“Oh, Pia. Come here.” Zia wraps her arms around me, and I collapse against her. I don’t even try to fight back the tears. I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting my feelings where Erica’s death is concerned. I’m tired of acting to everyone that I am okay. I’m tired of keeping the burden of this secret buried deep within me.
“Erica had met someone a few months before she died. His name was Bill. She was crazy about him. She had changed her mind about coming with me to New York. I was so mad at her because I felt like she was giving up on her dream—on our dream. I thought she was making a mistake choosing love over her career aspirations. But I think what angered me more was that she was choosing Bill over me. You remember how close we were?”
Zia nods her head as she begins stroking my hair, pulling the strands that have stuck to my wet face back.
“This was the first time anyone had come between us. Even with her friends. They always came second. She was upset that I wasn’t supporting her decision to stay in California so she could build her relationship with Bill. We said such ugly things to each other. She told me I was jealous of her since my relationships never lasted long. She told me I was cold and that’s why no one fell in love with me. I told her she was becoming selfish and letting nothing more than a teen crush blind her. I told her she was making the biggest mistake of her life and she wouldn’t amount to much. Oh God! I can’t believe I told her that.”
My body shakes as a new round of tears erupts.
“Pia, listen to me. We all say hurtful things to one another when we’re mad. You were both hurt. Erica was hurt because for the first time she didn’t have your approval, and you were hurt because for the first time she was making her own decisions—decisions that left you out of the picture. Yes, it’s sad that the last time you saw her had to be that way, but don’t let that one moment ruin the beautiful relationship and love you had for each other. Your mother used to tell me that she hardly ever saw you fight. Is that true?”
I nod my head. “That’s what makes this so hard to accept. Why did our one major argument have to be the last words we ever spoke to each other? Why couldn’t God give me just one more chance to tell her I was sorry before she died? I just wish our last memory together could have been a good one.”
“I know, Pia. I know. But I want you to start remembering all of the happy times you shared with Erica. I want you to remember the special bond you and your sister had. Whenever you start to think about that fight, just replace that thought with one of the many happy memories instead. And like you just told me, no one is to blame for her death. She wouldn’t want anyone to feel that.”
“Thank you, Zia. You’re the only person I’ve confided in about this.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. And thank you for making me feel better.”
Zia and I hug. I realize that this is the first time I haven’t gotten a panic attack when I’ve thought about the argument Erica and I had.
The doorbell rings.
“That must be your friends. I’ll go answer the door. Fix your makeup, and I’ll tell them you’ll be down soon.”
I nod my head. Walking over to the dresser, I grab a Q-tip from a crystal jewelry box, which was no doubt a wedding favor, and dab at the mascara that’s run beneath my eyes. Applying a few drops of concealer, I examine myself to make sure all signs of my tears are gone before I head downstairs.
I can hear a man’s voice. It must be Aldo. I have yet to meet him, but feel like I know him already since Connie and Rita have regaled me with many tales about him. I spotted in the rag mags the photo of him climbing up the rope ladder that led to Francesca’s room. Connie and Rita weren’t joking when they told me how crazy he is about Francesca. The guy has guts; I give him that.
Megan will be meeting up with us at the gallery later. Since it’s Zia’s day off, Megan is closing up the bakery tonight, so she’ll miss the first hour of Gregory’s show. Lou is going to meet up with us later, too.
The gang is seated on Zia’s couch, and just like much of Signora Tesca’s furniture, it’s also covered in plastic. Many older Italian women cover their furniture in plastic to prevent stains and don’t seem to care that most people stopped this custom decades ago.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hey, Pia!” Connie gets up and kisses me on the cheek. “This is the famous Aldo. Now more famous since he’s made it to the pages of Inquisitor.”
“I can die now that I’ve landed in the gossip mag to the stars!” Aldo stands up and kisses me on both cheeks. “Ahhh! I can smell California all over you.”
I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not. But then Aldo smiles warmly at me, so I’ll assume he wasn’t being sarcastic.
“I’m in awe of your tenacity and your ability to get within mere inches of your idol.” I bow deeply before him.
“Thank you. Thank you. I must say I didn’t even recognize myself. My mind just kept repeating the same phrase: ‘Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.’ That’s what kept propelling me forward. It’s so true what they say about envisioning your goals and repeating self-affirmations. I’m living proof that they work.”
Aldo looks quite proud of himself.
“We’d better get going. I’m sure Pia doesn’t want to be late for her boyfriend’s big night,” Rita says. Her eyes meet mine, and she rolls them with a slight nod of her head toward Aldo. I guess she’s sick of hearing about nothing else but his close brush with Francesca and his making it in Inquisitor.
“Zia, we’re leaving.”
Zia comes from the kitchen. “Have a good time!” She kisses me on the cheek and smiles at everyone else.
“Ma told me to tell you she’s cooked a new dish that she knows you’ll love,” Rita tells Zia.
“Thank you, Rita. I’ll be heading over soon.” Zia opens the door for us. Before I walk out, she whispers in my ear, “It’s okay if you want to come home much later tonight. Don’t even worry about calling me. Just enjoy yourself. Va bene?”
I nod my head and squeeze Zia’s hand to show my appreciation. I feel so much closer to her after having confided about Erica.
We climb into Connie’s lime green Volkswagen buggy. The car fits her and her funky style perfectly.
“I’m so glad we’re not schlepping into the city on the subway. Riding the subway on weekends totally blows with all the track repairs they’ve been doing.” Aldo is sitting in the front passenger seat, regularly murmuring warnings to Connie as we drive. “Car coming on your right . . . Slow down, yellow light . . . Watch this moron in the opposite lane who’s getting too close to you.” I don’t know how Connie manages to ignore him. She’s definitely a role model for serenity.
My jaw feels like it’s locking up. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling anxious. I guess I’m nervous for Gregory and want this night to go off well for him. I know how much is riding on the show’s being a success. This can really make or break his career.
“You must be so proud of Gregory,” Rita says to me.
“I am. This is all just so amazing.”
“He’s lucky to have you. We think you’re so good for him.” Connie looks over at me while at a stoplight. She sounds more like Gregory’s gushing mother than a friend.
“Behind every great man is a greater woman—if I got that saying right,” Aldo says extra loudly as his voice competes with the traffic on the bridge.
“Thank you, Aldo. You’re good for a woman’s ego.”
“Anytime you need a little boost, Pia, just call me.” With lightning speed, Aldo produces from his sports jacket a business card. I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“I’m serious! What’s so funny?”
“Aldo, you’re just too much, but in a good way. Trust me.” I pat Aldo’s shoulder.
“Aldo has what I like to call the ‘I’m-clueless-that-I’m-funny complex,’ ” Rita says in a very deadpan tone.
“Oh, shush, Rita! You have the ‘I’ll-only-find-something-funny-if-an-asteroid-k
nocks-me-in-the-head complex.” Aldo rolls his eyes. Connie and I are laughing so hard now. Rita’s arms are crossed defensively over her chest, and Aldo is staring out his window, doing his best to act like he isn’t still stung over Rita’s comment. The two have more in common than they’d like to admit.
Changing the subject, Aldo says, “I can’t believe they renamed this bridge the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. Yuck! Why do they feel the need to rename everything lately?”
“I know. I still refuse to call Shea Stadium by its new name Citi Field. And who the hell calls the Triborough Bridge the RFK Bridge unless you’re a 1010 WINS radio news broadcaster!” Rita exclaims.
“You got that right, sistuh!” Aldo turns around and high-fives Rita. Their earlier spat is forgotten as they unite over their hatred of New York City landmarks’ being renamed.
“Make the sign of the cross, guys. Quick before we pass the Devil’s Building,” Connie yells out as she steers the car with one hand while making the sign of the cross with her other. I’m about to ask her which is the Devil’s Building and why it’s called that when the numbers “666” loom before me in red neon lights at the top of an office building.
“I love that building,” Aldo gushes like a schoolgirl.
“Don’t say that, Aldo!” Connie swats his arm as she slows down at an approaching red light.
We’re going down Fifth Avenue, making our way to Chelsea. Though we’re making good time, it’s not fast enough for me. Again, my jaw tightens as I feel my anxiety returning. I can’t lie to myself any longer. I’m nervous about more than just this night turning out well for Gregory. I can’t put a finger on it, but my nerves won’t allow me to relax.
Finally, Connie turns onto 26th Street, and we make our way west toward 11th Avenue. The show is being held at First Street Gallery. Ironically, Gregory and I had walked into First Street Gallery when we were gallery-hopping on one of our early dates. I can’t believe his work will now be featured in Chelsea—the heart of New York’s art world.
Connie finds parking on 11th Avenue. Fortunately, we find a spot after searching for only five minutes. As I step out of the car, a warm breeze that’s coming in from the nearby Hudson River greets me.
“Come on, girls!” Aldo links his arms through mine and Rita’s and ushers us forward.
“Wait up for me, guys!” Connie teeters over in her zebra-striped stiletto sandals. She’s wearing a white shirtdress, with a black patent-leather belt that’s cinched really tight to emphasize what must be a size zero waist. Rita is wearing a plum silk empire-waisted sundress. It suddenly dawns on me that I look the least dressed up of the group. Even Aldo is dressed to the nines in a short-sleeved, cream-colored button-down shirt with a gray pinstripe vest and a periwinkle bow tie. Whatever. This is New York City. It’s rare you’ll see everyone dressed in similar fashion whether you’re at a party or a lounge.
Walking arm in arm, we take up the width of the sidewalk, ignoring pedestrians who are behind us talking loudly, hinting to us to get out of their way. Normally, I hate it when people hog the sidewalk, oblivious to those behind them, but tonight I don’t care as I adopt a typical New Yorker attitude. This is my baby’s night to shine, and I can’t wait to share it with him.
As we approach the gallery, I see numerous people entering. A group of older women are all wearing couture. They look like wealthy socialites. A Hummer limo pulls up in front of the gallery. Two couples get out. They look like the models who grace the billboard ads in Times Square.
“I wonder if we’ll spot any A-list celebrities. These B-list types aren’t doing it for me.” Aldo snickers.
“Those people getting out of the limo are B-list celebrities?” I ask him.
“They’re models. I keep forgetting their names, but I’ve been seeing them everywhere lately from billboards to magazine covers. If they were really huge, I’d remember their names, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo back. Although it’s apparent that Aldo is a bit of a snob, I can’t help but feel that a lot of it is done for show. There’s an inauthentic vibe to his snobbery. I think part of him wishes he belonged to this elite world, but there’s also a side of him that knows he’s not quite cut out for it.
Connie gives our names to the woman at the door. After she checks them off her clipboard, she motions with a quick flick of her fingers for us to step through the gallery’s entrance. Two bouncers, both sporting bald heads and sunglasses à la Kojak, scan the crowd, looking for troublemakers. Silently, I laugh to myself, unable to picture this haughty, wealthy crowd containing even one instigator.
Already there’s a decent-sized crowd milling about the interior of First Street Gallery. A six-foot-one auburn-haired woman is handing out flutes of champagne to the guests. Her strapless black gown has a thigh-high slit that provocatively shows off the full length of her leg. No doubt the woman is a model. I suspect the gallery has hired several models and actors to stage the show so to speak. My eyes are scanning the room, searching for Gregory, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Drink up, Pia.” Aldo hands me a flute of champagne.
“Thanks.” I take a few gulps, and when I’m done, I see Aldo, Connie, and Rita staring at me.
“Want another one?” Rita asks, nodding toward my glass.
I notice with horror that I’ve almost downed the entire flute of champagne.
Smiling shyly, I say, “Ahh, no, that’s fine. Thanks. I guess I was thirsty.”
“I’ll say.” Aldo smirks. Connie subtly elbows him.
“I wonder where Gregory is. This is, after all, his show,” Rita spits out. I’ve noticed how direct she can be.
“I’m sure he’s somewhere. There’s more to this gallery than this room. Come on, let’s head to the back.” Connie puts her arm protectively around me and guides me to the back. The girl must have ESP in addition to her ultra-serene state of mind. Somehow, she’s sensed my nervousness.
“You look really sexy, Pia. You’re going to look great in the photos they take of you and Gregory.”
“Photos?” I ask.
“I’m sure there are a couple of reporters here to cover the show. Relax. You will be the perfect accompaniment next to the up-and-coming hottest artist.” Connie winks at me.
Now I’m really questioning my more casual wardrobe. The only guests I’ve spotted in jeans are the male models and a few other guys. But most of them are wearing sports jackets or collared shirts with lightweight V-neck sweaters, which I don’t get since it’s the middle of summer on a muggy New York City night. The air conditioner isn’t even set to full blast, and I’m already feeling warm with the crowd in this enclosed space.
“There he is!” Connie points Gregory out. I stop dead in my tracks. Madeline Drabinski is holding on to his elbow, leading him to the corner of the room. She whispers in his ear, and Gregory belts out laughter so loud that a few people look in his direction.
“That bitch” escapes my lips. Connie stares at me in horror.
“Did you say what I think I just heard you say?”
“Sorry, Connie. I know that snake who’s draped around Gregory.”
“Oo! Drama! Do tell!” Aldo comes up behind me. Great. He overheard me, too.
“It’s nothing. Forget I ever said anything.”
“Oh no! Spill it, Pia.”
Even Rita is looking at me, waiting to hear the juicy story.
“Her name is Madeline Drabinski. She’s—”
“Profile’s art critic! I know who she is. Remember, I work in the art world.” Aldo sounds really proud of himself as he states this fact. I had almost forgotten that Connie had told me Aldo used to work for Christie’s and now works for an art gallery not too far from here.
“Yes. She’s doing a story on the show and interviewing Gregory. I guess you can say I’m not a fan of hers.”
“You think she has the hots for your man?” Rita blurts out.
“No, no, of course not. She’s a lot older than him.”
“
That’s how they like them, Pia. Haven’t you ever heard of cougars, and boy, does she have cougar written all over her.” Aldo is practically drooling as he stares in awe at Madeline. I guess he holds cougars in high esteem.
“It’s nothing like that. Madeline wanted to interview Francesca with me. She got mad because my intern supervisor gave me the green light to interview Francesca alone. She’s given me the dirtiest looks around the office ever since. I’m not the only one who doesn’t like her at Profile. There are certain rumors swirling about her and how she got her job at the magazine.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Sorry, Aldo, I don’t believe in spreading gossip. Besides, I recently discovered some info about Madeline that throws some doubt on a few of these rumors.”
“Well, then, it’s okay for you to tell us since they’re probably not true.” Aldo opens his eyes widely, giving me his best innocent face.
“Drop it. I’m not saying anything.” I give Aldo my sternest voice.
“You’re spoiling my fun, Pia!” Aldo pouts before he finishes off the last of his champagne, in time to plop the flute onto the tray that’s being passed around by another Amazonian model.
“Well, let’s go say hello.” Connie nudges me forward.
“I’d rather wait until Madeline leaves.” I remain rooted in place.
“Come on, Pia. Show that cougar who’s boss.” Aldo grabs my hand and pulls me in Gregory’s direction. Wresting my hand from his grip, I plaster on my best smile and repeat to myself, Look cool and confident. Look cool and confident, hoping desperately that Aldo’s advice to live by self-affirmations works for me as well.
“Sorry to interrupt, Gregory. But we wanted to say hello.” My voice comes out extra boisterous, and I pray it’s not obvious that I’m overdoing it.
“Pia! You guys made it. I was beginning to wonder where you were.” Gregory gives me a half hug, nothing like what I’d imagined would happen when we first saw each other tonight. I was expecting a prolonged embrace, followed by a kiss on the lips—even if it were just a quick peck since we’re in public. Instead, the hug he’s given me feels like one you’d give to an acquaintance. He shakes Aldo’s hand and gives Connie and Rita the same weak hug he gave me.
Carissima Page 32
