The Knotty Bride

by Julie Sarff

  “Really,” Brandon finally explodes, watching the social service woman’s every movement, “Is all this necessary?”

  Brandon is mad as spit at the entire Italian government these days. Of course, if I’d paid 30 million euros to acquire a new house in Italy and the Italian government told me that I might have to give the house back, I’d be mad as spit too. Thankfully, he’s still living at the villa with Jason and Anna. Dario filed an injunction citing that Brandon bought the house in good faith and that he should be able to keep his house “unless the heir is found.”

  “I’m sorry, Signor Logan, is my presence here upsetting you?” Signora Casetti responds innocently. She is an older woman with tidy hair pulled into a tight bun.

  “Actually, it is,” Brandon answers back unabashedly. I understand he’s upset. I do. But there’s no reason to take it out on the Signora.

  “Dear Mr. Logan,” she says, putting down her fork. “In my mind Luca and Matteo are very well loved by both their parents, but given the seriousness of everything that has happened lately, well, the government has to make sure all is well.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve been studying Signor Bilbury and her children as if they are specimens under a microscope. So, what’s your conclusion?” Brandon jabs his fork in her direction.

  “Mmm, I can assure you I’ll be informing my superiors that all is quite well here at Signora Bilbury’s house.”

  “See?” I mutter to Brandon and plop a large pile of spaghetti on his plate hoping he will eat more and talk less. Brandon picks up the cheese grinder and cranks away with a stern countenance. I have to excuse his rude behavior. There’s just a lot on his mind these days. To make matters worse, Brandon will be leaving again soon. He has to attend the many movie premieres of The African Princess. However, there’s really no reason to take it out on the very grandmotherly Signora Casetti who is only doing her job. The dear woman told me that the reason she became a social worker was because, “I simply cannot bear the idea of any little ones being abused or neglected. I want everyone to grow up in a happy, healthy family. That’s something I never had, you see, I grew up in an orphanage in Turin.”

  Really, the woman is so kind, she even takes the boys to the park on occasion while I do laundry or pick up around the apartment. How nice is that?

  After dinner, when Signora Casetti is visiting with the boys alone in their room and Brandon and I are doing the dishes, I try to get Brandon’s mind off of all our troubles by saying, “I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you hire Rupa’s husband to be your lawyer?”

  “What?” Brandon responds, drying my IKEA plates and slamming down each one in the cabinet with a bang. He’s so angry I fear he’s going to break every dish I own.

  “Oh that. I needed a lawyer in Italy. Finances and taxes here are a disaster. I figured Dario must be a very ethical man since he was involved with running an animal rescue for so long.”

  “Uh huh,” I reply. Funny thing about the word uh huh, because it’s all in the delivery and in this case it means, “I am going to say something which sounds like I am agreeing with you but really lets you know I don’t believe for one second what you’re telling me is the whole story.”

  “So let’s see, not long after working with Rupa to figure out how to get me to forgive you, and how to get back into my life, you hired her husband as your lawyer. What’s the real story here?”

  For the first time in a week, I see Brandon’s sly smile return.

  “Nothing, there’s no story.”

  Oh he’s so suspicious! I know exactly what he’s doing.

  “You are trying to figure out how to get them back together,” I accuse.

  He laughs again.

  Hah! He is even more of a romantic than I am.

  “Lily, I needed a good lawyer. I especially need one now that you went off breaking a policeman’s nose.”

  “That was an accident and you know it. Besides Dario says he’s been in contact with the police, and he thinks the worst that’s going to happen is that I will be fined.”

  “Yeah, Lily, you’ll get a big fine, and how do you intend to pay for it?”

  Wait a minute, he’s changing the subject. I want to get to the bottom of the Dario/Rupa affair.

  “You’re trying to figure out a way to get them back together, aren’t you?”

  “Somebody has to fix the mess you made.”

  “The mess I made? This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh yes it does, Lily. It has everything to do with you. You and that cat rescue is what pushed everybody over the brink. Dario had cats everywhere in his house. He incurred serious financial debt from you and Rupa’s rescue efforts, you know? Rupa ran through their retirement funds in order to pay all the vet bills for those cats.”

  Actually I did know that, and it does make me feel guilty. I soap up another dish and ask, “So, then, you and Dario have talked about all this?”

  “He’s my lawyer, Lily, we talk.” He shrugs his shoulders and dries another plate. Bam! He slams it down on top of the other ones and all the dishes in my cupboard rattle.

  I turn to look at him and put a hand on my hip. “For your information, Brandon P. Logan, it’s really his mother-in-law who is causing this rift. She’s never liked Rupa, not from day one. For starters, she’s always been very angry that they weren’t married in a Catholic church. How ridiculous is that? Rupa is Hindi. How could she marry in a Catholic Church?”

  “This is not about the mother-in-law, the man has reached wit’s end.”

  I feel like Brandon is trying to tell me something here. It’s something I’m supposed to infer from his tone. Well, I’m sorry I don’t know man speak. It’s more of a foreign language to me than Swahili.

  “So what’s that supposed to mean, Brandon?”

  “Nothing, just rinse.” He points to the stack of soapy dishes that is piled high on my side of the kitchen sink.

  “Brandon, what do you know?”

  “Nothing, Lily, I don’t know a thing, just that the way Dario appears to feel about his marriage right now, it would take something monumentally romantic to fix it.”

  Monumentally romantic?

  “Well, you’re from Hollywood, aren’t ya?” I reply with a grin as I rinse off a plate with water.

  “I’m from Alabama, but, anyway.”

  “So, are you saying to me that you can’t do something monumentally romantic to fix everything that has happened between Rupa and Dario?”

  Brandon dries a glass and sighs thoughtfully, “Like I said, somebody’s got to fix this mess you put in motion. You did this, Lily. When you decided to hold your little cat rescue in my gym, you messed up two romantic relationships. And I already did something ‘monumentally romantic’ to fix our relationship, didn’t I? I rented an entire Bed and Breakfast to put things right between you and me. And I think I can fix what you did to Rupa and Dario too. I think I can come up with something monumentally romantic if I put my mind to it.”

  “Great,” I respond with my own sly smile, “because I already have an idea. Lean in a little closer, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking.”

  Chapter 17

  “June is just around the corner,” I casually mention to Anna as the two of us sit side by side in the main salon, parked in red velvet wingchairs that face the lake.

  On the Queen Anne table between us are piled all the bridal magazines bought to date. Anna ignores them, and instead flips through a recent copy of Italian Vogue, appearing mildly interested in my wedding conversation.

  “There’s only so many Saturdays in June,” I continue “And if you want your guests to be available you should think of nailing down the date.”

  She stares up from her Vogue as if considering this.

  “Yes, I suppose...well, I really don’t know. Jason and I were married in the Congo, so there’s really no rush.”

  Of course there’s a rush. She has to get married this June so that Brandon and I can get married the followi
ng June. I don’t want to hold two weddings at Ca’ Buschi next year.

  “What colors do you think you would want?” I prod.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You know, what color for your bridesmaids and such?”

  “Oh, Lily, you know we don’t do that kind of stuff in Italy. It’s just the bride and the groom here.”

  “Really? No maid of honor, no best man, no father walking you down the aisle?”

  “No. Definitely not.” Her eyes turn back to the stick-thin figures in her copy of Vogue.

  “Still you have to have a color or a theme or something.”

  “I quite like green,” she says.

  Green? Like forest green? Or pea green? Or God forbid hunter green? What an awful choice.

  “Green’s nice,” I lie and flip a page of my bridal magazine. “You could do a soft green, like a wintergreen matched with a peachy pink.”

  “I haven’t really given it much thought, Lily. Although I do quite like lemon and lime.”

  Lemon and lime? Like a Sprite bottle? How horrid.

  “Well, if you like bright colors what about lavender and bright green,” I persuade.

  She stops flipping through Vogue and glances over. “What colors do you want when you finally get Brandon to change his mind about marriage?”

  Is it wide of the mark that this question rubs me the wrong way? It just does. Brandon won’t even discuss the issue and I’m starting to get a bit of a complex. The fact is the man may never change his opinion about marriage. But never mind all that; Anna’s going to be leaving to join him soon, since she’s his costar, and I’d like to get some of her wedding details nailed down before she leaves. We at least need a date and she needs to get cracking on a guest list.

  “I don’t know, it’s hard to pin it down. I like plum and mocha,” I answer evasively. “I think Rupa, Francesca, and you will look divine in plum. It will match your coloring and all.”

  “Lily, that’s so lovely. I’m so honored that you want me in your wedding.”

  The wedding that may never happen, I think through a forced smile.

  “But there’s quite a lot of other color palettes I like and plum and mocha might not be the right choice for a summer wedding. I also like pink and ivory, that’s kind of classic. Then I could carry a bouquet of ivory tulips and perhaps some of the pink roses that bloom in the garden. I’d mix in some light pink budding protea for texture, and maybe some orchids.”

  Anna stops reading her magazine and glares at me. “Wow, Lily, you’ve really put a lot of thought into this.”

  “Well, you know,” I say and flip a page. “Of course I could just go with a classic cascading bouquet of white orchids. That’s always in fashion.”

  “Hmm, maybe I should put a little more thought into my wedding too. A theme you say? I know just the thing.” Her eyes widen in excitement. “Don’t you think it would be a hoot to have a Bollywood wedding?”

  A Bollywood wedding? What on Earth? Maybe it would be a hoot if we lived in Mumbai, but this is Northern Italy. We are sleek, we are sexy. We are not strands of flowers in fuchsia and orange. Goodness, you would think that after getting married by a tribesman in the Congo she would want something a little more traditional for her official ceremony.

  “That would be so much fun. We could get some Bollywood dancers,” I say, trying to go with the flow. In my mind, I think how ironic it is that I am trying to figure out how to give Rupa, who is from India, a classic Catholic wedding to please her mother-in-law, while Anna from Rome wants an exotic Indian wedding.

  I must have a grimace on my face because Anna says, “You know, you’re right. It’s getting so close to June. Too close, really. And I’ll be gone for work for the next couple of months, perhaps we should have an autumn wedding with a lot of fall colors.”

  “An autumn wedding?” I try to picture what that would be like. I image oranges, reds, and deep dark chocolate cake. I also imagine us all huddled and freezing in tents, as the Northern rains settle in. No, no, an autumn wedding will never do.

  “You don’t approve?” Anna asks. “You’re frowning pretty hard.”

  I’m frowning because if I am being honest, I am living vicariously through her. Planning her wedding, and Rupa’s secret one is really helping me plan my own wedding. It gives me an excuse to look at all these bridal magazines. I know that’s terrible, but next year I’m going to walk down the aisle in style. My first wedding was nothing more than a trip to the town hall, and it wasn’t romantic at all. This time, I want the whole enchilada.

  I can’t tell Anna all this. So instead, I change tactics and go into the sad, sordid Dario and Rupa story and how Brandon and I are trying to arrange a secret wedding to get the two of them back together.

  “A secret wedding, now that’s something I could sink my teeth in to.” Anna’s whole face brightens, and there’s a definite sparkle in her beautiful brown eyes. “Say, Lily, maybe I could help you with that. As you can plainly see, I really don’t care if Jason and I have another wedding. But helping you with your friend, now that sounds like fun.”

  Fascinating. Brandon’s not interested in marrying me, and Anna’s can’t be bothered to arrange her own wedding but suddenly everyone’s ready to pitch in to help Rupa with a secret wedding.

  “That’s so nice of you, Anna, especially since you don’t really know Rupa.

  “I may not know her, but she’s a mighty fine person with her rescue and all.”

  Hmm, that’s right, Anna is an animal lover. She posed naked for an ad campaign against fur. I wonder if she would like to adopt a dog. I know a wonderful guy named Phil at Rupa’s rescue who is still miserably depressed.

  “Say, Anna, how do you feel about dogs?”

  Chapter 18

  I don’t make it out to Ca’ Buschi much while Brandon is away. I’m so busy working at the ice cream shop that I barely see my boys. I think that’s what I hate most about my job. I only see my boys in the mornings when I am shuffling them off to daycare. By the time I return home, Uncle Tomasso has the boys all tucked in bed fast asleep.

  We’ve had a few discussions, Brandon and I, about my future. He thinks I should quit my job and the boys and I should move in with him. I’ve told him absolutely not. “Moving in” is not a permanent state of being, is it? My boys need permanency, and they need a mother and a father. They’ve already watched their own father skip from woman to woman, and look how that turned out. “I’ll be happy to quit my job and move in the moment we’re married,” I always reply. The “married” word continues to elicit groans on Brandon’s part.

  The discussion about me quitting my job, and perhaps going back to school to do what I want is always followed by what I call the car and jewelry discussion. That discussion generally goes like this:

  “You need a new car. Your Punto is a hazard to the road. How ‘bout a nice Maserati?”

  Now every woman in the world should be so lucky as to have their boyfriend offer to buy them a Maserati, but honestly where would I park it? Out on the street in front of my sad, concrete apartment building?

  “Absolutely not,” I always respond.

  “An Alfa Romeo?”

  “No.”

  “A sporty little Mini?”

  This one always makes me hesitate a bit. I could see myself zipping around in a Mini Cooper, maybe a nice blue one with white racing stripes.

  “No, no, no,” I always say. “The Punto may not be a nice car, but it’s my car. Bought and paid for.”

  We have the same discussion about jewelry. Brandon wants to buy me things, but honestly what would I do with a fine pearl necklace? Hawk it to pay my credit card debt? That would be silly. Sometimes when we’re out strolling the fashionable streets in nearby Milan, he offers to buy me something that sparkles. I always reply that I will sell it and donate the money to help Rupa’s rescue. Generally that ends that conversation.

  “Ah well,” I sigh, thinking through it all this morning as I do the iro
ning on the kitchen table. I lay Luca’s canary yellow button-down shirt down on a towel, and press it hard with my heavy iron, releasing steam into the air.

  A few shirts later, and I am ironing the wrinkles out of my pillow cases thinking about all the mysteries that have been tied up in the last few months. We know what happened to Carlo Buschi, and we know about Signor di Meo’s fraudulent behavior. The only thing we still don’t know is who is the heir to Villa Buschi? There’s a part of me that wants to go search the creepy Buschi basement again looking for clues. After all, we need to find the heir, and convince her to take the cash instead of Brandon’s beloved home.

  I sigh some more, and move on to ironing my blouse. The clock on the stove registers 2:25 p.m. I need to hurry up. I have to be off to work.

  Still my mind drifts back to the idea of searching the villa basement. I know we’re supposed to leave Signor Buschi’s things alone. We’re not to disturb anything in case the heir wants everything back. Still, if we don’t go search through his things, how are we going to find her? All we have to go on is “La Zafferana,” --the Saffron one. That is the only clue left on the list of three important birthdays that we found on the piece of paper on the Buschi estate in Switzerland. Next to the words “La Zafferana” was written the birth year of 1952. Rupa, in her spare time, has taken to researching records of baby girls born in 1952 in the Arona area. Of course, we don’t know where Buschi’s daughter might have been born –Arona, Switzerland, Cairo? She could have been born anywhere. So far, Rupa has come up with a list of 36 candidates in the local area. But what are we supposed to do with her list? Go knocking on doors and ask, “Hey there, my name is such-and-such and we’d like to ask you who’s your daddy?”

  No, no that will never do. Francesca and I even pored over Buschi’s old diaries once again. There’s absolutely no mention of the girl. In my mind, the only course of action is to return to the basement where all Buschi’s old things were stored and search for clues. It’s the only way.

  I am just ironing a new blouse purchased on one of my recent shopping sprees when, what do you know, my intercom beeps. It’s Francesca. She flounces into my apartment in her latest designer dress and plops on my couch looking miserable.