her makeup with her hands. She’d whispered that she’d told a fib about her age, too.
“Heads up everyone,” the assistant director called out.
Ruby and Niccolò were still laughing when the scooter zoomed past. This time, the path between tables was wider, and the speed was a little slower.
Ruby saw Mr. Wyler nod his approval after conferring with his camera operator. “Excellent. Places, everyone. Again.”
“Hurry,” Niccolò said, taking her hand. “Now we’re being watched.” They took their seats at the table. With a wink, Niccolò whispered, “Chin up.”
Mr. Wyler sat down in his canvas director’s chair and tapped his fingertips together. “And, action!”
Ruby caught her breath, yet tried to act nonchalantly. They weren’t supposed to look at Audrey and Gregory on the Vespa—or the camera—but it was hard not to. Audrey was driving, and she executed the scene perfectly, driving right through the middle of the tables and chairs on the sidewalk café.
Right on cue, Ruby and Niccolò jumped up, waving their arms.
The camera followed the action for a while, then Ruby heard, “And cut.”
Everyone cheered and clapped at the success of the scene without incident, but the director looked unfazed. Mr. Wyler nodded and said, “Again.”
Once more, Ruby and Niccolò took their seats, and the scene was repeated. Over and over, they performed the scene, even though Ruby couldn’t see much difference. She thought all the acting was superb, and she was particularly impressed with how well the lead actors executed their parts. Watching them, she made mental notes.
“Someday that will be us,” Ruby said, nodding toward the leading pair.
Niccolò stared at her. “For you, I have no doubt.” He took her hand and cupped it to his lips, kissing the palm of her hand.
Ruby’s chest fluttered. Her mother had warned her against Italian men. Niccolò was only a year older, but he was a world apart from the boys she knew in Texas. They knew about horses and cattle and how to fix their pick-ups. Those boys could two-step in their best boots on a Saturday night at the local veterans’ hall, where the country & western music blared with Hank Williams and Kitty Wells. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine Niccolò there.
It was impossible.
But Ruby was discovering a lot of new things she liked. She adored the songs that Doris Day and Patti Page and Ella Fitzgerald sang. She’d also discovered Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra, although her father wasn’t keen on them.
Here in Italy, she’d experienced opera and Verdi and Aida. The grandeur had sucked her in and left her in awe. She hadn’t even known what she’d been starving for. Discovering the delights of a new world was like eating ice cream so fast it made your chest hurt.
Niccolò called it la dolce vita—the sweet life—and he was right. Everything appealed to her romantic sense, from the flavorful focaccia and fresh mozzarella to Roman art, architecture, and history that she drank in like her morning cappuccino or rich espresso. She’d never known so many types of olive oils and cheeses and bread. Even the fresh violets in her hotel room had a heady, sweet scent she’d never imagined.
The fashions sent her creativity spinning as well. Women wore full skirts in a rainbow of colors and silk scarves rendered in the most vibrant colors and intricate designs she’d ever seen. Ruby longed to bring home a dress or a real silk scarf.
And at the center of it all was Niccolò. She adored how he looked at her, touched her, and made her feel like she was the most beautiful girl on earth. His words sounded like music, soaring into the depths of her heart. He was so expressive and warm—nothing like any other boy she’d ever had a crush on.
But this feeling wasn’t a crush; it was so much more. What Ruby felt for Niccolò was new and exciting, more heartfelt than any feelings she’d ever known. She now understood the literature of Shelly and Keats that her neighbor Carol Clarkson often asked her to read aloud. Ruby loved the prose, but now she understood the source of the emotion.
Ruby knew, beyond a doubt, that she was falling in love.
Chapter 6
Lago di Como, 201
0
* * *
“You’ve actually bought this place?” Ariana wrinkled her nose at the musty smell as she followed Ruby and Matteo into the dilapidated villa in Bellagio.
A chiseled stone marker read, Villa Fiori. Sure, the view on the drive was spectacular, Ariana thought. Yet, the grounds and interior were filthy and neglected—even with richly veined marble floors and ornate columns that looked like they belonged on a film set. It seemed more like a hotel than a residence.
Was her aunt losing her mind? Or at least, her judgment? Ariana couldn’t imagine why Ruby had acted so impulsively in buying this property. She could’ve stayed at the best hotel here for the rest of her life with what she’d probably spent on this monstrosity.
What was it about Lake Como that was drawing her aunt back?
“I wanted to surprise you,” Ruby said, clapping her hands with glee. “This is a genuine, historic villa. Although Villa Fiori is a fairly small villa by Como standards—many villas here are like palaces—this sweet place is special. It has witnessed a parade of heads of state, writers, and artists. You see, it once belonged to the legendary Francesca Sofia Vitelli, who rivaled actresses Sarah Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse in their day.”
“And exactly what day was that?” Ariana asked, furrowing her brow at an elaborate labyrinth of cobwebs.
“Late 1800s and early 1900s. The age of grand theater.” Ruby made an equally grand gesture. “This villa was an important gathering place, an intersection of art and commerce. Francesca’s husband was a wealthy silk manufacturer, and there’s even a museum in Como that has an entire wing dedicated to Alfredo and his work.” She pressed her hands together as a blissful expression lit her face. “Just imagine the splendid wardrobe she must have had.”
Frankly, the clothes would interest Ariana more than the house, which needed a deep cleaning, paint, landscaping, and who-knew-what in the kitchen and baths. “Please tell me it has indoor plumbing.”
“Darling, I’m surprised at you. This house was renovated in the 1950s. And even the ancient Romans had indoor plumbing.”
“That is true,” Matteo said, nodding. He looked vaguely insulted.
Ariana didn’t care. She was not looking forward to staying here. The musty smell was making her slightly nauseated, too.
As she looked up, her interest was drawn to the frescoes on the ceiling of cherubs and cascading vines and flowers, which she grudgingly admitted were beautiful. But something was amiss.
From the moment they’d stepped inside the house, her aunt had bloomed with a new, higher level of exuberance and enthusiasm—even for Ruby. Ariana had never seen her aunt like this. Ruby was swirling around the room like Rosalind Russell in Auntie Mame.
Her aunt pushed open wide French-paned doors that led to the terrace and stepped outside. “Isn’t this incredible? Imagine the parties we could have here. And there,” she added, pointing to a shady corner. “That’s a perfect nook for relaxing and reading.”
Tenting her hand above her eyes against the sun’s reflection off the shimmering lake, Ariana surveyed the vista stretching before her. Homes dotted the shoreline, and ferries and pleasure craft crossed the water. “We’re right on the lake,” Ariana said, struck by its beauty. As she stared, tension eased from her shoulders.
I could stare at this forever, Ariana thought, surprising herself. Glancing at Ruby, she saw her aunt was looking at her with smug triumph.
“You win,” Ariana said. “This is stunning. And the house has potential, I suppose.”
“And just look at these gardens,” Ruby said.
An untrimmed citrus grove flanked one side of the wide terrace, and a weedy flower garden lined the other. Climbing pink and white roses tangled together on a broken trellis while a voluptuous magenta bougainvillea with arching floral bracts encroached on a quaint gazebo.
“And here’s where yachts can pull alongside the steps,” Ruby said, gesturing to a wide stone staircase that led directly to the lake. Water lazily lapped the stone steps. “Imagine, door-to-door water taxi service.” She framed majestic, snow-capped peaks in the distance with her hands. “It looks like a painting. Isn’t this one of the most gorgeous views you’ve ever seen?”
“This is an incredible location.” And it must have cost her aunt quite a lot, despite the condition of the property. “Aunt Ruby, can you really afford this?”
Ruby waved her hand. “Years ago, I had an excellent agent who negotiated many of my film contracts with gross percentages. With videos, DVDs, streaming services, and all sorts of other distribution and remake deals, royalties have been flowing in and adding up for years.”
“But it’s another mortgage. And the repair costs…”
“Honestly, Ariana,” Ruby said, jabbing her hands on her hips. “Give me some credit. I paid cash for my Palm Springs house. Plus, I’ve invested well.” She raised her shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “What else will I do with it all?”
Ariana couldn’t begrudge Ruby her pleasure, though she couldn’t help wondering just how much her aunt was worth—not that it mattered much to her. All these years, Ruby seldom talked about money. “I suppose you have a point.”
“More important, I have an offer for you.” Ruby put an arm around Ariana. “Help me restore this home, and it’s yours when I pass on to that great theater in the sky.”
“Aunt Ruby, I can’t accept this.”
“Why not? Who else is there to leave it to? You and your daughter.”
Ariana made a face. “It might be a boy. Leave it to charity,” Ariana said. The thought of this much responsibility was overwhelming.
Ruby tapped Ariana on the chest. “If you want, you can give it to charity. But believe me, my favorite charities will be plenty happy with what I’ve already planned. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my last days in style?”
Ariana didn’t want to argue with her aunt over such a morbid thought. “You’ll live a long life. You’ve said so yourself.”
Again, Ariana wondered about her aunt’s motivation for buying a home here. Ruby was shrewd. She’d surrounded herself with equally smart agents and managers. One didn’t reach the top of the entertainment industry and stay there by accident. Yet, Ruby’s generosity was legendary as well. Several young female directors owed their career breaks to her, as she’d funded their initial projects.
Ruby twirled around the terrace, her long, turquoise silk skirt fluttering in the breeze. Her aunt lived for self-expression and connection. Throwing parties and introducing friends made her happy. She loved connecting people, and many had benefitted from her introductions.
Chuckling at the absurdity of it all, Ariana went back inside. Matteo followed her.
“I want you to know that I didn’t influence your aunt,” Matteo said earnestly. “Signora Ruby has a strong will. She asked me to take photos, but I had no idea she would buy the villa. Most tourists look at property and dream about living here, but few people act. I just thought she was a nice middle-aged woman on a sightseeing trip.”
Even though middle-aged was a compliment, Ruby would still bristle at that term because it sounded so pedestrian, and she was perennially young at heart. “You didn’t recognize her?”
“Not until she mentioned she had been in films.” He looked sheepish. “I read a lot.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Ariana could understand. Even working in the industry, she couldn’t keep up with all the stars on every streaming series. But because of that explosion in television series, there was more work than ever for actors, writers, and behind-the-scenes workers like herself.
Ariana glanced at the dirty floors. She had less than a month now. Feeling frustrated, Ariana shook her head. “I have a job to go back to in Los Angeles, and a boss who wouldn’t understand if I’m even a day late.” And a doctor to check in with. She chewed the side of her mouth.
Kingsley probably thought she was on her honeymoon since she hadn’t been in touch with the studio. Nor had she invited anyone from the studio to
her wedding, preferring to keep her private life private. Only a few of her closest friends from school were at the little chapel. But would Phillip broadcast the news?
The last thing she wanted was for her boss to insist she return to work. She could just hear Kingsley now. No marriage, no honeymoon? No vacation. We need you here. Come back.
No, this was the only way she could take a break that she desperately needed. Ariana seldom took her vacation time, and she had more weeks accrued than anyone else. She’d need them soon. For the baby.
Ruby whisked through the door, her turquoise and coral silk scarf billowing around her. “Ariana, darling, would you take notes as we go through the house?”
“Notes?”
“Well, of course. If we’re moving in at the end of the week, we have a lot to do.”
“Excuse me,” Ariana said as she followed Ruby through an elaborate hall. “We’re not staying at the hotel?”
“No longer than needed. Why would we stay there when we have this gorgeous place?”
As Ruby twirled her hand in the air, her silver bracelets jingled. “Formal dining room here—just look at that chandelier. A music room there—with a piano, aren’t we lucky?” She stopped and swung open a door. “And the kitchen, voila.”
“Oh, wow…” Ariana stepped inside the cavernous space, a 1950s professional kitchen with vivid, hand-painted Italian tiles covering the backsplashes and counters. In the center of the room, a stainless-steel cooking station stretched out. Cooktops, griddles, grills, and prep stations topped a bank of ovens. She ran her hand along the surface. The medallion on the tomato-red porcelain read Bertazzoni.
“Imagine the banquets that have been served from this kitchen,” Ruby said, her eyes sparkling.
Ariana shook her head. “Kind of wasted on me. All I need is a coffee pot and a microwave.”
Behind them, Matteo coughed. “But this is Italy.”
“And that means…?” Ariana was nonplussed.
“Food and wine are like making love here,” Ruby said as Matteo looked slightly embarrassed, though he nodded in agreement. “The freshest ingredients, the finest wine. Slow cooking, slow living. We’ll take our time making meals—osso buco or risotto alla Milanese with saffron, lake trout or perch. We’ll watch the sun set, share wine from Montevecchia, Brianza, and Valtellina. Oh, darling, we’ll make many new, wonderful friends.”