Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “Yes, we’re proof of that!” Lorenzo laughs with me.

  “We should be grateful that we are all together now. Honestly, I never thought I would see her again.”

  “My mother thought she’d never see you again either.”

  “Shall we go find her? She has been excited all morning.”

  “Yes, let’s go, Zia Francesca. And, Zia, you made the right decision in coming.”

  Lorenzo places his arm around my shoulder as we make our way up to my sister’s bedroom. And for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of belonging.

  19

  Pia

  Here I am once again, sitting in Signora Tesca’s library waiting for Her Royal Highness. I’ve become accustomed to Francesca’s tardiness, and I actually expect it now when I arrive. Since we had decided I would drop by to pick up the royal-blue sheath dress Francesca was giving me and that Angelica was altering, I called her and asked if we could move up our next interview to this afternoon as well. Colin is getting impatient and wants to see a first draft of my proposed article in a week. He told me it doesn’t have to be the entire article, but he wants to see something. I haven’t even begun writing it. He’s letting me take a few days off this week so I can have more time to meet with Francesca. Now that I’m finally getting Francesca to feel comfortable around me and open up more, I want to wait until all of our interviews are done before I begin writing. We have one more scheduled after today. Then I can review my notes and get a better sense of how to shape the piece.

  I remembered to bring the red dress Francesca gave me so that Angelica can also alter it. Placing the garment bag holding the dress beside me on the couch, I’m still almost tempted to return it and not even take the first dress she gave me. But I know that would be the ultimate insult to Francesca. After working so hard to gain her favor—and I’m still not sure I’ve completely won it—I can’t risk incurring her wrath now. Besides, I can always wear the dresses to a wedding or some other fancy event.

  “Hello. You must be—heh . . . heh . . . hehhhhh!”

  I’m shaken out of my reverie by the sound of an older woman’s voice followed by a fit of coughing. Looking over my shoulder, I’m stunned. Signora Tesca! Though I’ve only seen the photos of her from when she was younger, there’s no mistaking Giuliana. The penny-red hair is still evident amidst the graying strands that are overtaking it. Sadly, most of her beauty from her youth has faded. Her complexion is very pale with a yellowish tinge—obviously, it’s not the complexion of a healthy person.

  As Olivia had told me, Signora Tesca’s hair is cut in a pixie style, and her narrow, weasel-like eyes squint intensely in my direction. Vanity must prevent her from investing in a pair of eyeglasses. I guess that’s one trait she shares with her famous sister. With both hands, she holds onto a cane, which I’m afraid is about to buckle from her violent coughing. I stand up and walk over to her. By the time I reach Signora Tesca, her coughing has subsided.

  “Hello. You must be Signora Tesca. I’m Pia Santore.” I extend my hand.

  “Please excuse me, but I doubt you really want to shake my hand after I just hacked a lung into it.” Signora Tesca smiles feebly.

  Returning her smile, I lower my hand. I feel embarrassed for her, but she seems unperturbed by the awkward moment.

  “I see my sister is keeping you waiting. Late should be her middle name. Even when we were children, she took forever getting ready. If you don’t mind, I can keep you company until she arrives.”

  “I’d like that.”

  We head over to the couch. Signora Tesca shuffles her feet very slowly. I try not to notice and act as if I’m staring at the arrangement of daisies on the coffee table. Finally, she sits down in the chaise chair opposite the couch.

  “How is Antoniella?”

  “She’s fine. Working hard as always. Thank you. I’ll tell her you asked about her. Zia always wants to know if I’ve seen you when I come over.”

  Signora Tesca nods her head. “Please give her my best. I haven’t gotten out much these past few months. I’m sure you have gathered I am not well.”

  “Only recently.”

  “Francesca has not said anything?”

  “No, she hasn’t.”

  “Of course not. I’m sure she is focused on regaling you with tales from her glorious acting career.” Signora Tesca looks over toward the French doors. Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and hostility.

  “Actually, when I have tried to ask about you, Francesca has been fiercely protective of your privacy. I think that is the reason why she hasn’t mentioned your not feeling well.”

  “Perhaps.” She nods her head.

  “I’m sure this all has not been very easy on you.”

  “What do you mean?” Signora Tesca looks at me, startled.

  “The crowd outside.”

  “Oh yes, yes. Well, at least my walls are pretty thick, and I haven’t heard them too much.”

  I’m sure she must have thought I was referring to her being reunited with her estranged sister. An awkward silence ensues. I’m tempted to ask about her estrangement from Francesca, but fear prevents me from doing so. Signora Tesca appears to have a bit of the same mercurial temper Francesca has, and I don’t want to offend her. Searching my brain for small talk, I say, “You must be happy your son is here.”

  Her eyes light up.

  “Yes. He’s been away from home since Christmas, but now that he has received his degree, I hope to see him more.”

  “What has he received his degree in?”

  “He has his doctorate in comparative literature.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yes, I am very proud of him. He’s traveled a lot in the past two years, doing research, so I haven’t seen him as much as I would have liked.”

  I now remember the cruel words the neighbors had said about Lorenzo’s not visiting often, as if he couldn’t stand his mother.

  The front door opens, and I can hear the crowd that’s parked outside yelling, “Francesca!” After a second, the door closes with a loud bang. Signora Tesca and I look toward the door.

  “Animals!” Lorenzo cries out as he steps into the library. He freezes when he sees me and immediately scans me from head to toe. My face flushes.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t realize you had company. Miss Santore, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Lorenzo walks over and shakes my hand.

  “Hello.” I avert my eyes.

  “Lorenzo, is the crowd as large as it was when your aunt first arrived?” Signora Tesca asks.

  “I wasn’t here when Zia Francesca first arrived. Remember, Mama?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, son.” Signora Tesca looks momentarily embarrassed by her lapse in memory.

  “No worries.” Lorenzo walks over to his mother and kisses her on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry to have interrupted. Do you mind if I join you?” Lorenzo searches my face, and I have no choice but to meet his gaze. His lips curl up slightly in a smirk as if he knows he’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Of course not, Lorenzo.” Signora Tesca motions with her cane for Lorenzo to sit next to me on the couch.

  “I’m waiting for your aunt,” I say lamely, not knowing what else to say.

  “I gathered as much.”

  Suddenly, we hear conversation coming from the staircase that leads to the second-story bedrooms. The talking becomes louder as Francesca and whomever she’s talking to descend the stairs. There’s something familiar about the other woman’s voice as it reaches my ears.

  “The artwork is absolutely breathtaking. Your sister has quite a collection!”

  Madeline Drabinski! What is she doing here? Paranoia quickly enters my mind. Is Madeline trying to snag her own interview with Francesca? She’s been giving me the evil eye whenever I run into her at Profile’s offices. Did Madeline contact Francesca behind Colin’s back? Granted, she is Profile’s art critic, but she’s also been known to conduct interviews of people other
than artists or the rich and famous with extensive art collections.

  “Oh, she has another appointment,” Lorenzo says. “Mama, are you planning on selling your artwork? I thought you were leaving it all to me when you pass on.”

  Signora Tesca and I shoot daggers in Lorenzo’s direction. I can’t believe how insensitive he’s being given that his mother is apparently very ill.

  “I see your trademark bluntness is intact as always, Lorenzo. You share that with your famous aunt,” Signora Tesca says in a deadpan voice. I find myself liking her more and more.

  “Forgive me, Mama, I didn’t mean any offense. You know me—always joking.” He gets up and kisses his mother. Her tight scowl lines from a moment ago quickly vanish. He does know how to charm her. I give him that. But his use of “mama” is quite annoying. Who still calls their mother “mama” unless you’re in England? It sounds very affected.

  “I’m not selling the artwork, Lorenzo. That woman is a friend of Francesca’s.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  “She’s with that magazine where you are interning. She used to work at Architectural Digest a long time ago. While there, she interviewed Francesca for an article she was writing on her artwork in her villa in Taormina, Sicily.”

  Madeline is turning out to be one surprise after another. I guess the rumors about Madeline’s going from her modeling career to her current position at Profile are unfounded, as is the gossip I heard recently that she slept with someone to get her job. Still, there’s something about her I don’t like or trust.

  We hear the two women exchange good-byes. Francesca enters the library.

  “My apologies, Pia. That appointment lasted a little longer than I had planned.”

  I want to say, “You never plan,” but I bite my tongue.

  “I see Giuliana and Lorenzo have kept you company. Grazie!”

  Lorenzo greets her, but Giuliana doesn’t even so much as glance in her direction. Whatever happened between these sisters must’ve been a doozy for Signora Tesca to have so much resentment still toward Francesca.

  “We’ll leave you so you can conduct your meeting in private. I have some matters to discuss with Mama.” Lorenzo gets up and shakes my hand. Is he going to shake my hand every time he says hello and good-bye to me? I can’t help wondering. Again, he holds my hand for a moment too long, and again, butterflies flutter in my belly. He then kisses his aunt on the cheek. Francesca gets the same sparkle in her eyes that Signora Tesca had when I asked her about Lorenzo. No doubt they love him very much.

  Signora Tesca leans on Lorenzo’s arm as they leave the library.

  “So? I am dying to hear all about Gregory’s reaction to your makeover!” Francesca takes a pastry I don’t recognize from the covered platter that’s on the coffee table. It’s amazing she hasn’t turned into an elephant yet, since every time I come over she’s helping herself to whatever sweets Carlo or Angelica have put out.

  “Have you ever had fried ravioli?” she asks.

  “Those are ravioli? They look nothing like pasta.”

  “They are not pasta but pastry ravioli. You must try one! You’ll love it, I promise!”

  The raviolis remind me of funnel cake in their appearance—fried dough with a sprinkling of powdered sugar. I bite into one. The filling has a sweet, creamy texture. I can also taste cinnamon. They’re absolutely heavenly!

  “Wow! They’re delicious. What’s in them?”

  “Ricotta with sugar and cinnamon. They are an old recipe my mother used to make when Giuliana and I were children. The recipe was passed down from my grandmother.”

  “You made these?” I ask incredulously. Though I try hard, I just can’t envision Francesca toiling away in a kitchen.

  “Si! You sound surprised. I can do more than just act, Pia.” Francesca’s annoyance flashes through her face.

  “I thought you would have cooks like most other celebrities.”

  “And I do, but I enjoy cooking and baking. It relieves my stress.”

  I nod my head and continue eating my ravioli.

  “Have another one.” Francesca holds the platter toward me. They’re too good. I can’t resist having a second one even though I can feel how tight my jeans have gotten in the past few weeks since I’ve arrived in Astoria. Having an aunt who owns a bakery is dangerous.

  “Out with it. Gregory could not resist you in my dress, could he?”

  “Actually, not only could he resist me in my dress, but he wasn’t thrilled with my new look.”

  “Ah! He is a man! They are moody!” Francesca chuckles and waves her hand dismissively.

  “Moodiness usually applies to women and their monthly cycles, not men.” I’m not amused by Francesca’s take on why Gregory hated my makeover.

  “Oh, Pia! You really have no idea what Gregory was doing? He was afraid you would attract other men with your sultry new look. I must admit, Pia, I am a little disappointed in you.”

  “In me? Why?” My voice rises.

  “Calm down. Here you are this confident, budding young journalist who can stand foot-to-foot with me.”

  “The expression is toe-to-toe,” I say and can’t help laughing.

  “You know what I mean. Do not correct me!” Francesca stares me down. I stare back. The more I get to know her, the less she intimidates me. We continue staring at each other for what feels like a full minute. She finally looks away. I win!

  “As I was saying, you are this self-assured woman, and you quickly revert to your . . . your . . . more ordinary fashion sensibilities because your boyfriend did not approve. That is why I am disappointed in you. I expect so much more from you.”

  “Do you?” I’m totally not buying her speech.

  “Yes.” Francesca pours herself a cup of espresso and takes a long sip.

  Deciding it’s time I change the subject before my own temper unleashes, I flip through my notebook to my questions for today. But first, I need to get to the bottom of why Madeline Drabinski met with Francesca—the real reason.

  “Why was Madeline Drabinski here?”

  “Were you eavesdropping . . . again?” Francesca’s gaze meets mine, no doubt to try to ascertain whether I will lie to her.

  “I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping. We all overheard your conversation. You were both talking so loudly.”

  “I am surprised your editor has not shared with you that Madeline is interested in writing a piece about Giuliana’s vast art collection,” Francesca says in a snide tone.

  Willing the muscles in my face to remain relaxed, I say as sweetly as possible, “That’s none of my concern, so of course my editor wouldn’t share that with me. He doesn’t tell me whom the writers are planning on interviewing.”

  “But he knows you are interviewing me, and I would think having another writer at Profile also interview me might be a conflict of interest. Do you agree?”

  For some reason, it’s as if Francesca is trying to goad me. Just when I think we might be on the verge of becoming BFFs by sharing clothes and doing girly things like making me over, she switches to Mr. Hyde mode and becomes her usual bitchy self.

  “It’s not a conflict of interest. I am interviewing you about your life and your acting career. Madeline is interviewing you about your sister’s art collection. Two very different topics.”

  “I guess.” Francesca seems to be at a loss.

  “Shouldn’t Madeline be interviewing Giuliana since it is her art collection?”

  “Giuliana has no interest in being in the spotlight, and she has never wanted the world to know that we are sisters.”

  “But the world now knows.”

  “She does not wish to be bothered, especially since she is . . .”

  “Ill?”

  Francesca’s cheeks turn slightly pink. I’ve never seen her blush before.

  “It’s okay, Francesca. I figured out the last time I was here that Giuliana is sick, and she just admitted it to me when I met her. It’s quite obvious once
you see her.”

  Francesca’s eyes fill with tears. She tries to conceal her face behind her espresso cup as she takes a sip, but the ridiculously small demitasse cup barely hides her nostrils.

  I pull out a tissue from the dispenser that’s on the end table and hand it to her.

  “Thank you.” Francesca lightly dabs at the corners of her eyes. “I suppose it has been silly of me to try and hide from you the fact that my sister is very sick. I needed to know I could trust you and that you would not put it in the article. She has never wanted my life. I must honor her wishes and privacy.”

  “You have my word I will not mention her in the piece.”

  “Grazie molto.”

  “May I ask, Francesca, what exactly is the matter with her?”

  “She has leukemia. Lorenzo wrote to me, asking me to come. The doctors have given her a few months. When Giuliana was diagnosed, she refused treatment other than some pain medication to keep her comfortable. Lorenzo tried to convince her to fight, but it was no use. I even tried persuading her after I arrived, but as I told you we were estranged for so long that I do not hold much influence over her.”

  “She does care about what you think, Francesca.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I could tell from the brief conversation we had earlier. Look, Francesca . . .” I hesitate, but I know I must tell her what I’m thinking. “You need to try and make amends with her before it’s too late. Trust me. I know.”

  “You are talking about your own sister, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought you were very close.”

  “We were. But we had an argument the last time we saw each other before her accident.”

  Now my eyes fill with tears, but unlike Francesca, I can’t keep them at bay.

  “Please excuse me.” I get up and rush to the bathroom. The panic attacks are back. I haven’t had an attack in two weeks. I thought perhaps they were gone for good. Sitting on the toilet, I place my head between my knees, trying to breathe. It’s not working. If anything, the attack is lasting longer than it normally does.

  “Pia!” Francesca knocks at the door. “Pia! Are you all right? You have been in there for almost fifteen minutes. I am worried about you.”