Roman Holiday

by Phyllis A. Humphrey

I couldn’t do that.

  There must be someone. I sat down next to her. What about her boss? Didn’t you tell me she works for a plastic surgeon? Well then, he’s a doctor.

  So?

  So doctors know other kinds of doctors, and besides, they keep things confidential. Maybe you could find a time to talk to him and ask him to recommend someone who could help your mother.

  Maybe. She didn’t look all that enthusiastic about the prospect.

  I filled in the silence that followed. Did your mother know you were with the Cartwrights and not Mr. Matthews yesterday?

  I told her.

  Did you and Paul—? I didn’t finish; I hated even to think what I was thinking.

  No, of course not. We didn’t do anything. Besides, Amy was there too. She paused and spoke softly. Not that I wouldn’t like to. I’d do anything to get away from my mom.

  Our conversation about teenagers having babies flashed across my mind. Do you think having sex with a boy would help you do that? More silence. When we spoke the other day, you were talking about yourself, not Tiffany, weren’t you?

  Not exactly. Tiffany’s always talking about it, how if you have a baby you can go on welfare, and they find you an apartment and give you money.

  Tiffany has a lot to learn, I said. But even if that were true, it wouldn’t really solve your problem. It would just add another one. It’s not only unfair to use a baby to try to solve your own problems, but it wouldn’t work. Instead of no longer having a mother to worry you once in a while, you’d have a baby to care for and worry about twenty-four hours a day.

  She looked up at me, as if this was finally beginning to make sense.

  What you need is independence, and you can’t get it that way. You need to finish school, go to college.

  But I have four years of high school first. She frowned and clenched her fists in her lap.

  I put my arm around her. Listen, there are other ways. What about your father?

  I told you—he’s married again and has a couple of other children.

  But does he keep in touch with you?

  Sort of.

  Would he let you live with him or even just visit for a while?

  She shrugged. Maybe.

  I warmed to the idea. That would be ideal. How old are his new children?

  Little. One’s still a baby.

  Even better. If you lived there, you’d not only be away from your mother and get closer to your father, but you’d find out what it’s like to take care of a baby day after day. Sort of a trial run.

  I’d like that, but maybe they wouldn’t want me to live with them all the time.

  Perhaps you could just visit during school vacations.

  I guess I could ask.

  I hugged her. See, the future isn’t so bleak after all.

  But what if nothing works? What if my mother won’t get counseling? What if my father won’t let me live with him even for a summer?

  You have to try. But even if that doesn’t happen, having a baby of your own is not the solution. It would just be one more problem you’re not equipped to handle at your age. I turned her toward me and looked earnestly into her eyes.

  Kimberly, you’re a very smart girl. And strong. All you have to do is go to school and get good grades so you can go to college, maybe go to a faraway college. If college doesn’t work out, then learn some skills you can use to support yourself, get a career. That way you’ll be independent of everyone.

  Is that what you did?

  In a way. I had a loving family to live with, but I did go away to college. It’s only natural to want to be independent. So now, I have a job and my own apartment and a car that the bank and I own together.

  My little joke was rewarded with a smile.

  But no baby. You know it takes two people to make a baby, and you know what it’s like to grow up without the father who was part of it. Don’t do that to someone else. Wait until you and a man you love get married and can afford to start a family.

  We hugged, and then I gave her one of my business cards. Here. If you ever need to talk, you can call me. This is an 800 number, so it won’t cost anything. And if I’m not there, leave a message and I’ll call you back just as soon as I can.

  She took the card. I know we’re leaving tomorrow, but can we talk some more later?

  I’m sorry, but I’m leaving today. I looked at my watch. Right now, in fact. I came down to the lobby to check out. I stood.

  Kimberly rose as well, and we hugged again. Thanks, she said.

  I wondered if I should stay this last day so I could comfort Kimberly again if she needed it, but what was one more day? Besides, I doubted very much that Karen would complete the tour either after what had happened. In addition, I had another problem to solve, a problem that I hoped waited in Lake Como.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 22

  I stepped off the bus in front of The Grand Imperiale Hotel, but instead of going inside immediately, I let the bus drive off, turned, and admired the arm of Lake Como spread out before me. Although now late afternoon, some sun still shone on the houses, churches, and hotels edging the blue water or nestled among trees climbing the mountains surrounding the lake. I could easily understand why this had become the quintessential vacation site for ancient Romans as well as other Europeans ever since.

  Its beauty impressed me, but I remembered what had brought me on this mission. After the breakfast meeting which had revealed the truth about Todd, and my talk with Kimberly, I felt I had no choice but to go there. A water taxi took me to the station, a train sped me to Milan, and then a local bus had brought me to Cernobbio, one of the many towns and villages that ringed the lake. That was the easy part. Next, I had to find Todd and explain what had happened. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Todd had not come there after all, that perhaps my all-too-frequent impetuosity had made this a wild-goose chase. Excuse the cliché. The computer in my brain was experiencing overload.

  The Grand Imperiale was a five-story white building with apple-green shutters at the windows and white wrought-iron railings across balconies. I picked up the handle of my suitcase and wheeled it toward the wide glass doors, my heart rocketing inside at the prospect of seeing or not seeing Todd.

  Automatic doors swung open, and I pulled my suitcase across the red carpet to the front desk. Is a Mr. Todd Matthews registered here?

  After hitting a few keys and examining his computer screen, the clerk responded in perfect English. Yes, madam, Mr. Matthews is a guest. He paused. If you would like to ring his room, you may use a house telephone in the lobby. He pointed to several along the wall.

  No, thank you, I said. I believe I’ll check in first, that is, if you have a room available.

  He consulted his computer some more, finally admitting they could accommodate me.

  That done, I took the elevator to the fourth floor and found my room, small but elegantly appointed, with a queen-sized bed, chest of drawers, and a round table flanked by two overstuffed chairs. Long French windows opened to a tiny balcony edged in white wrought iron and a view of the lake over the rooftops of part of the hotel and outdoor restaurant.

  I debated calling Todd’s room but decided I didn’t want to speak to him on the phone. I wanted to see him in person. But how, where? I also didn’t want to just appear on his doorstep. And maybe he wasn’t even in his room. He might be out taking pictures that he’d turn into paintings back home. Perhaps I could see him at dinner. Yes, he’d have to eat sometime, and I’d hang out in or near the hotel dining room until he showed up.

  After unpacking and changing from my travel outfit into a silk blouse and matching pants, I put my sweater over my shoulders and returned to the first floor, where I spied a lounge and doors leading to a spacious dining room. But, this being Italy, the dining room didn’t open until eight.

  I shrugged. I decided that, between starting dinner so late and taking three hours to go through all the courses, Italians must have no decent prime-tim
e television. Who was home to watch?

  I scanned the few people sitting in the lounge, but none was Todd. I debated sitting there to wait for him to appear, but I was too restless and anxious. My mind reeled with the words I wanted to say to him and then rejected them as being sophomoric. I must have looked like a fool, mouthing speeches and frowning at nothing. I had to wait somewhere else. I’d come back later, when the dining room opened.

  I walked out onto a flagstone path, and the beautiful grounds made me forget for a moment what I’d come to do. I passed a bathhouse with an exercise room and a large lakeside swimming pool, which was empty although the water looked quite inviting. I returned to the flagstone walk, turned left and crossed the narrow street. I entered a small park with a dock and an ancient-looking stone bench. A sign, printed in both Italian and French—remember, I read a little French—indicated that boats picked up and deposited passengers who wanted to cross the lake.

  The scene was so lovely, I wished I had my camera so I could take a picture. To my left, an ancient building rose from the water’s edge, with stone steps descending into it and a tiny weather-beaten wooden boat tied to a protruding post. I wanted to capture that on film as well.

  Then I saw him. He stood near the water, staring down, his hair tousled by a breeze that came across the lake.

  Todd!

  He whirled around and saw me, and his face grew pink with surprise. Or embarrassment. What are you doing here?

  I came to tell you that Karen Vale admitted she lied. Everyone knows the truth now. There, I’d said it already. After all my rehearsals, the simple words just tumbled out.

  He took his time about acknowledging my statement. I waited what seemed like an eternity, wondering how he would react. He should be happy, but he didn’t seem to be. A frown still creased his forehead.

  Finally, he closed the distance between us. Thank you. Actually, I hoped you’d come. He took my sweater from my arms and placed it around my shoulders. It’s getting chilly, he said, as if nothing had happened since the last time we spoke. I didn’t expect you to come, of course. I just had a wild fantasy that you would.

  I smiled at him. Not so wild, as it turned out.

  He took my hand, and we walked to the red brick sidewalk that edged the street then turned right and followed it past a stone wall fronted by lilac bushes and tiny shops closing for the night.

  Why did you leave Venice? I asked. Why didn’t you wait until the, er, the mistake was cleared up? You should have known it would be.

  He posed his own question. Why did you leave the tour? What about your assignment? What about your job?

  I got all the information I need for my article a long time ago. I took a deep breath, eager to tell him what had happened after he left. I had to come. Not just because of—of us. I wanted you to know that Karen Vale admitted she had lied, and she knows you didn’t abuse Kimberly.

  Then why did she say it?

  You remember she was ill the day before? Well, she blames the medication she took for making her—a little crazy, I guess. I didn’t voice Lance’s suspicion she was drunk at the time.

  Todd stopped walking and turned to face me. She admitted the truth to everyone?

  Not exactly. She told Enza to do it. And Kimberly.

  She put that child through hell. The woman has no right to be a mother!

  I touched his arm. It’s all over now. You can forget it.

  Forget it? Forget that she humiliated me in a crowded restaurant? He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and began walking again, long purposeful strides, as if his mind were elsewhere than on the narrow Italian street. I almost had to run to keep up with him.

  He stopped walking suddenly and looked around, as if just realizing we’d gone rather far. Let’s go back.

  Without waiting for my answer, he steered me across the street. We had walked past a small restaurant before, and now, as he glanced toward the dining room that could be seen through large plate glass windows, he said, Do you want to eat dinner?

  I felt queasy again. I don’t think I could eat just now.

  Todd led me inside anyway. You need to whether you think so or not. Besides, this one’s open.

  We sat in the corner booth of a charming room with subdued lighting, while on a glassed-in porch beyond, several tables of diners ate, smoked, and talked. We both ordered the special dinner: chicken, potatoes, and mixed vegetables, but I barely touched mine. I noticed Todd ate almost none of his.

  We didn’t talk about what I was sure filled both our minds. I asked about Lake Como, and he told me more about what he’d learned from his previous visits.

  I’m glad you came, he said. Tomorrow I’ll take you on a boat ride along the lake, and we’ll stop at every little village and explore. Then we’ll climb up some of the steps carved into the hills and look down on it.

  I can’t stay. I’m supposed to be back home tomorrow. My boss will kill me.

  No, he won’t. But if you’d rather go home—

  You know I’d rather be with you, but— How could I tell him I couldn’t stay when I had no idea where this relationship might go? And he was being so, well, normal. A short time ago, he’d been furious about Karen, and now he acted as if he didn’t care.

  As usual, I spoke my mind. It’s no use pretending everything is fine with you when I know it isn’t.

  Then the waiter brought the dessert which was included in our meal, and, in spite of it being chocolate and my having a sweet tooth the size of Belgium, I refused it.

  Todd got up and took the bill to the cashier, and I followed, swallowing the things I wanted to say until we were no longer surrounded by people.

  As we walked back to the hotel, I reminded him that he needed to face what had happened and deal with it. You can’t just brush this aside.

  Forgive and forget, is that it?

  I’m sure you’ll never forget, but you can forgive.

  Is that what you’d have me do?

  I didn’t want to push too hard. You’ve been attending church. You know that, in His moments on the cross, Jesus said, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’

  Oh, Karen Vale knew what she was doing all right.

  You mustn’t let this make you bitter.

  I have a right to be bitter. I’ve been bitter for a long time, and no preaching about Jesus is going to change that.

  We had reached the hotel, and he walked me through the lobby toward the elevators. This isn’t the first time, you know. First, my parents refused to believe that I wasn’t the father of Sally’s baby. Now, Karen—and everybody!—thought I had molested a child. What do they think I am, some kind of monster?

  Of course, the truth was just the opposite. Todd was the most sensitive, caring man I’d ever met. No, they don’t, I said. Even before Karen admitted she lied, everyone else believed you were innocent. They told me so.

  That wasn’t strictly the truth but close enough.

  But I refused to give up. Why have you never told your parents the truth about the baby? You should have cleared this up long ago, found the girl and the child, had DNA testing and presented the proof.

  I couldn’t.

  Of course you could, I insisted.

  The baby was stillborn.

  Oh, I’m so sorry. How did she—?

  Under the circumstances, Sally was glad about it. She never had to tell her mother that she carried her stepfather’s child.

  So, you kept in touch with her. Do you know where she is now?

  She changed her name to Fiona Blackwell, and she’s doing fairly well as an actress in Hollywood.

  But even so, I said, you must forgive your parents for their part in your estrangement. You said yourself that you mustn’t live the rest of your life with this between you.

  The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, but Todd didn’t enter with me. Just before the doors closed, he said, Go home, Darcy. Don’t tell me how I should feel when you, yourself, have never forgiven the man who killed y
our brother.

  ****

  I spent another restless night rehashing in my mind everything we had said and especially Todd’s last words. He was right. I still harbored my own bitterness and had no right to accuse Todd. I remembered how I had forgiven the local politician who had chased me around the hotel room in Los Angeles only a few weeks before; why not the man who killed my brother? What was different, except, perhaps, that the stakes were higher?

  Harder to bear was the knowledge that I had fallen in love with Todd, and now it seemed we would never meet again. Tears rolled down my cheeks and soaked my pillow.

  ****

  In the morning, I took the bus back to Milan and found a ticket office where I could verify my return flight to Los Angeles. I looked for a taxi to take me to Malpensa Airport and noticed several people walking into a building that appeared to be a Protestant church. Remembering it was Sunday, and that my guidebook stated there were many Protestant churches in Italy, I watched them. Serendipity, which is often just another name for dumb luck, was with me. The sign in front indicated the service at eleven o’clock would be in English, and I was just in time.

  I hesitated only a moment before joining the people entering the church. It felt good to be in a simple house of God again. The interior was cool and quiet and painted stark white. Dark wood pews sat on a polished wooden floor, and blue carpeting lined the aisle. Several worshippers were seated there already, and more arrived in the next ten minutes. Then an organ played, and finally, two lay people came to the platform in front. One—the man—announced a hymn number. I found the place in the hymnal, but when the congregation rose and began to sing, I fell silent. Tears choked my voice, and I had to wipe them from my eyes.

  Although the subject of the sermon was not specifically about forgiveness, its message seemed prepared just for me—God’s love for all, His protection and guidance. I felt uplifted and restored, felt my whole body infused with light and warmth. At the final hymn, I left as if in a dream and caught a taxi to take me to the terminal. I checked in at the gate, discovered I had a short wait before my flight, and used the time to write a letter to Todd.