by Gail Mencini
“You’re missing the other rooms, Bella.” Phillip stood in an arched doorway; one hand leaned against the wood casing.
Bella crossed the smooth marble inlaid floor to Phillip, imagining how she’d like to tear into him. But she couldn’t. Not here. It was too public. But if she brushed him off now, she thought, he might not give her a chance to be alone with him. “The architecture is remarkable.”
Phillip led her into a green hall, where they paused to admire paintings in gilded frames. Majolica chemist jars lined the shelves, each one more splendid than the next. He nudged her on. They entered the old spice shop. Burnished walnut shelves rose to the ceiling and ended in a line of delicate carved wood. Above, frescoes covered the vaulted ceiling, which was adorned in pink, ivory, gold, and even purple.
“It’s magic.” Bella whispered the words to herself. She tilted her neck back to study the handiwork above. Noblemen had commissioned this, no doubt. For the sake of the artistry, she wondered, or as a testament to themselves? She studied each section of the ceiling in turn, allowing herself to soak in the rare beauty above.
Phillip cleared his throat.
She turned to him. A hot flash bolted across her face and chest. Crap, why now? Bella hoped he wouldn’t notice her flush. “I love it.”
Phillip smiled. “I knew you would.”
“Thank you—for sharing this.”
Silence. He stood there looking at her with that stupid smile on his face.
Bella felt as though she were trapped in a naked dream.
“We used to be close.” Phillip looked down for a moment, and then his eyes lifted to hers. “I wondered if we might be able to be friends again.”
Friends? Bella thought. He bloody wants to be my friend after what he did to me?
“What’s in here?” Rune bounced into the room with Hope by his side.
“There’s incredible beauty here,” Phillip said. He gestured to the ceiling, but his eyes remained locked on Bella.
37
Bella’s stomach churned. She broke Phillip’s gaze and looked at the ceiling, pretending to listen as Rune and Hope discussed it.
Hands clapped together in the next room. A loud, insistent summons.
“Come, come,” Giacomo said.
Another series of claps.
Bella, Phillip, Hope, and Rune returned to join the others.
“We must go outside now. Please, everyone.” Giacomo glanced at his wristwatch, as if nervous about their schedule. He rushed through the rules of their scavenger hunt.
Stillman had planned a challenge for them. Each was to borrow a method of transportation and ride it to their rendezvous tonight at the Duomo. No buying or renting allowed. They, not someone else, had to drive their borrowed vehicles. The mode of transportation must have wheels and must belong to someone else. Creativity counted.
Bella stood outside the pharmacy and watched the others walk away. Meghan laughed at something Lee said. Meghan and Lee walked away together and headed left. Giacomo stared after them, his hands on his hips.
Rune placed a bet with Hope, certain of his success in finding a more unusual vehicle. They had all seen how Hope’s husband’s abuse had eroded her self-confidence.
Bella had her own doubts about Hope’s prospects of beating Rune. Thankfully, Bella thought, Hope had bet only a single euro. Rune and Hope walked a short distance together, and then split into different directions. Phillip strode off alone without a word to anyone.
The low-hanging mist of the morning had burned off. Bella let the warmth of the sun bathe her face. She had a day to explore Florence by herself; she might as well try to enjoy it. Bella headed toward the Arno. The shops that lined the streets between the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio waited for her.
All the usual shops beckoned her—stationery stores with handmade papers, art galleries, leather stores with their butter-soft designs, and tiny shops with silk scarf-laden tables. Her feet drove her past each store with only a glance.
Bella realized that she couldn’t shop. Not yet. The transportation challenge had awakened the competitive spirit within her. She had a mission. The hunt was on. A shocking idea rushed into her head. She did have something unique to trade for her borrowed transportation. That is, if she had the courage to follow it through.
Finally, she spotted it—a bookstore. Bella stood inside the open door and looked around. Italian volumes on the first floor, English on the second. Her feet carried her with purpose through the store. To her delight, E.V. Tate action/adventure novels appeared on both floors. Her heart skipped. Bella spoke to the store manager. The woman led Bella into a back room and pointed to the telephone.
Bella waited, the handset pressed to her ear. After several transfers, Edie got on the line. Bella’s words cascaded out. “Edie, I’m here in Florence, in a bookstore. It’s time. You’ve begged me to do this for years. I’m ready. I want the world to know I’m E.V. Tate, and I want to start with a signing now in Florence.”
“Why the epiphany?” Edie said. Her voice sounded curious.
“Long story. You can take me to lunch when I’m back in the city and I’ll tell all.” Well, maybe not everything.
“How’s your nemesis?”
“What nemesis?” Bella said.
“You’ve disparaged the man for thirty years, ever since he chose his LA girlfriend over you. So how is he?”
“He’s boring.”
“Give me the dirt. All of it.”
“There isn’t any. We’ve hardly spoken. Probably because we haven’t thought about each other since we split.”
“Right,” Edie said. “No, not at all. You haven’t thought about him. And I’m Christie Brinkley.”
Bella thought of the petite woman with her Katharine Hepburn hair and tailored pantsuits. She laughed. “He and I have nothing in common.”
“Umm. Right.” Edie sighed into the phone.
“Can we talk about my book signing?”
“If you insist.”
“I need you to convince the manager—her name is Sophia and she speaks English—that I’m E.V. Tate and it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have me willing to sign books today, in her store.”
“Today? Don’t you want her to do some publicity so you have a good turnout?”
“It has to be today. Now.”
Edie’s throaty laughter filled the phone. “I’ve heard that at some point every author goes wacko, and now, with this phone call, I believe it.”
“Edie, you know I’ve been wacko for years. I need this. Please?”
“Yes, of course.” Edie sighed. “Put Sophia on. I want the name and phone number of the store so I can run it up a flagpole in Times Square. The reclusive E.V. Tate has been revealed, and he’s a woman. This should raise your books at least two or three lines on the New York Times bestseller list.”
Bella handed the phone to Sophia. She watched the woman bob her head as she made notes. She asked Edie a few questions to verify that the woman standing in front of her in Florence was E.V. Tate.
Sophia returned the phone to the cradle. She hugged Bella enthusiastically. Clapping her hands with excitement, she asked, “Why do you do this?”
“Keep my identity a secret?”
“No, no, come to my store and want a signing today.”
Bella smiled. “Do you own a Vespa?” Before entering the bookstore, she had walked through the alley behind it and seen a Vespa chained to a rack by the back door.
Sophia nodded. “Yes. Why?”
“In exchange for the signing, I want to borrow your scooter for the evening. I’ll be here later, when you reopen, and I’ll sign books until nineteen-thirty. You get the world’s first E.V. Tate book signing, and I have use of your Vespa for the evening. Deal?”
Sophia hugged Bella, followed with a double kiss.
Bella had never imagined that she’d do a book signing. Years ago, keeping her identity a mystery had been nothing more than the natural progression in her life of secrets.
Bella returned to the bookstore a few minutes before it reopened for the evening. As she approached, she heard the noise first. When she rounded the corner of the block, she stopped, her feet frozen to the sidewalk. A line of people, starting at the bookstore’s door, snaked back to the far end of the block and disappeared around the corner. Many held books in their hands. Her books.
Sophia unlocked the door to admit Bella. “Good evening. Isn’t this grand?”
Bella nodded. The thought of facing all these people terrified her. What if they were disappointed?
“Simone, my clerk, thought of having her two young brothers walk the old city with signs announcing your signing.”
Bella gulped air.
“Come, come. We will have you here,” Sophia said, gesturing to the back room, “and people can enter as others leave.” Her eyebrows bunched together, as if she were worried. “I hope we have enough books. I brought them in from stores all over Florence. I do not wish to disappoint.”
She rubbed Bella’s arm with her palm. “This is so exciting for us. I telephoned your editor to tell her the wonderful news—how the queue is around the corner.”
Within minutes, Bella stood in front of a rectangular table piled with stacks of her novels—Italian translations on her left and English on her right. Her copies, their pages marked with the selections she planned to read, sat on the table in front of her.
An excited buzz filled the air as a group of people filed in to sit in the two rows of folding chairs and stand in the back and sides of the room. She heard Sophia calling to the people still outside that more would be admitted when some departed.
Bella smiled and quizzed the audience as to whether they preferred English or Italian. The majority preferred English. She had come up with a logical public reason for her suddenly revealing her identity. Bella explained that as this novel had scenes in Florence, it was appropriate for her very first public appearance to be here.
She began reading the selection she had marked. Her voice cracked once or twice, and then she settled into a normal rhythm. Bella heard rustling and whispering in her audience. She glanced up, only to be met with smiles and nods. Her eyes dropped back to the book and she continued, but the whispering resumed.
Sophia stood at Bella’s side. Her face, though smiling, showed concern. Sophia leaned closer to whisper. “They wish to start the signing now.”
“But normally, I mean, in the States, an author will read a selection from their novel and speak about themselves or the book. Don’t they want—”?
Sophia shook her head. “The signing. They are here to have their books signed and to speak to you. Many more are waiting outside for their turn.”
“Oh.” All they wanted was her autograph. All these years, she could have kept her identity a secret and merely hired an actor to stand in for her? Bella nodded and grinned at the crowd. Her smile still plastered on her face, she whispered through her teeth to Sophia. “Bring them on.”
An hour later, Bella rubbed the lowest juncture of her thumb. She sipped water, but it didn’t satisfy her dry mouth. She picked up the pen again. A cramp shot up her arm.
The line of people still snaked somewhere beyond the front door. It seemed endless. Books and more books.
She should have taken a pain reliever before she came. But how could she have known? Finally, the line of people ended. Bella stood and stretched her back. She shook her legs. Only a few copies of her novel, the Italian translation, remained.
Sophia walked the last group of customers to the door and locked it behind them. The Italian storekeeper hooted with delight. She raced back to Bella and kissed her on each cheek, thanking her for the grand success.
Humming a tune, Sophia sashayed back to the front cashier area. From a locked drawer, she extracted her shoulder bag and fished out a vehicle key. “My Vespa is parked at a rack in back of the store. It is white.” Sophia extended the key to Bella.
“Will you need a ride home?”
Sophia shook her head. “Tonight I’m meeting friends to celebrate the unveiling of E.V. Tate.”
Bella hugged the woman, palmed the key, and moved to the door. When she walked outside into the cool evening, a thought smashed her festive mood.
On the surface, the night had been a rousing success, but was it really? No one she cared about—David, Edie, or even Stillman—had been there to celebrate this once-in-a-lifetime moment with her. Was this a predictor of her future?
38
Hope spent the day shopping. Actually, it was more aimless wandering than anything else. Luckily for her, Charlie hadn’t cut off her credit cards.
After a few hours of spending his money on items she didn’t need and couldn’t use, she quit buying things. It hadn’t been as much fun as she had imagined. And she couldn’t bear the thought of trying on clothes, not when his voice calling her “fat” still echoed in her mind. Their last argument haunted her; his words had been carved into her: “fat,” “you don’t have any friends,” “no skills,” and, worst of all, “worthless.” Her eyes stung with tears she couldn’t stop from falling.
Having found a quiet, tucked-away bench in a small piazza, Piazza dei Rossi, Hope sat and stared at the foldout map of Florence. She had no clue where to go next. What could she possibly offer someone in trade for a mode of transportation? Nothing. No skills, remember?
Hope decided to wait here, where none of her friends was likely to stumble on her, until it was time to meet at the Duomo. What would happen if she showed up on foot, rather than in something with wheels? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Her friends would pity her—they already did—and she’d pay Rune his euro. That’s it. Then, the night would go on as if there hadn’t ever been a hunt for transportation.
A touring van crept into the piazza where Hope sat. It stopped in the street beside a sign reading “Hotel Americano,” blocking traffic behind it. The vehicle was so tall that it couldn’t fit into the arched alley entrance to the hotel.
Eight women stumbled out and stood by the rear of it, no doubt waiting to claim their luggage. A thin, hard-looking Italian man, the driver, joined them at the back of the van. He opened the door and then beckoned for one woman to follow him into the hotel. The remaining women pulled the suitcases out. They looked American and wore comfortable clothing of the type one finds in travel catalogs. One by one, they carried the luggage into the hotel.
Loud voices from the direction of the hotel drew Hope’s attention. The driver stomped into the street, waving his hands and cursing in Italian. The American woman who had accompanied him inside stormed out a step behind him. Her voice carried to where Hope sat. “This is abominable!” With her hands on her hips and her face red, she leaned toward the Italian and yelled louder. “We will not stay here. You have to fix this.”
The driver yelled back. It was obvious to Hope that the man had no intention of fixing anything. He paced back and forth by the van, and the woman continued her insistent demands that he must correct the situation.
A taxi behind them started honking, since now they, as well as their vehicle, partially blocked the street’s traffic. The Italian tromped over to the taxi and spoke to the cab driver. Then, to Hope’s surprise, the van driver got into the taxi and left.
The American tourist ran across the piazza after the cab, pleading and swearing. The taxi didn’t slow down, and soon it was too far ahead for the woman to catch it. She walked back with her head lowered. When the woman reached the stranded van, she kicked the side of it in apparent frustration.
Screw Charlie and his rants that she was worthless. Hope didn’t know if she could help these women, but she had to try. She crossed the piazza and stood by the crying woman who had kicked the van. “I saw what happened. You’re American, aren’t you?”
The woman looked at Hope. She nodded. “The bastard stranded us because we refused to stay in this dump. We prepaid as part of our tour. He told us it was a four-star hotel.”
Even from the outside of the bui
lding, Hope could tell that rating was inflated. “Tell me what happened when you went inside.”
“I always go in and look at a room first. None of the places he booked us in has been four-star by my standards, but this one is awful. The room I saw was dirty and the bathrooms are down the hall. Unacceptable. I asked him to book us somewhere else, since he’s our guide as well as our driver. He refused to change our reservation or give us our money back.”
“Have you talked to the hotel personnel?”
“No.”
Unfortunately, the group had no leverage over the hotel. These American women had been wronged, and it made Hope spitting mad. Maybe she wasn’t good at sticking up for herself, but she’d go to battle for an underdog every time. “I don’t know if I can help, but do you mind if I try?”
“Please,” the woman said, “anything you can do, even a partial refund, would help.”
Hope walked to the hotel entrance. In the minuscule lobby, a man stood behind the counter with his arms crossed. A sneer was plastered on his face. This doesn’t look promising, Hope thought. The man had to know that the women wanted a change of venue. This will be a challenge.
Hope smiled at the man and approached the counter. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The man stared at her.
Hope noticed the tour group’s confirmation in front of him had been printed in English. Taking that as a sign that he understood some English, Hope launched into her attack, praying the women standing near her wouldn’t blow her story.
“We have an issue.” Hope leaned over the counter and lowered her voice, as if she had something discreet to share.
She grabbed the notepad and a pen from the counter. “One of our members has, uh, a problem. She has a very contagious foot fungus.” Hope drew a foot with sores all over it and an exclamation point beside it. “And with the communal bathroom”—Hope drew a picture of a hallway with one open door and a sink inside—“I don’t think you want the fungus in there.” Her picture now included a circle with a slash through it, the sign for “no” or “do not enter,” over the bathroom.
