Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “So come on, Gregory, out with it.” Megan won’t let the subject of why he was at Signora Tesca’s house drop. I’m thrilled since I’ll finally find out what his connection is to Francesca.

  “It’s really no big deal, guys. And I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.” Gregory is drinking American coffee, as Zia likes to call it, out of an oversized teacup that almost completely conceals his face.

  Gently, I say to Gregory, “You’re among friends. We won’t repeat your secret.”

  Gregory glances up from his cup, surprise registering on his face. Hell, I’m even surprised by how sugary-sweet my voice sounds. But I’m not faking it. I never repeat a friend’s secret. I’m one of the most loyal friends someone can have.

  Gregory lets out a long sigh, sinking into his chair. He places his hands inside his jeans pockets. “Okay. But you guys must swear not to tell anyone. I don’t need that mob that’s outside of Signora Tesca’s house to harass me. I’m already dreading my next visit there because I don’t know how I’m going to throw them off.”

  “Your next visit?” I all but scream.

  Gregory shoots a frown in my direction. I need to cool it or I’ll ruin my chances of befriending him. Again, I’m convinced he’s my only ticket to gaining access to Francesca.

  “We’ve got your back, Greg. We swear not to tell anyone.” Paul makes a fist and holds it up in the air. Gregory curls his own fist and bumps it with Paul’s.

  “Yeah, we swear, too.” Megan crosses her heart with her hand, which looks very girly and silly compared to Paul and Gregory’s guy code. She nods her head toward me, but I refuse to cross my heart.

  “I give you my word I won’t repeat your secret.” I lock eyes with Gregory to show him how serious I am. That’s the only visual proof of allegiance he needs from me. He seems satisfied as he holds my gaze a moment longer and then clears his throat.

  “I know Francesca Donata.”

  I can’t help but detect a faint smile on his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He plans on drawing this out for maximum suspense.

  “You do?” Gullible Megan has fallen prey already.

  “Yeah.”

  The three of us wait for him to continue. But he doesn’t. He takes another sip of his coffee and then takes a bite out of his chocolate-dipped walnut biscotti. He chews slowly. The gleam in his eyes gives away that he’s clearly enjoying his little game. Refusing to play into it, I just wait patiently. In fact, I decide to get up at that moment.

  Yawning as if bored, I say, “I’ve got to get going. It was nice meeting you, Paul.”

  My own game works. Gregory immediately places his hand over mine. “Wait! You haven’t heard how I know Francesca.”

  A million tiny volts of electricity shoot up my arm at the contact of his warm hand over mine. It’s even worse than when he shook my hand that first night we met.

  “Sorry. I really need to leave. Bye, Megan. Paul.” I turn and walk away.

  I step out into the hot, muggy air and have almost reached the corner when I hear Gregory shout, “Wait up!”

  I glance over my shoulder and see Gregory running to catch up with me. Trying to ignore the happiness I’m currently feeling, I put on my best poker face. That’s my first rule: Never let a guy you like know exactly how you’re feeling. So does this mean I like Gregory? My body is screaming a resounding “yes!” But my mind is still trying to be heard with its cautionary “no!”

  “Do you mind if I walk with you for a little bit, Pia?”

  I shrug my shoulders, hoping this will convey my indifference. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened back there. I was being obnoxious.”

  I’m taken aback. He knows I figured out his game. Cute and smart.

  “Look, Gregory. It’s obvious for whatever reason that you don’t want to reveal your secret relationship to Francesca. I should respect that. I’m sorry for pushing you.”

  Oh, boy! I’ve got it bad. That’s my second rule: Never apologize to a guy until—and only while—you’re in a committed relationship with him. Always, always, always let him think he’s at fault. I’m suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

  Shut your mouth! Do not say anything more than “yes” or “no,” I mentally scream at myself.

  “No need to apologize, Pia.”

  See, even Gregory knows the rules.

  Instead of heading back to the Mussolini Mansion, I just keep walking on Ditmars Boulevard. I pray he doesn’t ask me where I’m going. We’re silent for the next block, and then he begins talking.

  “My father used to paint portraits of Francesca.”

  My ears perk up at this news, but I remain quiet, waiting patiently for him to continue.

  “I’ve known Francesca since I was a boy. My father sometimes used to take me with him when he painted her portrait. My parents and I lived in Rome until I was five. Then we came to New York.”

  “I guess you were too young to remember any Italian?”

  “I do know Italian, but only because my parents didn’t want me to forget it, so they enrolled me in Italian-language school. Every Saturday morning, I took Italian lessons at a parochial school in my neighborhood. I actually grew up in Astoria, but on the other side of Astoria Boulevard, closer to Thirtieth Avenue.”

  “You still live there now?”

  “No. My parents moved down to Florida last year. My father has severe arthritis. He and my mother couldn’t take the cold winters in New York anymore. I live in Long Island City, close to Jackson Avenue. We actually moved to Long Island City when I was in high school. I live in my parents’ house.”

  I add two and two. His father had been an artist, and Gregory now lives in Long Island City. Then I remember the paint splatters I’d seen on his jeans the first night we met. Paul’s hands had been stained with paint, too. Gregory and Paul are the artist friends Megan’s always talking about.

  “So you’re an artist just like your father?”

  Gregory smiles. “Well, not exactly like my father. We have different styles of painting, but yeah, I’m an artist.”

  “My sister Erica was an artist.” I can’t disguise the sadness that enters my voice.

  “Was? Let me guess. Good sense entered her head, and she’s found herself a profession that won’t leave her poor or drive her crazy.”

  “No, that’s not it.” I force a smile, but Gregory’s picked up on my sad tone.

  “I seem to have hit on a nerve. I’ll drop it.”

  “Erica passed away a few years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, Pia.” Gregory places his hand on my shoulder.

  “That’s okay. You had no idea. But thank you.”

  “What medium did she work in?”

  “She was mostly a landscape painter, but she wanted to learn more. Not too long before her accident, she was taking an interest in portraits. You and she would’ve had painting in common.” I manage to give a small laugh, but I’m not fooling Gregory. He sees through my attempt at trying to keep the conversation light.

  “I’ve never lost someone close to me. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through and are going through.”

  “She was supposed to come to New York with me. While I did my internship, she was going to attend art school. I put off coming here for a few years. I didn’t think I could do it without her.”

  “I’m glad you decided to come.”

  “Thanks.”

  We’re silent for a few minutes. I’m amazed at how in sync Gregory seems to be with my thoughts. It’s as if he’s psychic, and he knows I need some time after the heavy discussion. He doesn’t even ask me what kind of accident Erica had. I’m grateful for that. I don’t think I can handle rehashing the ugly details of her death right now. The little I’ve said is the most I’ve said to anyone about Erica’s death since it happened. Out of my peripheral vision, I see that he’s staring at me intensely. For some reason, I decide to turn my head and meet his gaze, b
ut he quickly glances away. I’m surprised to see his face flush. This is different from the overly confident Gregory I’d seen earlier and on the night we met.

  “So I got a call from Francesca before she came to Astoria. Francesca has remained good friends with my father even though it’s been years since he painted a portrait of her. She knows that I’ve followed in my father’s footsteps and wants me to paint another portrait of her. That’s why I was at her sister’s house the night we ran into each other.”

  “Are you going to paint it?”

  “I’m hesitant. I don’t paint as well as my father did. I left my portfolio with her. She liked what she saw and immediately asked me when I could start. I told her I needed to think about it.”

  “But Gregory, this could be the opportunity of a lifetime! This could make your career! If it were me, I’d jump at the chance without a second thought!”

  “Yeah, I know that already.” Gregory laughs.

  I realize how I must sound—like some opportunistic vulture. I’m embarrassed.

  “I’m crazy, I guess. Most people would jump on this since in the art world opportunities are few and far between. I don’t know what’s holding me back.” After a couple of seconds, Gregory adds, “Maybe I do.”

  He’s afraid. He thinks he’s not good enough. As a writer, I can relate. Every creative person must go through a period of insecurity.

  “You’re just as good as your father.”

  “Thanks for the blind vote of confidence.” Gregory laughs. “You’ve never even seen my work.”

  “But Francesca has, and if she made you an offer right after seeing your portfolio, she has no doubts you’re just as good as your father.”

  “I know I’m good. It’s just my style is different than my father’s, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “True. I’ve heard about her temper.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me she’s as sweet as an angel!”

  “Pia, don’t believe everything you hear in the media. Yes, there’s no denying she can have a temper and is . . . How do I put this?”

  “A bitch?”

  “That’s harsh. No, I was going to say difficult. The reason I don’t want to disappoint her is that she’s been good to my family over the years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Everyone has his or her good points and bad.”

  “That’s true. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know her extremely well. But I do know there is more to her. I actually have a meeting with her tonight to give her my answer.”

  “Can’t you just call her?”

  “That would be disrespectful, especially since she is a family friend. And in the Italian culture—”

  “Respect is everything. I’ve heard of la bella figura.”

  Gregory laughs. “Yes, making a good impression is paramount to every Italian. Francesca is one of the smartest women I’ve ever met. Even if I had suggested calling her to give her my answer, she would’ve still insisted I visit her. This way if my answer is ‘no,’ she can change my mind in person. A fact that the media has gotten right about her is that she’s very persuasive. I mean, look at her.”

  The jealousy is back but threefold this time. I’m also feeling very irritated. I am losing it. I’m jealous of a fifty-something washed-up actress. But that’s just it. Francesca is far from washed up. I haven’t seen what her face looks like in the ten years she spent as a recluse, but she’s definitely kept that body in shape from what I saw of her backside.

  I can’t resist asking. “So she’s still beautiful?”

  “Yes. It’s not the same face from her youth, of course. There are a few wrinkles, but just a few. I can say unequivocally she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  Boy, he’s really rubbing it in. What does he see in me? I’m not being conceited by thinking he’s attracted to me. He’s given off the signals to me loud and clear. But I can’t be any more different from Francesca. I don’t possess her voluptuous figure. My figure is leaner. While my breasts aren’t small, they’re nowhere near the C or D cup Francesca’s are. And of course, I’m fair while she has the sultry, olive Mediterranean complexion. There should be a photograph of Francesca next to the word “sexy” in the dictionary. Every cell in her body exudes sex appeal.

  “So, what’s your answer going to be?”

  “I’ll probably say ‘yes.’ ”

  “You’re meeting with her tonight and you still don’t know?”

  “I’m a spontaneous person. It’s hard for me to make up my mind far in advance.” Gregory shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll let you know after my appointment what I decide.” He winks at me. The playful Gregory is back.

  We’re nearing the small shopping center on Ditmars and 48th Street. I realize this is the perfect place to take my departure from Gregory, since it’ll look like I did have errands to run when I ran out on him and the others at the bakery.

  “I’m heading to a few stores across the street.”

  “I’ll join you. That is if you don’t mind.”

  I don’t mind, but since I’m lying I have to think quickly of what to buy. There’s a supermarket, so I decide to pick up a few groceries for Zia.

  “Enough about me. You said you were here for an internship. I do remember Megan’s mentioning to Paul and me this morning before we saw you that you were working at Profile. Right?”

  I nod my head.

  “So you are a journalist!”

  “Trying to be.” I smirk.

  “That’s cool.”

  “I came to New York to get experience working on a magazine. I love to write, and my ultimate goal is to start my own magazine someday. But lately, I’m having my doubts.”

  “Glad to hear I’m not the only tortured artist.”

  “No, you’re not!” I laugh.

  “Why are you having your doubts?”

  “I don’t have any doubts that I want to still pursue writing and my dream of having my own magazine. But I’m doubtful I’m getting any real experience at this internship.”

  “Ahhh! It’s all crystal clear now.”

  “What is?”

  “Your fascination with Francesca.”

  I start feeling anxious. It was one thing to confide in Megan about my far-flung idea of getting an interview with Francesca, but I’m afraid of Gregory mocking me. Why didn’t I think of this when I hoped he’d be my ticket to Francesca? I’d have to let him in on my secret after all. But now that I’m here face-to-face with him, I’m terrified.

  “You’re hoping to talk to her, aren’t you?”

  I nod my head and let out an exasperated sigh. “Guilty as charged. It’s ridiculous, I know.”

  We’re at the Berry Fresh Farm supermarket. I try to pull out a shopping cart, but it’s stuck.

  “Here, let me.” Gregory comes over and with one firm pull, dislodges the cart for me.

  “Let me be your driver.” He steers the cart toward the supermarket’s entrance. I giggle. The sound startles me. I haven’t heard myself giggle this way since John Esteves pinned a corsage to my dress and accidentally stabbed me with the pin before we went to our prom. I know. That wasn’t really a giggle moment, but I was crazy about John even though it didn’t amount to anything more than just a few dates. Though I’m twenty-five years old, I’ve never had a serious boyfriend.

  “Which aisle first?”

  “Dairy.”

  That’s a safe bet. People almost always need milk or eggs. Zia’s refrigerator looks like it’s always stocked, but I’m in a bind now. I don’t give much more thought to whether or not she really needs what I’m picking up.

  I open up the carton of eggs to make sure none are cracked. I’m shivering so hard I’m afraid I’m going to drop the slightly cracked egg I just picked up to switch with an intact egg from another carton.

  Gregory wraps his arm around me. His body warmth quickly melts my goose bumps
.

  “Better?” He’s grinning from ear to ear. I disentangle myself from him.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.” I can’t meet his eyes. I know my face must be the color of the apples we’re now passing as we make our way to the produce department. I pick up a carton of strawberries before heading over to the cashier.

  I pay for the groceries, and of course, Gregory insists on carrying both bags. He waits for me to exit the supermarket first. He’s in full chivalrous mode now.

  “So, getting back to our discussion from earlier, I don’t think it’s ridiculous that you want to talk to Francesca.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “No. I think it shows that you have guts and ambition. If you interview Francesca, that could really help you in your writing aspirations.”

  I nod my head. “You get it. But I should just leave her alone. She’s probably through with giving interviews, especially since so many of the ones she gave over the years portrayed her very harshly. No wonder she’s stayed out of the limelight for the past decade.”

  “I can put in a good word for you.”

  My heart skips a beat. This is just what I’ve been hoping for. But I don’t want Gregory to think I’m using him. I wouldn’t have cared what he thought before, but now I do. I’m committing the one transgression my journalism teachers warned against: Don’t let emotions rule over good judgment.

  It’s okay, I silently tell myself. He wants to help you.

  I hesitate before saying, “Oh, I’m not sure about this. You hardly know me. I can’t expect you to help me out this way.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Aren’t you worried I’m going to say something to her that will tick her off, and then she’ll be mad at you for recommending me?”

  “I trust my instincts, and they’re telling me this is right. I can feel it.”

  “I can’t ask you to do this for me. If you feel compelled on your own, do it, but I don’t feel comfortable asking you for this huge favor.”

  “Say no more.”

  Gregory is smiling. I can see the idea of helping me is making him happy.

  “Thanks. I owe you.”