Lake Como

by Anita Hughes

  “I’m guessing you didn’t have many members.” Hallie sat on the green chair. She unwrapped a piece of pizza and chewed it hungrily. She hadn’t eaten since Peter stormed out of the hotel room.

  “We’re like the two girls in that movie The Parent Trap.” Portia opened the jar of olives. “They meet at camp and discover they are identical twins. One had never known her mother and the other had never met her father.”

  “They were twelve.” Hallie sighed. “I’m too old to be figuring out who I am.”

  “Remember the first summer I came to America and we made a pact that we would remain best friends, even with an ocean separating us?” Portia asked.

  “We snuck into Constance’s sewing room and pricked our thumbs with a needle,” Hallie said, smiling. “Then we pressed our thumbs together and swore that we were blood sisters.”

  “We are sisters!” Portia exclaimed. “The same blood runs through our veins. Maybe I shouldn’t be so angry with Francesca; she gave me the best present I could ask for.”

  “But she didn’t tell us,” Hallie murmured. “You can’t enjoy a gift if you don’t know it exists.”

  “You’re right.” Portia’s eyes were wet and bright. “Maybe we’re not angry enough.”

  “I don’t know if Pliny likes his coffee black or white.” Hallie sighed. “He doesn’t know I love Agatha Christie novels, that my first pet was named Miles, and that I broke my front tooth in the fourth grade.”

  “We’ll tell him tomorrow.” Portia opened the bottle of wine.

  “I hope he listens,” Hallie said darkly.

  “Tesoro women are strong.” Portia’s eyes glinted like a cat. “We won’t give him a choice.”

  chapter fifteen

  Hallie waited for Portia in the small salon. She had slept badly; her skin was sunburned and smattered with bug bites. She kept her phone beside the bed, but Peter hadn’t called or texted. She knew he wouldn’t—she recognized the wounded, determined look when he walked out the door. But she couldn’t stop herself from checking the screen.

  Hallie knew she must call Constance and tell her that she had broken up with Peter. Constance would be so upset—all her plans for a summer wedding, the lengthy discussions with Stanlee Gatti and Paula LeDuc, for nothing. But Hallie had to tell her the truth; she didn’t want to be someone who kept secrets.

  She tossed in bed, debating whether to call Francesca. Recounting the diaries to Portia, Hallie realized her mother wrote with little emotion. There were no scenes of weeping, no tortured nights lying awake, wondering if she made the right decision.

  Hallie had to ask Francesca how she could bring herself to leave two tiny children, how she could have kept Pliny’s relationship to Hallie a secret for so many years. She glanced at the phone illuminated in the dark, and knew if she didn’t talk to her mother soon, she may never talk to her again.

  * * *

  Portia entered the salon carrying a large box. She wore a red tube top and a white miniskirt. Her nails were painted with pink polish and a sterling silver heart dangled at her neck.

  “I’m donating all the clothes Riccardo gave me to charity.” Portia set the box on the coffee table.

  “What are you going to wear?” Hallie put down her magazine.

  “I’ve got closets full of clothes I bought in Milan and Florence.” Portia sifted through Valentino dresses, Dior silk blouses, Pucci slacks. “But I don’t want to touch anything Riccardo touched again. He’s lucky I don’t toss it all into the lake.”

  “You’re looking better.” Hallie glanced at Portia. She walked with her old skip and held herself erect like a ballerina. Even her words came out faster, as if the numbing pain had subsided.

  “I called Signor Berta, our family lawyer, and told him I want a divorce.” Portia closed the box. “If I’m going to burn in hell, I may as well enjoy living. La dolce vita!”

  “La dolce vita,” Hallie repeated.

  “I told Pliny you wanted to go sightseeing and asked him to drive us,” Portia said. “He’s bringing the car around.”

  “I’ve never driven with him,” Hallie murmured, catching her reflection in the mirror. She wore a blue cotton dress with a wide leather belt. Her hair was held back with a white ribbon, and she had applied mascara and shimmering lip gloss.

  “You look beautiful.” Portia squeezed her arm. “Wear your seat belt, he’s a terrible driver.”

  Hallie stepped into the backseat of the red Fiat and Pliny roared down the driveway. He drove with one hand, using the other to point out historic gardens, stone statues, and ancient churches. Portia turned up the radio and sang along to Italian pop songs, encouraging Hallie to join in on the chorus.

  The road was so narrow, Hallie held her breath whenever a car came in the other direction. Every now and then the Fiat entered a long tunnel. Hallie could almost feel the weight of the mountain above them, and closed her eyes until they emerged safely on the other side.

  They arrived in Lecco at lunchtime and the central piazza was teeming with people. Lecco wasn’t a tourist town like Bellagio, but somehow that made it more romantic. The inhabitants lived in small apartments and had ordinary jobs, but everywhere they turned was impossible beauty. The lake lapped the edge of Piazza Settembre and a tall clock tower stood in the town center. Behind, the Alps loomed like elder statesmen watching over their citizens.

  Pliny showed Hallie and Portia the basilica of San Nicolo and the Viscontea Tower, crumbling ruins of the Roman Empire. They visited the villa of the nineteenth-century writer Alfredo Manzoni, and Hallie bought a copy of his novel in the bookstore.

  They waited until the crowds thinned and the piazza lay serene in the afternoon sun. Pliny directed them to a restaurant facing the lake and they sat outside, drinking bottles of sparkling mineral water.

  Pliny consulted the menu. “They make the best pizza in Lake Como.” He had been animated and smiling all day. When workers whistled at Portia, he put his arm around her shoulder and murmured, “Mia bambina.”

  “Pliny used to bring me here when I was young.” Portia sipped her water. “I always laughed and said we drove twenty kilometers so Sophia didn’t know we ate pizza!”

  “My mother thinks anything eaten with your fingers does not belong at the table,” Pliny explained. “She has not tried their pizza margherita with olives and ricotta cheese.”

  “We wanted to discuss something with you,” Portia said when the waiter had taken their order.

  “Nothing has to be said.” Pliny laid his hand on Portia’s. He had large hands with oval nails and gold rings on each finger. He wore linen slacks and a camel-colored shirt and his sunglasses perched on his forehead. “If I see Riccardo again, I will throw him out of the villa.”

  “You’re not angry with me?” Portia asked.

  “You are a princess.” Pliny scowled. “He treated you like chattel.”

  “But I thought you and Sophia were so upset,” Portia stammered. “The disgrace to the family name, the statue.”

  “The statue will go up and the Tesoro name will continue.” Pliny shrugged. “I saw your face when you returned from Capri, I cannot watch you suffer. My children’s happiness is the most important thing.”

  Hallie watched Portia’s eyes grow wide. Her mouth curled into a dazzling smile. She stood up and hugged her father, her slim arms barely encircling him.

  “Come.” Pliny brushed his hand over his eyes. “We must eat while the pizza is hot, to leave it sitting is a sin.”

  They ate slices crammed with tomatoes, onions, and creamy ricotta cheese. Hallie had never tasted such a delicious crust, such sweet tomatoes and savory spices. She watched Pliny and Portia chatter in Italian, waving their hands and wiping the sauce from their chins. They seemed like halves cut from the same whole, their gestures mirroring each other. Hallie felt like a child arriving on her first day at kindergarten, to find the other children already playing together.

  They followed the pizza with chocolate sponge cake and cups o
f strong, dark coffee. Hallie turned her face up to the sun and felt sexy and sophisticated and almost Italian. Perhaps it was the caffeine, or the men who whistled admiringly, but she suddenly felt like she belonged.

  Hallie could see herself owning a chic design store, with beige silk walls and polished marble floors. She would stock modern pieces from Milan and Vienna and elegant antiques she discovered in Tuscany. Pliny would introduce her to the old families of Bellagio and Varenna, and she would decorate their homes with exquisite taste.

  “Hallie has something exciting to tell you,” Portia interrupted her thoughts.

  “If you are going to turn your talents on the Villa Tesoro, I must warn you Sophia hasn’t changed the furnishings in fifty years.” Pliny smiled.

  “I wouldn’t dream of redecorating the villa.” Hallie blushed. “Though I would love to get my hands on the pool house.”

  “What would you like to tell me?” Pliny inquired, sipping his coffee.

  “It’s about Francesca,” Hallie stammered. The sun dipped behind a cloud and Hallie shivered. She could remain silent and enjoy the afternoon. Pliny would drive back too fast and Hallie’s hair would blow in the breeze. They would join Sophia for dinner and Pliny and Portia would wink over the lasagna, never mentioning the pizza they shared.

  “Is she coming when Marcus has his baby?” Pliny asked, his face clouding over. “One would think she would like to meet her first grandchild.”

  “I found her notebooks in the library,” Hallie began. “She kept a diary when she lived at the villa.”

  “A diary?” Pliny’s brows knotted together.

  “It starts in Gstaad.” Hallie blushed, remembering Francesca’s girlish proclamations of love. “And it continues till she left.”

  “And what does she write in this diary?” Pliny scoffed. “That she had to learn Italian, that no television was allowed in the villa?”

  “She wrote she was only allowed to see Marcus and Portia for an hour a day.” Hallie’s lips trembled. “Sophia told her how to dress and who to talk to. She was completely miserable and you sided with Sophia in every argument.”

  “Francesca and I were very young and from different cultures. She didn’t understand the Italian way of doing things.” Pliny sipped his coffee and gazed at Hallie. “I was a good son, perhaps too good a son. In Italy the matriarch rules the household, that’s the way it is done.”

  “You lied to Francesca,” Hallie continued boldly. “You told her you would stop Sophia from sending Marcus to boarding school. She found the letter from Le Rosey, she was devastated.”

  “I tried to make Francesca happy.” Pliny twisted his gold ring. “We went to the opera, we boated on the lake. Francesca ate the finest foods, wore designer clothes. She lived in the most beautiful villa.”

  “She was barely allowed to see her children,” Hallie insisted. “She was afraid she would miss their whole childhoods.”

  “In time Francesca would have gotten used to the Italian way of life.” Pliny frowned. “She left so quickly. She went to Milan for a dress fitting and disappeared.”

  Hallie felt the wind blow off the lake. She took a deep breath and looked at Pliny.

  “She was pregnant. She couldn’t face watching her children being raised by nannies and sent to boarding school. She had to leave before her pregnancy was discovered.”

  “That is absurd!” Pliny suddenly grew angry. “Francesca wouldn’t steal a Tesoro heir.”

  “I did the math,” Hallie said quietly. “I’m the baby, I’m your daughter.”

  Pliny slammed his fists on the table so the coffee cups rattled and the bottle of mineral water smashed on the ground. He stood up, roaring like a wounded lion.

  “You are a sorceress like your mother! What is it you are after? Diamonds, gold, the Tesoro ruby? You stay in my home; you win the ear of my daughter and fill it with lies! Do you think I would not know if I had another daughter? Do you think I would not feel it here?” He pounded his chest. “I want you to leave my house, I want you out of the country!”

  “Hallie’s telling the truth,” Portia whispered.

  “She has brainwashed you!” Pliny roared. “Take the ferry back, I cannot stay and listen to these lies.”

  Hallie watched helplessly as Pliny stormed across the piazza. He jumped into the Fiat and roared down the road, narrowly missing a boy on a bicycle. Hallie stared at Pliny’s crumpled napkin, his unfinished piece of pizza. Her whole body started shaking, and she wrapped her arms around her chest and cried.

  “He was just upset,” Portia said uneasily. “He’ll come back.”

  Hallie let the tears fall on her plate. “He hates me because I’m his daughter, I remind him of her.”

  “Pliny has a temper,” Portia murmured. “He’ll come to his senses.”

  “And what if he doesn’t?” Hallie sobbed. “Where will I live while I finish Villa Luce? What will I do when I’m done? I can’t go back to San Francisco.”

  “Why not?” Portia asked calmly.

  “Because I ended it with Peter and because I never want to talk to Francesca again.” Hallie cried harder, her shoulders heaving.

  “When I was little, I missed having a mother so much I couldn’t eat dinner. Marcus would wait till our nanny went downstairs and then he would bring out my favorite chocolate bars. He kept a whole stash of British chocolate under his bed: Violet Crumble, Cadbury Fruit and Nut, Aero and Flake bars. He told me to stop thinking about what I missed and remember what I had: a father, a grandmother, a brother who loved me, a beautiful home, the most beautiful lake in the world as my playground,” Portia mused. “I managed to eat one or two chocolate bars, and when I woke in the morning I felt better.”

  “I should eat a carton of Häagen-Dazs and everything will be all right?” Hallie demanded.

  “You should remember what you have: a sister who adores you, Constance, a fabulous career.” Portia smiled. “You could get Peter back or use your charms on Angus.”

  “I don’t want a man.” Hallie sighed. The tears had stopped and her breathing returned to normal. “But I love you, and I’m happy I’m here.”

  “Pliny will cool down. In the meantime we will have more chocolate cake.”

  “I couldn’t eat anything.” Hallie shook her head.

  “Then we will have an aperitif.” Portia signaled the waiter. “In Italy, cocktail hour starts right after lunch.”

  Portia ordered two gin and tonics and Hallie chased the lime around her glass. She listened to Portia chatter about music festivals and open-air markets and the famous villas and gardens she hadn’t seen. She didn’t want to sightsee; she didn’t want to eat gelato and shop for shoes. She wanted to be somewhere she was loved; she wanted to be home.

  The sun dropped behind the mountains and the piazza was almost deserted. The waiter brought them their check, pointedly removing their glasses. Hallie felt goose bumps prick her skin and Portia’s teeth chattered.

  “I’ll just see when the next ferry comes.” Portia jumped up and headed across the piazza to the ferry terminal.

  Hallie waited, hugging her chest to keep warm. She saw a man walk slowly toward her. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head down. He reached the table and pulled out a chair.

  “My apologies,” Pliny stammered. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands shook. “I was furious, but not at you.”

  “Oh.” Hallie avoided his eyes.

  “I never knew she kept diaries,” Pliny said, almost to himself. “I loved your mother but I was so young, I didn’t know how to be a good husband. I thought I just had to buy her diamonds and make love to her.” Pliny’s voice trailed off. “We fought but I thought that was normal. Tesoros are very passionate. I never imagined she would leave.”

  “She was desperate. She thought you loved Sophia more than you loved her.”

  “I was very angry at Francesca for a long time. But she left me the two things I love most in the world: Marcus and Portia.” Pliny’s eyes filled with tear
s. “Now I know she gave me another precious thing: a beautiful daughter.”

  Hallie couldn’t say a word without dissolving into tears. She looked at Pliny’s big hands, at the gold rings glittering on his fingers.

  “I missed almost thirty years of my daughter’s life.” Pliny’s voice wavered. “I missed teaching her to ride a bicycle, to fish, to avoid a boy’s kiss. I missed seeing her grow from an angel into a beautiful woman, and I only have myself to blame.”

  Hallie watched Portia skip back from the ferry terminal. She let Pliny pull her up and wrap his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder and cried like a baby.

  They moved to an indoor café and drank hot chocolate spiked with brandy. Hallie told stories about the nuns at St. Ignatius, the boys she met at UCLA, her favorite Italian restaurants in San Francisco. She recounted a funny vignette about one of Francesca’s wedding cakes, but Pliny’s face clouded over and she didn’t mention her mother again.

  The piazza filled up with people getting off work, loosening their ties and ordering plates of antipasto. Hallie and Portia and Pliny climbed back in the Fiat, and Pliny drove leisurely to Bellagio. When they arrived at the villa, the dinner bell rang and they rushed upstairs to change. Pliny suggested they didn’t tell Sophia yet—she was still in a rage about Portia leaving Riccardo.

  Hallie dressed carefully, choosing a black-and-white Dior dress and black Gucci slingbacks. She added an extra layer of mascara and put a diamond clip in her hair. She walked down the staircase and Pliny was waiting at the bottom, freshly shaved in black silk pants and a white cotton shirt. He took Hallie’s arm and she floated into the dining room, feeling a new and foreign kind of happiness.

  chapter sixteen

  Hallie tied a Benetton sweater around her shoulders and slipped on a pair of loafers. It was late September and the weather had cooled. A thick mist shrouded the lake in the mornings and returned in the evening. Many of the tourists had gone home. The locals ate steaming plates of spaghetti in outdoor cafés, pleased to be rid of the impatient French and the loud Americans.