The House by the Cypress Trees

by Elena Mikalsen

  Julia opened her suitcase and took out the plastic bag holding a small tissue-paper-wrapped package. She unwrapped the layers gently and placed the painting on her nightstand. Here was the entire reason she’d told her school district she wasn’t available to teach summer school this year, for the first time. The reason she bought all these wild new clothes at the fancy boutique in town. New life, Dad said. They both had to move on.

  Her index finger traced the outline of the house, the cypress trees around it, and finally, Lake Garda in front. Dad had handed the painting to her the day after Mom’s funeral, along with her ticket and the suggestion she spend the summer looking for her biological mother. No one asked if she wanted another mother.

  The doctors had forced the truth about the adoption out of her parents when the diagnosis of Huntington’s came in for Mom. It took about an hour of the meeting that included the genetic counselor discussing testing Julia for the disease before Dad finally broke down and told Julia that the good news was she wouldn’t need the testing. The bad news was that her real mother was an sixteen-year-old Italian exchange student who came to stay with her parents in San Antonio pregnant and begged them to adopt her child. Manuel and Barbara Ramos, who’d had a stillborn a few years prior and knew they couldn’t have any more children, adopted the baby and pretended Julia was their own.

  Knowing that her real parents were likely alive and a world away—that hurt. Learning she wasn’t who she thought she was—that hurt even more. How was it possible her heritage was Italian? It was supposed to be Mexican and German. That’s what she had proudly proclaimed in her elementary school on MultiCultural Fair days. And how could she not believe it? She had her cousins’ Mexican curves. She’d had a Quinceañera with twelve attendants and a dress that cost so much her father said something about feeding “a small country.” The many trips she took to visit Dad’s family in the Rio Grande Valley, the C in Spanish II her sophomore year that put Abuelita in bed with a migraine for three days, and the years she’d spent learning German cooking from Oma on their peach farm all confirmed her culture.

  As it turned out, none of it mattered. She felt duped, betrayed, guilty of trying to be someone she wasn’t. She was a fraud. She was someone else entirely. But she had no idea who.

  “I’m not going all the way to Italy,” she said to her dad when he gave her the painting. “I don’t need another family. My family was always perfect for me. If this woman wanted to see me so much, why didn’t she send this painting earlier? She could’ve sent a note. Picked up a phone. Facebooked.”

  Her dad looked down. “She sent it earlier. This painting came about a year ago, for your birthday. I didn’t show it to you right away because we had everything going on at the time. Barbara was in and out of the hospital. I wasn’t sure if it was all too much for you to cope with. Or maybe for me. I was a coward.”

  “You weren’t. You didn’t want me to leave you here alone with Mom,” Julia said, hugging him.

  “I was afraid. I couldn’t face it without you.” He wiped his eyes.

  “Well, don’t worry. I’m still not going. I’m staying here with you.”

  Dad took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes, pleading for her to understand. “But I’m not staying here, mijita. I’m selling the house and moving to the Valley. Your abuela is getting older, and I need to be closer to her and the rest of my family.”

  Julia’s heart tugged over and over with grief as she remembered his face when she took the ticket and walked out. She had lost everything—her mother, her father, her childhood home. It would never be the same.

  She examined the signature of the artist on the painting for the hundredth time. Curvy, illegible handwriting. Maybe there was a “G” in there, for Giulia Rigazio, her mother? She turned it to see the inscription on the back again.

  Solo Noi. She googled it. Only us. Whatever that meant. She googled the address from the box the painting came in. Malcesine, Lake Garda. A pretty enough town to visit. After she gave it some thought, the summer in Italy sounded like absolute bliss to a geography teacher who had spent the last five years taking care of a sick woman. No kids, no lesson plans, no grief. Just her in a tiny car, traveling all around Italy, drinking wine and eating bruschetta. She would stay a few days in Rome, then rent a car and drive north to Florence and, finally, Malcesine.

  Yet now she was stuck with the dog she had to find a shelter for. An ASPCA or whatever they called it in Rome.

  Julia watched the sleeping dog for a while and wondered when Lizzy had eaten last. The shelter would surely feed her. But what if they had to process her for a while or something? She remembered the tiny grocery downstairs and decided she’d better grab food for the puppy. Maybe she could get a quick lunch for herself, get Lizzy to a shelter, and still squeeze in seeing the Colosseum this afternoon.

  But who was she kidding—this day’s plans were ruined.

  Chapter 2

  It would’ve been a great day if it weren’t for the woman. An ordinary American tourist, one of the millions that besieged Rome every summer. What possessed her to run out in front of his car like that? He could’ve killed her if he hadn’t been paying attention.

  Driving through the streets of Rome constituted a nightmare as it was, with all the cursed mopeds everywhere. Especially for Daniel Stafford, who was not fond of driving. Which is why he’d had his assistant arrange for a driver before he left London.

  But as fate would have it, on this massive failure of a trip, his girlfriend Jessica, who had begged to come to Rome, had decided she preferred their Italian driver to Daniel. Which is why Daniel was currently lost in traffic in a tiny rented Fiat with a bloody clutch. While nursing a hangover from the previous night’s wanderings through Trastevere after he found Jessica being buggered by the driver on his company flat’s dining table.

  Now he was on his way to his ten o’clock pitch for the museum building, and he hoped to go through it as fast as possible. The board moved slowly, and he’d nearly lost patience yesterday during his first pitch. Only one day left for the museum design plans to be approved. Roger would be furious if it took any longer than that. Daniel planned to be on the road to Tuscany by tomorrow. He couldn’t stand being in that flat a minute longer.

  As he pushed on the gas and struggled with the clutch, crossing the small piazza, a woman materialized in his line of sight, running across without care, looking like a wild spirit, clutching something to her chest. He slammed on the brake, cursing every tourist he had ever come across. His heart pounding, he closed his eyes for a moment, terrified to look, as he felt the Fiat jerk to a stop.

  Daniel opened his eyes. The woman had fallen to her knees. He was sure he didn’t hit her. Why was she on the ground?

  Her knees would be all bloody from the stones, blast it! He was furious. At the woman. At the tiny Trastevere streets. At everything happening in his life at the moment.

  He jumped out of the car, slamming the door. The adrenaline pulsed through his body, and he squeezed his fingernails into his palms. What the hell was she doing?

  “Che cazzo fai?” he yelled.

  He waved for another car and mopeds to keep going around them, although Daniel wasn’t sure they cared. There were tourists encircling the car and the woman, to gawk. Several curious grandmothers were watching the scene from the balconies of the nearby houses. Just what he needed—a motor accident with all the locals in attendance.

  The woman’s dark brown hair covered her face. She moved it aside, then slowly rose, and he noticed something squirming at her shirt.

  A dog? He took a step toward her to inspect.

  “What are you doing running in front of my car with a dog?” he asked in Italian, less angry now.

  She raised her hand at him. “Okay, first of all, I don’t speak any Italian. Io non parlo l’Italiano. Io sono Americana. American. Capisci? And, second, you nearly killed me and my dog. So back off, buddy, all right? What is wrong with this damn country?”


  He was right. A bloody tourist. “American? Of course.” Crappy accent, probably knows five sentences in Italian. His anger had dissipated, but his annoyance grew in spades.

  “Yes, American,” she said, her eyes blazing at him. “Do you only run over Americans?”

  “I apologize.” Daniel considered what would be the proper thing to do. He had no time for this nonsense. “It’s only that you frightened me. You popped out in front of my car.” He supposed he needed to show courtesy. He’d predicted correctly—the skin on her knees was scraped now. “Are you quite all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Yes, I’m fine. I have to go, though.”

  She looked around, searching for something. He wondered what it was she was running from. Or who. She looked teary-eyed. Rather pathetic with her bloody knees and rumpled shirt. He tried once more, against his best judgment. The dog’s head kept peeking out. What in God’s name was she doing with that dog?

  “I do apologize, and I feel simply awful. May I give you a lift? It’s the least I can do,” he offered. He was certain he’d regret it later. Maybe if he placed something under her legs, for the blood. The rental company would charge a fortune if she got blood on the seat.

  “No, thanks, I’ll be fine,” she said.

  He watched in disbelief as she picked up her purse and ran farther into the depths of Trastevere’s labyrinth of narrow, crooked streets. She disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared. She was sure to get lost. Is that what she wanted? He looked around, wondering who she was trying to get lost from.

  A moment later, as a large delivery van beeped a horn behind him, trying to pass, he shrugged and got back in his car. He was quite glad she’d declined his offer. He still hoped to make it on time to his meeting. Although none of the Italians would be on time. Well, maybe he’d have an extra coffee.

  Four hours later, Daniel found himself no closer to finalizing the plans’ approval than the day before. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn’t be able to obtain the approvals before he traveled to his family’s estate in Tuscany tomorrow. He could have handled the meeting if he were not so rattled by his encounter with the American. He ran through the presentation for the second and the third time just fine. Faster than he should have—but it was the third bloody time. Then they asked questions about the projected costs and the alternative materials. They followed with their concerns about the entire design. The one they approved months ago.

  “I assure you this will not resemble the mausoleum,” he insisted, losing hope.

  “Your choice of words…” Roberto Nicoli, the chairman of the museum’s board of trustees, looked at his notebook and pronounced slowly, “ ‘Strong silhouette, robust, ruthless in maximizing zoning envelope.’ I’m not sure you understand our vision.”

  “Signor Nicoli, you have been clear with us about your vision from the beginning. My team has taken great care to understand it. You want the new Museo to create a sculptural identity, to have simple and clean lines, to be a spectacular space, and to fit into its outdoor garden area. We absolutely understand, and I think the structure we’re proposing—the three cubes that mimic a wedding cake similar to the beloved Wedding Cake in Rome, Altare della Patria, will fit in quite nicely.”

  “Altare della Patria is barbaric. It destroyed the Capitoline Hill. The architect had no respect for our history,” the chairman rebuffed.

  Annetta Pisciotta, the vice chairwoman, looked at him from above her glasses. “You must know that the last modern building attempted in the center of Rome is an art museum designed by Richard Meier. It is much like yours, a cube, and it is so disliked by Romans that they wish to destroy it. Mister Stafford, do you want us to approve a museum that will make our visitors wish to destroy it?”

  Daniel began to sweat, but in fact, he wished he could melt altogether. “Signora Pisciotta, our team worked very hard to produce a design that in no way replicates Richard Meier’s or even uses the same architectural elements. You can see in this corner over here.” He pointed and showed more slides and tried again and again. And then they brought up the issue of needing special permits to build anything in the historic center. Obviously, he knew he needed those permits. Anyone in architecture knew that.

  Despite it all, he found his mind drifting to the picture of the American when he first saw her. Her shiny hair almost to her waist, covering her white blouse, with a yellow button that popped open as she yelled at him. Daniel shook his head to clear it and found himself absolutely tongue-tied and bumbling like an intern. He gave up after they began to speak in vague sentences and said they should take a lunch break.

  Daniel bolted out of the meeting and drove, the car choking only once on him. If he drank more espresso, his head would clear and the woman would leave his mind so he’d be back on his game. He had to get this project approved. There was no way he could bring it back to the team and tell them to start over.

  If only he could understand why the Italians had changed their minds. They’d approved the preliminary plans with no problem. Suddenly, this was an unacceptable project that would lead to an ugly museum Romans would want to destroy. A gross exaggeration. He worked for a top architectural firm, respected all over the world. He had never failed before, and he wasn’t about to start.

  The moment Roger asked if he’d mind presenting the museum plans, Daniel should’ve expected that this trip would be doomed. He should’ve never mentioned going to Italy on a family holiday. According to Roger, if he were going to Tuscany to visit family anyway, another stop would not matter, would it? Of course, it mattered. It wasn’t even his presentation to make. He hadn’t been prepared and now had to manage this disaster. But Daniel was a senior team leader, and he was the best at presenting modern urban projects, Roger insisted. Unless it came to Italians, apparently. Daniel hated these last-minute presentations dumped on him. You didn’t refuse your boss, however, when you were trying to be promoted to a junior partner.

  And then Jessica, a girlfriend of barely two months, decided to come to Italy with him, and he’d had no guts to say no. She was on top of him then, her breasts so round and perky and so near him he had no idea what she asked for.

  His phone’s ring tone interrupted his self-beating.

  “Yes, Mandy.”

  “Are you still in Rome?”

  “Unfortunately, sis. I’m trying to head your way tomorrow morning. Just have to finish up my presentation here.”

  “How is it going?”

  “Bloody awful.”

  “I’m sorry. Not all is well here either. Mia’s been sick. I’m terribly worried. We’ve been to see the doctor twice, and she doesn’t seem to be improving. I wanted to warn you, in case you and Jessica plan on having all sorts of family fun here tomorrow. I’m not quite up for it. I haven’t slept in a few days.”

  “I’m so sorry. May I help? Maybe cheer her up with a present of sorts? Anything you need from Rome?”

  “No, it’s all right. Children get sick when they’re little. But bring yourself and your girlfriend as soon as you can. When you visit, she’ll cheer up.”

  “About that. Jessica is not coming. Only me, I’m afraid.” He rubbed his forehead.

  “Oh. What’s happened this time?”

  “An Italian driver with a hairy ass with Jessica’s legs around it is what happened. I threw them both out of my company’s flat yesterday. And what do you mean—this time?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what is it? My girlfriend cheats and you seem to suggest something.”

  “There’s always something with you and your girlfriends.”

  “I have a defect in choosing women.”

  “You are choosing women you can’t commit to,” Mandy said.

  “Most of them are a disaster. A nuisance. They’re either after my money or they want me to marry them after a few weeks.”

  “One day you’ll meet a woman who will steal your heart, and you won’t discard her so easily or call
her a nuisance.”

  “The only women I care for are you and Mia. That’s enough for me. Now you have me worried about my niece. I will get there as soon as I can manage. I promise. And I’m sorry I haven’t visited in two years.” Daniel ran a hand through his hair. He felt terribly guilty about it now. Last summer, he’d worked on an office building, and it was one thing after another, and then a girlfriend came along. He was overdue for a visit.

  “You do own half the place,” his sister reminded.

  “Come on, I don’t even come to stay as a guest. It’s yours. And Gian’s. You are good at it, Mandy. The wine you sent me last Christmas was fantastic. I had to save it for special occasions.”

  “Tell that to Gian. He’ll be pleased. I better go check on Mia. Come soon, all right?”

  “I love you.”

  “You too.”

  Daniel still worried after he turned off his phone. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take any more than a few hours to finish his work. He couldn’t wait to hug his little niece and his sister.

  He wished Mandy hadn’t stayed in Italy that summer after Dad died. But she insisted that her staying with Uncle Simon and Aunt Louisa would help her with grief. He hadn’t realized what was truly going on until she called to announce she was engaged to Gian Paccaloni, the boy at the vineyard next door. Daniel used to spend his adolescent summers with him. But everyone did love Gian, and, when Uncle Simon passed away, it made sense that Mandy and Gian would take over the family business. Gian helped his father run their vineyard, so now the couple had combined the two estates and ran them together, and rather successfully, as both families agreed.

  Yes, Daniel had to hurry to Mandy and Gian’s. He furiously texted to Roger that he didn’t care if his promotion was delayed over this. It’s not like he needed the money. Then he deleted the text. He wouldn’t give up. He’d worked too many years of too many long days and too many sleepless nights to have the board stall him. There had to be a way to get this deal down. Perhaps he’d have lunch, think of more solutions, and give negotiations another go this afternoon. With no more interfering thoughts of the American with the dog.