by Anita Hughes
“I’ve made him completely aware of his obligations.” Juliet smoothed her hair. “I won’t let you down.”
“Lionel is brilliant at what he does but sometimes he acts like a pampered schoolboy,” Gideon grumbled. “If only accountants could write songs.”
Juliet pressed END and shuddered. What would Gideon do if she couldn’t convince Lionel to fulfill his contract?
Suddenly she remembered her delicious dinner at Casa Isabella with the baked sea bass and local cheeses. She pictured Gabriella’s navy dress and ivory pumps. She remembered standing outside the kitchen and hearing her high, clear voice.
She walked to her closet and selected a floral dress and white sandals. She coated her eyelashes with mascara and spritzed her wrists with White Linen. She grabbed her purse and hurried down the staircase.
* * *
Juliet opened the gate of the Casa Isabella and saw a young woman standing on the patio. She wore a blue dress and oval sunglasses. She carried a basket filled with a head of lettuce and red peppers and purple asparagus.
“Gabriella!” she called. “It’s nice to see you; I don’t think I introduced myself. My name is Juliet Lyman.”
Gabriella looked at Juliet’s brown hair and blue eyes and her face broke into a smile.
“The American! I told my father you enjoyed the sea bass,” she replied. “I’m sorry, we’re closed on Sundays, you’ll have to return another night.”
“I wasn’t coming for dinner,” Juliet said. “I was going to take the train into Palma and visit La Seu Cathedral and Bellver Castle. I don’t know anyone else in Majorca and thought you might like to join me. We can ride the roofless sightseeing buses and see the jellyfish at the aquarium.”
“You’ve been reading your guidebook.” Gabriella laughed. “I visited La Seu many times on school trips; we always complained how long it took to reach the cathedral, but when we arrived the mosaics were spectacular. I’d love to come but it’s my day off and I have to run some errands.”
“Of course.” Juliet’s cheeks turned red and she felt suddenly foolish. “Perhaps another time.”
“You can come with me,” Gabriella blurted out. “I’m delivering vegetables from our garden to my grandmother’s hacienda in Fornalutx. She always insists I stay and eat pumpkin soup and potato empanadas. It’s a long walk but the air is crisp and you can see the whole coastline.”
“I thought your grandparents were dead.” Juliet frowned.
“Lydia is my father’s mother.” Gabriella grinned, picking up her basket. “She’ll ask you a million questions but she bottles her own wine and makes pistachio ice cream.”
* * *
They took the tram to Sóller and hiked a steep path flanked by pine trees. They passed sheep grazing and women selling baskets of lemons. Juliet looked up and saw a village perched at the foot of the mountain. It had cobblestoned streets and narrow houses with lacquered window boxes.
“It’s gorgeous,” Juliet breathed, gazing at the lush palm trees. She saw cafés with striped awnings and an outdoor market selling bottles of olive oil. She turned around and saw the wide sweep of bay and emerald ocean.
“Fornalutx was named the most picturesque village in Spain and now it’s full of tourists with Nikon cameras,” Gabriella explained. “Lydia has lived here for fifty years, since it was nothing but orange groves and olive trees. She grumbles that she can’t leave her house without someone asking directions, but she loves the mountain air and the night sky filled with stars.”
They climbed a winding alley and Juliet saw a three-story house with a slanted roof.
“Does your grandmother live alone?” Juliet asked, admiring the double wood front doors.
“She owned a farm but it was too difficult to take care of so my father convinced her to sell it and move to the village.” Gabriella knocked on the door. “He wanted her to move to Puerto de Sóller but she said she belongs in the mountains. She’s sixty-nine and still hikes two miles every day and collects her own eggs.”
The door opened and a woman with silvery hair stood in the foyer. She had green eyes and smooth cheekbones. She wore a white cotton shirt and slacks and white loafers.
“Gabriella!” she exclaimed, ushering them into the entry.
“This is my friend Juliet,” Gabriella said in English. “We hiked from Sóller and I promised her a plate of potato empanadas.”
“It’s too hot to eat anything except bread and cheeses,” Lydia replied. “I set the table outside, we’ll have a green salad and a bottle of sangria.”
Juliet gazed around the room and saw a tile floor and wooden bookshelves. There was a red sofa and stone fireplace. Oak tables were covered with picture frames and vases of yellow sunflowers.
“What a beautiful house,” Juliet said, admiring the plaster walls and geometric rug.
“I miss the farm, the goats and sheep made better conversation than some of the shopkeepers.” Lydia led them into the garden. “But I love being able to walk to the patisserie and buy a frothy cappuccino. Majorcans make the best paella but terrible coffee.”
“You speak wonderful English,” Juliet commented, sitting at the round table. A wooden bowl was filled with spinach leaves and heirloom tomatoes. Juliet saw a loaf of bread and a platter of cheeses.
“When I was young I had the opportunity to teach Spanish in San Francisco,” Lydia said.. She ladled spinach onto ceramic plates. “I went to the library in Palma and checked out Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I read them so many times the pages disintegrated and I couldn’t return them.”
“That must have been exciting.” Juliet smiled, eating a wedge of Gouda.
“It didn’t work out, but I still love American books.” Lydia’s eyes clouded over. “When I sold the farm I bought a ticket to Paris. People thought it was so I could buy a pretty dress or see the Arc de Triomphe, but it was to visit Shakespeare and Company. I came home with a suitcase full of Hawthorne and Steinbeck.”
“I love California; I work for a record label in Los Angeles.” Juliet dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I heard Gabriella singing; she has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.”
Lydia nodded. “She sang at Sunday school and the priest said he was visited by an angel. I told her she’ll have to sing at her own wedding.”
“Are you getting married?” Juliet turned to Gabriella.
“Hugo works in his uncle’s hotel in Palma.” Gabriella flushed. “We’ve been together for four years but he wants to wait until he can afford a proper diamond.”
“He has curly dark hair and blue eyes and they’re going to make beautiful babies.” Lydia’s eyes sparkled. “But I told them they need to have them while I’m still young enough to win three-legged races on Easter.”
* * *
Lydia went upstairs to get a photo album and Gabriella carried plates into the kitchen. Juliet offered to help, but Gabriella insisted she finish her wine. Juliet ran her fingers over her glass and suddenly stood up and walked inside.
She was about to enter the kitchen when she heard Gabriella’s clear voice. She held her breath and listened to the song float through the hallway. Her voice seemed even higher than before, the notes reaching the ceiling. Juliet closed her eyes and felt a shiver run down her spine.
“You can help me carry the fruit salad,” Gabriella said, seeing Juliet standing at the door. “The peaches are from Lydia’s fruit trees and they’re delicious with ice cream.”
* * *
Juliet sat at the table and watched Lydia fill silver bowls with apricots. She wanted to say Gabriella had to let Gideon hear her sing. She wanted to promise her a recording contract and a world tour and beautiful clothes and jewelry. But she listened to Gabriella talk about the new menu at Casa Isabella and Hugo’s plans for his uncle’s hotel and knew she couldn’t open her mouth. Gabriella was like a child who woke up every day to Christmas morning.
“I must go.” Lydia stood up. “Father Garcia doesn’t like it if one is late for church
, even if I bring him a fruit tart.”
“Thank you for having me,” Juliet said, as she held out her hand. “Everything was delicious.”
Lydia kissed her on the cheek. “You must come back for dinner. I’ll open a bottle of rosé and we will sit in the square and watch the dancing. The butcher thinks he is Frank Sinatra and the greengrocer believes he is Fred Astaire.”
* * *
They hiked down the mountain to Sóller and Juliet watched the sun dip below the horizon. The clouds turned pink and orange and lights twinkled on the harbor. She felt the breeze in her hair and wrapped her arms around her chest.
“Your grandmother has more energy than some of my recording artists,” she said as they approached the tram stop.
Gabriella nodded. “She is proud of being able to do everything herself. She can change a tire and milk a goat.”
“How long ago did her husband die?” Juliet asked.
Gabriella hopped onto the tram and shook her head. “She was never married.”
* * *
Juliet crossed the plaza and hurried up the stone steps of the Hotel Salvia. She pictured Gabriella’s dark hair and green eyes. She heard her high, clear voice and felt her chest expand.
She pictured Lydia ladling spinach leaves onto ceramic plates. She remembered her saying she was a teacher in San Francisco, but it didn’t work out. She pictured her eyes clouding over and her hands twisting her napkin.
Suddenly she felt something lift inside her. She entered the drawing room and approached the concierge’s desk.
“Good evening, Miss Lyman.” The concierge looked up from his notes. “It’s such a beautiful night, would you like me to make you a reservation at Ca’n BoQueta? The chef makes a delicious salmon tartar and all the young people go there.”
“Do you have a library where guests can borrow books?” Juliet asked.
“Of course, follow me.” The concierge led her into a room with paneled walls and a beamed ceiling. It had a stone fireplace and tall bookshelves.
“Can I keep them if I promise to replace them?” Juliet asked.
“Take whatever you like.” The concierge walked to the door and turned around. “Miss Lyman, there are more things to do in Majorca than sit in your room and read. A beautiful young woman should be drinking mojitos at Bar Nicolás or dancing to the DJ at Nikki Beach.”
Juliet approached the bookshelf and saw tattered copies of Moby-Dick and The Sun Also Rises. She saw a selection of John Grisham books and a pile by Danielle Steel. She looked up and her face lit into a smile.
“Don’t worry, they’re not for me.”
chapter four
LIONEL STOOD IN THE PANTRY and selected a jar of marmite and a loaf of whole wheat bread. He carried them into the kitchen and arranged them on the tile counter. He poured a glass of orange juice and took a long gulp. He glanced at his reflection in the silver fridge and groaned.
Juliet would be there in less than an hour and he was still in his silk pajamas. He studied his reflection more closely and knew that even a shower and a shave wouldn’t fix the circles under his eyes or give his cheeks some color.
He had stayed awake all night, staring at the mosaic ceiling. He pictured Juliet in her blue knit dress and white leather sandals. He saw her waving her phone and telling him he owed Gideon one hundred sixty-six thousand dollars. Would Gideon really expect him to repay his advance and where on earth would he find the money?
He slipped on his suede John Lobb slippers and padded down the wood staircase. He sat on the floral sofa, grinding cigarettes into the glass ashtray. He thought of all the things he wanted to say to Gideon: how dare he send an account executive who was as old as his favorite Canali tie. Was he really supposed to take orders from someone who was in kindergarten when he received his first Grammy?
He stubbed out the last cigarette and searched the house for an extra packet of Marlboros. He looked in all the places he hid cigarettes on the rare days he wanted to quit: in the piano, behind the Cézanne, wrapped in a plastic bag in the birdbath. Finally he entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. He ate a container of guacamole and an apple. Then he moved to the pantry and found a tin of Harrods’s chocolate biscuits. He poured a glass of milk and slumped on the leather stool.
* * *
Lionel glanced at the ceramic clock and thought he could run upstairs and splash his face with water. But maybe if Juliet saw the misery she was causing, she’d pack her red Coach purse and go home. He pictured Juliet telling Gideon he was unsalvageable and they should leave him alone.
He heard a knock on the door and flinched.
“Come in, I’m in the kitchen,” he called, spreading marmite on bread.
Juliet entered the room and glanced at the counter littered with toffee wrappers and a half-eaten Violet Crumble. She saw a porcelain coffee mug and a sliced orange.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I ran out of cigarettes and got hungry,” Lionel explained. “First I tried the tostadas the maid left but they were too spicy. Then I thought I’d make a sandwich but rinsing lettuce and slicing tomatoes was exhausting. So I raided the pantry and found a tin of biscuits and a packet of butterscotch creams.”
“It looks like the kitchen in Cinderella when she went to the ball.” Juliet collected silver spoons and put them in the sink.
“Maybe you could run down to the newsagent and buy a pack of cigarettes,” he suggested.
“Have you thought of quitting?” Juliet asked.
“I used to think about it every other Thursday.” Lionel ate a bite of his sandwich. “But then I’d get invited to an industry function that served lamb medallions and chocolate torte. Cigarettes might kill you but they’ll never make you fat; I’d rather die of lung cancer than get a middle-aged spread.”
“You’re thin as a rail.” Juliet couldn’t help but smile.
“Do you really think a diet of scotch and cigarettes will allow me to live to eighty?” Lionel raised his eyebrow. “I do try to keep in shape, I swim thirty laps a day.”
He put the plate in the sink and entered the living room. He filled a glass with bourbon and sat on a striped love seat.
“Have you ever wanted something so badly you can’t sleep? You lie on Egyptian cotton sheets reciting William Blake and think you’d give anything to close your eyes. When you do manage to drift off, the thing you want is so close you believe life is suddenly glorious and you can achieve your goals.” Lionel ran his fingers over the rim. “But then you wake up and the heater is hissing and you realize it was just a dream.”
“When I graduated from college my roommate was moving to Florence and selling her Mazda for practically nothing,” Juliet mused. “I never had my own car and pictured visiting the farmer’s markets on the Hudson. But I couldn’t find an apartment in Brooklyn with a parking space so she gave it to her boyfriend.”
“I’m not talking about a bloody car, I’m talking about love,” Lionel snapped. “When you’re standing in the shower or jogging around the park and all you can see is a pair of full breasts and a small waist and long legs.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Juliet blushed.
“I got a job as a valet at Claridge’s,” Lionel continued. “Six nights a week I carried Louis Vuitton suitcases through the marble lobby and let small dogs in knitted sweaters nip my feet. I opened doors for men in white dinner jackets and women trailing mink coats.
“But I didn’t complain because I had all day to write songs.” His eyes darkened. “Except I pictured Samantha’s blond hair and blue eyes and couldn’t write a word.”
“What happened after you had dinner with Samantha?” Juliet asked. “Did you see her again?”
“If love was that easy my career would have been over twenty-five years ago.” Lionel sighed. “No one would decipher the lyrics of love songs trying to understand why suddenly the juciest steak tasted like cardboard and they couldn’t remember their own name.”
* * *
He too
k a sip of bourbon and closed his eyes. He saw his room above the garage with its narrow bed and wood desk and Tiffany lamp. He pictured the dormer window and view of Eaton Square. He remembered crumpling up notepaper and tossing it into the garbage.
Lionel stuck his hands in his pockets and crossed the gravel driveway. He saw the main house with its white columns and wrought iron balconies. He inhaled the scent of hibiscus and dahlias and suddenly missed Cambridge with its tall spirals and leafy gardens.
Penelope had offered him room and board in exchange for tutoring the twins in writing. Lionel loved the main house with its vast kitchen and sunny conservatory and indoor swimming pool. He loved the pantry stocked with jars of orange marmalade and lemon curd. Mostly he loved having access to the Grahams’ library. He could spend hours flopped on an ottoman reading Oscar Wilde and Rupert Brooke.
* * *
Lionel entered the library and approached the walnut bookshelf. He selected Of Human Bondage and A Sentimental Education. He added Madame Bovary and clutched them to his chest.
Ever since he met Samantha he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He wrote a note thanking her for dinner and hoping to see her again. He dropped it in the mailbox of the Georgian manor and waited for someone to walk outside. He saw a maid in a black uniform collect the mail and hurried away.
He tried to write lyrics but the words came in the wrong order. He jogged around Eaton Square and swam laps in the indoor pool. Mostly he sat in the library and read books about unrequited love.
* * *
He carried the books into the hallway and heard voices in the study. He peered through the door and saw silver candelabras and a gold silk sofa and thick white carpet. A Degas stood over the fireplace and a Waterford vase was filled with yellow orchids.
“Lionel,” Penelope called. She wore a navy Dior suit and tan pumps. “Have you met Georgina? Samantha is her children’s nanny.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lionel said, as he held out his hand.
