“I’m just a fan, Paulie. It would be nice to get a couple of photos of her. Nothing more. Why would a big star like Francesca Donata give an interview to an intern?” I give a high-pitched laugh; it surprises me how convincing it sounds.
“Ahhh! You’re selling yourself short, kid. See, this is what I mean about your generation. No ambition. No desire to take a risk. If you fail, you fail. What do you got to lose? You’ll be right where you started. But if you succeed, the world is yours.”
Paulie has a point. There’s more to this guy than just being a nosy, crass talker who often rubs people the wrong way.
Paulie yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I don’t want to leave you here all alone, Pia, but I’ve been standing here since Beady Eyes woke me up with the news that he spotted Francesca. I’ve only taken breaks to use the john and buy myself a couple of heroes at Anthony’s Salumeria to eat while I waited for Francesca to come out.”
I can’t believe he’s eaten his meals here. Again, I marvel at the strange behavior stars bring out in their fans.
“It’s okay, Paulie. I’ll be fine. I might just take a few photos of the house. I love architecture, and it is an interesting house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and spot Francesca behind a window.” I smile at Paulie.
“Hey! You never know. No one in a million years would’ve guessed that a movie star would be here on Thirty-Fifth Street in Astoria, Queens. Gotta believe. Gotta believe. Good night!” Paulie tips his cap at me in farewell and crosses the street. I watch him as he walks slowly toward his house, which is opposite Ciggy’s. He’s whistling softly, and his hands are buried deep in the pockets of his trousers. He never did answer my question as to why Torpedo Tits believes Signora Tesca and Francesca Donata are cousins. He goes off on so many tangents that it’s hard to get him to return to the initial topic at hand. I’m sure it’s nothing more than pure conjecture on Betsy’s part. I don’t think they’re cousins or even remotely related. From what I’ve heard from everyone, the two women are worlds apart—not that cousins often have a lot in common. Still, it just doesn’t feel right. My guess is that they are friends, maybe not childhood friends, but friends nonetheless.
I pull out my iPhone and begin snapping a few shots of the Mussolini Mansion. If I’m lucky enough to get photos of Francesca, people will want to see where she’s staying, too. As soon as I’m done, I’m heading back home. I’m not as crazed as Francesca’s admirers to stand here for hours on end. Besides, it is getting late, and I know Zia will worry if I’m out too long.
Having taken ten shots of the Mussolini Mansion from all angles, I’m ready to leave. I start to walk away when a thought occurs to me. This would be the perfect moment for Francesca to leave, now that everyone has gone home. I look over my shoulder up toward a second-story window that’s lit.
Oh, this is insane! I start to walk away again, but only take two steps. A good journalist is a persistent one. Hadn’t my journalism professors drilled that into me repeatedly? I give an extra-long sigh. If I hope to become a real journalist, I need to learn how to tough it out. I can’t give up this quickly.
I tiptoe quietly over to the left side of the house, opposite from the driveway. I crouch behind a rhododendron bush. If Francesca is waiting for the crowd to completely disperse, she isn’t going to exit the house with me standing blatantly in view.
After about five minutes, my thighs begin to ache. At least I’m getting a good workout if nothing else.
Suddenly, I hear a door swing shut. I quickly check my iPhone to make sure it’s still set to the camera mode and prepare to take a photo, lifting my arms slightly above the rhododendron bush. I can hear footsteps hurriedly making their way to the end of the driveway. My heart races. This might be my defining moment—the moment that will either make my career or leave me forever in the trenches of proofreading and typing mind-numbing business correspondence.
I whisper, “Please, God. Please, let me get a shot of Francesca. If not tonight, then—”
I hold my breath as the gate squeaks open and then shut. A shadow comes into view, and without waiting to make sure I’m getting a clear shot, I touch the camera button on my phone’s screen. As soon as the flash goes off, I stand up, not caring anymore if Francesca or her bodyguards see me snapping away.
“What the hell?”
Got it! But just as soon as I think this, I realize that’s not a woman’s voice that I’ve just heard. And the figure is now making its way toward me. It’s dim since one of the streetlamps has gone out. But it isn’t too dark for me to detect a man—a very handsome man who looks to be in his mid-twenties. The expression on his face tells me I’m in big trouble.
“What are you doing hiding there like that? What do you want?”
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh! Right. I should’ve known. You were hoping I was Francesca.”
“I just wanted one photo of her. But you’re right. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll just go now. I’m sorry if I startled you.” I turn around and walk as fast as I ever have in my life.
“Hold up! You don’t have to go. I’m sorry if I lost my temper with you. It’s just that we’ve all been on edge with her here.”
I keep walking until I hear his last sentence and freeze in my tracks. He’s acknowledging that Francesca is indeed in the house—not that I need his confirmation. I, along with the other neighbors, have seen her famous ass. That’s proof enough.
I turn around and slowly walk back to him, not wanting to seem like a star-crazed groupie.
“May I ask why she’s here? I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“You’re right; it’s none of your business.” He’s smiling now instead of looking like he is going to throttle me.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that everyone is naturally curious as to why Francesca Donata came to Astoria. Is there some light you can shed? Anything at all?”
“You sound like a reporter. If it weren’t for the fact that you were going to take a photo of Francesca with your iPhone, I’d be convinced you’re paparazzi.”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m just a fan hoping to get a photo of her. Like I said, it’s not every day that we have a star here.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Really. I am. But you’re wasting your time. You’re not going to get your photo of Francesca tonight. In fact, it’ll be next to impossible for you to get a photo of her while she’s here.”
“So this will be an extended visit for her?”
“Are you sure you’re not a reporter? What’s your name, by the way?”
“What’s yours?” I can’t hide the smirk on my face.
“Oh, so now we’re playing that game, huh?” His smile deepens, showing off the most amazing dimples I’ve ever seen on anyone.
“I think my aunt is waiting outside her house. Yes, I can make her out waving to me. I should get going.” I wave back to an imaginary Zia, standing on my toes as I strain my neck to get a better view of her. I hope this will show him that Zia’s house is quite far down the block and it’s not so easy to spot, so he won’t know I’m lying if he follows my gaze. Luckily for me, he doesn’t look to see if Zia is really standing there.
“Okay, you win. My name is Gregory. Gregory Hewson.”
He got me. How could I walk away now without looking rude? I return my attention to him.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Pia Santore.” I hold out my hand as he wraps his around mine, giving it a firm shake.
“That’s a beautiful name. I don’t think I’ve ever met another Pia. I can see why.”
He continues holding my hand. It’s unnerving me a bit, but I can’t deny I also like the way my hand feels in his. Finally, he lets go.
“I don’t want to keep your aunt waiting. Do you live with her?”
“Just for the summer. I actually live in California.”
“So I’ll be seeing more of you.” Gregory gives me a salute as he makes his way toward a beat-up Honda Civi
c that’s parked in front of the Mussolini Mansion.
“Can you just answer one question about Francesca?”
“Ahhh. The fascination once again. Okay, one question just for you, Pia Santore.” Turning around, Gregory leans against his Honda and holds out his arms as if to say, “Give it to me. I’m ready.”
A dozen questions run through my mind. How do I pick just one? I have to choose the question that’s weighing most on everyone’s mind.
“What is Francesca’s connection to Signora Tesca?”
Gregory smiles. He slyly glances over at the Mussolini Mansion and back at me.
“Pia, if I could, I would give you whatever you desire.” His gaze wanders lazily from my eyes down the length of my body. “But I’m sorry to say that is the one question I am not at liberty to answer. Good night, Pia.” He turns around and walks over to the driver’s side of the car, opening the door; much to my amazement, he hasn’t even locked it. Who leaves their car unlocked on a New York City street? Then again, the Honda is pretty beat-up. He probably doesn’t care if someone steals it.
I can’t help noticing how good Gregory looks in his jeans that seem to have strategically placed tears and paint splatters all over them. And his tush is perfectly outlined in them. Suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, Gregory looks up one last time before getting into his car and catches me in the act of checking his butt out. My cheeks flame hot, and there’s no concealing it as Gregory shoots a shy smile in my direction. Waving, he finally gets into his car and drives off. I can’t believe I actually linger until he pulls away from the curb. Then I realize with horror another thought. Once he gets down the block, he’s going to see there’s no middle-aged woman waiting for me.
6
Francesca
“There’s no need for you to stay.” Giuliana adds two sugar cubes to her espresso, keeping her back turned toward me.
“Giuliana, I want to be here. Please. After everything that has happened. Can we not finally put the past behind us and—”
“And what? Be the close friends we were when we were girls?” Giuliana finally faces me. I can see the anger still blazing in her eyes as it did over thirty years ago. But this time sadness also fills her eyes.
“We can try. I know it will not ever be the way it was then, but it would be better than carrying this weight that only gets heavier as we get older.”
“You’re only here because he wrote to you.”
“Giuliana, you know I tried to be a part of your life before, but you would not have it. You refused to bury the past.”
“That’s not true, Francesca. I’ve sent you letters. Besides, I thought it was better that we did not see each other. It would’ve been too complicated.” Giuliana makes her way over to the Queen Anne couch with her demitasse cup of espresso in one hand and her cane in the other.
I want to go help her, but I know that will just anger her more. It is difficult seeing her becoming an old woman. She is only fifty-eight, but appears much older. I am fifty-five, but have been told I can pass for still being in my late forties. Though we were inseparable as young girls, we grew up to be very different women. Giuliana has never been vain like me or cared about wearing the finest designer clothes or having the latest fashionable hairstyle. She is thrifty even though I have given her plenty of money over the years. Every time I send her a check, I am surprised she does not return it. But I know why she keeps the money—even if it is from me, someone she detests.
“Thank you for those letters. They meant the world to me.” My eyes meet Giuliana’s. She nods her head and looks away.
“You are right. It would have been too complicated if we had seen each other.” I raise my cup to my lips and take a sip of the scalding espresso, which stings less than Giuliana’s evident dislike of me.
“I’m not heartless. I did what I thought was best.” Giuliana clutches an ivory lace handkerchief tightly in her hand. Though her eyes fill with tears, she doesn’t dab at them with her handkerchief.
“Giuliana, I have never thought you were heartless. If anything, you should be accusing me of that. After all, I did choose my acting career.” I blush at the memory of the day when I had admitted to her that acting was my greatest love. But that had been no secret to her. Giuliana had always known me best.
“You were young—and famous. That alone changes someone immeasurably.”
I detect a hint of compassion in Giuliana’s voice, but at the same time, I cannot help but feel she is also judging me for the choices I have made in my life. But I am not mad at her, nor was I ever. She has every right to feel the way she does toward me.
“I needed to see you and tell you that I want to make things right between us. If you really want me to leave, Giuliana, I will. It is your home, and I must respect your wishes.”
“Eh.”
I used to tease Giuliana mercilessly about this grunt she gave whenever she was halfheartedly agreeing to something. And no matter how hard she tried to refrain from doing it, she simply could not. I resist the urge to smile. As I get older, I now find myself making the same grunt. If only Giuliana knew. Hopefully, I will not slip in front of her.
“Francesca, I have a confession to make. I asked Lorenzo to write to you.”
“Davvero! You are playing with me or how do you Americans call it, ‘kidding’? You are kidding me.”
“È vero, Francesca.”
“Why did you ask Lorenzo to write to me? And now here you are saying you do not need me to stay.”
“You know why. It’s for my son. For when . . .” Giuliana’s voice cracks. Her hand that is holding her cup of espresso trembles, spilling some of it onto her lap. I get up and pat her dress with a napkin.
“Sto bene. I’m fine.” Giuliana holds up her hand. “Grazie.”
I wipe the espresso that has spilled onto the hardwood floor. Though the household cleaning staff is meticulous, I can still see a few fine white hairs from Giuliana’s cat’s coat on the floor. Suddenly, the cat comes from behind the couch. She sniffs the floor and then looks up at me, yelping “meow” repeatedly.
“Mewsette, vieni qui.” Giuliana pats the seat beside her on the couch. But Mewsette ignores her and rubs her legs against mine. This angers Giuliana.
“Mewsette, vieni! Vieni!” Mewsette finally looks at Giuliana, twisting her left ear as if she is trying to get a better signal in hearing her mistress. But she remains next to me.
I pick up Mewsette and drop her off by Giuliana. Reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the couch, but stares at me.
“She likes you—of course.” Giuliana’s voice drips with bitterness. I pretend not to hear her as I pour myself a second cup of espresso.
Maybe I should leave? It is apparent that Giuliana still harbors much resentment toward me.
“If you will excuse me, I am going to call my travel agent and see when she can book the next flight back to Italy.”
I head for the French doors.
“Aspetti! Didn’t you hear what I just told you? I wanted you to come. I’m sorry if my demeanor has not been warmer. Yes, we have a lot of bad blood between us, but that’s not the only reason my temperament is brusque. Some days, the pain is worse than others, and this morning is one of my worst days yet.”
I can feel tears threatening to pool my eyes, but I know the last thing Giuliana wants or needs is my sympathy. So I force the tears back.
“If I stay, you must allow me to do whatever I can to make you more comfortable. I know you have hired help, but I want to make myself useful.”
Giuliana flicks her fingers up in the air as if she is swatting a fly away. “I’m not an invalid—yet at least. And as you said, I have hired help for that. I don’t want you fawning all over me. But I suppose you can read to me. My eyesight has gotten worse, plus I get too tired sitting up for long periods of time to read. I’ve missed my books.” She gestures toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that completely encircle the library where we are currently taking our morning espresso. Ho
w did I almost forget Giuliana’s love of reading? She used to steal moments away from her chores, hiding from our parents, so that she could read her beloved books.
“I would love to read to you. I have actually been reading more these past few years.”
“Yes, I’ve read about your hibernation in the papers. You really stayed at home in Taormina? Weren’t you traveling the world as you love to do? Even though you were no longer in the spotlight, I could not picture you languishing away behind closed doors the way I have most of my life.”
Do I detect a hint of regret in Giuliana’s voice? Guilt washes over me as it often does when I think about her.
“I only traveled to Rome a few times. But that was it. So why do we not start now—that is, if you are feeling up to it. If you would rather rest, I can read to you later.”
“No, now is fine. My pills are finally taking effect.” Using both of her hands, Giuliana lifts her legs one at a time onto the couch and adjusts the throw pillows behind her head as she reclines fully back.
I walk over to one of the stacks. “Which book would you like me to read?”
“I’ve always wanted to read Rebecca. It’s on the shelf closest to the doors. They’re lined up alphabetically by the authors’ last names. Daphne—”
“Du Maurier. I know. I have read Rebecca.”
“You have? Oh, maybe you would rather read something else then.” Giuliana’s voice betrays a hint of disappointment.
“No, no. Rebecca is fine. It is one of my favorite books. I have always wanted to read it again.”
I peruse the shelves. Part of me is surprised that Giuliana has not read every title in this library. It seems fitting to read Rebecca here. Though Giuliana’s house is beautiful, there is also a heavy, melancholy air. And those marble statues in the garden are absolutely eerie. Not even my villas in Italy have any. True, many wealthy people adorn their properties with classical sculptures, and a few are stunning. But the weathered and cracked figures in Giuliana’s yard have lost any aesthetic beauty they might have once had.
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