Summer in Tuscany (15 page)

Ben

The morning after the party, Ben woke late. It would be nice to be able to say that his first thoughts were of Gemma, but in fact, they were not. He would think of her later on, but in a completely different context from the previous night.

The sun blasted through the tattered brocade curtains that were so thin with age they were almost like net. He was hot, and in fact his first thought was simply that he needed a shower.

He put on a robe and walked barefoot down the hall to his daughter’s room. Her bed was empty. The pink taffeta dress was in a crumpled heap on the floor along with one of the despised black patent leather Mary Janes. He thought he was going to have to do something about Muffie’s clothes; she really hated the stuff her mother bought for her. He guessed she would be down in the kitchen with Fiametta, the housekeeper. She would be eating the toasted
ciabatta
bread with Fiametta’s homemade strawberry jam that they ate every morning, along with a glass of cool sweet milk from Rocco Cesani’s special cow.

He wandered back down the hall and into his bathroom. It was so big you could have held a party in there. The claw-footed tub was an antique in situ; the shower apparatus was a convoluted curve of brass that ended somewhere about the middle of his chest; and the showerhead was a huge brass sunflower with lethally sharp-pointed petals and pinprick holes that emitted a spray suitable for a birdbath.

The entire bathroom had probably been redone around 1904. There was a green-tiled corner fireplace with an ornate mirrored overmantel, the floors were of worn parquet, and the tall uncurtained windows overlooked the front entrance, giving visitors a direct view of the showerer. But what the hell, he wasn’t expecting anybody.

He stepped into the tub, warily dodging the brass sunflower petals, and turned the elaborate four-pronged brass tap marked
caldo
. There was a distant clanging in the pipes. He waited patiently. Things took a while to work around here. He bent over to adjust the tap, yelping as the brass sunflower fell off and a jet of water, icy enough to have come from a subterranean spring, hit him in entirely the wrong place.

He gritted his teeth. Okay, so it would be a cold shower. He soaped up. There was more clattering in the pipes, a grinding noise. The cold jet thinned to a brownish trickle. Then nothing.
Zero
.

He smacked the brass pipe with his fist, but all it coughed up was another meager brown trickle. He was covered in soap, and it was a
desert
in here.

Cursing, he dried off, then went to investigate. Only to find there was not a drop of water in the entire house.

“Nothing can be done,
signore,
” they told Ben when he finally got the water department on the phone. “It’s hot, too many tourists are taking showers, there are too many swimming pools. That’s the way it is in the summer. You will just have to be patient,
signore,
the water will come back eventually.”

“Yeah, but when exactly is
eventually
?” All he got was a laugh in reply.

“
Piano piano, signore. Con calma
. Soon enough it will be back.”

Ben put down the phone and stared thoughtfully at it. He’d been coming here for years, and nothing like this had ever happened before. He got the picture now: it was water blackmail, and money was the answer. He would have to take a trip into town, go to the bank, and try to deal with the bureaucrats. He thought about it some more, fingers drumming impatiently. Odd, though, that this had happened only after Gemma Jericho and her family came to town.

He threw on shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers and clasped his old steel watch around his wrist. The watch almost qualified as an antique, he’d had it so long. He’d bought it when he was twenty years old and just hitching himself up the ladder by his bootstraps, along with a pair of cheap silver cuff links he thought would help him to present a successful facade. Not that the watch and the cheap silver cuff links made any difference, but he hadn’t known that then. He’d still had a lot to learn. And probably still did, he thought, sighing.

He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stared out. Even the fountain had died.

He wondered about Gemma Jericho.

Gemma

I paced my room at the Albergo d’Olivia, arms clamped across my chest, frowning. We had gotten home late after dancing till dawn, and to my surprise, I had slept like a log. If it hadn’t been for Ben, I would have felt like the Dancing Queen again. At least I hadn’t lost my touch in that department. I awoke at midday to the sound of bird-song and the aroma of lunchtime cooking wafting through my open window. And the first thing on my mind was Ben. And that kiss.

Oh God, I shouldn’t have done it, I really should
not
have kissed him. I had broken every promise I’d made to myself; I had proven that Dr. Gemma was just a weak, silly woman after all. How about that, Gloria Steinem? So much for the power of feminism. And anyhow, hadn’t
she
gotten married recently, after telling the rest of us women that we didn’t need a man to be fulfilled? Huh!

“Gemma?”

I opened the door and looked at Nonna, fresh and clear-eyed in a crisp blue cotton shirtwaist and white sandals, with her hair curling around her shoulders. Just like the old photograph, I thought, astonished that she still had the power to astonish me.

“Where’s Livvie?” Nonna said.

“She’s in her room, I suppose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“Then she’s probably gone off to meet the Raphael girl. You saw how buddy-buddy they were last night.”

“A nice child.” Nonna approved Livvie’s choice of friend, though of course Livvie had not had a choice, because as I had expected, there were no other young people at Maggie’s party.

“Take your shower at once, Gemma, it’s late. Then come on downstairs,” Nonna told me. “We’ll have coffee together.”

“Mom,” I said, “I’m thirty-eight years old. You can’t tell me what to do.” All I wanted was to go back to bed.

“Of course I can. I’m your mother, aren’t I? Now hurry up, Gemma. This may prove to be an interesting day.”

And leaving me wondering what the hell she could mean, she went downstairs, and I obediently stepped into the shower and washed away the sins of the previous night.

Livvie

Livvie had walked down to the main road to meet Muffie at eight o’clock that morning. They had hitched a ride with a farmer, sitting in the back of his dusty old truck with two squealing and decidedly smelly pigs, and had been dropped off in Montepulciano.

Muffie sniffed, horrified, as they walked up the steep hill to the main piazza. She wrinkled her nose. “Now I smell worse than the pigs.”

“Like, shut up about it, why don’t you?” Livvie said. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Muffie trudged along, trying to keep up with Livvie’s long stride. “I’ll take a shower as soon as I get home,” she said, and heard Livvie’s irritated sigh, so she shut her mouth firmly and vowed not to say another word about how bad they both smelled.

In the piazza, Livvie headed straight for the café/bar. They sat under an umbrella out of the hot sun, and Livvie ordered
“Due cappuccini, per piacere.”
Muffie looked impressed, and Livvie said, “I speak quite a bit of Italian, y’know.”

“Do you know how to ask for the stuff in the
farmacia
?” Muffie whispered, looking around to make sure no one heard.

“Of course I do. Anyway it’ll be written on the box, so we won’t have to ask for anything.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You gonna buy some new clothes today?” Livvie spooned the froth from the top of her cappuccino and slurped it up.

Muffie did the same. She patted the pocket of her shorts. “Got the money right here.”

“Good. Hurry up then with the coffee. We’ve got lots to do.”

Muffie’s tummy was making hungry rumbling noises, and she thought longingly of Fiametta’s toasted
ciabatta
and fresh strawberry jam, but she drank up obediently, burning her mouth in the process. Then the two of them hurried off in search of the pharmacy, and after that the local boutiques.

Two hours and a lot of hard work later, they emerged from a funky little shop called La Gatta Cioccolata, clutching plastic bags. They were heading down the hill back to the piazza when Muffie grabbed Livvie by the arm.

“Omigod,”
she gasped in a tone Livvie recognized as urgent. “There’s Daddy.”

Livvie immediately shoved Muffie into the doorway of a handy
pasticceria
and told her to sit at a table all the way at the back, while she kept watch. Muffie did as she was told, breathing a sigh of relief when at last Livvie waved that the coast was clear.

Then they bought a couple of ham and cheese pastries and walked back to the main road. There they stood, thumbs hopefully out, munching their pastries, hot, smelly, and sticky. They were soon picked up by a couple of French tourists, who seemed very much amused by them and who were kind enough to drop them back at the gates of the Villa Piacere.

“Okay, Muffie,” Livvie said, as they flung their parcels onto Muffie’s bed. “We know your dad’s in town, so this is as good a time as any to do it.”

Muffie stared fearfully at her. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “It is.”

Ben

Ben jolted up the rutted drive to the Villa Piacere, making a mental note, as he always did, that he really must get the drive leveled and truck in some fresh gravel.

He swung the old mud-green Land Rover around the dead fountain and threw it into park. Still no water. Scowling, he strode up the steps and into the hall. Fiametta would be gone by now, and he was worried about Muffie being alone for so long.

“Muff,” he yelled, “where are you, honey?” He waited a few seconds, then called again. “Hey, Muffie, I’m home.”

The house had the silent feel of emptiness about it, and he was suddenly worried. He strode into the kitchen. No one there. He checked the terrace and the swings. Empty. He checked the octagonal room, where Luchay gave him a beady-eyed glare and then put his head back under his wing. He took the stairs two at a time and hurried along the hallway to his daughter’s room.

“Muffie, are you in there?” He knocked loudly, then tried the door. It was locked. A dozen possible scenarios rushed through his brain, all of them bad.

“Muffie,” he yelled again. “Are you in there? Answer me.”

“I’m here, Daddy.”

“Jesus!” He sagged against the door frame in relief. Then anger took over. “Then why didn’t you answer me? You must have heard me. Right?”

“Right, Daddy.”

“So? Open the door then.”

He waited. Nothing happened. He put his ear to the door, heard whispering inside. What the hell was she up to? “Who’s in there with you? I’m warning you, Muffie, if you don’t open this door at once, I’ll have to break it down.”

More whispering. He heard her footsteps crossing the floor and the key turning in the lock, then her footsteps running back away from the door. He flung it open, stared at his daughter.

“Jesus Christ, Muffie,” he roared. “What the hell have you done?”

Muffie’s long blond hair had gone. It looked as though someone had put a pudding bowl over her head and just clipped straight around it. It stuck out around her ears in stiff points, and it was pale green. She was wearing skintight Lycra shorts and a teen-pop-diva top that left her navel bare, except for the glittering gemstones that surrounded it.
And
she had a clip-on gold ring in her nose.

Muffie just stood there, looking nervously back at him. And next to her, looking guilty as hell, was Gemma Jericho’s daughter, the post-punk Manhattan street kid.

“Muffie, your mother will kill you,” he groaned. “After she kills me, that is.”

“Then she can kill me too,” Livvie said, staring nervously at the floor. “I told her to do it.”

“No, Livvie did not. I
wanted
to do it. I’m sick of looking like, y’know, a jerk.” Muffie had rebellion in her eyes. “I’m sick of pink taffeta and Mary Janes and living behind locked gates. I asked Livvie to help me—so she did. It’s all my fault,” she added, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Daddy, but, like, you know…I just had to do it.”

Damn it, Ben thought, not only does she
look
like the Jericho kid, now she’s
talking
like her.

“I get your point,” Ben said at last. “But don’t you think this is a bit extreme, Muffie? You could have just asked me to take you shopping.”

“
You
could have suggested
taking me
shopping,” Muffie retorted. “But you didn’t. All you ever think about is the villa.”

Ben knew she was right. It was all he thought about these days. “Okay,” he said, “but I’m very, very angry with you both. And I’m not letting you off the hook so easily. Livvie, get your things, then both of you come down to the car. I’ll be waiting for you.” He paused on his way out. “And Muffie?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Ax the nose ring.”

Gemma

I was in the
alimentaria
looking to buy an Italian pain reliever to chase away my hangover and my blues, aware of half a dozen sets of eyes watching me as I made my purchases. The
signorina
advised me I needed a remedy for my
fegato,
my liver (the Italians seemed to blame every illness on the liver). I smiled at the silent, black-shawled old women lingering in the store and no doubt waiting to talk about me once I left. I hoped I had made their day.

“Ciao, dottoressa,”
they muttered in a ragged chorus as I waved good-bye. I laughed. I kind of liked that everybody knew who I was and what I was doing. It was like a security blanket, almost the way the trauma room was.

I had just stepped out the door when I saw Ben Raphael’s mud-green Land Rover bouncing over the cobblestones in the piazza; he definitely needed a new suspension. He stopped in front of the
albergo,
and I quickened my footsteps. Had he come to see
me
?

I saw him get out of the car, fling the door wide, and haul out my own daughter. And then…was that
Muffie
? My heart did another little jiggle, not a good one this time.
Oh God, Livvie
, I thought.
What have you done now?

I caught up to them, and my eyes met Ben’s. His were hard and angry. Mine were wary.

“Do I have to tell you what happened?” he said in a cold voice.

I glanced at Livvie, then back at him. “I think I get the picture.”

“Your daughter is responsible for this.” He thrust Muffie forward so I could get a better look. I took in the pale, spiky green hair, the outfit, the platform shoes. I thought the henna tattoos on the backs of her hands and the dried-blood-color nails were a nice touch. She had joined the ranks of the
Nosferatu
extras.

“Livvie?” I looked sternly at her. There was no doubt from her hangdog look that she was guilty.

“I just wanted to help her, Mom. I mean, like, I couldn’t let a friend go through life looking like
Pollyanna,
could I?”

“It’s true.” Muffie stared earnestly at me. “I hated the way I looked. I wanted to look like Livvie, to
be
like her. I’m sick and tired of not being a real person.”

“A
real
person?” Ben said, baffled.

“Well, I wasn’t a real person,” Muffie said stubbornly. “I was Mom’s little girl, the one she likes to show off at parties, the perfect little lady. Well, y’know what, I’m not perfect and I don’t want to be perfect, and Livvie is my friend and she’s not guilty of anything. I
asked
her to do it.”

“Actually,” I said, and I couldn’t help but grin, “the pale green is rather fetching, with her suntan and all.”

“I might have expected you to take that stance,” Ben said angrily. “I don’t know how you propose to punish your daughter for what she’s done, Dr. Jericho, but I’m warning you to keep her away from Muffie. I don’t want to see her near my place again.”

His
place! We glared at each other furiously. “I’ll deal with Livvie in my own way,” I said. “And let me remind you that
your
place is actually
my
place.”

He gave me a final angry glare. Then he told Muffie to get in the car and got in next to her. The tires squealed as he swerved around the piazza, and we saw Muffie’s hand, with the henna tattoo and the dried-blood nails, sticking out the window as they raced away. She was waving to us.