Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  Hallie let herself in and climbed the three floors to her mother’s apartment. The living room had wood floors and plaster walls. A floral sofa faced a bookshelf lined with cookbooks. The oak dining table was heaped with bills. A coffee cup was left on the table, making a ring on the wood. Hallie took it into the kitchen, depositing it in the sink.

  Hallie sat on a stool, gazing at the brightly colored jars and containers. The counters were crammed with ingredients: brown sugar, honey, cinnamon, molasses. There were baskets of fresh peaches and bowls of strawberries. Everything in the kitchen would eventually end up in a cake. Francesca stockpiled ingredients like a squirrel hoarding nuts. She wore jeans and sneakers and splurged on imported vanilla extract.

  Hallie finally let the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks, falling on the counter. She rocked back and forth, hugging her chest. She cried until her body felt like it would fold up like a pack of cards. Exhausted, she got up and walked into the living room.

  Hallie and Francesca moved into the apartment when Hallie was in high school. Hallie had loved jogging on the green, watching the boats in the marina, but she missed the glittering rooms of Constance’s house. Hallie found tables and chairs at garage sales and brightened them up with tablecloths and pillows. She painted the walls eggshell yellow and sewed lace curtains for the windows.

  Francesca had acted more like a sister than a mother. On Friday nights, if Hallie didn’t have a date, they painted each other’s toenails. On Sundays they put on matching aprons and prepared dinner. Hallie tossed spinach salad and Francesca baked German chocolate cake.

  Hallie wished for a moment she had a mother who would smooth her hair and promise her everything would be all right. She wanted a father who would hold her and tell her Peter wasn’t worth crying about.

  Hallie never knew her father. When she was nine years old, Francesca had found Hallie in Constance’s kitchen, piling brownies on a plate.

  “What are you doing?” Francesca had asked, frowning.

  Hallie had stood on a stepstool, straining to reach the top shelf in the fridge. “Jenny’s mother said I’m illegitimate and I’m going to burn in hell. I’m going to bring God some brownies so he forgives me.”

  “Sit down.” Francesca had motioned for Hallie to sit at the kitchen table.

  “What does illegitimate mean? Didn’t you get a receipt for me at the hospital?”

  “Illegitimate means you were more loved and wanted than any baby in the world.”

  “Jenny said illegitimate means I don’t know who my father is. She says my father must be a pirate or a pop star.” Hallie had inspected her nails. She had bitten her fingernails to the quick and covered them with bright pink nail polish.

  “Your father was a student named Phillip Elliot.” Francesca had nibbled a brownie. She had dark brown hair and large brown eyes. Her hair was cut short to frame her face and she had thick, curly eyelashes. The only features she shared with Hallie were a small nose and a round, rosebud mouth.

  “That’s my last name!” Hallie had chimed in.

  “We met in Rome, when I was returning to America. I was very sad because I had to leave Portia and Marcus, and I spent a whole day crying at the Trevi Fountain.”

  Hallie had chewed her fingernail, waiting expectantly for the rest of the story.

  “Phillip was a few years older than me, maybe twenty-five. He was backpacking across Europe, studying architecture. We spent the day together, exploring the Vatican, running down the steps of the Coliseum. I felt young and free, and by nighttime I was in love with him.”

  “You fell in love in one day?” Hallie had tried to remember if any of the heroines of her books fell in love so quickly.

  “That can happen if you meet the right person.” Francesca had smiled. “It started pouring, buckets and buckets flooding the sidewalk. We huddled under his backpack, trying to hail a taxi. But everyone was stranded and there were no cabs.”

  “I read about a flood in Sunday school. Noah led the animals on the ark two-by-two.”

  “We didn’t have an ark, but there was a little pensione near the Coliseum. We ran in to wait out the storm.”

  “Is that where I was born?” Hallie had asked.

  “It was where you were conceived,” Francesca had murmured. “Phillip and I stayed up all night, talking. He was very handsome: tall, curly blond hair, pale blue eyes. My flight left in the morning and he was on his way to Pompeii. We exchanged phone numbers and kissed good-bye.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him?” Most of her friends had parents who were married. A few had parents who were divorced and they met their fathers every Sunday at Pizza Hut or McDonald’s. Hallie had wondered if she could meet Phillip at McDonald’s and get one of those Happy Meal dolls with a pink miniskirt and straw hair.

  “I was still married to Pliny and I was on my way home. It was complicated.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him later, when it was simple?” Hallie had asked.

  “We lost touch.” Francesca had shrugged. “We didn’t have the Internet or e-mail.”

  “I knew my father was special. Jenny’s jealous because her father smells like garlic.”

  “Plus you have a grandmother who adores you and a half brother and half sister in Italy.” Francesca had stood up and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

  “It’s like we have our own ark!” Hallie had beamed. “Can I ask Constance for a goat or a pig?”

  “I don’t think they allow goats in the city.” Francesca had poured Hallie a glass of milk. “But you might ask for a guinea pig.”

  “I’ll name him P. Elliot,” Hallie had decided. “Do you think God would mind if I ate the brownies?”

  “I think they were put in the fridge for that purpose.” Francesca had put a brownie on a plate and passed it to Hallie.

  * * *

  The love story of Francesca and Phillip made Hallie popular at school, but sometimes she wished she had a father who smelled like garlic and asked her to pass the peas at dinner.

  When Peter came home from cycling he was covered in sweat, but Hallie loved to bury her face in his chest. She didn’t mind stocking the fridge with pretzels and beer nuts. She liked the masculine traces he left around the apartment: an Esquire on the coffee table, blobs of shaving cream in the bathroom sink.

  “Hallie!” Francesca opened the door and entered the living room. She wore faded jeans and a pastel sweater. Francesca was slender as a boy, with small breasts and narrow hips. She never seemed to care how she dressed, but she had an innate sophistication. Even in her frayed sneakers, she looked casually elegant.

  “I let myself in.” Hallie slumped on the sofa. She had slipped off her Ferragamos and tucked her feet under the cushion.

  “What a beautiful dress.” Francesca set a pink cake box on the coffee table. “I’m glad you took after Constance instead of me in fashion. You have such a classic style, like a young Grace Kelly.”

  Hallie tried to smile. Her head felt heavy and there was a pain deep in her chest. “Peter took me to dinner at Gary Danko.”

  “I adore their lemon soufflé cake, I can’t make mine as fluffy.” Francesca dropped onto the sofa. She moved with the ease of a dancer. Only the streaks of gray in her hair hinted that she had three grown children.

  “Peter proposed.” Hallie tried to keep her voice steady.

  “That’s wonderful!” Francesca beamed. “You’ve been planning your wedding since you were eight years old. Do you remember when you used to walk your My Little Ponies down the aisle? And the year you wrote three letters to Santa Claus asking for a bride Barbie, in case there was a blizzard and your first letter didn’t make it to the North Pole?”

  “I still have bride Barbie,” Hallie mumbled. “She has her own drawer in my dresser.”

  “Have you told Constance?” Francesca asked. “Finally she’ll get to plan her dream wedding. Try to remind her it’s your day.”

  “There’s not going to be a wedding,” Hallie murmured.<
br />
  Francesca paused. “You can’t elope. It would break your grandmother’s heart.”

  “Peter and I aren’t getting married.” Hallie felt like she was pushing the words up a steep hill.

  “You’ve been talking about getting married all summer,” Francesca protested. “All those weddings you attended, all the bridal showers and gift registries. You said you were prepping for your own big day.”

  “I thought Peter was going to propose.” Hallie flinched. She remembered the espresso makers and panini presses, the sets of Waterford china and Christofle silverware. Each time she walked into Gump’s she drooled over the Swarovski crystal, and added a piece to the gift registry she kept in her head.

  “And he did propose,” Francesca said slowly, as if Hallie had the flu and needed to be coaxed into taking her medicine. “Did you say yes?”

  Hallie nodded, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

  “Let me see the ring!” Francesca brightened. “Knowing Peter, he bought up Tiffany.”

  “I gave it back.” Hallie sobbed. She put her head in her hands and recited the whole story: Kendra tearing at Peter’s tuxedo jacket on the steps of City Hall, Peter’s hands on Kendra’s skirt. The fake interview with Marissa Mayer, the diamond-and-ruby ring in the sorbet, and Peter’s old school friend, Rex Meany.

  “Rex asked Peter for Kendra’s phone number,” Hallie cried, wiping her eyes with her skirt.

  Francesca opened the cake box and took out a pink-and-yellow marzipan mouse. She admired the pointed ears and sharp nose. “Peter might be telling the truth.”

  “What do you mean?” Hallie frowned.

  “I’ve seen a bride run down a hotel lobby in stockings and a push-up bra. I’ve seen the mother of the bride sing ‘Unforgettable’ while doing a striptease. People behave worse at weddings than they do in Vegas.” Francesca paced around the room, warming to her point. “Kendra was plastered and Peter was trying to be a gentleman.”

  “She says she doesn’t remember the whole evening,” Hallie murmured.

  “And Kendra does have exquisite taste in jewelry,” Francesca mused.

  “Peter lied about the interview with Marissa Mayer.” Hallie leaned back against the cushions. “He could lie about anything.”

  “Everyone lies a little, I bet even the Pope shades the truth now and then.” Francesca nibbled the mouse’s nose. “Has Peter ever hurt you?”

  “No.” Hallie shook her head. “He treats me like a goddess.”

  “When Portia met Riccardo he was engaged to another woman.” Francesca took another mouse out of the cake box and handed it to Hallie. “He was seeing both women at the same time. It’s no surprise he cheated on Portia; men rarely change.”

  “Poor Portia.” Hallie bit into pink icing. “I keep calling but I can’t get through to her.”

  “I suggested Portia come to America,” Francesca replied. “But Sophia is afraid if Portia disappears, Riccardo will flaunt his mistress in public.”

  “Constance thinks you should go see Portia,” Hallie replied. The marzipan was sweet and smooth and slipped past the lump in her throat.

  Francesca took another marzipan mouse out of the box and held it in her palm. “You should go! You know the expression ‘When the cat is away, the mice will play.’” She nodded at the pink-and-yellow mouse excitedly. “If Peter behaves while you’re away, you’ll know you can trust him.”

  “How will I know if he’s cheating?” Hallie asked.

  “San Francisco is a small town,” Francesca replied. “We’ll know.”

  “I couldn’t go to Lake Como.” Hallie sighed. She remembered the first time she visited, the summer after she graduated from St. Ignatius. She had seen pictures of the lake. She read about the splendid villas and ancient churches. Portia had told her about the cafés, the boutiques, the cute boys who rode vespas around the village.

  But she wasn’t prepared for the breathtaking beauty of the mountains sweeping down to the shore. She had never seen water a blue-green so glorious it belonged on a painting. She had never experienced the Italian love of life, the late dinners, the early-morning espressos, the feeling that life was one big happy party.

  “Why not?” Francesca demanded. “Constance is right, it would be great for Portia to have company.”

  “Kendra would never let me take time off,” Hallie replied. “We’re inundated with new clients.”

  “Kendra knows that Constance sits on every important board in the city.” Francesca picked her words carefully. “If members of Encore! or the Symphony Gala heard about Kendra’s ‘public stumble’ they may think twice about hiring her as a designer.”

  “How Machiavellian.” Hallie giggled.

  “I may not have been the best mother when it came to homework and being a member of the PTA”—Francesca sat next to Hallie—“but you’re my baby and I want you to be happy.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t get married.” Hallie suddenly felt like a little girl, wanting to climb into her mother’s lap. “You hated being a wife.”

  “I was so young.” Francesca shrugged. “Sophia was a tyrant and Pliny did whatever she said. It seemed like a fairy tale but it became a nightmare. You and Peter are both bright professionals, you want the same things.”

  Hallie thought about how her married friends were buying houses in Pacific Heights. They hosted dinner parties with their new crystal and silverware. She didn’t want to be the only couple with different last names and separate checking accounts.

  “I want to believe him.” Hallie’s mind flashed on Peter standing on the sidewalk outside Gary Danko.

  “Don’t decide tonight.” Francesca squeezed Hallie’s hand. “I’ll move some boxes in your old room. Everything will be clearer in the morning.”

  Francesca led Hallie to the small bedroom, which was piled with cake boxes of every shape and color. Hallie put on a pair of her mother’s pajamas, the legs too short and the top barely covering her midriff. She climbed into bed, hoping when she woke up it would all have been a bad dream.

  chapter four

  Hallie paid the cab and stood at the entrance of their apartment building. The fog had cleared and the city was bathed in warm morning light. Summer was everywhere: rose bushes bloomed on the sidewalk; women drank iced espressos; and children licked chocolate ice-cream cones. Hallie gazed at the bay, watching the boats slide along the glass surface.

  Hallie had woken up and pulled on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt she found in the closet. Her mother had left a pot of coffee, two slices of toast, and a note apologizing for not having more food. Hallie sat at the bay window, her feet cold on the wood floor. She missed Peter’s eggs, the wet kiss he planted on her lips as he ran out the door.

  Hallie entered the building and climbed three floors to their apartment. Peter lay on the purple sofa, dressed in slacks and a crumpled white shirt. His shoes were tossed under the coffee table, and his suit jacket was draped over a chair. His eyes were closed and he had new stubble on his chin.

  “Hi.” Hallie closed the front door quietly.

  Peter’s eyes flew open as if he’d been shot. “Christ, Hallie. I waited up all night.”

  “I texted you that I was going to stay at my mother’s.” Hallie sat on the low orange chair opposite him.

  “I couldn’t sleep in our bed without you.” Peter rubbed his chin. He had circles under his eyes and his cheeks were pale.

  “I talked with my mother,” Hallie began.

  “Nothing happened with Kendra,” Peter interrupted. “Not at the wedding and not at lunch.”

  “I’m not interested.” Hallie shook her head.

  Peter stood up and smoothed his shirt. He brushed his hair with his hands and kneeled on the rug. “Maybe I shouldn’t have proposed at dinner, maybe I should have buried the carpet in rose petals and proposed here.”

  “Peter.” Hallie tried to get up, but Peter grabbed her hand and pulled her down in the chair.

  “You left
this at the restaurant.” Peter took the ring out of his pocket and slipped it on Hallie’s finger.

  Hallie glanced at the clear diamond, the deep red rubies. She could keep the ring snug on her finger, and call Constance to announce the good news. She could make appointments at bridal salons and floral designers and calligraphers. She only had to nod and the future would roll out like a red carpet.

  “I can’t wear it yet.” Hallie pulled it off her finger.

  “What do you mean ‘yet’?” Peter asked.

  “I need time to think.” Hallie tried to sound confident.

  “I love you and I want to spend my life with you.” Peter squeezed her hand. “We’re going to wake up every morning and have hot sex and eat waffles and read The New York Times.”

  “I talked to Portia this morning.” Hallie stood up and walked to the balcony. “Sophia wants her to take Riccardo back. Portia said the only way she wants to see Riccardo is pulled apart limb for limb by wild horses.”

  “Portia sounds like someone you don’t want to cross,” Peter replied.

  “I’m going to Lake Como; I’m going to spend August with her.”

  Peter frowned. “I can’t take time off now. Jim’s fears have made the other investors anxious. I need to score a major interview to calm their nerves.”

  “What about Frank Marshall?” Hallie asked.

  “Not big enough.” Peter grimaced. “I’ve got an inside track at Apple. They haven’t given an interview since Steve Jobs died. No one knows what goes on in there; it’s like a black hole. I have a guy who’s ready to talk, I just need to loosen him up a little.”

  “Like Deep Throat,” Hallie murmured. “I’m going to Lake Como alone.”

  “Let’s go to Como next year on our honeymoon,” Peter suggested. “We’ll feed the pigeons in Venice and eat pasta Alfredo in Rome.”

  “I need to get away.” Hallie glanced at the rug. She thought Peter’s eyes saw through her like an X-ray.

  “You said Kendra wouldn’t let you have a day off,” Peter exclaimed. “How can you jet off to Europe for a month?”

  “Kendra has been courting Charlotte Schulz and Dede Wilsey for months. Constance is having lunch with them at the Mark Hopkins on Wednesday. I was going to ask Constance to put in a good word.”