The Knotty Bride
Page 7
“Why?” I ask again, not able to think straight without a morning cup of coffee. I stare at him agog, wondering about the mysterious ways of important men. What could be so pressing? We are on an island, just the two of us. Who wants to hurry away?
“Rupa called, and she sounded frantic,” Brandon says and wads his very expensive shirts into tight balls, shoving them into his suitcase.
Honestly, is that how this man packs?
“I didn’t understand it all, but she says we need to get to Civita right away.”
“Why?” I ask for the third time in a row. It’s like my mind is stuck in some kind of a loop. I can’t say anything but, “Why?” I really do need that cup of coffee. But given Brandon’s urgent tone, I climb out of bed, put on my robe, and then pull a shirt out of Brandon’s suitcase so I can fold it properly. Immediately he grabs the shirt out of my hand and jams it back in his suitcase. “No time for that,” he says.
Then it dawns on me, perhaps Beatta’s house has sloughed off the side and fallen into the abyss!
“Somebody’s died and Rupa said we need to get to Civita right away,” Brandon says.
“Somebody’s died?” I stiffen.
“Yes, a lady named Carmelina. Had a heart attack.”
“Oh no,” I say, feeling sad and relieved at the same time. There for a moment I thought both Beatta and Carmelina had died when their house went over the side.
“Oh dear, poor Beatta, she must feel so alone.” I stand still as a statue, unable to move, as around me Brandon is a whirling dervish. Finished packing his own stuff, he begins sweeping all my clothes into my large duffle bag.
“Get dressed. We’re going. If we leave anything behind, Debi will have to send it to us.”
Fifteen minutes later, we roll our bags down the sidewalk to the waterfront. Brandon looks quite handsome as he strides along in khaki slacks, a blue sweater and dark shades. I, however, must look affright in uncombed hair, jeans and a hoody. It really doesn’t matter what I look like though. The important thing is that Brandon and I are in this together.
“It will be okay, Lil,” he says. “We’ll get on the ten o’clock ferry, and then we’ll take the high speed train to Rome. We’ll change there and head for Orvieto.”
As the ferry pulls away from the dock, Brandon heads off in search of espresso from the cantina. I take a moment and lean against a large glass window to stare out at the sea. I’m not sure what the two of us can do for Beatta, if anything. But we need to try. And then what? I suppose it will be back to Arona and back to our normal lives. Although, I’m not sure how normal my life will ever be again. I am the girlfriend of a movie star. And not just a movie star, but a wonderful caring person; one who is willing to drop everything and rush off to help a woman he doesn’t even know.
But that’s what life is all about: helping others. It makes me a bit misty-eyed to think about it, but it’s true. Somehow, when I get my feet back under me and come back to earth, there are so many people I need to help. After we help Beatta, I have to help Rupa and Dario. And then I need to figure out what really happened to Carlo Buschi. I need to find his daughter and help her recover her fortune because it’s simply the right thing to do. I would also like to help Federica, but I fear that is beyond my abilities.
And there’s one last thing— Phil. He’s not a person, I know, but all the same I can’t get his sad eyes out of my head. I need to help Phil find a good home.
I give a little sigh at the magnitude of the tasks ahead of me. But at least this time I won’t be doing it alone. I’m sure Brandon will help with everything. And maybe, someday soon, Brandon and I will be planning our own wedding. Never mind that he told me last night he’s not the marrying type. I’m sure that was just the wine talking. I’m sure he wants to get married just as soon as possible. In fact I’m positive.
I sit straight up. Why, I bet if I propose to him, right here, right now on the ferry, he’ll say yes. Oh, and here he comes now with our coffee.
Should I ask him? Should I?
Will he say yes?
Of course he will. I’m absolutely sure.
Part II
Chapter 11
My boyfriend is a famous movie star. My boyfriend is a famous movie star. My boyfriend is a famous movie star.
Everybody in first class on the train from Rome to Orvieto is staring at us. Brandon is stoic and quiet, reading from his newspaper while I’m busting at the seams.
“Lily, stop staring at me,” he quips from beneath the paper.
“I-I wasn’t staring.” It’s just that I’m so happy. I never thought we would finally be a real couple. I glance around at all the other curious passengers. I meet their gaze and they seemed surprised.
Is it? Their eyes ask mine. Is that?
Yes, it is, I nod back. Emboldened by my willingness to meet her gaze, a young woman stands up and heads over. In a thick Italian accent she asks, “May I havva autographa?”
I don’t even bother to think. My head is in the clouds. I snatch the notebook and pen out of her hands and sign my name. She looks very disappointed.
“I think she means me,” says Brandon.
“Oh right, right.” I hand him the notebook and he signs it with a big, loopy “B. Logan.” Unfortunately, I have started a trend. By the time we reach Orvieto, Brandon has posed for a picture with almost everybody in the first class carriage.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as we step off the train onto the platform no. 2. Brandon laughs and threatens to find a way to return the favor. We search up and down the station, but Beatta Cavale and the rescue cats are nowhere to be found. Not knowing what the latest plan is, given Beatta’s mother’s death, and unable to reach Rupa on her cell phone, we sit on a bench waiting while passersby do double takes. Yep, he’s my boyfriend, I beam back and slide even closer to Brandon. Unfortunately, Brandon turned me down earlier today when I asked him to marry me, saying once more that he’s not the marrying kind. I just laughed and replied, “Sure you are.”
We wait five, ten, fifteen minutes. Still no show. A small crowd has gathered and there are numerous glances in Brandon’s direction. It was cute before, but now there are so many people huddled around that they are impeding the flow on the platform.
“Let’s go,” Brandon insists gruffly. “We’ll hail a cab and go out to Civita and pick up the cats.”
Brandon is right. Beatta’s not going to meet us here in her traumatized state, and we aren’t even sure if Rupa relayed the message that we were arriving at 2:30 on the train from Rome. We stand up and push our way through the crowd.
We’re just finishing up stowing our luggage at baggage when the first flash goes off. Brandon grabs me by the arm, maneuvering me through the station. The man with the camera follows in hot pursuit as Brandon practically shoves me into a cab. Briefly, Brandon turns back to the paparazzo and yells a slew of obscenities that make my face turn red.
“That’s it, Lily, tomorrow the world will now you are my girlfriend,” he sputters, his jaw clenched tightly.
“The world will know I am your girlfriend,” I murmur and sink down into the cushy seats of the car.
Brandon stops looking so glum and smiles. “You think that’s okay?”
“Works for me.”
“Works for me, too,” he says before becoming all hands in the taxi. The driver shoots us disapproving glances but I can’t stop giggling. It’s taken Brandon and me so long to get to this point in our relationship, who could condemn a little innocent groping? Did I say groping? I mean, um, a little innocent peck on the cheek. Moving on.
It didn’t take long to reach Bagnoregio, although it took a while to hoof it through town and across the rickety expansion bridge to Civita.
“This place is a movie waiting to happen,” Brandon exclaims upon seeing the medieval city sloughing off house by house into the gorge below.
“I know. It’s gorgeous. We have to come back on vacation.”
“With the boys,” he adds.
“I love them, they’re so much fun.”
Be still my beating heart, a man who loves both me and my children. Who would have believed that such a successful, handsome man would be dating me? But that’s not the important thing right now, the important thing is that we check up on Beatta and extend our condolences.
We wind our way through Civita’s narrow streets, Brandon stopping every five seconds to admire a church or an old house or a carved archway. When we reach Beatta Cavale’s house, I ring the doorbell. The door swings open immediately. Beatta’s standing there in the same grey house coat as before, her face all puffy and red from crying.
“Come in, come in.” She motions. “I couldn’t make it today,” she adds through huge sobs. “I have the cats, they’re ready, but… well… come, see for yourself.”
Not only am I not a good first responder, I’m also terrible with death. When Beatta motions us into the living room, we see Carmelina flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with bulging eyes. I let out such an enormously loud “Oh, the poor sweet thing,” that I’m sure it’s heard all the way to Rome.
I can’t help it, it’s just all so terribly sad.
Chapter 12
“She gasped for breath this morning, and then she just fell over. I tried CPR. My neighbor tried CPR. The priest tried CPR. She’s dead, and the doctor has yet to show up. I called him hours ago. But please,” she points to the seat, “sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
I eye the couch. To get there we have to step over the corpse of Carmelina that is lying right in front of it.
Um…no…I can’t bring myself to step over her. What is Beatta thinking leaving her there like that? Thankfully Brandon takes charge.
“Beatta, could I have a bed sheet, so we may cover up your mother?” he asks in his best Italian.
“Oh…oh right, that would be best.”
She hurries off. We can hear the stairs creak as she goes up and down. Soon, she returns and drapes a plain white sheet over Carmelina.
Now we are three people in a miniscule living room, surrounding a corpse covered with a sheet. Definitely a step up, but we’re still staring at a body in the middle of the floor.
“Um, Signora Cavale, un po di te?” Brandon asks for a cup of tea. It’s out of his mouth before I can even warn him. I know he doesn’t really want a cup of tea; he’s just trying to keep Beatta busy. He’s trying to help her get her mind off of things.
“Of course, tea! Where are my manners?” Beatta replies, flinging her arms about dramatically.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the sofa, sipping Beatta’s burnt Darjeeling and trying to pretend that the corpse of Carmelina Cavale is not right at my feet. Brandon holds me tight around the waist for support, all the while telling Beatta that he’s truly sorry. Beatta’s hands tremble a little as she holds her teacup. She doesn’t even try to take a sip. Given her intense grief over the loss of her mother, the dear woman cannot drink a thing.
We sit in silence for a long time before Brandon begins asking Beatta about her childhood and how long she has lived in this house etc. It dawns on me that even though I’ve introduced Brandon, Beatta has no idea who he is. She has no idea Brandon is one of the world’s most famous movie stars.
“I’ve always lived here,” Beatta replies. “My father died when I was young and my mother got by…”
Her voice trails off in a distracted fashion. I get a prickly sensation, like there’s something Beatta wants to tell us.
“Yes, it’s a nice place,” she changes course. “Growing up, I knew all my neighbors. Some of them come back in the summer, although I’m the only one who still winters here.”
Poor Beatta, what is she going to do? She can’t live here alone, in a house that is about to slough off into the gorge.
Brandon asks Beatta a few more questions, and all of a sudden she’s a flood of information. I suppose there’s nothing like death to bring out a confession. “We got by all those years because Cousin Carlo kept my mother afloat, and without him we would have lost our house.”
This is such a startling revelation that I stop thinking about the dead body lying at my feet and stare up at Beatta.
“Living in Civita, it’s always been hard to make ends meet. I found a job working in a nursery school after high school graduation, but we never could pay all the bills, if you know what I’m saying?”
Boy, do I know what she’s saying. Making minimum wage at the ice cream shop, I’ve once again racked up huge debt on my credit card. After I pay my rent and groceries, there’s not much left. Everything else goes straight on Visa. I shoot Beatta a very understanding glance and she continues, “Carlo continued to send a little money now and then. My mother always cursed him for not doing more. Mother always felt Carlo had more than his fair share of money, but I was simply thankful for the fact that he helped us keep a roof over our heads. Of course, since he gave my mother enough to get by, she couldn’t refuse him when he asked us to hide him. That is, after he faked his death.”
“What!” both Brandon and I shout at the same time. Beatta’s words were so unexpected that I jumped. Most unfortunately, my hand holding my teacup shot straight out as if a doctor had whacked me to test my elbow reflexes. Darjeeling flew in all sorts of directions, but mainly down Brandon’s white shirt. Lost in her grief, Beatta didn’t even notice when Brandon leapt off the couch with a yelp.
“Ow, Lily! It burns,” he says in a carrying whisper.
I grab the tea towel off the serving tray, and dab at his shirt. Poor man, I imagine his chest hairs singeing.
Lost in her own world, Beatta continues, “Yes, my mother helped him. He came here one day pleading with her. I’m afraid Carlo was mixed up in bad affairs, with bad people. He bought stuff, you see, antiquities, and things.”
I stop dabbing at Brandon’s shirt.
“He was on the run, Carlo was. From people who wanted him dead.”
“But why?” I ask.
“I don’t know why they wanted him dead,” Beatta replies quietly. “Deals gone wrong, things he knew. People involved in the antiquities smuggling business were after him. Mafia-types. They were looking to silence him.”
Oh heavens, I knew it, the mafia. “Say it isn’t so, sister Beatta!”
She looks startled for a minute. Perhaps I’ve been too familiar.
“Unfortunately, Signora Bilbury, what I say is true. Carlo came here one day, claiming he’d faked his death and asking to hide out. My mother took him in.”
I look around me, expecting Carlo Buschi to jump out from behind the threadbare curtains. “Well, where is he now?” I ask, but the doorbell rings and Beatta puts a finger to her lips. Seriously? The woman’s been dead all day and now the doctor shows up, right in the midst of Beatta’s confession? And it’s not only the doctor who crowds into the tiny room. He brings with him a nurse in a starched white uniform, and an undertaker who has a long, horsey face.
Ahh, this is such sad business, I think, as the doctor introduces the undertaker, a Signor Nonmorire. I introduce Brandon, simply as Signor Logan. The nurse eyes him curiously, trying to place him. She’s a very striking woman, with green eyes, and long black hair knotted in a ponytail. She continues to give Brandon a searching look and then decides No, it can’t be. It can’t be a famous movie star in this decrepit house in the middle of nowhere.
“I must a beea very thorough and record the exacta time of il morto…what issa the English word…”
“Death.” I say, unsure why the doctor is speaking English. Probably because Beatta has introduced us as “amici americani.”
“Righta…deatha,” the doctor continues.
I repeat his sentiment in Italian so Beatta can understand what’s been said. The doctor glares at me as if I’ve just declared that I am going to run out the door and dive head long into the gorge
. I swear, there are some Italians who are absolutely convinced that Americans cannot speak a foreign language, even after I repeatedly engage them in their own language.
After staring at me as if I am dangerously mad, the doctor turns and asks a barrage of questions about the circumstances of the death. All this time, he hasn’t bothered to lift the sheet to examine Carmelina. As Beatta describes what happened in detail, it feels unseemly for Brandon and me to remain in the room. We excuse ourselves, telling Beatta not to worry, we’ll be back.
Stomachs grumbling, we stumble upon a darling restaurant in the center of Civita. It has a wood oven and little tables smartly dressed in white cloths. All they serve are different types of bruschetta and we order some with olives, some with tomatoes, and another with a delicious chickpea topping. It must be saying something about my emotional state that, for the first time in weeks, I don’t moon at Brandon over my dinner plate. Instead, I down my food and swig my wine and stare out the window at the beautiful piazza.
The food’s so delicious, I eat heartily until I see the undertaker and the doctor carrying poor Carmelina away on a stretcher, with the sheet tucked around her body. It’s an eerie sight to witness.
“I suppose that’s the only way to get anyone out of Civita. They’ll have to carry her across the expansion bridge.”
“Awful,” Brandon murmurs and stands up to pay the bill. The moment he pockets his change, I take off across the piazza like a horse out of the gate. I have to admit, I’m in a hurry for two reasons: after seeing her in such an emotional state, I don’t like the idea of Beatta being alone, and, more selfishly, I want to know more about Carlo Buschi faking his death.
“Lily, for the love of Pete…” Brandon pants, trying to catch up.
“So, where were we?” I ask, coming through the door. The moment it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. Beatta’s so emotionally spent that she’s collapsed in a heap on her sofa.
“What am I going to do without my mother?” she asks.
“There, there, everything will be alright,” I say as I sit down beside her and pat her hand.