by Anita Hughes
Peter let her words sink in. His body was rigid and his eyes flashed. “Nothing happened! Kendra’s not even a woman; she’s a robot in a skirt and heels.”
Hallie kept her shoulders back the way she had learned in ballroom dancing lessons when she was twelve. She walked over to Peter and handed him the ring.
“I just need some time.”
Peter put the ring in his pocket. He grabbed Hallie’s hand and kissed her fingers. He pulled her close and kissed her neck. He slid his hand under her T-shirt and rubbed her nipples.
Hallie felt as if her body was lit by a match. She kissed him back, tasting the familiar flavor of his mouth, the scent of cologne mixed with sleep. Peter pulled her down on the sofa, rolling off her leggings and tugging at her panties. He stripped off his shirt and slacks and lay beside her.
Hallie felt her body meld into his. She felt his mouth on her breasts, his fingers probing, teasing, making her wet. She held on to his back, opening her legs, wanting him to fill her up. But he waited, digging his fingers deeper inside her, watching her rise and peak and shudder. Finally he climbed on top of her and pushed so deep she thought she would break. They came together, moaning, whimpering, holding each other, exchanging kisses and trickles of sweat.
Peter turned on his side and draped his hand over Hallie’s breasts. Hallie felt her heart beat under his touch; his thigh rubbing against hers. She glanced at the photographs over the fireplace and her portrait on the wall. She wriggled off the sofa and pulled on her clothes.
Hallie slid open the glass doors and stood on the balcony. It was noon and the street was full of people on their lunch break. She watched women carrying cartons of salad, hurrying back to boutiques and galleries. She saw men in shirts and slacks eating slices of pizza and drinking cans of Coke. She saw a couple holding hands, sharing a cup of gelato.
Hallie walked inside. She went into the small study and turned on the computer. She clicked on Alitalia and searched flights. She chose a flight to Rome, continuing to Milan. She entered the numbers of her credit card and clicked BUY.
* * *
Hallie walked briskly down Fillmore Street, checking her reflection in a shop window. Kendra would be livid that she took the morning off and furious that she intended to go to Italy. Hallie wore a camel-colored cashmere dress with a brown Gucci belt and matching pumps. She couldn’t show any weakness or Kendra would have her sweeping the back room, promising not to take another day off until Christmas.
“Hallie!” Kendra looked up from arranging silk pillows on a velvet daybed. “I’ve been calling your phone all morning. I’m leaving for Tahoe tomorrow and there are a million things to do. I need you to pick up some fabric swatches from Britex and stop by Floramor and get one of those gorgeous wreaths.”
“I have to talk to you,” Hallie said, tapping her fingers on a Chippendale rolltop desk.
“You cannot take another morning off.” Kendra moved around the store, smoothing fabrics and plumping pillows. “I’m relying on you to keep the store running smoothly while I’m away.”
“Peter proposed last night,” Hallie replied. She kept her voice calm but her hands were shaking.
“That’s wonderful!” Kendra barely paused, pulling stems from a bunch of yellow roses. “Let me see the ring.”
“I thought you’ve seen it,” Hallie said icily. “Peter said he asked your opinion.”
“I want to see it on your finger,” Kendra replied. “He was so concerned that you love it. You struck gold with Peter. There aren’t many men who are successful and sensitive.”
Hallie’s shoulders relaxed. She glanced at her reflection in the gilt mirror. Her cheeks were dusted with powder, and she wore thick mascara and shimmering eye shadow. She had pulled her hair back with a gold clip and doused herself in Obsession.
“I haven’t given Peter an answer yet.” Hallie eyed Kendra carefully. “Portia’s husband left her. I’m going to Lake Como to spend some time with her.”
“You’re doing what?” Kendra stopped dusting silver candelabras. “We’ve got deliveries all month and I’m going to be buried in Patsy’s new place. You’ll have to babysit some of my clients and run the store.”
“I’ll be in Lake Como for August,” Hallie continued. “I’ll be home on Labor Day.”
“If you and Peter had a lover’s quarrel, work it out on your own time,” Kendra snapped. “I need you in the store every day.”
“Did I mention Constance is having lunch with Charlotte Shulz and Dede Wilsey on Wednesday? Dede is about to choose a designer to do her house in Napa,” Hallie said. “It’s thirty-thousand square feet with a private gym and championship tennis courts.”
Kendra ran her long French-manicured nails over a Fabergé jewelry box. The muscles in her neck tightened but her expression remained calm. “I’ve been dying to go on a buying trip to Italy. So many ancient families are strapped for cash and are selling off the family treasures. You could do some buying while you’re in Italy; pick up some bolts of silk from Milan and glass in Murano.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” Hallie matched Kendra’s smooth tone. Her stomach tightened as if she was on an elliptical machine.
“I’m glad that’s settled.” Kendra resumed straightening magazines. “I’ll ask Stefan if one of his artists can mind the store. They don’t know much about interior design, but they look good with the furniture.”
“I’ll make a list of deliveries I’m expecting for Libby Taylor’s house.” Hallie walked to the backroom. “I’ll be accessible by e-mail and phone.”
“Let me know if you’d like me to do anything while you’re gone,” Kendra called. “Water your plants, bring in the newspaper.”
Hallie felt a chill run up her spine. She turned to Kendra and smiled graciously. “That’s very thoughtful, but Peter is perfectly capable.”
* * *
Hallie rang the doorbell of Constance’s house, desperate for something cold to drink. The afternoon in the store had been interminable; she and Kendra moved like jousters playing an invisible fencing match. Kendra issued endless instructions and Hallie flinched as if she was ducking blows. Now and then Hallie looked up from her paperwork to see if she could read Kendra’s expression, but her face was as inscrutable as a Chinese warrior.
“Hallie!” Constance beamed. “What a pleasure to see you twice in one week. I was fixing a gin and tonic.”
“Where’s Louisa?” Hallie stepped into the marble foyer.
“I sent her to buy Vanity Fair,” Constance replied. “Dr. Michaels disapproves of my evening cocktail, so I have to invent reasons for Louisa to leave the house.”
“Outsmarting your doctor isn’t the way to get well,” Hallie said, smiling.
“He shouldn’t make my own employee spy on me,” Constance huffed. She wore a beige wool skirt and a yellow silk shirt. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and open a jar of macadamia nuts? Dr. Michaels won’t let me near them.”
Hallie walked to the kitchen, pausing at the twelve-foot double doors. If she had to choose a favorite room in Constance’s house, it would be the kitchen. When she was a girl she sat at the long oak table, her head in a copy of Persuasion, and imagined the room full of maids scrubbing potatoes and shining silverware. The floors were polished stone and the counters were creamy marble. A fireplace took up one wall and French doors opened onto a vegetable garden.
“Is that a Lanvin?” Constance pointed at Hallie’s dress when she walked back into the salon. “Cashmere is such a clever choice for summer in San Francisco, and the cut is sublime.”
Hallie sipped the gin and tonic. She rarely drank during the week and it tasted strong and bitter. “I talked to Francesca last night.”
“Did you convince her to go to Como?” Constance asked, nibbling a macadamia nut.
“I’m going to Lake Como,” Hallie replied.
“I thought Kendra had you chained to the store.” Constance raised her eyebrows.
“I’m going to buy some things
for the store while I’m there,” Hallie said, scooping up macadamia nuts.
“Then it’s a wonderful idea.” Constance smiled. “You and Peter can explore the lake. Show him Villa del Balbienello, it’s one of my favorite spots.”
“Peter’s not going,” Hallie murmured. “He’s busy with Spilled.”
“You’re leaving your job and your boyfriend?” Constance frowned.
“Peter and Kendra can manage without me for a month,” Hallie replied lightly.
“Peter has been dropping hints all summer.” Constance poured another gin and tonic. “How is he going to propose if you’re on the other side of the ocean?”
Hallie fiddled with her drink. She had never lied to her grandmother. When Hallie was thirteen and Constance discovered a dog-eared Cosmopolitan in her backpack, Hallie was tempted to say it belonged to a friend. But she saw Constance’s expression, stern and regal as Queen Elizabeth, and confessed she had bought it at a newsstand.
“Peter proposed last night,” Hallie said.
“I must call Reverend Xavier at St. Dominic’s,” Constance exclaimed, walking over to the house phone. “Dates in June fill up so quickly.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“Did you and Peter have a disagreement?” Constance asked, reluctantly putting the phone down.
“Peter took me to dinner at Gary Danko and hid the ring in the coconut sorbet,” Hallie replied. “It’s an oval diamond flanked by rubies.”
“Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“Francesca’s marriage ended so badly,” Hallie began. “And now Portia and Riccardo.”
“It’s not about marriage, it’s about the person you marry,” Constance interrupted. “Your mother married a prince she met on a ski slope; they didn’t even speak the same language. Portia always had a wild streak. She had to learn the hard way that bad boys make terrible husbands.”
“I don’t want to make a mistake.” Hallie wanted to tell Constance about Patsy’s wedding, about Peter’s lunch date with Kendra, but the words stuck in her throat.
“When you were six I took you to a pet store to pick out a puppy. I was sure you would choose a sweet little cocker spaniel. He had floppy ears and a silky coat; he was the perfect dog for a young girl. But you marched right over to a cage that held a lanky golden retriever. He was already six months old, with paws as big as your hands. I asked why you chose the golden retriever and you said you were going to keep growing. One day you’d be the same size and be best friends.”
“Miles.” Hallie smiled, remembering. “He slept at the foot of my bed.”
“God took my Theodore early.” Constance lowered her eyes. “But we had thirty-five good years because he was my best friend. Marry your best friend and you’ll never have a single regret.”
Hallie drained her glass. She couldn’t tell Constance that Peter had shaken her trust; that she needed to put some distance between them. Suddenly Constance looked older; her shoulders hunched, her hand shook as she added ice to her gin and tonic.
“Portia and I are going to spend August gorging ourselves on fruit from the outdoor markets. We’ll buy shoes and bags in Milan, and visit the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When I come home, Peter and I will announce our engagement.”
“I’ll host a Labor Day party!” Constance exclaimed. “It will have a white theme—white flowers, white food, the invitations will say white attire requested. We’ll hire Dick Bright Orchestra. It would be lovely to see people dancing again.”
Constance placed the lid on the jar of macadamia nuts and put the gin under the bar.
“You must stay for dinner. I’ll ask Louisa to set an extra place.”
“I’d love to.” Hallie noticed the sparkle in Constance’s eyes, the pink blush in her cheeks. “But I haven’t packed and I’m leaving in the morning.”
“You need two sets of clothes,” Constance instructed. “Cotton dresses for daytime and silk gowns for the evening. Sophia doesn’t allow women to wear pants in the villa, and you must wear at least two-inch heels at dinner.”
“Does she still keep such strict rules?” Hallie frowned. “She must be close to eighty.”
“Sophia Tesoro will be buried in a Marchioni gown, clutching a diamond cross,” Constance replied. “I would like you to give her something for me.”
Hallie waited while Constance disappeared into the library. She pictured the Tesoro villa and felt a pinprick of excitement. She remembered the gardens of roses and fruit trees, the rooms with stone floors and massive pieces of furniture, the view of the lake so intoxicating that it filled Hallie’s lungs like oxygen.
The last time Hallie visited Lake Como was six years ago for Portia’s wedding. It had been two weeks of nonstop celebration. They held lakeside picnics that started at breakfast and ended as the sun set behind the mountains. They attended all-night parties that featured clowns and acrobats, exotic birds in gilt cages, discos with glittering balls of light.
Hallie met racecar drivers, polo players, princes, and counts with names that seemed straight out of Romeo and Juliet. Young men with olive skin and green eyes whirled her around the dance floor and whispered poetry in her ear. They fed her profiteroles and poured Italian wines into crystal goblets.
“Antonio Picata wants to marry you,” Portia had said as they lay in Portia’s bedroom after a party that ended at dawn.
“He doesn’t speak a word of English. He talked with his hands all night.”
“Did you see his hands?” Portia had sighed, hugging her chest. “They were made for lovemaking.”
“You’re getting married in three days.” Hallie had smiled. “You shouldn’t be thinking about another man’s hands.”
“In Italy you never stop thinking about another man’s hands. That’s what keeps marriage alive. Every time Riccardo touches me I imagine he is a stranger; it sends shivers down my spine.”
“Americans are boring,” Hallie had murmured sleepily.
“Who wants a boring life?” Portia had sat up in bed. “You should move to Italy. You’ll marry a count and we’ll have speedboat races across the lake.”
“I just graduated from UCLA, I want to have my own design firm and create fabulous rooms clients adore,” Hallie had mumbled.
“You’ll get tired of working for other people.” Portia had waved her hand airily. “For Italians there are no sweeter words than ‘la dolce vita.’”
* * *
“La dolce vita,” Hallie said the words aloud as Louisa cleared the glasses.
Hallie would drag Portia out of her turret bedroom and they would swim and bicycle, hike and paddleboat, shop and walk along the promenade. Portia would kick and scream and curse Riccardo. Hallie would try to forget the scene at Patsy’s wedding and remember the things she loved about Peter: his curious mind, his bright, boyish charm.
Constance walked into the salon clutching a parcel wrapped in gold paper.
“Did you know Sophia has never been on an airplane?” Constance handed the package to Hallie. “She says she only wants to touch the clouds when she’s on her way to heaven.”
“Sophia probably arranged with the Pope for a private escort to bring her to the pearly gates.” Hallie turned the parcel over in her hand. It was a thick rectangle tied with red ribbon.
“She put your mother through the circles of hell, but that was decades ago.” Constance kissed Hallie on both cheeks. “Tell Peter to come for dinner on Sunday; we’ll miss you together.”
Hallie walked down the steps to her car. She peered up at Constance’s mansion. She could see the chandeliers twinkling behind velvet curtains and imagined Constance sitting down at the mahogany dining table. She tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. She was leaving Peter, Constance, her mother, and her job. She murmured, “La dolce vita,” and turned the car toward Russian Hill.
chapter five
Hallie stood in the arrivals terminal of the Milan airport, waiting for her luggage. It seemed like days since she boarded the plane in
San Francisco. Francesca had driven her to the airport, ladening her with pastries for Portia and Sophia and a selection of baby clothes for Marcus’s wife, Angelica.
“Tell Marcus to call the minute the baby arrives.” Francesca hugged Hallie at the security check-in. “And give Angelica lots of hugs; at least I have one child whose life isn’t full of drama.”
“I can’t believe Marcus is going to be a father,” Hallie agreed, picturing a dark-haired baby with round fists and feet. Marcus managed the Tesoro business interests in Milan and his wife was newly pregnant.
“Tell Angelica to save the clothes for you.” Francesca squeezed Hallie’s hand. “In a couple of years you’ll need them.”
“I hope so.” Hallie blinked away tears. She refused to let Peter take her to the airport, and he barely glanced up from his laptop when she lugged her suitcase to the door. She put her bag in her mother’s Volkswagen and hugged the cake box against her chest.
* * *
Hallie watched her bag come off the carousel. Portia wanted to meet her in Milan but Hallie insisted she could get to Lake Como by herself. Suddenly she felt tired and alone. The Italian men and women resembled film stars with their glossy black hair and smooth olive skin.
Until Hallie landed in Rome, she felt chic and sophisticated. She wore yellow Kate Spade capris with a matching hoodie and flat Tory Burch sandals. She carried a cavernous Michael Kors tote and wore white Oliver Peoples sunglasses.
But stepping off the plane in Rome, Hallie felt like a teenager crashing her first adult cocktail party. The women wore pencil-thin skirts and carried Gucci clutches. Their skin glowed as if they emerged from a spa instead of an international flight.
Milan was worse. Hallie saw bright silk dresses that belonged on a runway and four-inch stilettos encrusted with jewels. The men wore shirts open to the waist and leather loafers without socks.
“Potrebbe aivatani con le valige?” a man asked, pointing to her suitcase.
Hallie jumped. No one had spoken to her since the flight attendant announced their arrival in Milan.
