Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  “This is a curious place to be a vegetarian.” Hallie gazed at the fishing boats out on the lake. “Am I going to meet Mr. Rodale?”

  “Everyone asks that.” Angus poured a glass of sparkling cider. “He’s not the hunchback of Notre Dame, he’s just very private.”

  “How did you meet him?” Hallie asked. All week she had wondered about her employer, searching the villa for clues to his personality. But there were no family photos, no worn books on the bookshelf, no framed awards or diplomas.

  “On a train from Naples to Rome,” Angus replied. “I grew up outside Boston, studied archaeology at a tiny New England college, and joined a dig in Athens. When that ended, I moved to a dig in Cyprus and then Pompeii. That’s how I learned to cook. At the end of the day, it was every man for himself.”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by Pompeii,” Hallie said. “All those children frozen in ashes.”

  “Archaeology is more fun in textbooks than in real life.” Angus shrugged. “It’s years of living in tents and sifting through dirt. If you’re lucky you find one gold coin. I started craving indoor plumbing. Mr. Rodale was looking for an estate manager and I accepted.”

  “It must be an interesting job.” Hallie glanced at Angus curiously. He seemed too educated, too intense, to spend his life picking up another man’s laundry.

  “Is that a nice way of saying I’m wasting my degree?” Angus grinned. “In Lake Como I’m surrounded by history. Lenno has churches that date back to the twelfth century.” Angus paused. “How about you? Have you wanted to be a designer since you were a little girl in pigtails?”

  “I used to draw on all my schoolbooks,” Hallie said, smiling. “Lake Como is so beautiful, every villa is a work of art.”

  “It’s Shangri-la.” Angus nodded. “The mountains keep out the world, and the lake is bursting with life. You could eat locally grown foods every day.”

  “If I’m not careful, I’ll get fat.” Hallie pushed away her plate. “I should get back to work. Would you like to see what I’ve done?”

  Angus cleared away the plates and Hallie turned on her computer. She clicked through plans for each room: ceilings the color of Wedgwood china, drapes like spun gold.

  Angus was quiet and Hallie glanced up, nervous that he didn’t like her designs. But when she saw his face, his red hair swept over his forehead, his hazel eyes and sharp nose, she realized he wasn’t looking at the computer. He was staring at her. Hallie turned quickly away, and described how she was going to hang the Botticelli.

  * * *

  Portia called as Hallie waited for the ferry. It was early evening and the ferry terminal was full of families returning from the beach, carrying buckets full of sand.

  “Meet me at the Hotel du Lac for dinner,” Portia demanded before Hallie could say hello.

  “When?” Hallie asked.

  “Now,” Portia replied. “I’m waiting in the bar.”

  “I’m not dressed for dinner.” Hallie glanced at her cotton skirt and leather sandals. “And I ate too much shrimp paella at lunch.”

  “Please, Hallie, I need to talk to you.”

  “Where’s Riccardo?” Hallie frowned. Hallie had barely seen Portia all week. Portia and Riccardo spent two nights at the Gritti Palace in Venice. Portia returned with new diamond earrings and a bottle of expensive perfume.

  “He’s going to meet me after dinner,” Portia replied.

  “Can we talk at home?” Hallie sighed. “I’d love a hot bath.”

  “I’ll order you a drink.” Portia hung up before Hallie could protest.

  * * *

  Hallie entered the Hotel du Lac and glanced around the room. Women wore skimpy cocktail dresses and stiletto heels. Their skin was golden brown and their mouths were dark shades of red. She found Portia at the bar, sucking down a martini.

  Portia spun around on the barstool. “I saved you a seat.”

  “It looks like you’re on a liquid diet.” Hallie pointed to the empty glasses lined up on the bar.

  “I got a head start.” Portia giggled. “But you can catch up.”

  “Is that a new dress?” Hallie asked. Portia wore a gray silk dress with an ivory sash. She had silver sandals on her feet and a diamond bracelet around her wrist.

  “It’s vintage Valentino.” Portia caressed the folds of the skirt. “We spent one night at the W in Milan. Riccardo gave me the dress and the bracelet.”

  “You’re running out of hotels.” Hallie sipped an apple martini. “You should live together, like most married couples.”

  “Riccardo wants to live together.” Portia glanced at Hallie with big, liquid eyes.

  “And give up Veronica?” Hallie asked.

  “I don’t know. But he doesn’t want a divorce.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Hallie said tentatively.

  “Sophia and Pliny will be very happy,” Portia mumbled.

  “You don’t look happy.” Hallie frowned. “Maybe Riccardo’s mistress does bother you. You’re not as European as you think.”

  “I just lock Veronica up in a compartment that I don’t let myself open.” Portia shrugged. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “You have a dashing Englishman who’s going to carry you off to a remote castle on the moor?” Hallie giggled.

  “You read too much Charlotte Brontë.” Portia rolled her eyes. “Let’s get a table. I need a plate of pasta.”

  Hallie and Portia sat at a table on the terrace. Hallie watched couples stroll along the promenade. The men smoked cigarettes and the women clicked narrow heels on the gravel.

  Hallie ordered gnocchi in a cream sauce and Portia ate tagliarini with prawns. They shared a bottle of red wine and a loaf of garlic bread.

  “It’s hard to be unhappy with such good food and wine,” Hallie mused.

  “La dolce vita.” Portia raised her glass.

  “May you and Riccardo live happily ever after and have many bambinos.”

  Portia put her glass down abruptly. She stabbed the pasta with her fork and looked at Hallie.

  “Riccardo left me because I’m afraid of having children,” Portia murmured. “He’ll only stay married on the condition that we have a baby.”

  “I thought he was in love with Veronica.”

  “He always has a Veronica.” Portia shrugged. “His women are like newspapers. He discards them when he’s done.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Hallie frowned. “Children will give you gray hairs and ruin the furniture, but they are very rewarding.”

  “I’m afraid I’d be a terrible mother.” Portia held her glass so tightly, Hallie thought it would snap. “I would run away like Francesca and abandon my children.”

  “Francesca was so young,” Hallie replied. “She was far away from Constance and San Francisco. The Tesoro villa was like a prison, she had to escape.”

  “But what if I’m just like her?” Portia demanded. “What if the baby is ugly or cries too much and I can’t stand it? I’ve always sworn I’d never have children. That’s why I wanted to be a dancer.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When Francesca left I was barely one. Marcus said I lay in my cot and cried for Mama every night. When I was three, I asked him where Mama went. Marcus told me she went to America because she didn’t love us.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “It was the only way to shut me up,” Portia replied. “I couldn’t understand how a mother could live away from her children. I hated her for so long. If I did the same thing, my children would hate me. I could never live with myself.”

  Hallie pictured young Portia, big green eyes and hair like a gypsy, running around the villa searching for her mother. “You wouldn’t do the same thing. You’re almost thirty, you have a good husband. You have Pliny and your grandmother and all your friends.”

  “Sometimes I get so angry at Riccardo, I want to stab him in the chest.” Portia’s eyes flashed. “What if I got sick of his women and had to l
eave? I couldn’t take my children with me. I’d do just what Francesca did, I’d desert them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hallie mumbled, her eyes filling with tears.

  “You didn’t have anything to do with it.” Portia tried to smile. “I was nine when I saw Francesca. By then I was a little girl who never had a mother.”

  “You seemed so worldly,” Hallie mused. “I remember the first time you stayed at Constance’s; you told me about the discos in Rome you could go to when you were ten.”

  “I was going to be the most famous ballerina since Anna Pavlova,” Portia replied. “They were going to name a cake after me.”

  “Chocolate cake with rich vanilla custard,” Hallie said lightly. “Do Sophia and Pliny know?”

  “They would chain me to the bed until Riccardo and I made a baby.” Portia shook her head.

  “Why didn’t you tell Riccardo when you married him?” Hallie asked.

  “No Italian man would marry a woman who didn’t want children.” Portia finished her wine. “I thought I would change my mind. I thought once we were married I would want a little Riccardo or Portia. But I just see a little girl running through a villa crying for her mother. I can’t take the chance of ruining a child’s life.”

  “What are you going to do?” Hallie asked.

  Portia refilled her wineglass and slumped in her chair. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  Hallie and Portia shared a dark chocolate cake in raspberry sauce. They had been sitting for an hour, mulling over Portia’s problem. They were both blurry with wine and full of pasta and bread.

  Hallie watched a young couple stroll along the promenade. The woman wore a wedding dress: creamy white satin, pearl beads, and a large ivory bow. The groom wore a black tux, white tie, and shiny black shoes. A photographer trailed them, posing them on the steps of the hotel.

  Hallie thought about the weddings she had attended this summer: the ballrooms lit with twinkling lights, the pink wedding cakes, the glasses of sparkling champagne. She remembered the thrill of arriving on Peter’s arm, confident that next year it would be her and Peter standing before the priest.

  “They make it look so easy.” Hallie pointed to the bride and groom. “Smile for the camera and live happily ever after.”

  “Weddings are like theater,” Portia agreed. “A magnificent stage, wonderful costumes, music, applause. Marriage is like the actors backstage, constantly arguing about their lines. We were better off when marriages were arranged.”

  “Constance is busy planning my wedding.” Hallie sighed. “I don’t have the heart to stop her.”

  “Did you tell Peter yes?”

  “I haven’t told him anything.” Hallie watched the bride and groom kiss. “I saw a picture of him and Kendra on Facebook. I’m sure it was innocent but it ties my stomach in knots.”

  “We’re going to have a slumber party.” Portia suddenly jumped up. “We’re going to pull out my Bangles CDs and dance and forget about men.”

  “What about Riccardo?” Hallie asked, remembering Portia as a girl with neon nail polish and white plastic go-go boots.

  “I’ll see him tomorrow.” Portia threw a wad of euros on the table and waltzed down the steps. “Tonight I’m going to be a little girl dreaming about being a ballerina.”

  “Can we jump on the bed and play air guitar?” Hallie laughed.

  “We’ll put up my old Enrique Iglesias poster and cover it with lipstick kisses,” Portia replied.

  “I wish I brought my bridal Barbie.” Hallie giggled, running to catch up with Portia on the promenade.

  chapter ten

  Hallie slipped on a green Tory Burch sundress and glanced in the mirror. She and Portia had stayed up all night, singing along to David Cassidy and Justin Timberlake. They passed around a bottle of raspberry cassis, finally falling asleep fully dressed on Portia’s king-sized bed.

  When Hallie woke, the French doors were wide open and Hallie could hear speedboats zipping across the lake. Portia had left a note saying that she was going for a spin in Riccardo’s new Lamborghini. Lea knocked on the door and informed Hallie that Sophia would like to see her in her study.

  Hallie brushed her hair, feeling like a young girl called to see the principal. She remembered sitting in the drab school hall, waiting to hear her punishment. Her infractions were never larger than chewing bubble gum or passing notes during chapel, but the headmistress, with her steel gray hair and flowing robes, filled Hallie with terror.

  Hallie knocked on the door and waited for an invitation to enter. The room had dark wood floors and a high, beamed ceiling. A painting of the Madonna and a round-faced infant filled one wall.

  “Is that a Raphael?” Hallie moved closer to the painting.

  “When he was a student,” Sophia affirmed. “Raphael is the greatest painter Italy ever produced. You must go to the Vatican and see the School of Athens.”

  “The villa I am designing has the most wonderful Renaissance art collection,” Hallie murmured. “You would love the Botticelli.”

  “I have a Botticelli in the library, I will show it to you.” Sophia took off her reading glasses and studied Hallie. “You are a good influence on Portia; I am pleased.”

  Hallie exhaled like a child who received a new doll when she was expecting to have her toys taken away.

  “I’m afraid we kept you awake last night.” Hallie smiled. “We’re not very good singers.”

  “Singing is better than staying locked in one’s room, refusing to eat.” Sophia twisted a large sapphire ring around her finger. “Portia is seeing Riccardo.”

  “I know.”

  “They must move in together and this will all be forgotten,” Sophia continued. “A blemish in the first flush of marriage.”

  “I’m not sure Portia is ready to live with Riccardo,” Hallie stammered.

  “This is not the time for courtship,” Sophia replied. “Portia will be thirty, it is time to start a family.”

  Hallie remembered Portia’s big, frightened eyes, her narrow, trembling shoulders. She wanted to say not all women wanted babies; some couples stayed happily married for decades without children. But Sophia’s eyes were hard as thumbtacks.

  “Portia should wait till Marcus’s wife has her baby,” Hallie suggested. “Angelica can teach her everything she learns.”

  “Tesoros have lived in Lake Como for four hundred years,” Sophia replied as if Hallie hadn’t spoken. “Portia knows her duty.”

  Hallie glanced around the room, looking for some way to change the subject. She saw Constance’s present, sitting on the desk wrapped in gold paper.

  “Did you like your gift?” Hallie asked.

  “Your grandmother is very thoughtful.” Sophia nodded. “We found we had much in common when she stayed at the villa. We both admire the poetry of Christina Rossetti.”

  Hallie blinked, trying to imagine Constance and Sophia sipping espresso and discussing Romantic poetry.

  “I must write to Constance and thank her,” Sophia continued. “It is curious that a woman as cultured as Constance could produce a wild child like Francesca.”

  Hallie clenched her hands. She sat up straight so Sophia wouldn’t see her flinch. “That was thirty years ago. Francesca has a successful wedding cake business.”

  “A baker.” Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Young people make mistakes, it is left to their elders to correct them.”

  Hallie kept her expression neutral. She wanted to get away from Sophia and breathe the fresh lake air. She wanted to run down to the shore and watch children play on the beach and see fishermen catch their dinner.

  “Come.” Sophia stood up. “I will show you the Botticelli.”

  Hallie followed Sophia down the grand staircase to the library. Every inch of wall was covered in books; they were stacked so high Hallie wondered how anyone reached them. Some were bound in leather; others were black with yellowed pages. There was a section of history books, art books, and thick, gold Bibles.


  “My grandfather started his collection one hundred years ago.” Sophia ran her knobby fingers over leather bindings. “He cataloged every book: French poetry, British drama, the Renaissance, the Middle Ages.”

  “I would love to borrow a book on the Renaissance,” Hallie murmured, flipping through a coffee table book on Michelangelo.

  Sophia shook her head. “The books do not leave this room. But you are welcome to sit and read. Return each volume where you found it.”

  Sophia placed the book of Rossetti’s poems on the shelf next to Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She showed Hallie the Botticelli in its ornate gold frame.

  “I must check in with Lea,” Sophia announced. “Riccardo and Portia are joining us for dinner.”

  * * *

  Hallie waited till Sophia’s footsteps faded, and then she approached the bookshelf. She remembered the hours she spent in Constance’s library, reading Nancy Drew and Judy Blume. She would curl up on the floral sofa and eat Jelly Bellys as she turned the pages.

  Hallie took down books on Donatello and da Vinci. She poured over Michelangelo’s sketches and pictures of Bellini’s statues. She moved from shelf to shelf, forgetting that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. There were volumes of Dante, Baudelaire, and Machiavelli. Hallie took down a book with a familiar gray cover. It was a dog-eared copy of The Water Babies, the only book Francesca read to her when she was a child.

  Constance usually supervised Hallie’s bedtime, reading a big book of Grimm’s fairy tales. But every now and then Francesca would take over, and read the same book at the same page. Hallie never got tired of the adventures of the water babies, thrilled to have Francesca’s complete attention.

  Hallie slid The Water Babies back on the shelf but it wouldn’t fit snugly into its place. Hallie put her hand in the empty space and felt a book spine pressed against the wood. She reached in and pulled out a notebook with a purple cover.

  “Dear Diary” was written in cursive, and underneath, the words “Property of Francesca Playfair.” Hallie turned the notebook over carefully. Her mother never wrote more than cake recipes; what inspired her to keep a diary?

  Hallie wanted to open it, yet she felt as though she was spying. But she couldn’t put it back on the shelf, even if it was just girlish scribble. She sat in the leather armchair, tucked her feet under her, and turned the page.