In some ways I wished I had a husband a little more like Joe. Someone who would openly rant at me and threaten me. Someone who would provide a reason for the fear that gripped my heart, instead of someone who suffocated me with good intentions. Someone who would make me want to run away as fast as my legs could carry me, instead of paralyzing me with the spell of good sense and the call to duty.
Back in those days I used to have a recurring dream. I would be standing beneath a tall tree whose top branches were laden with fruit. I could see it dangling up there, well beyond my reach, so ripe and swelling with those “flavors of possibility” you wrote about. I would keep looking around for someone to come by with a ladder. It never occurred to me that I could climb the tree myself and pluck the fruit I wanted. I would just stand there looking up at it, filled with longing as I watched the crows pick away at it, overwhelmed with a sense of loss as I watched it rot and wither.
The dream is easy to figure out. What I still can’t figure out is why I was so afraid.
By the way, happy Thanksgiving, Lily.
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Wed, November 24, 2010 at 11:41 PM
Subject: Re: Be careful what you wish for
Dear Iris:
When you are drowning and someone tosses you a lifesaver, is it a mistake to grab hold of it? I don’t think I even considered who was on the other end of the tow rope. If we could have seen that, and if we could have known all of this already, and if we could have had a glimpse into what is yet to unfold in this little torture exercise of ours, what would we have done? Waved the lifeboat away, or climbed aboard anyway? I know too well that each choice has its own consequences.
I’m sorry you didn’t get the kind of oppression you wanted. At least that’s one thing I did better than you. Oddly enough, I also used to wish that Joe had been a little more obvious about it too, even with all that I endured. Where the hell was our threshold for pain? Seems like mine kept rising and rising and rising. No matter what happened, I kept thinking that if it got worse, well, then…
Yet no matter how bad it got, I kept adapting. It was the Capotosti way.
Love,
Lily
Book Three
To sisters and friends, mothers and daughters everywhere,
may you find strength in unity, and serenity in forgiveness.
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Sun, November 28, 2010 at 12:14 PM
Subject: There’s no escaping the turkey talk
Dear Lily,
I have to admit, I enjoyed taking a couple days off from chasing ghosts to do some serious cooking. It always relaxed me, and feeding people still gives me a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Old habits die hard, don’t they?
Thanksgiving really is my favorite holiday. I guess that’s because it’s not celebrated here in Italy, and that means I get to do my own thing, without worrying about conforming to the traditions of anyone else’s family (no need to mention any names). For once I am the authority, the one who knows how to stuff and roast a turkey to perfection, and can spin stories about the Pilgrims over pecan pie.
I’ll never forget my first Thanksgiving here. It was just a regular Thursday, Gregorio was at work, and I had a turkey breast roasting in the oven, when the cooking gas ran out. I called the guy down in town, and begged him to bring me a new cylinder right away. Meanwhile, I went ahead with my other preparations, then made myself pretty for Gregorio. When the delivery guy finally rang the buzzer, I went to open the door in my high heels, all made up and dressed up for my intimate little holiday celebration, holding a bottle of Berlucchi I was going to put on ice. The delivery guy checked me out, glanced at the candles on the table and the bottle in my hand, dropped the cylinder on my doorstep, and ran off without stopping to count the liras I gave him. What a giggle I got out of that! He must have thought I was a frustrated housewife trying to lure him into a love trap or something. Of course, the laugh was on me when Gregorio walked in a few minutes later enveloped in that hospital smell that always surrounded him like a force field. He snuffed out the candles, asked what was for dinner, and told me he hated turkey.
Well, I could give up a lot of things to appease Gregorio, but certainly not Thanksgiving. That was when I started a new tradition. As of the following year, I decided to move the holiday to Saturday and invite a few friends for dinner. Friends have come and gone over the years, but whoever they are, it always makes them feel special to play American for an evening, and it makes me happy to cook for them.
You probably think I’m stalling for time with these frivolous stories. You’re probably right. At the moment, I’d rather extol the merits of Mom’s stuffing recipe than expose my demerits as a wife. But let’s get on with it, shall we?
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Sun, November 28, 2010 at 4:11 PM
Subject: Re: There’s no escaping the turkey talk
Dear Iris:
Of all the holidays I hate (which is all of them), I think I might hate Thanksgiving the most. It’s rude and presumptuous and maddening that someone along the way somewhere decided that we should all stop and be grateful on the same day. What if I’m not thankful on Thanksgiving? The only choice I have is to be a big hypocrite.
I’ll save you some time writing back to me – I know the spiel. Every day that we wake up and have life and food and shelter is a day to be grateful. Survival is not what I am going for here.
Turkey-schmurky. I think God packed it with tryptophan because He knew that after spending an entire day working in the kitchen and then sitting down to eat with our families, we’d all need a little anesthesia. Maybe Gregorio had the right idea.
Personally, I’m thankful it’s over.
Yes, let’s get on with it. “I can’t wait for what comes next,” she said sardonically.
Love,
Lily
1. Iris
One of the advantages of having a flexible schedule, which in reality meant that Iris knew what time her day would begin, but never when it would end, was that if she needed to step out for an hour or two, she could do so without feeling guilty. As the days grew warmer, and the emerald waters of the cove more inviting, Iris dreamed of using her lunch break to have a swim. A bag containing two bathing suits, a pair of swimming goggles, a cover-up, and a change of underwear sat in a closet in her office, waiting for the midday dip to become incorporated into her routine. Each morning, as she smiled at the guests setting off for a day of leisure or relaxing by the pool, Iris was heartened by the fact that in just a few hours, she, too, would strip off the tailleur that constrained her, body and spirit, into the role of Direttrice, and slip into her swimsuit, to enjoy an hour of splashing about as just plain Iris.
In the days following Vanesi’s impromptu visit to the hotel, the prospect of her noon plunge was sunk by a series of requests from the other members of the Leale family, who also thought she was entitled to a long lunch break, and happily took advantage of it. Isabella had announced earlier that spring that driving now made her nervous, and had handed her car keys over to Gregorio. Fortunately, the family concurred, Iris worked close to home, and could easily skip out at noon, go fetch the newspaper and whatever items were required by her mother-in-law before the shops closed, and deliver them before resuming work for the afternoon. At the same time, Iris could conveniently run errands for Cinzia, who had sprained her ankle falling from a rubber step during an exercise class she had joined in a spurt of determination to beat her body back into shape before it was too late for her to find a new man. Cinzia had only recently begun to consider replacing her wayward husband Franco who, despite Isabella’s prediction th
at he would soon be running back home with his tail between his uniformed legs, was still missing in action with his cruise ship croupier.
The only slot of time that no one had yet managed to steal from Iris, the only moments when she could puff on a cigarette in peace or listen to music as loud as she liked, were the fifteen precious minutes it took her to drive to and from the hotel. Behind the wheel of her nimble Seicento, she navigated the hills and bends of her daily routine, propelled by the car’s spunky engine and the daydreams she tucked away for just such moments. Her latest series of open-eyed fantasies starred none other than the cameraman Massimiliano Vanesi; the setting was the exotic island of Pantelleria.
The morning after receiving Max’s email, Iris had read about Pantelleria on the Internet. Apart from guessing it was somewhere in the deep south, she could not say where exactly the island was located, and had been surprised to learn it was actually closer to the shores of north Africa than it was to the southwestern coast of Sicily. Reading on, it occurred to her why the name of this island had rung a bell: one of the dessert wines featured at the Dimora was the sweet Passito made from the sun-dried zibibbo grapes that grew there. She also recalled buying Pantelleria capers; they were the best, thanks to the sunny, arid climate of the volcanic island, where they ripened to savory plumpness. Yet the piece of trivia that held her interest wasn’t found in the web pages about Pantelleria, but rather in the email from Max, informing her he was there, now, and wanted her to join him. Perhaps he was lodged in a dammuso, one of those romantic whitewashed abodes she had seen pictures of, perched on the ragged rocks overlooking waters even more temptingly transparent than those of Paraggi. She imagined his tan deepening in the strong southern sun, the salt-laden breeze tousling his long, thick hair.
It was obvious he had only been teasing when he said she should come down, or he would have called and tried to convince her. How he expected her to pull off such a feat wasn’t even mentioned, of course. Not that the logistics of getting there would pose a problem, she was confident she could figure out that aspect. It would be such an adventure, setting off on her own like that. Just for fun, she had checked out how one would get to Pantelleria, if one were free to do as one pleased. She discovered there was an airport in Trapani; she could fly there, then board the first ferry for the island. Ships sailed from Genoa to Palermo daily, too, but that leg alone would take over twenty hours, and she would still be far away. She wouldn’t mind, though. She would love to stand alone on the deck of a ship, the wind whipping her hair, the immense blue sea and sky surrounding her, blotting out the faces of everyone who thought they knew her, and the demands of everyone who said they cared for her.
The blare of a horn recalled Iris’s attention from the imaginary sea crossing, and she was slightly surprised to find herself in Santa Margherita, still circling the open air market in search of a parking spot. She usually enjoyed going to the market and picking out fresh fruits and vegetables, planning dinner menus according to what was in season. But today there would be no time for that; she had received precise orders for her mission to stock up on produce for the entire Leale family. Spotting a freshly vacated spot, she made a sharp turn, and slipped her agile vehicle between the lines, sending into a apoplectic fit the driver of a silver Alfa Romeo Giulietta who attempted to squeeze her out. Whether it be behind the wheel of her little car, or seated on the scooter which she refused to give up entirely, driving in Italy was one of the rare situations in which Iris was adamant about protecting her rights. She switched off the engine and pulled the hand brake, glimpsing the still gesticulating red-faced man in her rearview mirror. She waved at him with a raised index finger and pinky, mouthing the word “Cornuto!” making sure he could read her lips, which incited him to punch his horn furiously, stopping only when a traffic cop blew his whistle and waved him on. Meanwhile, an insistent beeping from her purse announced the arrival of a text message. It must be from Cinzia, adding another item to her or Isabella’s shopping list. Iris had already received three messages since leaving the hotel, and she was fed up; this time she would not even acknowledge it. You would think Cinzia and her mother could pool the brains and education they bragged about long enough to compile one, definitive list instead of pestering her like this. Why, she and Lily had done a better job of keeping the cupboards at Chestnut Crest stocked for an entire household of Capotostis, back when they were still teenagers.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Iris was relieved to be back at work. Her nerves were frazzled, her armpits sweaty, her throat parched, her stomach growling. She rang the snack bar and ordered a Caprese salad and a bottle of San Pellegrino to be delivered to her office. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending even fifteen minutes eating out on the terrace, where she would be forced to watch bathers glide over the surface of the shimmering water or snorkel among the rocks. Sighing, she switched on the air conditioning, wondering whether the whole summer would be as hot and sticky as these early days of June.
Settling in at her desk for the afternoon stretch, she took her cell phone from her purse, opened the messaging function to obliterate the day’s chapter of the Leale marketing chronicles, stopping her thumb just as it was about to delete the last, unread message, which wasn’t from Cinzia at all, but from a number she did not recognize.
ciao capo! if ur not coming im leaving. u get 1 more chance nxt wk.shooting near rome. it would be good 4 ur eyes or r u 2 married?
Though there was no name at the end of the message, it bore the unmistakable signature of Max Vanesi. He might as well have signed it “trouble,” because that’s what the man spelled. In big block letters. He was so damn sure she wouldn’t do it, wasn’t he? Well, maybe she would surprise him this time. She had been putting off a trip to Rome to see some people regarding an affiliation for the Dimora. Maybe the hotel and Gregorio and all the Leales would have to manage without her for a day or so; maybe it was time for a trip beyond those same few kilometers she traveled over and over again, back and forth between house and hotel. An overwhelming desire to escape took possession of her fingers, tapped out a reply:
Email me details.
She was trying to think of something witty to add when the waiter knocked on her door, making her jump in her chair.
“Mi scusi, Signora. I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought your lunch,” he said from the doorway.
“Thank you.” The waiter set down the dish of juicy sliced tomatoes, creamy buffalo mozzarella and fresh basil leaves, but the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach caused by Max’s message killed her appetite. As the waiter made his exit, Iris stared at the phone in her hand, watching her finger hit the “send” button, then gulped down a glass of water so quickly it felt like the bubbles would blow a hole through her chest.
Iris knew her response could set the cogs in motion for a ride that might spin out of control. She also knew the question was not whether she would ever betray Gregorio, given the chance. She had already flunked that test; she had already discovered that she was capable of shameful deeds, that she could be coaxed into the role of adulteress when coached by an expert like Claudio Olona. Of utmost importance, Claudio had taught her, was to choose your partner wisely, as in their case: married people made perfect lovers for married people. There was no overlapping of roles, no pressing for involvement on deeper levels, no squandering of stolen time on futile discussions, no seething resentment or unrealistic expectations, no long faces at the holidays, no phone calls on evenings or weekends. There was just a different set of rules, and if they were abided by, a marriage could actually benefit from an affair. Claudio had said so; even Beatrix said so, and she was a friend, not a man trying to seduce her.
Massimiliano Vanesi, on the other hand, was a wild card. He did not wear a wedding band, but then again, he certainly was not the type to broadcast his marital status. He was pushing forty, however, so if he wasn’t married, there would certainly be an ex-wife and possibly a child or two looming in his background, in additi
on to a string of girlfriends up and down the Italian boot, islands included. She could picture Max sauntering into each new location the way he had at her hotel, his mystique bolstered by the video camera he wielded, a modern-day version of an outlaw drawing his six-shooter as he burst into a saloon, knowing he could grab any girl who struck his fancy. He must be the kind of man who made women happy twice: once when he turned up, once again when he disappeared for good.
She should run as fast as she could from a guy like that, not encourage him. If and when he replied, she would just ignore him. She picked up her fork, stabbed a piece of mozzarella and tomato, and put it in her mouth, savoring the explosion of flavors and consistencies on her tongue, feeling better already for having made the right decision.
The train crawled at an exasperating pace into Rome’s Termini station, prompting Iris to glare at her watch, as if her eyes had the power to slow the movement of its hands, instead of only informing her that the forty minutes she had allowed for her connection had dwindled to ten. She carried just a purse and a tote bag large enough to accommodate her necessities for a brief business trip to the capital, plus two novels, one in English (Cider House Rules, passed on to her by Violet last time she visited home) and one in Italian (Tecniche di Seduzione, on loan from Bea), which she alternated, as necessary, to discourage idle talk from the other travelers seated in her compartment. Her hand already on the door latch, she was poised to sprint, if only the damn train would make a final lurch to the end of the line. She had boarded the rapido in Rapallo, but ever since Grosseto, the train had been hiccupping its way south along the coast, accumulating over thirty minutes’ delay. If she missed her connection, she would have to wait an hour for the next local train that could take her as far as Priverno. From there, she would catch a bus for the final leg of her trip to Sabaudia.
The Complete Series Page 102
