by Megan Mulry
“Are you inviting me?” He looks genuinely interested.
I smile at the memory this invokes. The Rome memory. I promise myself I will not carry a torch for the rest of my life, like my father did, but I realize in that moment that I am not willing to give up entirely on Monsieur Jérôme de Villiers just yet. Because when Rome said the same thing—nearly those exact words—I remember feeling like a long fuse was being lit and the sparking cord ignited me from the tips of my toes to my tingling scalp.
I smile easily, but with no promise whatsoever. “I know some wonderful bilingual guides who could show you around the city and take you out to the Catherine Palace and the Summer Palace. The Hermitage is wonderful also.”
He smiles and gets the hint that I’m not interested in pursuing anything more. “Sounds good. Maybe when Jamie and Simone are there, we could all meet up?”
“Oh,” I say, after I swallow another sip of wine. “My mother has vowed never to step foot in Russia. It’s a long-standing family argument, you might say.”
Simone overhears me from the other side of the table and interjects. “Never say never, darling. Now that you’re actually living there”—she shudders dramatically—“I’ll have to come and see in person how deplorable it really is.”
“See?” I say to George. “Russia is deplorable.” I do a fair version of Simone’s breathy voice when I say it with her sexy French accent, and Simone and a few other people sitting near us laugh at the imitation. The rest of the evening passes in that same breezy way, and I feel like I might be able to have a proper social life again at some point.
I stay with them a few more days, and on Thursday a car comes to take me into Venice. I hug my mother and Jamie good-bye. We’ve got plans to sit together at one of the gala dinners on Saturday night at the festival, so we don’t have to have one of her usual dramatic farewells.
The car drops me off at Piazzale Roma, where I hop on the vaporetto to Vivian’s rental house. I knock at the front door, and when it swings open, Isabel is there to greet me. She has grown so much in the past few months, I barely recognize her. She’s leggy and her hair is longer. She is going to keep Vivian on her toes for the next ten years at least.
“Miki! You’re really here!” She hugs me quickly and then stands aside to show me into the villa. “Isn’t it fantastic?”
I look up and see it is indeed fantastic, from the ornate tile work on the walls to the frescoes of cherubs three stories above us. “Phenomenal!” I drop my bags and turn to look at her. “Where’s your mom?”
“Meetings.” She rolls her eyes.
“Good! More time for the two of us! Let me take a look at you.”
She smiles and appears awkward while being inspected.
“You’re so grown-up.”
“No, I’m not,” she despairs. “I’m only eleven. It’s so bor—”
I hold up my hand. “I forbid you to use that word while we are here. In this magnificent place!” I throw my hands wide, and she smiles at me.
“Okay. Fine.” She gives in. “So what should we do first? Gelato? A gondola ride? The museum? I can’t wait. My mom was so bor—I mean, she was really busy on the flight over, so I’m really excited to see you.”
“Me, too.” I pick up my bags again. “So where are we sleeping?”
“This way. You won’t even believe it. The windows open right out onto the canal, and I just can’t wait for it to be nighttime. We can get in our pajamas and sit by the window. It will be so awesome.”
I follow her up the large stairway that hugs the walls of the central portion of the grand house, until we reach the fourth floor. She opens the double doors to our room with a flourish. “Ta-daaaaa!”
“Look how lucky we are.” There are two queen-size beds against one wall, and they each face out two arched windows with stone window seats. I put my bags in the corner and walk toward one of the windows. It’s the middle of the day, and the ornate wood shutters with leafy fretwork designs are closed to keep out the heat and sun. Patterns of shadow and sun speckle the terrazzo floor.
When I open one shutter, it’s like pulling aside a curtain onto some magical world. The city, with all of its turquoise waterways, the island of Giudecca in the distance, the water taxis and gondolas and vaporettos, is spread out before us. “Oh, Isabel,” I whisper. She is standing right beside me.
“Thanks so much for inviting me, Miki. I think it’s going to be really special.”
We stand there with one arm around each other’s waists and just stare out at the bejeweled city as it gleams and sparkles beneath the glittering summer sun.
All I can think is, Rome is out there somewhere. I can feel him.
I squeeze her quickly. “Okay. I think lunch first, then a gondola ride, then—”
“Oh, I forgot! Mom hired someone to take us around. I made her swear it wasn’t going to be, like, a horrible tour guide with an orange flag, and she promised me it would be cool. She should be here at one o’clock.”
I look at my watch and see it’s ten ’til. “I’m sure the guide will be stylish and fabulous if your mom hired her. Let’s get our stuff together so we’re ready when she gets here.” I pull out my cell phone and see that Alexei has sent me a couple of messages about the Indonesia deal. I reply quickly and then slip the phone into one of the pockets of my casual green sundress. I grab my small credit-card holder and put it in the other pocket. After I put my sunglasses on my head, I turn to Isabel. “I’m ready!”
Isabel is rifling through her backpack, trying to decide what to bring. “Do I need my iPad?”
“What? No! We’re in Venice, silly! Bring your phone to take pictures, and forget everything else. Come on!”
She laughs and puts her cell phone into the back pocket of her far-too-tight-but-I’m-not-saying-anything shorts. We walk down the grand staircase holding hands, and there’s an older, white-haired butler type waiting for us in the front hall.
“Signora Voyanovski?” he asks formally.
I extend my hand to greet him. “Yes.”
“I am Signor Moretti.” He shakes my hand, then clasps his hands behind his back. “If you have any requests while you are here, please let me know.”
“Thank you. Everything looks perfect, but if we need anything I’ll be sure to ask.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Mr. Moretti pulls the door open.
A tall woman with long, dark hair smiles at us. She is probably in her midtwenties and positively beams enthusiasm. “I am Teresa. The guide?”
“Excellent!” I’m so excited not to have to stare at a map all afternoon, I want to hug her. She’s very smiley, and she’s already chatting with Isabel, asking what my young charge is most interested in seeing and doing. I turn to Mr. Moretti. “We’ll see you later. Thanks again.”
He shuts the door behind us, and we begin walking down the narrow via that runs alongside the house. “I do have one fixed appointment, to take you to a private art collection. Your mother mentioned you both like Matisse. Is that right?” Teresa asks. “Would you like that?”
“Yes!” Isabel cries. “Right, Miki?”
“Of course—that would be fabulous.”
“Perfetto!” Teresa says in her charming Italian. We walk for an hour or so and end up at a villa on the Grand Canal, not far from the villa where we are staying, but on the other side. It’s in spectacular condition, beautifully renovated but retaining all of its original, five-hundred-year-old details.
“How incredible!” I look up at the ornate facade and stretch my neck to see the intricately carved stonework at the roofline. “Who is the owner?”
“He’s very private,” Teresa explains, “so we’re not permitted to say. He allows three special tours each day during the month of August, through the public areas only, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree. It’s probably some Russian
oligarch of my acquaintance. The cultural connection between Saint Petersburg and Venice has a long history, and many of the nouveau-riche Russians have places here.
We walk in, and a guard answers the door, looking like a cross between an Armani model and an assassin. “Benvenuto.”
He speaks to Teresa in rapid Italian. She opens her well-worn messenger bag and extracts a printout of our confirmation form. The killer Italian nods and returns the piece of paper.
“This way, please.” He leads us into a spectacular drawing room overlooking the canal, then steps into a corner and touches his ear, obviously using a security system to let command central know we’ve entered the inner sanctum.
Teresa starts telling us about the collection. I realize the guard is going to accompany us throughout the tour, and I quickly return my attention to what Teresa is saying. I just sort of sigh into the whole experience when I see we’re looking at a Titian. Isabel has the same reaction. We hold hands and listen to Teresa tell us about the history of the family who built the palazzo to house their art and sculpture collection. For generations, they filled the house with exquisite pieces, until the family gradually fell into financial ruin. The palazzo was shut down for many years, and most of the artwork put into high-security storage, until, about ten years ago, a philanthropist negotiated a long-term lease with the Italian government. The agreement, Teresa explains, allowed him to purchase the place and restore it to its former splendor, on the condition that it would revert to the Italian nation upon his death.
We go into the next room, also vast, and begin looking at the antiquities. Isabel is slightly less interested in the sculptures and urns, so I suggest we continue to the next painting gallery. Teresa agrees and leads us upstairs to an expansive gallery with about ten windows on one side and an equal number of twentieth-century modern masterpieces on the other. Picasso’s Rêve is there, and I gasp at the sight.
“How . . . ?”
“It is so beautiful, isn’t it?” Teresa smiles. “It’s new this summer. Several of the acquisitions in this gallery are from the past few months. I love getting to see them up close.” There’s a bench in front of the painting, so the three of us sit down and just stare at it for a while. I’m holding Isabel’s hand again.
“So not boring, right, Isabel?”
She looks at me, then back at the canvas. “It’s awesome.”
I’ve heard that the Wall Street mogul who bought the painting from a Las Vegas mogul sold it recently, but the new buyer’s identity has been very hush-hush. The colors that I’ve seen many times in art-history books are much more vibrant in real life: the red of the chair, the bright yellow of the sleeping woman’s pearl necklace, the primitive pattern on the wall behind her.
After a few more minutes of admiring silence, Teresa recollects that she’s supposed to be telling us things and starts informing Isabel about the history of the painting and why it’s important. We move to a Matisse next, and, out of nowhere, I start crying.
“What is it with you and the Matisses?” Isabel asks impatiently. Teresa pulls a packet of tissues out of her magical satchel, and I take it gratefully.
“You are heartless, Isabel. One day you’re going to have a crush on someone and I’m going to make fun of you, and you can see how it feels.”
“I’m sorry, Miki.” She looks genuinely contrite, so I give her a watery smile.
“No worries, sweetie.”
“Is it still the same crush from when we were in LA?”
When she says it like that, I realize it must seem like light-years have passed in her world since then. I nod resignedly. “Yes. Same crush. Can’t quite seem to shake it.”
“Well, maybe it’s not just a crush after all?” Oh, Isabel of my heart.
I dry my eyes and we continue around the room. I realize the entire collection is really a symphony of beautiful women. The Picasso, the Matisse, a Modigliani nude, a Léger. I am starting to lose my breath. I ask Teresa if we can sit down again at the end of the gallery.
“Of course. Are you unwell? Shall we cut the visit short?”
“No. I’m fine. I just . . . I guess all these paintings remind me of someone, and I’m a little overwhelmed.”
Teresa smiles. “It’s a very seductive gallery, eh?”
“Yes,” I answer. Teresa takes Isabel over to a Bonnard, and I keep looking at the Modigliani. It kind of washes over me, all that love. There’s no question that the man who put this collection together adores women, or one woman in particular; it’s in every brushstroke, every dab of color.
A few minutes later, I take a deep breath. “Okay. Whew!” I laugh briefly as I stand up. “I think that bit of drama has passed.”
“Good!” Isabel says with relief. “I’m not sure how much more of that I could take.”
“Oh, cut it out.” We finish hearing about the rest of the twentieth-century modern pieces, and then Teresa and the assassin lead us up to the next floor to see the jewelry collection. There are ancient Roman and Etruscan earrings and cuffs; and then some Buccellati, Verdura, and Bulgari twentieth-century pieces; and everything in between. When we’ve finished looking, we make our way out of the final gallery and walk down the large circular staircase behind our silent escort.
At the second-floor landing, a door swings open and a woman walks out holding a pile of papers, speaking in rapid French. She nearly bumps into me but scoots around me quickly, saying “excuse me” in Italian. Then she looks up, catches my eye, and bursts out laughing. “Miki! Is it you?”
It’s Zoe Mortemart, Étienne and Jules’s cousin. I’m stunned into silence, and she reintroduces herself.
“Zoe! Zoe Mortemart? From Margot and Étienne’s wedding, remember?”
Of course I remember! I want to yell.
“Zoe, how great to see you again,” I manage. “This is Teresa, our guide, and my goddaughter, Isabel Travkin.” Zoe turns to Teresa and Isabel and gives them a big smile.
“Nice to meet you both.” She turns back to me. “So, what are you doing here?”
“We just finished having a tour of the art collection.”
“Really? I’m surprised you would darken the door!” She’s speaking, as always, as if I have any idea what she’s talking about, as if the two of us are part of some secret society of knowing females.
“Well, Teresa was able to get us a private tour, so we—”
Zoe starts laughing again. “You mean you don’t even know whose house it is?” She wheezes between the words, she’s laughing so hard. “Priceless!” She shakes her head when she gets hold of herself. “Come with me.” She grabs my upper arm, and there’s nothing I can do but follow her back into the room she’s just emerged from. I look over my shoulder and widen my eyes at Teresa and Isabel to let them know I haven’t a clue.
After shoving me into the large room, an office of some kind, Zoe shuts the door behind me. She’s left me standing alone in the middle of a book-lined library with a large partners’ desk in the middle. I’m staring at the back of Rome’s head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jesus, Zoe. Do you ever fucking knock?” he asks, without looking up from the document he’s working on. “Seriously. I’m not going to give you any more information. Just run the story about the Matisse and leave me alone already—”
He swings around to face my direction, and I try to stay standing as his expression goes from peevish to confused to adoring.
“Miki?”
“Hi.” It’s the only stupid thing I can think to say, and it sounds sort of breathless to boot.
He tosses his pen onto the desk and stands up. I’d forgotten how tall and strong he is, how he pulses in real life. I feel like I’m starting to tilt backward when he slowly approaches me, like he’s the heat of the sun or something and I should be shielding my eyes. He reaches out to touch me, and my whole body goes into some weird defensi
ve mode. He senses it immediately and drops his outstretched hand.
“How are you?” he asks, with so much tenderness and concern. I’m still holding the used tissue in my right fist, and I feel like I’m going to start crying again. He’s so beautiful, just like the Matisse and the Modigliani, all that love and . . . and . . . something I can’t describe, but it feels sweet and peaceful. It feels like what I imagine home feels like, to people who have a home.
I miss you, I want to whisper, to just let it come out like the tears before—to let the words and the feelings and everything just fly out of me. But what if—oh, I don’t know—what if there’s a blond woman under his desk or he just had sex with Zoe or hell knows what else? “I’m good,” I answer.
“Good,” he agrees too quickly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous. But this is the world-renowned playboy billionaire; he doesn’t have nerves. Oh, but he does. I know he does. He’s looking at me and he licks his lips quickly, and I feel my heart start to pound, and not just in my chest. “Are you free . . .” His voice falters. “Are you free for a drink? Or dinner?”
I remember Isabel. “I’m here with my goddaughter . . . I should probably go.”
He strides past me to the door and pulls it wide. Zoe is standing there, grinning, with the silent guard and Teresa and Isabel behind her on the landing. “Zoe, go away,” Rome says bluntly, barely looking at her.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you, Rome!” She laughs and skips down the stairs, showing herself out.
“Vittorio.” Rome starts speaking to the guard in fluent Italian. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I hear the words prosecco and antipasto, and the next thing I know Vittorio is gone and Isabel and Teresa are standing in the library with us.
“Will you please stay for a drink and some appetizers on the roof terrace?” He directs the invitation to Isabel, and I think she’s finally met her match. He’s so effortlessly charming.
“Uh . . .” She looks to me for confirmation. I nod my agreement. “That would be awesome.” She turns back to me. “Should we call my mom? I think she finished her meetings at five.”
