Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  Hallie felt lazy and satiated, like a cat who drank a bowl of warm milk. Making love to Peter had been so natural. Their bodies fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He knew how to make her soar, how to hold her afterward.

  Hallie watched the ferries chug across the lake. She saw the mist clear, revealing Lenno and Tremezzo and Menaggio. She repeated the names of the villages, like lines in a nursery rhyme. She could live here, she could get to know her father, she could open a little design store in Como or Varenna.

  Hallie didn’t know if that was what she wanted, but she didn’t know it wasn’t what she wanted. And she couldn’t string Peter along while she figured it out. She was like a lizard shedding her skin. Maybe the new Hallie would still be a California girl who loved shopping in Union Square, but maybe she would be happiest exploring Bellagio with Portia.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Peter entered the room carrying a tray of scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and sliced honeydew. He wore running shorts and Nikes and had a wadded-up newspaper under his arm. “I don’t know how to say ‘sunny-side up’ in Italian.” He put the tray on the table.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then we can go back to bed and eat later.” Peter kissed her neck. “After we work up an appetite.”

  “Peter, we can’t do this anymore,” Hallie said.

  “Do what?” Peter frowned, spreading The New York Times on the table.

  “Be together,” Hallie stammered.

  “You’re wearing my ring!” Peter exclaimed. “We’re engaged.”

  “I put it back in the box.” Hallie showed him her naked finger. “It’s on the bedside table.”

  “You seemed happy wearing it last night,” Peter stormed. “You seemed pretty content drinking champagne and fucking like rabbits.”

  “I might stay here a while.” Hallie’s eyes filled with tears. “Long-distance relationships don’t work.”

  “I told you I can survive a few months.” Peter’s eyes narrowed.

  “I might stay longer, I may move here.” Hallie fiddled with the pages of the newspaper.

  “That’s crazy! Lake Como is for holidays. You have a job in San Francisco, family, me.”

  “I have family here, and a job,” Hallie replied.

  “Did you meet someone?” Peter demanded furiously. “Some Italian bastard with leather loafers and a red Maserati?”

  “It’s no one.” Hallie shook her head. “It’s just me.”

  “That’s the biggest cliché in the book.” Peter jumped up. “Christ, Hallie, we’re not teenagers. I thought you wanted to get married. I thought that’s why we attended more weddings this summer than Father Xavier.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hallie murmured.

  “You’re serious!” Peter shoved his clothes in his backpack. He stuffed the Tiffany box in his pocket and grabbed his passport from the bedside table. “Here.” He threw Paul Johns Unplugged on the table. “You might want to read the dedication.”

  Hallie flinched as Peter slammed the door behind him. She watched him run down the promenade toward the ferry terminal. She saw him stand in line, buy his ticket, board the ferry. She waited to see if he would look back, but he stared straight ahead. Finally he sat on the bench, his body crumpling like a hand puppet.

  Hallie turned the book over and glanced at Peter’s photo. She opened it and read the inscription:

  To Hallie. A journalist’s job is to keep moving, chasing the next story. When I met you, I discovered what being home meant. You are everything to me, and none of it is worth anything without you.

  Hallie read the words again. Then she closed the book, so the tears running down her cheeks wouldn’t ruin the pages.

  chapter fourteen

  Hallie entered the Villa Tesoro and closed the door quietly behind her. She didn’t want to run into Sophia or Pliny while wearing her red silk dress and Prada sandals. She crept past the library and heard voices arguing in Italian. She saw Sophia through the slit in the door, her face as pale as a statue, and Pliny gesturing like an orchestra conductor.

  Hallie dragged herself up the stairs, still reeling from Peter’s angry departure. She felt like a tightrope walker whose safety net had been pulled from under her. She knew she had done the right thing, but her heart ached. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep, until her eyes stopped misting over.

  “Where have you been at eleven in the morning wearing red Valentino?” Portia demanded. She sat cross-legged on Hallie’s bed. Her hair was wound in a thick braid, and she wore a turquoise peasant skirt and silver sandals.

  “You’re supposed to be in Capri!” Hallie exclaimed.

  “I came back early,” Portia mumbled.

  “Where’s Riccardo?”

  “Probably still at the Hotel Quisisana, wondering why I cut up his credit card.” Portia giggled, wrapping her hair around her fingers.

  “Tell me what happened.” Hallie sank onto the bed.

  “First tell me why you’re sneaking into your bedroom like a naughty choirgirl.”

  “Peter showed up.” Hallie sighed. “We spent the night at the Hotel Metropole.”

  “Why don’t you have that wonderful postcoital glow?” Portia asked.

  “Because I broke up with him,” Hallie replied. “Permanently.”

  “I thought you said he was good in bed. Or are you still worried about Kendra?”

  “The sex is great, and I believe nothing was going on,” Hallie said, realizing she did believe him. Peter had been so earnest and sincere, she felt like she could see straight through him. “I’m not ready to get married.”

  “You’ve subscribed to Bride magazine since you were sixteen!” Portia exclaimed.

  “I’ll explain, but first I want to know why you’re not exploring the grottos with Riccardo?”

  “We took a boat through the grottos.” Portia threw herself back on the bed. “We ate scampi in the piazza and shopped at Gucci and Fendi and Prada. We climbed to the top of Ana Capri and strolled through Tiberius’s villa. Capri was glorious and sexy and exhilarating.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Quisisana is breathtaking, all white marble and turquoise sofas and cushions. It’s like the Mediterranean brought indoors, and the service is exquisite. Two dozen yellow roses and a jar of Beluga caviar were waiting in our room.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a place you’d want to leave early,” Hallie mused.

  “Riccardo was so attentive; he would leave the hotel and bring back dresses, shoes, bags, scarves. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” Portia continued. “Last night he made reservations at Quisi, the five-star restaurant. The waiters wear Armani tuxes and the champagne flutes are Baccarat crystal. After dinner he presented me with this.” Portia thrust her hand in front of Hallie. On her ring finger was a huge sapphire sitting on a bed of sparkling diamonds.

  “Wow.” Hallie examined the ring closely. “That looks like it belongs in the Tower of London.”

  “He opened a bottle of Krug champagne and said how he longs for children,” Portia said. “If it was a boy he wanted to name him Allesandro and buy him a pony and teach him how to play polo.”

  “I’ll give him children if I get a rock like this,” Hallie teased.

  “After dinner we went upstairs and made love.” Portia lay back against the pillows. “It was wonderful and romantic and I prayed that I conceived. I woke up in the middle of the night and the bed was empty. I thought maybe Riccardo went down to get a newspaper; sometimes he’s a terrible sleeper. I had this sudden urge for a candy bar. I even laughed I was pregnant and it was my first craving.” Portia’s face puckered like she had eaten a sour lemon. “So I slipped on a robe and took the elevator down to the gift shop. I passed the bar and I saw Riccardo sitting in a corner, his hand on some strange woman’s breast. She had copper hair and eyelashes like Sophia Loren. He was fondling her breast and his other hand was creeping up her skirt. I could see her underwear.”

  “Oh, Portia,” Hallie breathed.
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  “I ran upstairs and sliced his silk shirts, his linen blazers, his cotton pants with a pair of scissors. Then I cut up his credit cards and took the money in his wallet. He’s not going to be happy when it’s time to pay his bill.”

  “You didn’t.” Hallie laughed.

  “I ran out of the hotel and waited at the ferry until morning,” Portia continued grimly. “I took the train from Naples and arrived home an hour ago.”

  “Is that why I heard Sophia shrieking like a Greek chorus?” Hallie asked.

  “I don’t care if I end up a spinster who wears her hair in a bun and the same black dress every day.” Portia’s lips quivered. “I can’t have children with a man who runs from our bed to another woman’s breast.”

  “You’ll find another husband.” Hallie put her hand on Portia’s arm.

  “Sophia may be furious but I can’t live a lie.” Portia jumped up and darted around the room. “What kind of man would my son grow up to be with Riccardo for a father?”

  “There’s nothing worse than lying,” Hallie agreed, thinking about Francesca’s notebooks in her suitcase.

  Portia curled up on the ottoman like a tight ball of string. “I’m going to go to the chapel and pray I’m not pregnant.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Hallie replied. “Let me change out of this dress.”

  “First tell me why you broke up with Peter,” Portia demanded. “He may be the last decent man out there.”

  “Let’s talk about it later. We’ve spent enough energy talking about men this morning.”

  * * *

  Hallie sat in the back of the tiny chapel while Portia kneeled in the front row, her hands pressed firmly together. Hallie had never seen Portia so distraught, like a child who had witnessed some terrible crime. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her shoulders sagged. Only the sapphire glittering on her finger reminded Hallie of the strong, effervescent Portia she knew.

  “Let’s not go back to the villa yet,” Portia said when they emerged into the sunshine. “Let’s go somewhere we’ll be completely alone and no one will find us.”

  Hallie followed Portia through the gardens to the lake. They ran through thick weeds and beds of dandelions. Finally they reached a small cove hidden from the villa, and Portia stripped off her clothes down to her underwear.

  “Marcus and I used to swim here when we were children.” Portia waded into the lake. “We pretended we were stranded on a desert island, and ate dandelions when we got hungry. Sophia never knew where we went, but we always returned home with a terrible stomachache.”

  Hallie slipped out of her cotton dress and dipped her toes in the water. It was warm and clear and she could see schools of fish swimming past her. They took turns climbing onto a rock and jumping into the lake. Then they clambered back to shore and lay prone on the sand like starfish.

  “I’m glad you didn’t give Riccardo back the ring.” Hallie stretched out next to Portia.

  “And give him the satisfaction of presenting it to his new girlfriend?” Portia held the stone up to the sun. “I’m going to sell it and donate the proceeds to a home for unwed mothers.”

  “Have you thought about what you are going to do?” Hallie asked.

  “I considered joining a convent, but I look terrible in brown.” Portia sat up and hugged her knees. “And I’d hate to cut my hair.”

  “You could dance again,” Hallie suggested.

  “I’m too old to sell tickets at the ballet.” Portia shrugged. “But I might visit Madame LaFarge. She owns the ballet school I used to attend in Como. She’s been saying she’s going to retire for twenty years, but the last time I was in Como she was still rapping young girls’ knees with her cane.”

  “I might stay at Villa Tesoro a while longer,” Hallie mused. “I could use the company.”

  “You broke up with Peter and you’re staying in Lake Como?” Portia frowned. “Did I miss something while I was gone? Are you having a torrid affair with that sexy estate manager I met in Varenna?”

  “I’m not having an affair.” Hallie shook her head, remembering the kiss on the lake, Angus’s strong arms and hazel eyes.

  “It could be a Lady Chatterley’s lover thing. People say Italians invented love, but the British write the best novels about smoldering love affairs.”

  “I broke up with Peter because I discovered some things about myself,” Hallie said seriously. “I need to work them out before I can be in a relationship.”

  “Are you sick?” Portia asked.

  “I found Francesca’s diaries,” Hallie replied. “She wrote them while she lived at the villa.”

  “Our mother wrote diaries?” Portia pressed her lips together.

  “They were hidden behind The Water Babies,” Hallie replied. “Four notebooks tied with purple ribbon.”

  “I don’t want to hear what she wrote,” Portia said quietly.

  Hallie looked at Portia, who had wide eyes like a doe, thin shoulders, and glossy black hair. She remembered the picture taken at the lake, Pliny holding Portia in his arms and Marcus clutching his mother’s hand.

  “The diaries start when she and Pliny met.” Hallie went on as if she hadn’t heard her. “They were both head over heels in love. Pliny was ridiculously handsome, like a European film star. He proposed after they’d known each other for a few days. The priest married them in a hotel room in Gstaad.”

  “My father told me,” Portia said icily. “It was quite the fairy tale.”

  “Everything was fine until Marcus was born. Then the Villa Tesoro became a prison. Francesca was only allowed to see Marcus for an hour a day. He had a wet nurse and a nanny.”

  “All upper-class Italian families have nannies.”

  “Sophia dictated how Francesca dressed, who she saw. She told Pliny and Francesca when to have another baby. Pliny took Sophia’s side in every argument. He acted like a child instead of a husband.”

  “That’s no reason to desert your children. I was barely one when Francesca left.” Portia’s eyes flashed.

  “She loved you so much,” Hallie replied. “She wrote you were the most beautiful baby. One day she discovered that Sophia was going to send Marcus to boarding school in Switzerland when he was eight. Francesca flew into a rage and insisted Pliny stop her. Pliny promised he would tell Sophia that you and Marcus didn’t go away until you were twelve.” Hallie ran her hands through the sand. “Francesca found a receipt from Le Rosey confirming Marcus’s enrollment for the autumn of 1989. She was furious at Pliny for betraying her.”

  “Sophia is a difficult woman,” Portia conceded, shielding her eyes from the sun. “But Francesca hopped on a plane without looking back.”

  “Francesca discovered she was pregnant and thought if she waited Sophia would confine her to the villa. She couldn’t bear the thought of turning another baby over to nannies. She was sure when she got to San Francisco, Constance would help her rescue you and Marcus.”

  “What happened to the baby?” Portia asked.

  “She was born Hallie Constance Elliot and grew up in a mansion in Pacific Heights. She had white blond hair and blue eyes and a beautiful half sister named Portia.”

  “But your father is Phillip Elliot,” Portia interrupted. “You told me all about him.”

  “All fiction.” Hallie hunched over in the sand. “You can read the diaries; they’re in my suitcase.”

  “Why didn’t Francesca come back for us?” Portia asked vehemently. “She couldn’t have fought very hard. I didn’t see her again until I was nine years old.”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly her own anger couldn’t stand the weight of Portia’s. Portia was four years old again, flashing eyes and wild black hair, demanding to know where her mother was.

  “Did you tell Peter?”

  Hallie shook her head. “He and Constance are very close. I haven’t told anyone, except Angus.”

  “The sexy estate manager?” Portia raised her eyebrows.

  “You were in Capri.” Hallie sighed. “Saying
it out loud made me realize I might belong here. I’m half Italian, like you and Marcus.”

  “We need to tell Pliny,” Portia said decisively.

  “What if he kicks me out?”

  “You’re beautiful and educated and accomplished, you’re Princess Grace and California Barbie rolled into one. And you haven’t done anything scandalous like divorce your husband.”

  “Pliny loves you,” Hallie said.

  Portia nodded. “It’s the only thing I’ve been sure of my whole life.”

  “Maybe we should both join the convent.” Hallie thought of the pain Francesca had caused Pliny, the hurt Riccardo inflicted on Portia, the wounded look in Peter’s eyes, and the empty pit in her own stomach.

  “I could live without men.” Portia lay back on the sand. “But I’d miss our slumber parties.”

  Hallie and Portia put on their clothes and crept back to the villa. It was almost evening and they were starving. Portia joked they should build a campfire. They could catch a fish and scavenge for berries. They could make a bed out of twigs and branches and sleep under the stars.

  They waited until Sophia was in the chapel saying her evening prayers, then they slipped into the kitchen. Portia foraged through the pantry and collected a jar of olives, a box of breadsticks, and a pot of hummus. She opened the fridge and brought out cold slices of pizza.

  “Sophia thinks pizza is for peasants, but it’s Pliny’s favorite food.” Portia wrapped them in a napkin. “Now all we need is a bottle of wine and we’ll have a picnic.”

  “I don’t want to go back to the lake. I’m covered in bug bites.”

  “I have a better idea.” Portia smiled. “All we need is a flashlight.”

  Portia grabbed two flashlights and led Hallie up a stone path behind the villa. They climbed higher, until the lake fluttered below them like tissue paper. They reached a grove of olive trees and found a small hut. Inside there was a wooden table and two chairs painted dark green.

  “Marcus and I begged a gardener to build this for us years ago.” Portia squeezed through the narrow door. “We used to hold meetings of our secret society. You were only allowed in if you drank a teaspoon of castor oil.”