Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  “Archaeologists are squatters. We’re always pitching tents on foreign real estate.” Angus ate a large mouthful of rice and fish. “I keep Max’s estate running smoothly, when intruders aren’t sneaking into the hall of mirrors.”

  “I didn’t mean to sneak in.” Hallie grimaced.

  “I’m glad you did.” Angus sipped his wine. “It’s nice to hear the sound of a woman’s footsteps in the halls.”

  “Thank you for listening to me today.” Hallie put down her fork. “But I—”

  “I meant what I said earlier,” Angus interrupted. “We can be friends, like Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.”

  “I was never a tomboy.” Hallie’s shoulders relaxed. “I have a large Barbie doll collection.”

  “I don’t expect you to wear blond braids and suspenders”—Angus refilled his wineglass—“but maybe we can fish together. I’ll show you different parts of the lake.”

  Hallie concentrated on the tomatoes and mozzarella drizzled in olive oil. The mozzarella was sweet, not like any she’d eaten in San Francisco. She glanced at the mosaic tile floor, the Corinthian columns, the sweeping views from Como to Cenobio.

  Hallie shivered, thinking she should be sitting in a café on Fillmore, sharing a plate of tapas with Peter. She should be drinking Napa Valley pinot noir instead of Italian cabernet. She should go home to her apartment on Russian Hill and climb into her king-sized bed. She should know who she was, where she belonged, instead of having a last name that was fiction.

  “It’s been a long day.” Hallie tried to keep the tears from her eyes. “I can take the ferry back.”

  “And miss me showing off my boating skills?” Angus collected dishes and plates. “I’ve been practicing since I was a kid with a rubber dingy in the bathtub.”

  * * *

  Hallie sat in the back of the speedboat, her arms hugging her chest. The lake shimmered like diamonds laid out on black velvet. Angus seemed very tall, his hands clasped around the steering wheel. His hair was thick reddish brown and his eyes had yellow flecks in the moonlight.

  “Safe and sound.” Angus jumped onto the dock. He reached for Hallie’s hand and helped her out of the boat.

  “Thanks for dinner, it was delicious,” Hallie replied.

  “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on”—Angus squeezed her hand—“mine are pretty big.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Hallie paused. Angus stood so close she could smell wine and garlic and thyme. He reached down to kiss her cheek and she turned and ran up the steps to the villa.

  chapter thirteen

  Hallie sat in the small salon, leafing through House & Garden. She had waited until she saw Pliny untie the boat from the dock, until she heard Sophia close the door of her study. Then she crept downstairs and filled a plate with berries, toast, and scrambled eggs. She managed to eat three bites of egg before the events of yesterday came rushing back to her. Then she abandoned the plate and sank into a sofa in the salon.

  Hallie still didn’t know what to do with her new knowledge. She gazed at the frescos on the ceiling, the silk curtains on the windows, and felt a ping deep inside her. She was a Tesoro and this magnificent villa with its history and gilt furniture were in some way part of her. She had come close to knocking on Pliny’s door, but at the last minute she froze. He might be furious with Francesca and throw Hallie out. Or he might put his arms around Hallie and embrace her.

  “A gentleman is asking for you.” Lea stood at the door in her black uniform and white apron.

  Hallie closed the magazine. It was probably Alfonso, returned from Milan with the silk swatches he promised her. She glanced in the mirror over the fireplace and frowned. It could be Angus offering her a ride to Villa Luce.

  When she woke up she lay in bed, and thought about her evening with Angus. The kiss was wrong, even dinner was wrong. From now on she would keep their relationship strictly professional. But when she closed her eyes she saw his broad shoulders, pictured him reeling in the big orange fish, and was glad she spent time with him.

  “Hey,” a voice said behind her. “Or should I say, buona sera.”

  Hallie turned around and saw Peter standing at the door. He wore jeans and a Giants T-shirt and carried a khaki backpack. He looked young and clean and all-American.

  “Peter!” Hallie exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s not much of a greeting.” He grinned, walking over to Hallie and kissing her on the lips.

  “I’m thrilled,” Hallie said when he finally released her. He smelled like deodorant and airplane peanuts. “I just had no idea.”

  “I got the interview with the think tank in Paris,” Peter explained. “I decided to stop here on the way.”

  “I could have picked you up in Milan,” Hallie replied.

  “I wanted to surprise you.” Peter smiled. His teeth were white and straight and shiny. “You look gorgeous, almost Italian.”

  Hallie glanced at her orange Pucci dress and strapless Gucci sandals. Her arms and legs were tan and she wore an enamel clip in her hair.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time on the lake,” Hallie murmured.

  “Lake Como is beautiful.” Peter nodded, admiring the artwork on the wall and the bronze statue by the fireplace. “And the villa is amazing, I’ve never seen so much marble.”

  “All the villas on the lake are spectacular,” Hallie agreed. Her stomach did little flips and her heart raced. Peter was like a ghost from another life. She couldn’t believe they were standing together in the Tesoro salon.

  “I want a full tour,” Peter said. “But right now I’m starving. All I ate on the plane was cardboard pizza and Styrofoam coffee.”

  “I don’t think Lea has removed breakfast yet.” Hallie walked across the hall to the dining room.

  Peter loaded his plate with waffles and berries and fresh whipped cream. He drank a tall glass of orange juice and a demitasse of coffee. He ate everything and went back for eggs, wheat toast, and slices of melon.

  “The food is delicious.” Peter wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Is this all just for breakfast?”

  “Sophia takes pride in the Tesoro cuisine,” Hallie said. “Dinner is at least five courses.”

  “Where is everyone?” Peter asked, refilling his coffee cup.

  “Pliny is out on the lake and Sophia is in her study,” Hallie replied. “Portia and Riccardo are in Capri. They’re almost back together.”

  “Then you can come home!” Peter put down his coffee, his eyes sparkling. “We can return together after I come back from France.”

  “I can’t leave now,” Hallie murmured.

  “You came to keep Portia company,” Peter said tersely. “She’s on holiday with her husband.”

  “I have a job,” Hallie replied. “I have to finish it.”

  “There are hundreds of interior designers in Italy,” Peter argued. “I want you to come home.”

  “Designing the Villa Luce is very important to me; it’s a golden opportunity.”

  “Christ, Hallie,” Peter grumbled, suddenly angry. “You’ve been here almost a month.”

  “If I finish this job, I can open my own firm.” Hallie stood up and walked to the buffet.

  “I thought you liked working for Kendra.” Peter stood beside her. “Is this still about the wedding at City Hall? I haven’t seen Kendra in weeks.”

  “It’s not about Kendra.” Hallie shook her head. “If you saw the Villa Luce, you’d understand. I’m going on my first buying trip next week, I’m so excited.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Peter suggested. “Let’s go after breakfast.”

  Hallie flinched. “I can’t just show up with you. Max is a recluse, with a particular dislike for journalists and photographers.”

  “Sounds like the kind of guy I’d like to meet.” Peter grinned mischievously.

  Hallie glanced at her watch. “I’m late. I should get to work.”

  “You’re not going to take a siesta with me?” Peter whispered.
He put one arm around her waist and the other smoothly beneath her dress. He flicked the top of her underwear and slipped his hand underneath the thin fabric.

  “Peter!” Hallie protested. His hand felt warm and familiar. “Lea could walk in any second.”

  “Show me where your bedroom is,” Peter murmured. “I’m going to lie down and sleep for eight hours.”

  “You can’t stay here.” Hallie felt his hand pressed between her thighs. “Portia doesn’t even bring Riccardo upstairs.”

  “I’ve flown three thousand miles to see you,” Peter pleaded, caressing her with his fingers.

  “We’ll check you in to the Hotel Metropole. It’s just above the ferry terminal.”

  “As long as you promise to join me after work.” Peter slipped his fingers deep inside her. He searched for the sweet spot, probing, working, until he felt her body tense and shudder.

  “I will.” Hallie clung to his back, letting the long, delicious waves wash over her.

  “And you don’t have to wear these,” Peter whispered, snapping the panties against her skin.

  * * *

  Hallie stood in her closet, selecting a dress to wear for dinner. She had been strangely nervous all day. She walked from room to room at the Villa Luce, questioning her design decisions. She didn’t eat lunch, and found herself in the kitchen in the late afternoon, eating Angus’s leftover risotto. She put the bowl back in the fridge, embarrassed that she ate his food without asking.

  Angus had taken the boat to run errands and Hallie had the villa to herself. She wondered whether Max was upstairs or in Genoa. She had stopped asking Angus about meeting him. She was so wrapped up in creating the new space, she almost didn’t want outside influences. Except today, when she seemed to forget everything she learned in design school.

  Hallie picked out a red Valentino with a heart-shaped neckline. She added small diamond earrings and a diamond-and-ruby bracelet. Peter liked her to wear red; he said it made her eyes glitter.

  * * *

  When she saw Peter standing in the salon, she had felt a rush of relief. She would tell him about Francesca’s diaries and he would know what to do. But as the day wore on, she doubted her decision. Peter was a journalist; he would want to learn the whole story. Hallie couldn’t risk him telling Constance or even Francesca before she was ready.

  Returning to Bellagio on the evening ferry, Hallie probed her feelings about Peter. Her body had instantly welcomed him. He flipped a switch that made her greedy for his touch.

  But Hallie felt a hardness inside her, like a coat of armor around her heart. Peter wanted to take her back to San Francisco where she would continue to be Hallie Elliot, and perhaps Hallie Merrick. She gazed at the narrow villages climbing up to the mountains, the majestic villas lining the shore, and felt like she had been sprinkled with fairy dust. Lake Como was magic and she wasn’t ready to leave its spell.

  * * *

  Hallie slipped on gold Prada sandals and grabbed a red Fendi clutch. She rubbed on lip gloss and ran down the staircase to the foyer.

  “Hallie!” Pliny stood in the entryway. He wore brown linen slacks and a white silk shirt, and twirled a set of car keys in his hand. “I’m going to pick up the mayor of Bellagio. He’s joining us for dinner to discuss the dedication of the statue.”

  “I have dinner plans tonight,” Hallie stammered. She hadn’t seen Pliny since she found the diaries. Her heart seemed to slow and her blood froze. He looked the same as he had yesterday: salt-and-pepper hair, chiseled cheeks, kind smile. But everything was different.

  “Are you making friends in Lake Como?” Pliny inquired.

  “A friend arrived from San Francisco.” Hallie blushed, picking a piece of lint from her dress. “He’s staying at the Hotel Metropole.”

  “A male friend flew from America to see you,” Pliny mused. “Is it something serious?”

  Hallie mumbled, “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “You will have to bring him to the villa,” Pliny suggested.

  “He’s not staying long,” Hallie said. “He’s on his way to Paris.”

  “Portia and Riccardo are moving back to their villa,” Pliny began. “Sophia is grateful to you, and so am I.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Hallie thought about Portia’s fears of being a mother, about Riccardo’s mistress. She prayed that Portia knew what she was doing.

  “We want you to know that you are welcome to stay at the Villa Tesoro as long as you like,” Pliny finished.

  “Thank you.” Hallie’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away, searching for something in her purse. “I have to go, I’m late.”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman.” Pliny opened the front door. “Your mother must be proud.”

  * * *

  Peter was waiting for Hallie in the hotel lobby. He wore a white shirt and a narrow black tie. His short hair was brushed back and he was freshly shaved.

  “You look gorgeous.” He kissed the side of her neck. “Like a European film star.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Hallie replied. Suddenly it was all too much: Peter at her side as if they were grabbing a bite on Union Street, Pliny kind and courteous like a benevolent stranger. She wished she were with Portia in her bedroom, playing loud music and dancing on the bed like teenagers.

  “I have a bottle of champagne waiting upstairs.” Peter guided her toward the elevator.

  “I thought we were having dinner,” Hallie said. The hotel lobby was full of couples on holiday, sipping evening aperitifs. A smattering of Italians sat at the bar, talking quickly and popping nuts into their mouths.

  “I have a surprise in the room.” Peter’s eyes sparkled.

  Hallie followed Peter to the elevator. The hotel room was lit with candles and a table for two was set on the balcony. There were crystal champagne glasses, a silver ice bucket, and a vase holding a white lily.

  “It’s beautiful.” Hallie sank into a chair. Peter poured her a glass of champagne, and she drank it quickly, the bubbles traveling straight to her toes.

  “Not as beautiful as you.” Peter sat opposite her. He sprinkled ground pepper on her salad and tossed it in a Caesar dressing. “I had room service send everything in advance, so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  Hallie ate mechanically, listening to Peter talk about Spilled, about the interview with the Apple programmer that might become a book.

  “Speaking of books.” Peter got up and walked to his backpack. “I brought you a present.”

  Hallie glanced at the thick book tied with a red ribbon. A photo of Paul Johns was on the front, and on the back, Peter’s author photo: young and handsome and brimming with confidence.

  “It’s the seventh printing of Paul Johns Unplugged,” Peter explained. “It has a new dedication and a preface by Mark Zuckerberg.”

  “That’s fantastic.” Hallie beamed. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I was wrong wanting you to come home,” Peter said meditatively. He removed their salads and produced two plates of salmon and vegetables from the warmer. The salmon was covered in a light cream sauce and the vegetables were sweet and buttery. “We should rent a car and drive around the lake. Maybe drive over the mountains to Switzerland.”

  “I’m working.” Hallie put down her fork. “And I thought you were chained to the magazine.”

  “I hired a new editor.” Peter refilled their champagne glasses. “He just graduated from Berkeley and he’s brilliant. Kendra introduced me, he’s the son of one of her clients.”

  “I thought you hadn’t seen Kendra in weeks.” Hallie’s fingers wound tightly around her glass.

  “I ran into her at some society thing.” Peter shrugged. “The kid is amazing, like a young Carl Bernstein.”

  “I’m really busy. It’s a huge project.”

  “I didn’t come to interview some kids in a think tank, I came to see you.” Peter grabbed her hand across the table. “I’m going crazy without you. I can survive a few months, but you have to promi
se you’ll marry me.”

  “Peter, I…” Hallie stammered.

  Peter reached into his pocket and brought out the blue Tiffany box. “Put this on.” He opened it and took out the diamond-and-ruby ring. “In five months I’ll pick you up from San Francisco airport. We’ll drive to Constance’s and sift through her list of florists and caterers. We’ll pick out flatware and plan our honeymoon.”

  “Peter.” Hallie pulled her hand back but he slipped the ring on her finger. He pulled her up and kissed her mouth and her neck. He brushed her breasts with his fingers and ran his hands down her thighs. He led her into the bedroom, closed the French doors, and dimmed the light.

  Peter stood next to the bed, holding her, until Hallie felt her heart hammer in her chest. Then he slowly unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. He put his mouth on her nipple, his other hand curled around her waist. He laid her on the bed, whispering her name like a mantra.

  Hallie watched Peter unbutton his shirt, pull off his tie, unzip his pants. She remembered the way his chest brushed against hers, the way he pinned her to the bed, his legs opening her thighs.

  She remembered dozens of nights of lovemaking, mornings waking up to fresh coffee and eggs, weekends spent in bed reading the paper. She suddenly missed him with an ache so strong, she almost leaped off the bed and pulled him on top of her. But Peter just stood there, his eyes roaming over her body, his lips playing in a half smile.

  Finally he lay on top of her, and entered her so quickly she thought she would break. He held her tightly, until her body quieted. Then he pulled her arms over her head, and pushed deeper, like a swimmer crossing the finishing line. His body moved in an invisible rhythm until she was caught up in it, shuddering and crying.

  Later, when Peter was asleep, she tried to wriggle free. But his breathing was steady and his arm was tucked securely behind her back. Hallie lay, eyes wide open, staring at the diamond ring glinting on her finger.

  When Hallie woke in the morning, Peter was gone. He left a note saying he was going for a run, signed with hearts and kisses. Hallie folded the note and slowly got dressed. She put the ring in its box and left it on the bedside table. She opened the French doors and sat on the balcony, watching Bellagio wake up below her.