Summer in Tuscany (14 page)

Gemma

Do you know what it feels like to kiss a man for the first time in three years? It’s an electric shock jolting through your veins; it’s points of light behind your closed lids; it’s knees that are suddenly wobbly as a kitten’s and a willpower that has melted into a warm hot glow between your legs. It’s like discovering sex for the first time—only better, because now you know what it’s all about and
why
you are feeling like this.

I was like the heroine in a Jane Austen novel, weak and about to succumb to an attack of the vapors—except I wanted more. More kissing, more of this feeling…. I never wanted it to end.

His lips were firm on mine, pressing open my mouth, exploring me gently with his tongue. Oh, God, I knew you should never do this on a first date—kiss open-mouthed, I mean…at least not in my youth, you didn’t. But I wanted to, I just
wanted
to. And yes, I admit it, I wanted
him
. His rough bluish-stubbled chin scraped against my skin. I pressed my body against his long lean length, ashamed of how much I wanted him. I had been celibate for three years, and in the space of thirty seconds I was a goner.

He lifted his mouth from mine and I stared breathlessly into his eyes. I know I should have pushed him away, I
know
it. I was compromising my whole future here. But did I do it?
No
. His fingers tangled in the hair at my nape, pulling me back to his mouth. And I was lost in a rapture I barely remembered.
Oh God,
I thought,
oh God,
as my mouth linked with his and I tasted his tongue, sweet, smooth, slippery. Just as I wanted it to be.

Fireworks exploded in the night sky, in a shimmer and glitter of rockets and sparkles and flowers and stars. For a moment I wondered if it was just in my head. Then I realized it was for real, and the fireworks were to celebrate Maggie’s forty-ninth.

I forced myself back to my senses, pushed him away, stepped back, smoothed my ruffled hair, hardly daring to look at him. When I did he was smiling at me.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“What I meant was, I wanted to do that so badly I couldn’t stop myself. I think I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you.”

I remembered that look he had given me in the Hassler restaurant, when I had felt like the only woman in the room. He was giving me the same look now, and I wondered, confused, what to do about it. This man was my enemy, he was about to take away my mother’s inheritance. This was worse than consorting with the enemy—it was almost
sleeping
with him.

Fireworks still crashed through the night as I bent to pick up my little gold purse, which had slipped to the ground. I took out my glasses and put them on. They were a barrier between me and him, but now I could also see him clearly—and oh,
darn it,
he was just as good-looking, just as relaxed, just as
sexy
. I had to get out of here before it was too late.

“I’ll find Donati, you’ll see,” I said breathlessly. Then I turned on my spindly little gold heels and stalked away. And for once, I did not trip. I did turn back to look, though. He was wiping my lipstick off his mouth with a handkerchief, smiling to himself.
Like the cat that got the cream,
I told myself furiously.

Oh darn it, I had made a fool of myself again after all.

Muffie

Muffie Raphael followed Livvie out onto the terrace to see the fireworks. She had been following Livvie all evening, hoping Livvie would talk to her, but Livvie just pretended like she wasn’t there. Muffie had even sneaked a mouthful of champagne when Livvie had, and then coughed it up all over her awful pink dress.

Livvie had stopped on the edge of the terrace, half hidden by one of those giant pots with the lemon trees. She was very still, not looking at the show in the sky but staring out across the dim gardens where the lanterns glowed like scarlet balloons in the trees. Lanterns as red as the dress Livvie was wearing, Muffie thought enviously.

She smoothed her hands over her own pink taffeta, hating the ruched bodice with the frills around the armholes and the wide pink satin sash and the damn black patent leather Mary Janes her mother always insisted she wear. She wasn’t allowed to choose anything for herself, and by now she had given up trying. “Mother knows best” was a constant refrain in their household, and if it wasn’t Mom, then it was Grandmother. Everybody knew best, except Muffie herself. And her dad, though he didn’t seem to know what girls her age wore anyway.

She hovered just a step behind Livvie, hoping she would turn and say hi, but Livvie didn’t. She just kept on staring out at the garden, as if there was something really interesting there.

Muffie pushed past the pot with the lemon tree and stood next to her, looking at the fireworks exploding in showers of peacock blue and silver. Livvie did not so much as acknowledge her presence. Muffie followed Livvie’s gaze and saw her father with his arms around a woman. She drew in her breath sharply. “Oh my God,” she whispered, and Livvie finally turned to look at her.

“
Your dad
is kissing my mom,” Livvie said coldly.

“Your
mom
is kissing my dad,” Muffie retorted.

“My mom does not kiss men—not since Cash,” Livvie said.

“Well, it looks as though she
likes
being kissed.” Muffie leaned over the balustrade to get a better look.

“How would you know? Have you ever been kissed?”

“Well, no. Yes…but only in party games, y’know….”

“Huh,” Livvie said, though her own experience was not much greater. “So you don’t know then.”

“Do you?” Muffie looked longingly at Livvie. She wanted to hear about being kissed, about where to buy clothes like the ones Livvie wore, about her hair…about Livvie’s entire sophisticated, worldly life that was so different from her own. Stuck in the big house in Connecticut where you had to make appointments for your friends to visit and nobody ever just dropped by. Mostly, she only felt really alive when she went to stay with her father in SoHo and he took her out to funky little restaurants and to Broadway shows and helped her with her math homework, which was the bane of her life—she simply had no head for math. He’d laughed at her, told her he didn’t know how a daughter of his could not know how to add correctly, and then he’d shown her how. She loved her dad more than her mom, if truth be known. But the real truth was, she wanted freedom.

“Your mom looks pretty tonight,” Muffie said.

Livvie nodded gloomily. “The thing about my mom is she has no idea that she’s pretty. Like, it just never occurs to her. Sometimes I wonder exactly what she sees when she looks in the mirror, though she hardly ever does. She never has the time.”

“I love your dress,” Muffie said.

Livvie looked her up and down. “Where did you get
that
? You look like somebody’s bridesmaid.”

Muffie nodded glumly. “I know.” She was silent for a moment, then she said, “How do you do your hair like that, the color, I mean?”

“Easy.” Livvie’s eyes lit up, and she grinned suddenly. “Want me to show you how?”

“
Really?
You’ll show me?
Really?
” Muffie’s eyes sparkled.

Livvie nodded. “You bet I will, Muffie,” she said, throwing a friendly arm around her shoulders.

Rocco and Nonna

Rocco Cesani looked smart in his black suit, white shirt, and the black tie Sophia Maria had said he should wear, though it made him feel as if he were going to a funeral instead of a party. For once he was not wearing his hat, and also for once his dog was not with him, though Fido was, in fact, waiting in the truck. Rocco mingled with the other guests, sipping a glass of champagne—good champagne, he knew the difference—and checking out Maggie Marcessi’s home.

Like the Villa Piacere, he’d known this house forever. He had played there with the gardener’s kids when he was a child. As a lad he had waited on tables and helped in the kitchen for a hundred parties, though the only one as grand as this had been Maggie’s wedding, when she’d worn billows of white satin adorned with pearls and diamonds until he hadn’t been sure which was the bride and which the wedding cake.

He had poached pheasant and rabbits on this estate, knew that the best truffle spot was in the lower copse under a small, squat oak tree—and that he and Fido were the only ones who knew that. For years he had supplied the house with the best milk from his special white Chianina cow, which he kept in a barn and groomed every day. He had attended Count Marcessi’s funeral ten years ago wearing this same suit and tie and had stood in the reception line to kiss his widow’s hand afterward. He had supplied the suckling pigs for tonight’s feast, as well as the first-pressing “virgin” olive oil from his best grove. He was a man of many parts, and he knew many of the people here tonight, and many others knew of him.

He saw Sophia Maria edging her way through the throng.
“Madonnina mia,”
he whispered to himself,
“che bella.”

She walked toward him smiling, and he held out his hands and took hers. Then he bent and kissed them.
“Principessa,”
he said smiling, and Sophia Maria swept him a little curtsy and said,
“Principe,”
and then he led her onto the dance floor and swept her into a waltz.

Sophia Maria liked the way his hand felt in the small of her back as he guided her confidently around the floor. Being head and shoulders taller than he was, though, she had to look down at him when she spoke. He gazed up into her eyes, and they smiled.

“Rocco,” she said, “you remember what we talked about the other day?”

“The Villa Piacere,
sì
…”

“I think it is time for action, Rocco.”

He stopped and looked at her. He rubbed two fingers against the side of his nose in an Italian gesture that said it would be done, and nodded solemnly. “Trust me, Sophia Maria,” he said.

The waltz finished, and they left the dance floor. They sat close together on one of the little giltwood sofas. A footman offered them champagne, and another came by with tiny blinis mounded with caviar, and they sipped their champagne and nibbled the caviar, heads together, plotting.

Fireworks lit the night sky, and Maggie Marcessi swept by in a flurry of feathers. “Bloody Italians,” she said, “they never get the timing right. They were supposed to go off at midnight while the band played ‘Happy Birthday.’
Attenzione,
everyone, it’s too late to do anything about it now, so you may as well enjoy it while you can—as the actress said to the bishop.” And she waved her arms in the air, directing traffic onto the terrace amid
oohs
and
aahs
as showers of golden rain descended from a sky suddenly studded with sparkling diamonds.

Sophia Maria’s eyes, brown like Rocco’s own, reflected the fireworks’ glitter as they met his, and he took her hand and smiled.

Maggie

Maggie saw Gemma running up the steps from the garden. Mmm, she thought, I wonder where she’s been, and with whom. She snagged Gemma’s arm as she hurried by. “Enjoying yourself, my dear?” she said.

“Oh, oh…yes. Thank you, Maggie, it’s a lovely party.”

But nothing escaped Maggie’s experienced eye. “It looks to me, Gemma Jericho,” she said, “as though
you
have just been kissed. And
well
kissed, judging by that look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

Maggie’s laugh boomed out. “You can’t fool me, my dear. Come, let’s go to the powder room so you can fix your lipstick, and then you can tell me all about it. Girl to girl, y’know. Oh my, isn’t this exciting.”

The boom of a gong echoed from the walls, making them both jump half out of their skin. Maggie glared at the young footman, who was one of her six gardeners in his day job. “Silly boy,” she murmured, “I warned him not to whack the thing so hard.”

“
Signore e signori,
dinner is served,” he said, and the party crowd swerved away from the terrace and headed for the dining room.

Gemma

The powder room was large and luxurious enough for a five-star hotel. I sank onto a little brocade bench and stared at myself in the pink-lit mirror. Even in that rosy light I looked pale, and my mouth had that chewed-up look that moments of passion give you.

“Mmm,” Maggie said thoughtfully, looking at me, “maybe you need more than just lipstick; you look as though you need a cold shower.”

“Oh, Maggie,” I said, and to my horror tears trembled on my lashes again.

“What is it, girl? You can tell Maggie.” She squeezed onto the bench next to me and took my hand. “Don’t worry, no one will come in, they’re all eating,” she said encouragingly.

“It’s…complicated,” I said, and she patted my hand.

“Isn’t it always?”

“Yes, but this is
really
complicated. It’s just that something happened to me three years ago, a man…my lover. Oh, I’m not telling this at all well. I just never talk about it, you see. But Maggie, I loved him so. It came to an end. My heart was broken, and I swore I would never,
never
look at another man again. I told myself I didn’t need
any
man, I was going to dedicate my life to my profession, I was going to save other people’s lives. I would just raise my daughter, care for my mother, go to work every day…and that would be it. No more highs, maybe, but no more terrible lows either. Life would go on.”

I looked into Maggie’s sympathetic blue-shadowed eyes. “I erected a barrier against the world,” I whispered sadly. “I was the woman with ice around my heart—”

“And no man was ever going to melt it.” She finished my sentence for me, and I nodded. “Until tonight,” she added shrewdly. “Let me guess who it was. Ben Raphael.”

“I made a fool of myself, Maggie,” I whispered. “Damn it, I let him kiss me—and damn it even more, I liked it.”

“Of course you did. There’s nothing wrong with a good kiss, my girl, and I’ll bet Ben’s a fine kisser. But you mean to tell me you haven’t kissed a man in
three years
?”

“I promised myself to be celibate.”

She nodded briskly. “Well, my dear, perhaps it’s time to come out of the nunnery. I don’t know what happened between you and your man, and right now I’m not going to ask, because I can see how upset you are. But life goes on, Gemma. And you must get on with living.”

She took a little gold compact from her beaded purse and offered it to me, along with her fuchsia lipstick. “Come on now, girl, dry your tears, powder that nose, put on some fresh lipstick, and let’s go and have ourselves some dinner. And then it’s dancing until dawn.”

She waited for me at the door. “And next week, I promise to read your tarot cards,” she said with a sly wink. “Then we’ll see what your future really holds.”