Beatrix was as intrigued by the transplanted American dwelling on the hilltop, as Iris was by a woman who traded yuppies like baseball cards. When Iris asked for a second glass of water, Beatrix blew away her request with a puff of the lips and uncorked a bottle of chilled white wine. After all, she said, it was still the weekend, and getting close to dinner time. By the time Cinzia and Isabella returned, Iris’s head was spinning with her share of the bottle and dozens of details regarding important people she had never met, who worked at companies she had never heard of, all compliments of Beatrix, who, by then, quite possibly knew more about Iris than anyone else in Italy, Gregorio included. From then on, whenever Beatrix was in the neighborhood, and Iris managed to slip out of the house, the two women would get together for a chat, sometimes over a cup of tea, but more often over a glass of wine or a shot or two of the single malt whiskey Beatrix insisted was a better remedy for whatever ailed a body than a liter of the chamomile tea Mrs. Rabbit forced down Peter’s gullet after he overdosed on stolen veggies.
Some weeks later, Iris was contacted by the owner of the soon-to-open twenty-four suite boutique hotel, the Dimora Baia dell’Incanto, in Paraggi, just a stone’s throw from Portofino. The caller, who identified herself as Mariella Mangiagallo, said that Iris had been highly recommended by a mutual acquaintance, a certain Beatrix Bonacorsa of Milan, and wished to know, in the event Iris might possibly be interested in the position of General Manager, whether she would be available to meet as soon as possible to discuss the matter. Interested, she was; available, she was; hired, she was.
The first six months of working in a makeshift office amid the noise and dust of the building crew hurrying to complete the job by the contracted completion date were frazzling, but Iris used that time to interview prospective staff and develop sales and marketing strategies to launch the new property. A promotional event slated to take place in New York City provided a welcome and long overdue opportunity for her to sneak in a quick visit home to see her family. She could ill afford the time, but if she didn’t go now, who could say when she would have another chance? If she managed her time well, in the precious few days available she would be able to see Auntie Rosa, her mother, her sisters, and whatever nieces, nephews and brothers turned up at the traditional spaghetti dinner she cooked for everyone at Violet’s place each time she visited.
When Iris called to say she was in town, her mother invited her to the annual Susan B. Anthony luncheon at which she had been asked to say a few words. Betty Capotosti (that was the name on her mother’s badge, meaning she had apparently relinquished her nom de guerre and returned to her former identity, if not to her former self) was seated next to Iris at a round banquet table. Iris admired her mother’s natural elegance and poise, and noticed how smooth and fresh her fair-skinned face still appeared, framed by the soft waves of her naturally auburn hair. Iris thought it ironic that despite twelve pregnancies, her mother’s hair was still thick and only slightly streaked with grey, while Iris had been coloring hers for a few years already. The other women were deferential toward her mother, and poised to listen to anything she had to say, making Iris conclude that by now her mother must be regarded as some sort of leader on the local women’s rights scene.
“I have to admit, some of your stories about Italy surprise me, Iris,” she said, ice cubes clinking as she took a sip from her water glass. “For example, when you first moved over there, and answered a letter I sent to you, addressed to Iris Leale, you were quick to inform me that in Italy, when a woman marries, she acquires the right to use her husband’s surname, but still officially goes by the name she was born with.”
“I thought you’d find it interesting to hear that Italy is not as backward as you always seemed to believe. Imagine, one of my old friends from college even addressed a letter to me as ‘Mrs. Gregorio Leale.’ How antiquated is that? Even Gregorio thought it was odd,” Iris said. She hardly got any letters anymore, though, except from Auntie Rosa; everyone else was using email. Iris disliked using a computer at home, too, but enjoyed the simplicity and immediacy of communication.
“And now, I’m hearing about this glamorous career of yours,” her mother continued. “The only female hotel manager in the area, you say? Interesting. What special challenges does that present you with?”
Iris opened her mouth to reply, but before she could answer, her mother turned to remark on a discussion between two other women at their table convened to honor the suffragette activist who had fought and died in Rochester.
Auntie Rosa, whom Iris invited to dinner at Il Giardino, her aunt’s favorite Italian restaurant, had reacted to the news of her career advancement as Iris might have expected. Though she was well into her eighties, she celebrated by devouring the heaping dish of spaghetti bolognese that sat in front of her with cheer and greed, interrupted by sporadic exclamations of, “I can’t b’lieve it!” and “I guess I must have been hungry!” Only when she had mopped up her plate with a chunk of crusty bread, did she devote her full attention to Iris.
“Well, aren’t you a clever little Lover-dover!” she said, as she wiped tomato sauce from the corners of her mouth, using her napkin to muffle the burp that escaped her. “Of course those people want you to run their hotel, honey. Who wouldn’t? They can count their lucky stars to have you, let me tell you. I’ll bet Gregorio is so darn proud of you!”
“He never comes right out and says so to me, but he always mentions my job when he introduces me to people from the hospital. You’d think I built the hotel with my own hands, the way he goes on about it sometimes,” Iris said.
“Of course he boasts! Let him! What man in his right mind wouldn’t be proud of you? Whatever a woman does, reflects on her husband and family, you know!” Auntie Rosa lowered her voice and raised her index finger. “Remember, though,” she continued, leaning close, “you always have to use a little bit of psychology with men. Let your husband do the talking. If you start bragging about your job with those other doctors, not that you would ever brag, not my Iris!, he might feel upstaged. Men don’t like that. Especially not doctors. I’ve worked with enough of them to know. For fifty-five years I worked with them! If anyone knew how many diagnoses I made before they did, just by talking to my patients!” Auntie Rosa shook her head slowly, and crossed herself. “For fifty-five years!”
“I never talk about my job at home. Gregorio always has so much to say about the hospital and everything he has to deal with, the politics of his department chief, his two-faced colleagues, his conferences. All I can do is listen.”
“Brava! That’s what men love. A wife who listens. Now tell me what it’s like there at that Dimora place.”
On sisters’ night out, each of the girls shared her reaction over their second bottle of Chardonnay; all except Lily, who, with the excuse of not being able to find a babysitter, had opted not to join them.
“That’s amazing, Iris!” Jasmine said. “It sounds divine. To think I went to college all those years, and now most of my conversations are with caged animals, while you’re over there hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”
“As soon as I can organize some time off from the Center, I’ll be over to visit!” Violet said. “You’ll at least invite me to lunch at your fancy hotel, won’t you? And I’m coming solo, unless any of you ladies want to join me. I just have to leave everything organized for Todd so he doesn’t flush the business down the toilet while I’m gone.”
“Someone was just talking to me about Portofino the other day!” Marguerite said. “I was on the phone with this artist from Milan I’m trying to line up for a show - he had just been there to see one of his wealthy clients. Give me your card, and I’ll hook you up with him.”
The following night, Iris surprised Lily by knocking at her door with a foot, juggling in her arms a pizza and a bottle of domestic Merlot she assumed was Lily’s favorite, since it was the only brand Iris had ever seen in her house.
“Iris! It’s you!” Lily said through the screen
door, her eyes darting past Iris to the street. “I was wondering who could be pulling into the driveway at this hour. It’s a little early for Joe.”
“Yes, as you can see, it’s only me!” Iris said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Is this a bad time?”
“No, I’m glad you came. But I’m sorry you can’t see the kids, they’re already in bed.” Lily said, opening the door. “Two miracles in one night. Let’s open that wine.”
The first sip of Merlot made Iris grimace; she suspected Lily bought this brand because she couldn’t afford better, or didn't know better. Iris had debated over buying something more palatable, but worried Lily might think she was putting on airs if she presented her with a fancy label. Intentions and interpretations did not always coincide, especially where Lily was concerned.
When Iris slipped into the conversation the news about her job change, Lily said, “You’re so lucky, Iris. I wouldn't mind going back to work, once Pierce is a little older. I don't know what exactly I’d do, but there’s got to be something better than SaveMart around here.”
“You already have the best job in the world, taking care of two kids. Between them, and the house, and Joe, you must have your hands full. How’s Joe’s business going, by the way?”
Lily lit a cigarette, sipped her wine. “Oh, he’s a great salesman, that’s for sure.” She still hadn’t touched the pizza.
“Well, I think you’re lucky you get to stay home with the kids and enjoy them while they’re small. It’s such a luxury these days,” Iris said, tilting her head to catch the mozzarella topping as it slipped from the slice of pizza in her hand. Lily didn’t have it so bad, in this nice big house all on her own, with her two beautiful boys, and no in-laws walking in and out as they pleased.
“Yeah, that’s what the ladies at my church group say.” Lily’s eyes scanned her sister’s face, as if to test her reaction.
“So you’re still going to that same church, I take it? What was it called again?”
Lily nodded. “Christ Covenant Church.”
“You’ve been involved with them for a long time now. Don’t you ever miss the Catholic church?”
“Not really. At CCC there’s more of a community spirit, you know? The women get together once a week to talk about how to deal with problems; it’s kind of like a support group for wives and mothers. The kids all know each other, too.”
“Do they have a choir? Maybe you should consider joining, if they do.”
“Like you said, I have a full-time job here. It doesn’t leave much time or energy for anything else. Besides, I haven’t sung in ages.”
“But you have a gift, Lily. You should find ways to cultivate that talent in any circumstances, even now, and then when the time comes, you’ll be ready to get up on that stage again. You’ll see.” Iris knew it would happen, sooner or later. She took a sip of her wine, thinking she would like to belong to a church group, too, though she wouldn’t know where to find one. Things worked differently in Italy. “I haven’t been so good about going to Mass lately, with the new job and all,” she said. It had been even longer since she had been to Confession, and certainly didn’t plan on going now; she would be too embarrassed to tell the whole truth, and she was too old to cheat.
“You’d think churches in Italy would be the best in the world, right there in the cradle of Catholicism, in the shadow of the Holy Father himself,” she continued. “But most churches I’ve been to are either tourist attractions, or mausoleums. They’re beautiful buildings, not congregations. Catholics have the monopoly, and I guess that’s what happens when you have no competition.” Iris realized she was rambling. She poured more Merlot for both of them; maybe it would help her shut up, and help Lily open up.
“You didn’t come all this way to tell me about churches,” Lily said. “Why don’t you tell me about the new hotel.”
Iris opened her mouth to do just that, there was plenty to say about the place, starting with the clear, emerald waters lapping the beach of Paraggi below; the spectacular views of the secluded cove; the brimming blueness of the infinity pool which blended into the aquamarine horizon; the exquisite feeling of privilege that infused her when she strolled the terrace, imagining the international clientele and celebrities she would soon be greeting at the Riviera’s most talked about new boutique hotel.
“Can I bum one of those?” she asked, when Lily shook another Merit from the pack. Lily passed her one. The cigarette trembled in her mouth as Lily held the lighter for her, squinting through the smoke. Iris took a drag on her cigarette, looked at the ceiling. Lily wouldn’t really want to hear all those beautiful descriptions, would she? They would only confirm her belief that Iris was on a perennial vacation, and Iris didn’t feel she should have to justify working in a pretty place by citing all the hassles and long hours and problems she could already see coming with Gregorio before the hotel had even opened.
“Really, it’s just a job,” she said, her elbows on her knees. “I don’t even know why they hired me, I don’t have any real qualifications, just my hands-on experience from the other hotel I worked at, and a friend’s recommendation. And of course being American helps over there - as if that were a some sort of credential.”
It was better to leave it at that; as it was, she still came across sounding pretty lucky, without filling in the fancy background. Besides, Iris could see that Lily was already far away, just like she could see the veil of sadness trapped under the glassy look in her grey-green eyes. It was strange how when she thought of Lily she always pictured her eyes twinkling with the vivacious sparkle of childhood, though she hadn’t actually seen it in a very long time. She’d like to ask her why, but didn’t know how. This was their only evening to spend together, and then she’d be gone again. Better they should enjoy the pizza, and keep things light.
“Aren’t you having any?” she asked Lily, helping herself to another slice, just as a car pulled in the driveway. At least she’d get to say hello to Joe, after all. He was always so friendly and affectionate, and seemed to be genuinely interested whenever he asked about Gregorio and the family.
“I already ate, Iris,” Lily said, stomping out her cigarette. “But thanks anyway.”
Those few days back home had passed far too quickly, and now it was time to devote her undivided attention to the tasks at hand. The soft opening was slated for Monday, leaving just two weeks to gear up for the expected Easter crowds, and there simply were not enough hours in the day to accomplish everything that needed to be done. Iris still had to arrange staff meetings, conduct a final inspection of the guest rooms with the housekeeper, review the provisional menus and wine list with Paolo the chef and Alberto the maître d’ who had followed her over from the Stella di Levante (Claudio had been more upset by the pair’s resignation than by Iris’s decision to end their affair, and vowed he would never forgive her for stealing them, though they had been the ones pleading to come with her), and attend to dozens of other things she had better not start thinking about if she wanted to remain sane.
“No, non lì, Giovanni, là,” Iris instructed the man in green overalls. “Over there!” Next time she had to prepare a CV she must remember to add “patience” under her qualifications.
After grumbling a remark in a typically Genoese mugugno (the dialect was particularly suitable for complaining, a pastime to which the locals were so notoriously devoted that they created a special word for it), the man disinterred the rosemary bush he had just planted, shuffled over to the spot Iris indicated, and began digging a new hole. Regardless of the little red flags Iris had stuck in the ground, each time she left the man alone to go tend to something else, she would return to find he had reverted to his haphazard methods. The result was a zigzag of empty holes that Giovanni would then have to fill again at the end of the day. The owner, Mirella Mangiagallo, the widow of an industrialist from Lombardy who had bought the derelict villa decades earlier with the dream of turning it into a hotel, in an initial meeting together with her son Sebast
iano, and Alfio, his significant other, had informed Iris that thanks to the architect’s grandiose schemes, overly optimistic cost estimates, and uncontrollable weakness for siphoning, the funds earmarked for additional embellishments no longer existed. All items deemed non-essential, which, in their opinion, included landscaping, would have to wait until next season. Iris could not bear the thought of opening any hotel with a barren garden, let alone one with such an exclusive target, and wished more than once that Claudio and his checkbook were around to support her initiatives. In the end, she had convinced the owners to allow her a shoestring budget, which she optimized by searching for inexpensive solutions at a local greenhouse, and appointing Giovanni, the maintenance man, to do the labor.
She had done extensive research on which types of plants would do well in different conditions of light and soil, back when the Leale family had purchased their villa. Iris had been sorry to give up the little seaside apartment she and Gregorio had shared as newlyweds in Santa Ida, but the idea of having a garden at the new villa had consoled her, as she recalled the childhood joys of walking barefoot in the grass, and harvesting homegrown vegetables. However, between her mother-in-law’s conviction that plants belonged in pots, and Cinzia’s insistence on dumping truckloads of pea gravel over the ground so the kids wouldn’t dirty their clothes or track mud into the house when they played outdoors, Iris had succeeded in planting only one thing, a lilac bush, which stood just behind the wrought iron bars of the front gate. The lilac, like Iris, was not indigenous to this area, but they looked after each other: Iris tended to its few needs, and in return was comforted by the sight of the plant greeting her as she came and went. Its teardrop leaves seemed sympathetic when she felt nostalgic for her hometown, where the plants thrived so well it had been nicknamed the “Lilac City.” She may only have one little bush in her garden now, but it was enough to remind her of springtime on Chestnut Crest, where the sweet fragrance of the blooming lilacs her mother had planted wafted in through the open windows for the entire month of May.
The Complete Series Page 89
