by Liz Newman
The moonlit sky became an evil stranger, bearing down on her with its haunted eye. Skye straightened out her dress and hair, walking into the villa. She heard voices inside the house, the Signora’s shrieking, Sal’s soothing. She leaned against the wall. Annabelle turned the corner with a tray of liquor, mixers, and two glasses. She bowed to Skye.
“Annabelle, please tell me the truth. They are married, aren’t they?”
The old woman raised her eyebrows and leaned her head to the side. Her lips became a knife slash. She nodded her head.
“Christ. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Very married,” Annabelle parroted. “Very, very. Lei ha bisogno di niente?”
“I don’t need anything,” Skye stammered. “Actually, I need to leave. In the morning. Thank you, Annabelle, for your hospitality.” Her mind thrown about on a stormy sea of emotions, Skye drowned quickly in this overload of information.
Annabelle gave her the raised-eyebrow look once again and trolled away down the hall. A silver strand sprung free from her tight bun.
Skye sat on the bed in the guest room.. She bit off a hangnail. Walking to the closet, she folded her shirts and pants, smoothing out the creases. She zipped dresses into garment bags, and packed toiletries. turned toward an etched porcelain wastebasket. An instant later, she tossed it unceremoniously on top of the folded clothes in her suitcase, zipping up the sides.
She steamed the wrinkles from outfit meant for the plane ride home while she showered. She put her toothbrush beside a cup of mouthwash, and a strip of dental floss, packing the rest of the items she wouldn’t need tomorrow morning. She sat on the bed, chewing off another hangnail
A soft knock sounded at the door. “Skye?” Sal said.
She opened it. “So, are you another good friend of the Signora Luciana’s?”
“We are more than that. Please let me in so I can explain.”
“There’s nothing more to say, Sal. We are perfectly clear. You wanted me to throw myself at you, so you could blame me when I found out. You are just like all the rest.”
“Surely you don’t think—”
“You are the same as every other man who plays with a woman’s heart.”
Her open palm flew toward him, flying out to slap his face.
Sal held her hands in his. “Please give me a moment to speak. We know each other better than to act like this!”
“You and I, we have nothing in common. Nothing. You are a low-class opportunist who uses people. I should’ve known, with your fancy clothes and your uppity manners. You’re a fraud. All the while I thought you were hiding some great secret, some heartache in common with me. You mirrored my pain the entire time, like a mimic. My eyes are opened.”
“I apologize…for my mistakes. If that is how you see me…we have nothing more to say. I desire…a favorable place in your memory. Nothing more. Ciao, bella.” He closed the door behind him.
She heard his retreating footsteps, keeping her chin up. Part of her wished he would come storming back through the door, insisting she listen, although she knew she would keep turning him away. She stood there for a longer time than she could estimate. Silence muted everything except the rushing of blood in her ears, and the searing ache of betrayal’s swift sword, buried deep in the pit of her heart.
***
Morning came. Skye stared at herself in the mirror and patted her eyes with cold water. The dark circles refused to recede, puffing up from under her eyes like rotten hard-boiled eggs. Her hands shook slightly as she gathered her remaining belongings and arranged them neatly in her suitcase. Zipping up her bags, she realized she forgot to purchase souvenirs for Clarissa, Kleinstiver, and anyone else. “I had such a good time I completely forgot,” she rehearsed. “Sorry. I’ll treat you to an espresso.” At the thought of the drink, she crumpled down onto her side on the bed and let a few tears spill down the bridge of her nose, before rising and patting her face with a tissue. She brushed her hair and threw it back over her shoulders before making her way downstairs.
Silky laughter floated up to Skye. She heard a man’s voice as well, speaking in a melancholy tone. She took a deep breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs and peered around the wall into the dining room.
The Signora Luciana and Marcellus murmured softly over brunch. Silver trays before them were lavished with cured meats, fruits, and pastries. Annabelle poured coffee into Marcellus’ tiny cup. Marcellus spied Skye. Skye pulled her head back in behind the wall.
“Hello,” he greeted. She heard his footfalls on the floor as he walked to where she stood. She appeared in plain view, not wanting anyone to think she was hiding.
“Good morning, Marcellus. Nice to see you back. Signora Luciana. Good morning.”
“Buon giorno, as they say in this country,” the Signora Luciana said, only slightly raising her head from her cup.
“Mm-hmm,” Skye replied. “Thank you for allowing me to stay in your beautiful home. I must be leaving now. I have a flight to catch.”
Marcellus gently led her by the elbow. “Dine with us before you leave. Please. I hear last night was quite eventful. It would soothe our consciences if we could clarify.”
The Signora Luciana smirked, looking as if her conscience was perfectly soothed by Skye’s discomfort. “No, thank you,” Skye said. “I really must be going.”
“International flights do not depart until the evening. So that you will arrive during American business hours. Isn’t that correct, Cecilia?”
“Si,” the Signora Luciana said begrudgingly.
“Plenty of time to grace your hostess with one last hour or more of your company.” Marcellus pulled a chair out for her. Skye sat down reluctantly.
Annabelle placed a plate with a gold leaf charger under it in front of her. “Please, eat,” Marcellus coaxed.
“I’m sorry. I’m not hungry,” Skye said.
“Perhaps some caffè. To get that tired look out of your face,” the Signora said. Annabelle poured the steaming liquid into a hand-painted mug. “You like these olives, hmm? Sal told me they were your favorite.” the Signora said.
“I do like them,” Skye said. Annabelle used a silver slotted spoon to pick up the marinated olives from a ceramic bowl and place them on Skye’s plate. Skye thanked Annabelle once again. Annabelle remained silent, as Skye used her fork to push the olives around on her plate.
“So, you come from New York,” the Signora said, “to help yourself in my home, to everything and everyone.”
“Signora Luciana—” Skye began.
“Call me Cecilia,” the Signora said. “I am not much older than you. Do not address me as such.”
Skye chuckled and looked down at the table. The Signora’s She looked at Signora Luciana’s face pointedly, her eyes moving from the Signora’s neck, to her jaw line, to the corners of her eyes. The Signora’s face darkened. As a reflex, her forehead spread out in what appeared to be an attempt to stretch out whatever wrinkles a filler could not flatten.
“Cecilia,” Skye continued. “I was unaware you and Sal were married.”
The Signora placed her cup on the table. “Scusarsi?”
Marcellus repeated Skye’s words in Italian, his face breaking into a smile.
Skye went on. “I fell in love. I’m not going to apologize for…helping myself, as you say. He loves me, too. I’m sure of it. I thought this charade was a foolish game on his part and attributed all sorts of evil motives to it. Now I realize my mistake. He truly knows me, and loves who I am. You can call him your husband, but I know he will always love me. And that’s the truth.”
The Signora looked as if she enjoyed Skye’s discomfort. “Say again. Who are lovers?”
“You and Sal. You are married. Annabelle told me,” Skye said.
The Signora Luciana’s face contorted into a walnut shell, erupting into hideous peals of laughter. “We are very close,” she shrieked. “Kissing cousins!”
Marcellus laughed out loud, long and so hearty his whole b
ody shook. “That’s the American way!”
Skye picked up her plate and threw it into the cold fireplace. The white porcelain shattered into dozens of pieces.
“Don’t do that!” Marcellus howled. “That is Greek!” The Signora Luciana and Marcellus dabbed the corners of their eyes with their starched white linen napkins.
Skye leaped to her feet, pounding on the table. “What the hell is going on here? When you are finished having fun at my expense…no! Forget it. Annabelle told me everything I need to know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave this stupid funhouse to you hideous clowns!”
“Don’t go!” Marcellus struggled to calm his humor. “Please. Annabelle!”
Annabelle hurried in from the kitchen. Marcellus pointed to the shards of plate in the fireplace. “That plate. Leave it there. Do not pick it up.”
“Si,” Annabelle said. She reached into the fireplace, gingerly picking up the pieces.
“She doesn’t speak a word of English,” Marcellus stated. “Annabelle, l’ha fatto dice il Signorina Skye ciò è Sal y Cecilia stato sposato?”
Annabelle looked shocked. “No! Non direi mai tale cosa.”
“You said married,” Skye said to Annabelle. “Very very married.”
“Ho significato matto. Matto.”
“Mad,” Marcellus translated. “She thought you said mad.”
“Mahrreed. Mahd,” Annabelle said, her hands waving in the air. “Che è la differenza?” With the larger pieces of the plate in her hand, she trolled back into the kitchen to retrieve a dustpan and broom.
Skye sank into her chair. She shook her head. She turned toward the Signora Luciana.
“It would’ve helped…if you’d have clarified that with me last night.”
“He made a promise to me,” the Signora said. “Women like you throw yourselves at him all the time. He grew tired of women like you. I watched you last night, out in the garden. He may be in love with you. Good for you; a disaster for me. For he would take back all that he has given me.”
“All he has given you? Aren’t you an heiress?” Skye said.
The Signora laughed and took a long, slow sip of champagne. She relished her turn to withhold information with another bite of honeydew melon. Chewing slowly, thoughtfully, she watched Skye with a fixed expression. Skye remained poised, her face a mask of attention. “It’s just as well that he rejected you. Oh yes, we’ve seen a parade of women come through here, just like you,” the Signora growled. “Women after his money and title. Because of women like you he hates himself; he hides from his status and works in the garden like a slave! While I, a servant’s daughter, born with nothing, begging for everything, must protect myself from women like you! Who seek to take everything from me, even my own brother!”
“Per favore calmarsi,” Marcellus said. To Skye he said, “I hoped he would fall in love with you and choose not to leave. He talked on and on about finding his way in the world. I tried to convince him to stay, but he made his plans. I checked his room this morning. He is gone. This one,” he gestured to Signora Luciana, “is the only one happy to see him go.”
“L’adoro Sal,” Signora Luciana protested.
“What title does he hold?” Skye’s chest locked tightly, as if fists twisted her lungs empty of oxygen.
“He is the Marchese Olivieri. Son of Luciattus Savorno Luciana de Olivieri. The only true heir left of my father,” the Signora scowled.
“Cecilia is the illegitimate child of Luciattus and Annabelle,” Marcellus said.
“Annabelle. The house servant?” said Skye.
“Perché lei deve dire le sue cose che non hanno importanza affatto?” the Signora Luciana snapped.
“Well, you tell her how you inherited this vast fortune, then. You’re the only one who would take it from him, besides the beggars in the streets,” Marcellus said.
“I was the only one he offered it to!” The Signora threw down her napkin and spat out words in Skye’s direction. “He has left as he promised. And this house is entirely mine. You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Alfred told me all about you. He is a very good friend!”
Marcellus giggled and cast a sideways glance at Skye. “Then his mother was Isabella Luciana, who perished in the ItaliAir plane crash, along with Sal’s older brother,” Skye said. She held her palm to her forehead, moaning, while the Signora Luciana smirked at her pain. Marcellus scratched the side of his head, as Skye composed herself and became stone-faced, waiting for the Signora Luciana to continue.
“Sal came into a great fortune and title at a young age, when he was too young to appreciate his luck. What made Sal’s life easy destroyed him. Now a princess is created out of a bastard daughter,” the Signora said. “And you will have none of it.”
“I never wanted any of this,” Skye said as she rose from the table and gathered her things. “We don’t need you. We don’t need this house. All I would ever want from here…is him. Please tell him that, Marcellus. If you ever see him again.”
“If he left me any way to contact him, I would tell him right now. We have both lost. I bid you farewell, Skye, and a fine trip back to New York,” Marcellus said.
“You will never find him,” the Signora Luciana muttered. “He is gone.”
Marcellus slung Skye’s carry-on bag over his shoulder, rolling her garment bag behind him. “So, it seems I shall lose two friends today.” He placed the bags in the trunk of a waiting jalopy cab. “Buona fortuna.” He slipped a card with his name and telephone number engraved on fine parchment into her hand. “If you hear from him…”
The cab meandered around the front courtyard fountain, onto the sloping driveway. The towering cypress, the waving birch trees, and the blood-red roses called out his name as the car drove by. Skye’s heart whispered his name repeatedly. Sal.
Slipping the diamond solitaire from Charlie on her ring finger, she examined her hand from all angles. “Doesn’t quite fit,” she muttered, “with a broken heart.” The cab driver, oblivious, listened to Italian folk music, switching the station and turning up the familiar beats of the Tarantella. Skye removed the ring and placed it back in its cushioned black box, allowing her hands to fiddle around in her lap until she dug through her shoulder bag and fished out a novel she meant to read on vacation. A card fluttered out of its pages onto her lap. Greetings from Ground Zero read the inscription at the bottom of a picture of a European tourist with the Twin Towers behind him, the first plane inches from crashing into Tower One. The card from Charlie. She ripped it up into tiny pieces.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Edie counted down in silence, mouthing the numbers while retracting her thumb into her palm, followed by her pinky finger, ring finger, middle finger, and lastly, her index finger. She swept her hand out toward Skye, two fingers flush up against each other. The sign above the cameras lit up bright red, reading On the Air.
“Thanks for coming back with us, the day after the first anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. I think we all can agree that the first anniversary ceremony was touching and heartfelt, and that we as a nation are still in shock over the events of that day. Dr. Mehminger, before the break, we talked about the controversial capture today of Hassan Mohammed Binh Attash. Mr. Attash,” Skye said, glancing down at her notes, “is the younger brother of Tawfiq Bin Attash, a man involved in several terrorist attacks, and who is often under investigation by counter-terrorism officials in Pakistan and the United States. What are your thoughts on the fact that he is a minor who has no direct involvement to the September Eleventh attacks?”
“Skye, I believe this is a coup, if you will, by our own government who actively seeks scapegoats for its mishandling and lack of anticipation for the September attacks.” A video of the burning Twin Towers rolled on the screen. “I believe our government seeks someone to blame besides people who are already dead and drags out these lightweights and expects the free world to throw a party.” Dr. Mehminger scratched the corner of his forehead as he spoke.
“I di
sagree,” said Senator Janet Clarion. “This is a moment to celebrate. The United States, in conjunction with Pakistani forces, have infiltrated several terrorism cells that have posed a threat or will very likely soon pose a threat to America’s safety. Future terrorists aren’t going to say, ‘Wow, what a great loss of infidel life from the Trade Center Attacks. Let’s pack up and go home. We’re perfectly happy living in squalor and uncomfortable conditions now that we’ve shown them.’ I assure you, unless we attack and infiltrate the leaders of these cells, we will be reliving the pain of September Eleventh repeatedly, in even more catastrophic ways. The terrorists will find ways to increase the loss of life if they know they have the time, the expenses, and the leaders who will assist them in formulating plans to do so.”
“The 9/11 attackers acted with amassed forces,” Skye said. “A great deal of gathered intelligence as well as funding was necessary to carry out this attack, and much of that is untraceable. Is it a possibility, Mr. Mehminger, that we might make the same mistakes made before, when communications among suspected terrorists remained unchecked?”
“Now we are getting into an area that ultimately violates the civil rights of even our own citizens,” Dr. Mehminger responded.
“I want to live,” Senator Clarion quipped. “Am I entitled to that civil right?”
“Freedom of speech, Senator Clarion,” said Dr. Mehminger, “is a civil right; as well as the right to speak in turn.” He turned back to Skye. “As I’ve said before, the irony of the situation is that we are disregarding our own laws and policies and allowing our armed forces and our government to detain minors and invade privacies.”
“The true irony of the situation, Dr. Mehminger, with all due respect, is that seventeen people chose to die on the day of September Eleventh, Two-thousand-and-one, and take with them over three thousand souls who desired to live.” The audience clapped wildly. Senator Clarion paused, waiting for the applause to die down.
