Market Street

by Anita Hughes

  “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.

  “My Italian is rusty,” she apologized, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Would you like help with your luggage?” the man asked in accented English. “You are too pretty to handle such a big suitcase.”

  Hallie blushed. The man was tall, with curly black hair and black eyes. He had a dimple on his chin and carried a suit bag over his shoulder.

  “No, thank you. I’m taking the shuttle bus to the train station.”

  “I will take you to the train station.” The man rolled her bag toward the exit. “A shuttle bus is no place for a beautiful American.”

  “Really, I’ve done it before.” Hallie ran after him. “I’m going to Lake Como to visit my half sister.”

  “Ah, Como,” the man sighed. “A playground of miraculous beauty.”

  “My grandmother has a villa there,” Hallie replied. “Sophia Tesoro.”

  “I do business with Marcus Tesoro! I manufacture silk,” he said. He unzipped his bag and extracted a silk scarf with a floral design. “You must have this, it brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  “I can’t take it.” Hallie pushed the scarf into his hands.

  “I insist.” The man draped it around her neck. “Here is my card. I am Alfonso Diamante. I will check you are wearing it the next time I am in Como.”

  Hallie sat on the bus, the fine silk caressing her shoulders. She felt grimy from the long flight and unsettled by the encounter at the airport. She wasn’t used to talking to dark, handsome strangers. She tore up the card and stuffed the scarf into her suitcase. She closed her eyes, wishing Peter were in the seat next to her and that she was wearing his oval diamond on her finger.

  * * *

  Sitting on the express train to Como, Hallie remembered why she wanted to travel alone to the villa. The scenery was so spectacular: the villages with tall church spires, the fields of brightly colored flowers, the green mountains capped with snow. Hallie didn’t want to miss a minute of it by conversing with Portia.

  By the time Hallie arrived in Como, her jet lag was replaced by the excitement of being on holiday. Tourists chatted in German and French. They pointed out landmarks, craning their heads as the train pulled into the station.

  Hallie jumped off the train and breathed the perfumed air. She could smell jasmine and roses and oleander. The cobblestoned streets baked under the noon sun and the lake glittered like a sheet of new pennies. Hallie rolled her suitcase toward the ferry, passing cafés and gelato stands.

  The black-and-white boats sat in the harbor, waiting to take passengers to villages around the lake. Hallie was going to Bellagio, one of the most popular destinations. The line was full of families licking ice-cream cones, young lovers holding hands, nannies trying to round up their charges while the parents sipped a last aperitif in the bar next to the dock.

  A red speedboat pulled up to the dock and a man jumped out. He had curly black hair peppered with gray and a sharp, angular chin. His eyes were pale blue and his profile belonged on a Roman statue. He wore silk shorts and a navy shirt, and a gold cross hung around his neck. He took off his sunglasses and searched the terminal, suddenly waving at Hallie.

  “Pliny?” Hallie squinted in the sun. She dragged her suitcase to the side to get a closer look. The speedboat was built like a bullet, sharp and snub nosed, and it had the Tesoro crest painted on the side.

  “Sophia sent me to pick you up.” Pliny made a little bow. “No guest of the Tesoros arrives in Bellagio by passenger ferry.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Hallie said, and slipped out of the line. “I like playing tourist.”

  “Sophia is pleased you are here.” Pliny grabbed Hallie’s suitcase. “She thinks you will talk some sense into Portia.”

  “Me?” Hallie let Pliny help her into the speedboat. Pliny started the motor and Hallie sat back against the soft leather upholstery.

  “Constance told Sophia you have a good head on your shoulders,” Pliny said in careful English. “I am glad you are here, too; you have grown into a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you,” Hallie mumbled, letting her hair cover her cheeks so Pliny wouldn’t see her blush.

  She glanced at Pliny curiously, trying to imagine Pliny and Francesca together. There were fines lines around his eyes and mouth, but Hallie could imagine him as the young man on the ski slope. She pictured Francesca falling in fresh powder and looking up to see an Italian prince offering her his hand.

  “It is very difficult for Sophia,” Pliny explained over the roar of the engine. “They are about to erect a statue of my great-grandfather in the Piazza San Giacomo. Sophia has worked on this for many years, the bishop and the cardinal have given it their blessing.”

  “How wonderful!” Hallie exclaimed.

  “A scandal involving Portia and Riccardo could ruin everything.” Pliny’s eyebrows knotted together.

  “It’s not Portia’s fault Riccardo left her,” Hallie said doubtfully. She wasn’t used to talking to Pliny. At Portia’s wedding he had been busy toasting the bride, and on her previous visit she and Portia had been teenagers trying to stay beneath his radar.

  “Italy is different from America,” Pliny replied. “Men are never at fault.”

  “That’s Victorian!” Hallie bristled.

  “That is the way it is,” Pliny said, and shrugged. “Sophia hopes you will convince Portia to take Riccardo back.”

  “Don’t you want Portia to be happy?” Hallie asked.

  “There are many ways to be happy,” Pliny said. He guided the boat between two sailboats with bright billowing sails. “I was devastated when your mother left. But my children made me happy: my home, Bellagio, Italy.”

  “I’m sure Portia will make the right decision,” Hallie murmured.

  “It must be the right decision for the Tesoro name,” Pliny insisted, guiding the boat into a small harbor.

  Hallie shivered under the hot sun. She couldn’t understand how Sophia and Pliny cared more about the Tesoro name than about the members of the family. She remembered how Sophia refused to allow Portia and Marcus to go with their mother. She pictured Marcus, a small boy with his father’s blue eyes, and Portia, practically a baby, forced to stay when Francesca returned to America.

  “I want you to enjoy your holiday.” Pliny smiled. “Lake Como in August is for lovers and dreamers. Sophia is holding a feast tonight in your honor.”

  Hallie watched the village of Bellagio appear beyond the curve of the lake. The promenade was lined with olive trees and the villas were surrounded by gardens as large as parks. Hallie saw the Hotel Metropole perched above the dock, and a string of cafés where smartly dressed tourists ate shrimp and paella.

  Hallie turned to Pliny. “I’d be happy with a plate of antipasto and a bowl of fresh berries.”

  “There will be antipasto and prosciutto and every kind of fruit. The cooks have been preparing for days and Sophia sent Lea to the market twice this morning.” Pliny steered the boat into a small cove.

  The chatter of tourists and the put-put of motors were replaced by silence. A fish poked its head above the water and dove back under the surface. Hallie glanced up at the Tesoro villa and saw grand balconies with wrought-iron railings, stone walls covered in ivy, and glimpses of marble through open windows.

  “Sophia has invited Riccardo and all their friends.” Pliny tied the boat up at the private dock. “He wouldn’t dream of refusing the invitation. Sophia is hoping for a reconciliation.”

  “Hallie!” A young woman with raven black hair and large brown eyes ran down to the dock. She wore an orange chiffon skirt and a white halter top. She had gold hoop earrings in her ears and leather sandals with colored ribbons on her feet.

  “Portia,” Hallie said, and hugged her sister. Hallie felt sharp bones through the halter top and could see the outline of
Portia’s rib cage.

  “Infidelity is wonderful for the diet,” Portia said, laughing. “I look like a prison camp survivor.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” Hallie replied. Even with the skin pulled tight on her cheeks and the sharp angles of her hips, Portia was strikingly beautiful. Her hair was glossy as paint and her mouth was an invitation to be kissed.

  “Sophia hired a hairdresser and a masseuse,” Portia said, and grimaced. “She wants me to look my best tonight. I’m like a can of meat trying to push back its sell-by date.”

  “In America you’d be a supermodel.” Hallie followed Portia up the winding path to the house.

  “Apparently Riccardo likes more buxom women.” Portia shrugged. “His mistress has the hips of a Venetian courtesan.”

  “Pliny told me that Sophia wants you to take Riccardo back,” Hallie said. She put her hand on Portia’s arm. “You don’t have to settle, you can have any man.”

  Portia was about to speak, but looked up and saw her grandmother appear on the balcony. Sophia was dressed in black silk and her white hair framed her face like a helmet. She stood with her arms on the railing, a diamond-and-ruby bracelet glinting in the sun.

  Hallie saw a flicker in Portia’s brown eyes, like a flame trying to ignite. Portia slipped her arm through Hallie’s and skipped toward the house.

  “I feel better already,” Portia whispered as they approached the stairs. “After lunch we’ll go to the garden. I’ll show you my new archery set.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Hallie said, giggling. “I wonder who’s the target.”

  * * *

  Hallie and Portia climbed the stone steps to the balcony, where Sophia waited to greet them. Sophia was petite like Portia, with a tiny waist and small hands and feet. Her face was lined and blue veins covered her wrists, but her eyes belonged on a Siamese cat. She looked at Hallie closely, as if inspecting a new couture gown.

  “You are a true beauty,” Sophia said finally. “I see little resemblance to your mother.”

  Hallie bit back a reply and smiled graciously. “Francesca says I take after my grandmother.”

  “Constance is a formidable foe but a fine woman,” Sophia said, and nodded. “I haven’t seen her since she and her husband stayed at the villa years ago. Theodore liked to play cards, and Constance was fond of a glass of Drambuie after dinner.”

  Hallie tried to keep her face expressionless. She knew Constance had visited Lake Como when Portia and Marcus were young, but she never said she stayed at the villa. Hallie imagined Constance and Theodore dining with Sophia and Pliny and shivered.

  “I gather Constance never told Francesca she was our guest.” Sophia smiled as if she could read Hallie’s mind.

  “Hallie’s been on a plane for hours,” Portia interrupted. “Let her shower and change.”

  “Lea has prepared brunch.” Sophia moved toward the house. “We will eat and then you can take a siesta before the evening’s celebration.”

  Hallie followed Sophia through the double glass doors into the foyer. She had forgotten the scope of the house, the sweeping marble staircase, the intricate murals painted on the ceiling. Every chair, love seat, and ottoman was covered in thick gold brocade. It was like standing inside a jewelry box.

  “Portia tells me you have taken up interior design,” Sophia said.

  “I work for one of the premier designers in San Francisco,” Hallie said, nodding.

  “Maybe you can teach Portia.” Sophia walked through double oak doors into the family dining room. “If she had an interest she wouldn’t concern herself with Riccardo’s peccadilloes.”

  “Veronica is not a peccadillo. She’s a twenty-two-year-old actress with breasts like hot air balloons and the hair of Medusa,” Portia muttered, putting a celery stick and a baby carrot on a dessert plate.

  “Riccardo will tire of her.” Sophia shrugged. “They always do.”

  The table was covered with a burgundy tablecloth and set with inlaid china. Crystal pitchers held fresh juice and stone platters overflowed with fruits and vegetables. There were eggs simmering under silver domes, whipped mashed potatoes in warming trays, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes.

  “It is healthy to eat a large midday meal,” Sophia said, and handed Hallie a plate. “Tonight you will dance it off.”

  Hallie felt the jet lag return, crushing her like a boulder. She filled the plate with melon balls, strips of ham, and green olives. She poured a glass of cranberry juice and sat in one of the ornate brocade chairs. She tried to bring the fork to her mouth but suddenly she grew dizzy.

  “I’m sorry.” Hallie gulped, trying to stop the room from spinning. “The jet lag caught up with me.”

  “Are you feeling ill?” Pliny appeared from the foyer. He walked over to the table and touched Hallie’s arm. “My mother has never been on an airplane, she doesn’t understand how travel can affect you.”

  “I could use a glass of water,” Hallie murmured.

  “You need to put something solid in your stomach,” Pliny insisted. “I will fix you a plate.”

  Portia ran to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Pliny strode quickly around the table and set a full plate in front of Hallie.

  “Eat, you will feel better,” he prompted.

  Hallie’s head tipped forward and she knocked the plate on the floor. Eggs and prosciutto spilled onto the ceramic tile and the plate shattered into pieces. She slumped in the chair and the stained-glass windows, the plastered walls, the gold drapes disappeared. She let the cool blackness swallow her up like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

  ALSO BY ANITA HUGHES

  MONARCH BEACH

  About the Author

  Anita Hughes is also the author of Monarch Beach. She attended UC Berkeley’s Masters in Creative Writing Program and has taught creative writing at The Branson School in Ross, California. Hughes lives in Dana Point, California, where she is at work on her next novel.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  MARKET STREET. Copyright © 2013 by Anita Hughes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover photographs: woman © Photosearch/Getty Images; flowers © Doug Allan/Getty Images; bridge © Ron Yue/Alamy; sky © STILLFX/Shutterstock.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Hughes, Anita, 1963–

  Market Street / Anita Hughes.—First Edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-312-64333-1 (trade pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02039-0 (e-book)

  1 Women—California—San Francisco—Fiction. 2. Heiresses—Fiction. 3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.U356755M37 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013002660

  ISBN 9781250020390 (e-book)

  First Edition: March 2013