The Glass Butterfly (28 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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Doria, filing up to the communion rail among the crowd of her neighbors, kept her eyes down, but she tingled with awareness of the Puccinis' presence. She knelt to receive the host from Father Michelucci's hand. When she stood up again, she put up her chin, and paced back down the aisle as if her old black hat were as grand as Elvira's purple creation.
When Mass was over, she filed out of the nave with her family. She dipped her fingers into the font and made the sign of the cross as she stepped out into the chilly sunshine. The painted walls of Villa Puccini rose directly in her line of sight, and Doria tried to think, as she went down the steps, that it was a good omen. Her brothers hurried ahead up the lane, eager for their Christmas breakfast. Emilia followed more slowly, and Doria, still hoping, walked more slowly still.
“Doria!” Her heart leaped. The Virgin had heard her prayers! It was Puccini's smoke-roughened voice, calling to her from the crowd. She stopped, letting people push past her.
Her mother turned, and came back to her to take her arm.
“Doria, wait a moment!” he called again.
“Mamma, wait,” Doria said, freeing herself from her mother's grasp. Puccini was pushing through the crowd toward her, and Elvira was nowhere to be seen. “It's Signor Puccini.”
Emilia turned with her daughter, and they watched the crowd part respectfully for Puccini to make his way through. When he reached them, Doria dropped a curtsy, and Emilia imitated her, though her face was a thundercloud.
“Buon natale,”
Doria said. She savored the moment, everyone around her watching the famous maestro come to greet her. She linked her gloved hands together, and said primly, “How are you, Signor Puccini?”
He grinned at her, acknowledging the formality. “Well enough, thank you, my little nurse.” He nodded to her mother. “
Buon natale,
Signora Manfredi.” She gave him a chilly nod, but he seemed not to notice, focusing his attention on Doria. He took one of her hands, and held it. “Doria, you're so thin! Tell me you're not ill!”
“No, no,” she said. She tossed her head in the old way, confident now that all would be set right, that her plan was proceeding. “I'm never ill, maestro, you know that.”
“No, you're always the strong one!” He bent his most affectionate look on her, squeezing her hand in his strong fingers. “Signora Manfredi, you have a fine girl in your Doria. I don't know what I would have done without her after my accident.”
Doria heard her mother draw breath, and she feared she was about to say something sharp. Doria elbowed her, and Emilia, though she cast her daughter a sidelong glance, merely curtsied again and said, “
Grazie, signore.
”
Doria said, “Maestro, how is Mademoiselle Minnie coming along?”
Puccini, still holding her hand, patted it. “It's kind of you to ask, Doria. Mademoiselle Minnie is a tyrant, as you know! She is beginning to behave, though she's taking a long time about it. I think she will—”
Father Michelucci emerged from the church at just that moment. Elvira was at his side, with Fosca and her little daughters. Doria pulled her hand free. “Signore,” she interrupted him. “I believe your wife is—”
But it was already too late. Elvira had seen them through the crowd, the people having cleared a space around Puccini and the Manfredis.
Elvira Puccini never shrank from an audience. She had struck Corinna with her umbrella right in the public street. She threw tantrums in restaurants or hotel lobbies or anywhere she happened to find herself when something outraged her. The curious eyes of the residents of Torre del Lago meant nothing to her. Now, she bore down on her husband and Doria, plowing through the throng like an ocean liner through a crowd of fishing boats. She was already shrieking by the time she came close enough to seize Doria's arm with her big hand.
“You little whore!” Father Michelucci gave a wordless exclamation at the offensive word, but she paid him no attention. “You dare show yourself here, in church, Doria Manfredi? You bring shame on your mother!”
“Elvira!
Silenzio!
” Puccini bellowed. She didn't even look at him.
Doria gasped, and tried to pull her arm free, but Elvira's temper was out of control. Her fingers were like a vise, squeezing, bruising, and her face was dark and distorted. Her great purple hat tilted, askew on the mass of her hair, and threatened to fall over one eye.
Emilia cursed at Elvira and grabbed at her hand. Puccini shouted at her to let Doria go. Still Elvira's grip didn't loosen, and as Emilia Manfredi screamed insults at her, Elvira shouted back, the two women nose to nose, full battle joined.
All the peace and beauty of the Christmas Mass was destroyed, cracked into shards like those of a rotten egg, fouling the very air with anger and jealousy and fury.
It was worse than anything Doria could have imagined. Her hopes that Puccini could take control of his crazy wife crumbled to nothing. It seemed there was a sea of eyes focused on her, a hundred mouths hanging open in shock and delight at the scene. People pressed forward, eager not to miss a moment of the drama. Father Michelucci looked as if someone had struck him. Puccini, pulling in vain on Elvira's shoulders, was livid with rage.
Doria's empty stomach clenched, and she found to her horror that she couldn't draw a breath. Her legs began to shake, even as her mother's and Elvira's taunts grew louder and more profane. Father Michelucci, pale-faced, was trying to reach them, shouldering through the crowd. Puccini went on shouting at his wife, but it was like trying to talk to a raging bull. She was beyond reason.
The voices began to blur together in Doria's ears. The bright morning went dark. Her head spun, and her trembling legs gave way beneath her.
She brought an end to the whole shameful scene by fainting dead away, collapsing in a heap on the stone steps. Her coat tore as she fell, the stitches of the sleeve unraveling, splitting, finally giving way altogether.
Elvira Puccini was left holding an empty, threadbare sleeve in her silk-gloved hand.
27
Taccio, taccio—più nulla.
 
I'll keep quiet, I'll keep quiet—nothing more.
 
—Butterfly,
Madama Butterfly,
Act Two
T
ory woke to the sounds of Johnson's feet pattering on the floor, and the faint whine that meant he really needed to go out. Sleepily, she climbed out of bed and let him out into the yard. She had made sure the fence was intact the week before, repairing one slanting post, mending three broken slats. She didn't want him running down to the beach without her, but with the fence secure, he could use the yard for the moment. The morning was still gloomy, the slow sun not yet breaking through the marine layer of cloud, but at least the thick fog of the day before had dissipated. She shivered as she let the dog out, and quickly closed the door. She reminded herself she needed to chop some wood for the fireplace.
She went into the bathroom, yawning, and splashed water on her face, fighting that heavy feeling that comes from having been awake in the night and then falling back to sleep in the early hours of the morning. She had sought the dream deliberately, and its message had left her wakeful for a long time, staring at the moving shadows on the ceiling, stroking Johnson's smooth fur for comfort.
The people in the dream had shouted at each other, arguing, pulling this way and that. There had been faces on every side, staring eyes, accusing, gloating. She wasn't sure if the dream had ended because she woke up or because the person at the center of it had collapsed, but she had been glad when it was over.
When she went to the bureau for her sweater and jeans, she gazed at the bottom drawer where Ellice Gordon's file rested, and anger sparked in her chest.
 
When Tory and Johnson came back from their beach walk, Tory was startled to see Iris's white Acura parked behind her Beetle. She and the dog came in through the gate, and Tory could see Iris inside, drinking coffee at the kitchen table. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open to reach for the towel she kept beside it. Iris got to her feet when she saw her, and crossed to the door as Tory bent to rub sand from Johnson's coat.
“I hope you don't mind,” Iris said. “It was so cold out. I let myself in.”
Tory did mind, rather a lot. As curious as Iris was, she was perfectly capable, she suspected, of nosing around. Tory couldn't say that, of course, nor did she want to. She said only, “You made coffee.”
“Brought it. A thermos.” Iris stepped back so Tory and Johnson could come in. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, that would be great. I need to hurry a bit, to get down to the shop.”
“I know. I just wanted to drop by and invite you to dinner tonight. A very small gathering. Betty's back, and she and Zoe are coming.”
Tory took a cup from the cupboard and helped herself from Iris's thermos, covering her hesitation. And her irritation. Finding Iris in her house had felt strange, and she needed to sort out why that was. There was only one object in the house she needed to keep hidden, and surely Iris wouldn't have gone through her bureau.
As if sensing that something was amiss, Iris picked up her car keys with a brisk rattle. “I'll leave you to it,” she said. “But dinner after the shop closes, if you can.”
Tory held the coffee cup in both hands. “Iris—”
Iris put up her hand. “Don't worry, Paulette. Love to see you, but it's up to you. Open invitation.” She pulled on her oversized parka as she walked to the door. She put her hand on the knob, and gave Tory a half smile. “Hank Menotti is coming, too,” she said. It didn't feel, to Tory, like an afterthought.
“You know Hank?” she blurted. She felt, again, as if something private had been laid bare, as if Hank was her special secret. It was all so silly, so childish, that she found herself saying with a rush of self-reproach, “Iris, of course I'd love to come. Tell me what I can bring.”
It wasn't until Iris had pulled away in her car that Tory realized her landlady probably thought it was Hank's presence that made her accept the dinner invitation. The thought rose in her mind, too swiftly for her to suppress it, that it was probably true.
She stood beside the window, gazing at cold-looking seagulls tossing on the surface of the ocean, and wondered if she would ever be able to behave normally again.
Iris was just a friendly person who liked to get people together. She liked to cook, and to see people enjoying her good food and her pretty house. She wouldn't snoop, Tory told herself. She was just outgoing, curious. There was no need to be paranoid, and no need to be rude.
Still, when she went through the bedroom to take her bath, Tory opened the bottom bureau drawer to make certain the file was still there, undisturbed.
 
On her lunch break, Tory went down the street to one of the boutiques that catered to tourists. She was tired, she told Zoe, of sweaters and jeans. Zoe had pointed her to the shop she liked best, and said with a grin, “Nothing like new clothes to perk a girl up! And there's Dr. Adorable to think about, right?”
“It's not that, Zoe,” Tory protested.
“Nah, of course not.” Zoe winked. She was wearing vivid green eye shadow and layers of mascara that turned the wink into a feat of feminine engineering. “Just leave Johnson with me while you go find something to make you look pretty. We'll be fine, won't we, big guy?”
The prices in the boutique were daunting, but on a sale rack, Tory found a long-sleeved, long-skirted dress in an emerald-green fabric that looked more or less like silk. She held it up in front of her, admiring the shimmer of the gored skirt. It seemed the right length, so she took it into a cramped dressing room to try on.
She wriggled out of her jeans and pulled off the thin red sweater she had been wearing to work. She paused, staring at herself in the long mirror. She had never been so thin. Not even during the awful days when Jack's father was on trial, when she had thrown up every morning before going off to the courtroom. Now she could see her hip bones, and when she lifted her arms, the outlines of her ribs. Her collarbones were sharp and prominent, something she hadn't noticed before. The red hair made her skin look startlingly pale, and the scar on her arm was a jagged bluish line.
“You look like a real refugee,” she whispered to herself.
“You doing okay in there, miss?” The saleswoman had come to stand outside the dressing room. “You want another size?”
“Oh, I—I don't know yet. Just a minute.”
“Okay. Just let me know!” The woman's heels clicked away on the floor. Tory took the green dress from its hanger, and slid it over her head.
It was a bit loose around the neck and waist, but the length was perfect, the hem swirling just above her ankles. It had a wide belt with a gold-tone buckle. Tory cinched that in, blousing the bodice fabric above it. She tried to get the effect by standing as far away from the mirror as she could. Hoping for a better look in a bigger mirror, she slipped out from behind the curtain.
The saleswoman pounced. “Wow, that was meant for you!”
Tory gave her a doubtful look. “I don't know. It's a bit big—”
“That color, with your hair! Really great,” the woman said. She pointed to a three-way mirror in one corner. “There, go have a look. I love it, though, and it's a great price.”
Tory padded to the mirror in her bare feet. As she turned before it, she realized she had no shoes to wear with a dress. The saleswoman had already noticed the same thing, evidently, and she returned to Tory carrying a pair of black pumps, holding them up to tempt her. The bell beside the door tinkled, and she set the shoes down, saying, “Take your time,” and went off to greet another customer.
Tory didn't need much time. The dress really did suit her. The material was soft against her skin, and the touch of shine would look nice in candlelight. She put her hands to her short hair, tousling it a bit, then stepped into the pumps.
“You look beautiful in that.” It was the new customer, with the saleswoman beside her.
The saleswoman nodded. “It's perfect.”
Tory couldn't argue. At least for this dinner—and to see Hank Menotti again—it was indeed perfect. She bought the dress, and the shoes, too, carrying them back to the flower shop in a big red shopping bag with a painting of holly on it. Zoe seized the bag, took everything out, and exclaimed over it. As she folded the dress back into its tissue paper, she said, “Hey, Paulette. You can use my makeup kit if you want.”
Tory chuckled, already feeling she was in danger of acting girlish. “I don't think I will, but thanks, Zoe,” she said. “How about if I just wear some lip gloss?”
“Suit yourself,” Zoe said. “Dr. Darling probably likes that natural look, anyway.” And then, tilting her head to one side, she added, “You do rock the look, Paulette. You really do.”
This rendered Tory speechless, her cheeks flaming. Zoe guffawed, and turned back to a complicated arrangement of greenery and candles and miniature red roses.
Tory put the red bag down behind the counter. Johnson sniffed at it and wagged his tail as if he approved. Tory patted him. For the moment, with a new dress and shoes to wear, and a dinner to look forward to, surely there could be no harm in a single evening without worry.
Iris's party was in full swing when Tory arrived. She was a little late, having locked up the shop and gone home to change and to feed the dog. When she rang the bell, a woman with crimson lips, a daunting mane of silver hair, and enormous gold earrings opened it.
“Paulette! You must be Paulette!” she cried. “Look, Zoe, Paulette is here.”
Zoe, resplendent in a strapless red dress, came into the foyer. “Paulette! Great. Mom, Paulette. Paulette, Betty.”
Tentatively, Tory put out her hand. “It's nice to meet you.”
Betty shook her hand with a fierce, plump grip, and drew her into the house. Music played, pop recordings of Christmas songs. Candles burned everywhere, and garlands of greenery hung from every lintel and banister. Tory, slipping out of her black coat, hung it on the coatrack, and turned to face a bewildering riot of color and people. The “little dinner party” appeared to have gotten out of hand, with five people she didn't know already drinking wine by a heavily decorated Christmas tree, and the refugees she had met at Thanksgiving leaning on the holly-festooned mantelpiece, talking together. Iris came to the kitchen door in a Mrs. Claus apron, waved once, and disappeared.
Betty was talking, but through the noise of the music and voices, Tory could hardly hear her. She felt tongue-tied in the face of so much festivity. Betty was saying something, waving a beringed hand, then smoothing a Christmas sweater over her generous figure. Tory couldn't make out the thrust of the conversation, so she merely nodded. Zoe saw this, and leaned forward to say in her ear, “It doesn't matter, Paulette. Mom loves to talk. You wouldn't get a word in anyway.”
Tory found Iris in front of her, a glass of red wine in her hand. She gave it to Tory, handed her a cocktail napkin, and said, “Glad you could make it! Sorry it turned out to be so many people,” and was gone again, leaving Tory looking around for a corner to fade into. One of the refugees nodded to her from his place by the fireplace, then returned to his conversation. Tory moved to one side of the doorway to the living room, and stood with the wineglass in one hand, the napkin in the other, feeling awkward and exposed. The raucous music scraped her nerves, and when she sipped the wine, it tasted thin and sour in her mouth. She looked down at her green dress, and tried to recapture the feeling she had had when she bought it. Now, in the moment, it eluded her.
“You look beautiful.”
Tory started. She hadn't noticed him in the room, but looking up into Hank's familiar face was such a relief that unexpected tears stung her eyelids. He had leaned down to speak to her, and the clean soapy scent of his skin tingled in her nose, an oddly intimate sensation. “I would have picked you up,” he said. “But Iris wasn't sure you were going to come.”

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