by Julie Hyzy
The maître d’ held the chair for Irena. Angelo, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him before, hurried to hold a chair out for me. My backside had barely touched the soft seat when he stepped away from the table, careful not to make eye contact. Nico Pezzati had obviously had that talk with him about leaving me alone.
“That will be all, Angelo,” Irena said.
The big man tilted his head as though he didn’t understand. She repeated it in Italian. He nodded and left, taking up a position at the shiny bar across the room, watching us.
“What’s his story?” I asked. “Do his emotions ever range beyond bored and angry?”
Irena giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as though she didn’t want Angelo to see her laughing. “You picked up on his personality pretty quickly, didn’t you? I think Father keeps him around because he does what he’s told without question.” She flicked a glance sideways. He was still watching. He had to know we were talking about him. “Mostly.”
Thinking about the argument Bennett and I had observed when we first walked in on Nico and Angelo, I had to ask, “Does he give your father a hard time?”
She gave a little hand flip-flop. “It’s nothing. Angelo is just so—”
Irena didn’t get to finish her thought. Her hand gesture must have looked like a signal to the waiter. The lanky older man sprang to our table, abandoning a young couple at the room’s center where he’d been taking an order. The woman turned around to face us as the waiter left them, giving me a full view of her surprised frown. A moment later, she’d returned to her conversation with nothing more than a resigned shrug and shake of her curly head.
“And what would you prefer this evening, Signorina Pezzati?” the waiter asked in smooth English. Before she could respond, he began sizing me up. “We are honored to have a guest of our most favorite customer here with us tonight. You are American?”
How everyone in Europe always knew, I couldn’t fathom. Bennett and I had been automatically handed menus printed in English just about everywhere we’d dined, here and in France, even before we’d spoken a word. “You’re right,” I said with polite admiration. “Excellent observation.”
Chuffed by my compliment, his smile grew wide. “We are always pleased when Signorina Pezzati graces us with her delightful presence. And we are always especially pleased when she brings us a friend to meet.”
I had begun to grow accustomed to charming speeches like our waiter’s. The slower pace, the willingness of strangers to engage in conversation, and a general acceptance that I hadn’t anticipated had made this two-week excursion one I would never forget.
After he took our orders and left us alone again, I asked, “He refers to you as Signorina Pezzati. I take it you’ve never been married?”
“Ha.” Her eyes flashed and her mouth twisted, not in anger, but in what I would characterize as amusement. “I was practically a child bride. Alas, my father did not like my first husband,” she said, “so I found a new one.”
Before I could ask if she was still married—something I couldn’t help but doubt—the waiter returned with two glasses of wine and a small plate of antipasto he said was with his compliments.
When he left us again, I returned to the topic of her second husband. “Does your father like him?”
Elbows on the table, and holding her glass in both hands, she lifted a melancholy shoulder. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “He didn’t stay long enough for me to find out.”
My expression must have given me away, because she patted me on the hand. “How strange that must sound to you. Don’t be concerned, it all worked out in the end. We married quickly, divorced even faster.” With a wistful look in her eye, she added, “He was, and is, a handsome, intelligent man.” Dark brows arching over contemplative eyes, she took an absentminded sip and said, “Our marriage couldn’t survive my father’s wealth,” as though that explained anything.
I didn’t press her, guessing that Irena—like Bennett’s stepdaughter, Hillary—had been taken in by a man more eager to share his wife’s riches than willing to share her life. Irena was clearly better off without this man, but it was hardly my place to say so.
She leaned forward. “I went back to my maiden name because I prefer to put all my troubles behind me.” Pressing a long finger against her lips, she swept the room with a self-conscious glance and whispered, “Besides, it is much easier finding future husbands when I am called signorina rather than signora.”
We talked more, about her life here in Florence, about mine in the States, while gyrating bodies danced on the floor below to my right and Angelo maintained his watch on us to my left.
After another round of drinks, we’d gotten to that comfortable place in conversation where barriers begin to drop away. She’d invited me to return to Florence to stay at the villa whenever I wanted, and I’d reciprocated, offering my house with Scott and Bruce and Bootsie, or the Marshfield Inn. I knew Bennett would happily welcome her into his home, but that was for him to offer, not me.
It was finally time for me to bring up the subject I’d been wanting to ask about all evening. “Tell me about Gerard,” I said.
Irena swirled her wine and stared at the luxuriant ruby legs inside the wide bowl. Irena’s glass hadn’t touched the table since we’d been served. It wasn’t that she drank quickly or often; rather, it seemed her habit to keep the stemware suspended slightly above the table held in both hands, using her long fingers for emphasis. From time to time, she gave up one hand’s grip when she gestured to make a point. She moved like a woman accustomed to being watched and liking it.
From my surreptitious glances around the room, I could tell her efforts were appreciated. With her dark, sparkling eyes, expressive brows, and this flirty way of holding her wineglass, she commanded attention. Many eyes were on her. Twice, as we’d been talking, men from other parts of the room made it clear they intended to join our conversation. Both times Angelo had interceded and we’d been left alone.
Even though she wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, she had a compelling aura. It was all in her confidence and her presentation.
She brought her wineglass up to almost eye height, staring at it the way an audience volunteer might stare at a hypnotist’s watch. “Gerard,” she finally said.
Our waiter was at our side in less than two beats. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked her, turning to me after the fact, as though suddenly remembering I was there. “Would Signorina Pezzati prefer something else? A different vintage, perhaps?”
She laid a hand on his arm. I wondered if she knew the little thrill she’d just given the man. Even in this dim room, I could see his cheeks brighten and his eyes light up. “No, I’m sorry. I’m simply in a thoughtful mood. Thank you.”
Dismissed, he nodded and left us alone again.
“I know it’s a difficult subject.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me,” she said. “Gerard and I have never lost touch.” Finally making eye contact, she shrugged. “He’s my brother. I can’t turn my back on him.”
“But your father—”
“Father disowned him years ago. He doesn’t understand that people can change. He won’t give Gerard another chance.”
“What did Gerard do?”
Her expression tightened. “My father forgave a lot. He’s a kind man and he loves his family, but he couldn’t forgive Gerard’s deception. My brother stole one of our father’s most cherished treasures. When confronted, he denied it. But we knew the truth.”
For a woman who professed to keep in touch with her brother, she sounded angry. I asked her about that.
“Yes, of course I am upset,” she said. “Our father is a generous man. He refuses me nothing. If only Gerard would have asked for what he needed instead of trying to take it.” She stared out at the dancers below us. “Now it’s too late.
Our father has cut him out of all possibility of inheritance. He refuses to speak to his son.”
“Your father said that Gerard hasn’t tried to reach him for fourteen years.”
“He said that? Today?”
When I nodded, she took a long sip of wine.
“I’m surprised. Father rarely speaks of the matter. They are both stubborn men. Gerard tried to make amends for a while. But now he is bitter. He knows the wealth our father has, and he’s angry that he will never be part of that life anymore. I understand. Gerard lives in New York and claims he is too ashamed of his living conditions to allow me to visit. I send him what I can but”—she blinked away tears that had begun to shimmer in her eyes—“there is so little I can do.” Setting her glass down on the table, she reached across and grabbed both my hands with hers. “I don’t want to cry in public. Please, let’s talk about something else. What did you think of Father’s gallery?”
When she let go, I picked up my own glass. “Beautiful,” I said, “though that hardly begins to describe it. I know Bennett was impressed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he commissions a new spot on Marshfield property for something similar.”
She laughed. “I must admit, I am a disappointment to my father in one respect. I have no knowledge of what he has in there.” Lifting one hand, she waved it from side to side. “Of course, I hear names like Picasso and Monet and I understand that these are valuable, priceless, even, but I don’t have the interest in collecting and buying and selling the way my father wishes I would.” Grinning, she took a quick sip, then looked at me with new interest. “You, on the other hand, would be a great asset to my father. You not only understand what treasures he has amassed, you share his enthusiasm for it all.”
“I do,” I said. “I’d love to know more about that skull.”
She nodded. “What a wonderful story they told. It makes me see them as young men.”
“That was enjoyable,” I said, warming to the subject. “Did you notice how Bennett seemed taken aback at one point?”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“When he held the skull. Remember?”
Blinking, she stared down at the tablecloth. “Yes . . .” she said slowly. “Now that you mention it, he did seem to hesitate a moment.” She looked up expectantly. “Why? Do you know what troubled him?”
“No,” I said, disappointed. “It seemed as though his reaction was off but I haven’t had the opportunity to ask him about it. Something was odd. I thought maybe you’d have an idea of what that could be.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My father’s been having difficulty remembering things lately, too. I didn’t give that incident a second thought.”
Chapter 6
WE LEFT TROPPO IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE morning. It wasn’t until the dancers below began to disperse that Irena and I realized we’d talked the entire night away. Our waiter had kept our glasses filled—I’d switched to water a few hours into our visit, thank goodness—and the snacks plentiful.
Angelo escorted us out into the damp morning air. He held the sedan’s back doors open for us and took his position behind the wheel. Neither Irena nor I had been over-served, but we were relaxed from all the wine. The evening had turned out to be much nicer than I’d anticipated, and although it was far too late to confer with Bennett tonight—he’d have been asleep for hours by now—I knew we’d have the entire flight home to discuss the skull, my discoveries about Gerard, and whatever Bennett had learned from Nico.
I sank into the leather seats, which were so soft they practically wrapped around my tired body. “I need to be up and out the door in less than five hours,” I said with a mock groan. “But this evening was worth it.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” Irena said with a happy pat on the seat between us. “But, five hours? What time is your flight?”
As we left the city proper and headed back to the villa, I could barely make out anything in the profound darkness. “Fortunately, we’ve chartered a plane and it won’t leave without us.” For Irena, chartered air travel was probably a regular occurrence. For me, it had been a singularly incredible experience. “We’re supposed to be there no later than nine. Thank goodness we don’t have to go through commercial flight security. We’d have to leave at least three hours earlier if we did.”
“My father used to keep a jet at the airport,” Irena said, dropping her head against the soft seat back and closing her eyes. “Unfortunately, he stopped traveling and gave it up.” She raised her voice. “Remember, Angelo?”
The big man glanced up at the sound of his name, but didn’t answer. Irena shrugged, turned to me, and opened one eye. “He understands,” she whispered with a wry grin. Both eyes closed, she gave a sigh of pleasure then spoke again, a little louder this time. “Always the mystery man, aren’t you? Someday I’ll find the chink in your armor.”
I caught Angelo’s glance in the rearview mirror. He looked away immediately. I had no doubt that Irena was right and he’d understood every word we’d said. Maybe he’d hoped to overhear some juicy, private details. Poor boy. He would be disappointed tonight.
I dozed on the ride back, waking when the big sedan slowed to a stop. Angelo was out almost immediately, coming around to open our doors. “Thank you for driving us tonight,” I said as he handed me out of the car.
He responded in Italian but when I turned to ask Irena what he’d said, she was already halfway to the front door.
“Good night, Angelo,” I said as the big guy made his way back to the car.
He nodded. “Buona note e sogni d’oro.”
I hoped that didn’t mean “Go sleep with the fishes.”
• • •
“GRACIE, ARE YOU IN THERE?” BENNETT knocked on my door, dragging me from a wild and wacky dream where I’d been slow dancing at Troppo’s on its flashy dance floor, trying, without success, to figure out who I was dancing with.
I peeled open my bleary eyes wide enough to notice that it was still dark outside. “Grace,” Bennett called again, “we’ve got a problem.”
The digital readout on my cell phone told me it was five fifteen in the morning. “Just a second,” I croaked, swinging my legs off the bed. I slipped on my travel socks and stumbled to the door. Once there, I groaned with frustration, having forgotten that I’d wedged my big suitcase against it. When I’d finally been ready to sleep, I’d discovered that I couldn’t relax knowing that nothing stood between me and angry Angelo except a lockless door with hinges that barely whispered. I hadn’t been crazy about the idea of anyone being able to walk in on me unannounced, so before I went to bed, I’d taken the precaution of jamming the luggage up under the knob.
“Hang on.” My voice was rusty, and my vision was blurred. I cleared my throat as my fingers found the suitcase’s handle and tugged at it, with considerable effort. “I did a much better job than I thought I did,” I muttered when it finally came free.
Awake now, I scampered back into the main part of my room. “Come on in,” I called as I pulled the bedspread off the bed and wrapped it around myself. I generally wore shorts and a T-shirt to bed—nothing revealing or particularly skimpy—but I still felt weird letting anyone see me in my sleepwear. I ran my fingers through my hair, working through the gentle knots, trying to make myself look alert and presentable. Fat chance of that, but Bennett didn’t seem to take even the slightest notice of my disarray.
“Nico’s man took a phone call about an hour ago from our charter,” he said.
Why is it when we’re swimming up to the surface of wakefulness, we must repeat things in order to track conversation? I heard myself say, “Our charter?”
“Yes, our flight,” Bennett said, “it’s—” For the first time since he strode in, he seemed to actually see me. Frown lines between his brows softened and one corner of his mouth turned up. “You look like
you’re about twelve years old.”
I clutched the covers around me with one hand and rubbed my eyes with the other. “Right now I feel more like a hundred and twelve.”
“Late night?” Bennett said with more mirth than I felt like dealing with at the moment. “I hope you had fun, at least.”
“I learned a lot.” My mind finally engaged, I asked, “What kind of problem is there with our flight?”
“It’s been canceled.”
I sat on the bed. “And you have that board meeting tomorrow, don’t you? I know you can’t miss it.”
He grew pensive. “Makes me wonder . . .”
“What’s on your mind?”
With a reluctant shrug, he continued. “I’ve told you a little about the company we’re acquiring, WizzyWig. What I haven’t mentioned before was how much one of its vice presidents, Vandeen Deinhart, would prefer I disappear from the planet. Vandeen claims he’s afraid that he’ll lose his prestigious position with the company.”
“You think he would interfere with our return trip to keep this deal from materializing?”
“If I don’t show up at the meeting, the sale won’t go through. We’ve signed a preliminary agreement, but that agreement expires at this meeting. I have the option to renew, but only if I do so in person. Once that’s signed, we’re supposed to set the official date for closing the deal. Deinhart has effectively delayed this again and again. There are no delays left. I know he’s done this in the hopes that the deal will fall through.”
“Why didn’t you mention him before?”
“I didn’t want to worry you or hamper your enjoyment on this trip in any way,” he said with a sheepish grin. “But I’m being silly. I don’t believe Deinhart would stoop so low. It’s beneath his dignity.”
“You think he may be embezzling from WizzyWig?”
He scrunched his face. “Nothing quite so crass. He’s a wily one, that Deinhart. My guess is that he’d be careful to keep his own hands clean. I do, however, suspect he may benefit from his position in the company in ways that—though not illegal—could be construed as inappropriate.”
