The Juliet Club (5 page)

“Oh, well, when it comes to that . . .” Benno shrugged carelessly. “That's up to God.”

His mobile phone rang. He took one look at the text message and jumped to his feet. “That's my uncle, he's going crazy because I'm not at work yet and I still have to pick up the letters to Juliet—”

“Don't worry, I'll do it for you,” Giacomo offered as he tossed the apple core in a trash barrel. “Who knows, I may meet a new friend inside!” He favored Benno with a wicked smile and headed for the door of Juliet's House.

By the time Lucy wandered back to Kate's side, the tour guide was wrapping up her speech by reciting words that she had clearly said many, many times before.

“If you close your eyes, perhaps you can imagine an ardent young man standing here—”

Somewhere behind Kate, a young girl began begging her mother to let her buy a souvenir in the gift shop.

The tour guide's voice became louder. “—he is hoping, yearning,
praying
to see the girl of his dreams—”

Somewhere to her left, a group of teenagers shrieked with joy to see one of their friends appear on the balcony above.

“—he does not know what he will do if he can't catch at least a glimpse of her—”

Somewhere to Kate's right, a baby began to wail.

And just as she was feeling that she had to get out of here
right now
before she was driven insane, she saw the boy again. He was in the sunlight now, strolling around the statue, smiling as his eyes swept carefully over the crowd.

Then, just as the tour guide said, “Imagine him, heartsick and lovelorn, standing beneath this very balcony!” the boy stopped, just so, beneath the balcony.

It was a pose calculated to draw attention to him, and it did.

Lucy whispered in her ear, “Look, it's Romeo come to life!”

Kate rolled her eyes.

After a long pause, the boy began moving toward the crowd. Lucy eased herself to the left, casually placing herself in the perfect position to intercept him on his path. Kate sniffed at this obvious ploy and turned her attention back to the tour guide, who was saying, “Or a balcony very
similar
to this one, at any rate—”

Kate continued listening as the tour guide moved on to talk about Verona's social hierarchy in the Middle Ages. It was a thorough, comprehensive, and detailed explanation, and the crowd soon began to get restless. Kate trained her gaze on the tour guide, not deigning to look over to see what kind of silly drama was being played out to her left.

Well, just one quick glance. The boy had reached Lucy. Kate heard him say, in a deep, warm voice,
“Buon giorno.”

“Hi there!” Lucy said cheerfully.

“Ah, you are American?” he asked. Even though Kate was concentrating fiercely on listening to the tour guide, she noticed that his English, spoken with a British accent, was quite good.

“
Si,
I mean yes,” Lucy said. “I'm from Jackson, Mississippi. I'm Lucy.”

“
Piacere
.” Pleased to meet you. “My name is Giacomo.”

“Giacomo.” From the lilt in Lucy's voice, Kate knew, even without glancing over, that Lucy was smiling and blushing. Kate's eyes slid sideways just as Giacomo glanced over at her. Embarrassed, she looked away, but then she couldn't help herself. She looked back.

He winked at her.

She stuck her nose in the air and, as pointedly as she could, turned back to listen to the tour guide.

But at that moment the tour guide was ending her spiel. Her shoulders slumped, her voice listless, she finished by saying, without much hope, “If you would like to continue the tour inside Juliet's House, the admission fee is only four euros.”

Despite this warm invitation, the crowd began to disperse. Apparently, most people decided that, having seen the famous balcony for free, they had no need to spend money to see the rooms inside. Kate left Lucy, who was clearly enthralled by her new acquaintance, went inside to pay for her ticket, and climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor.

At least it was much calmer inside and quieter, too. She wandered through surprisingly spare rooms with bare wooden floors and plain walls decorated with an occasional fresco. There was a fireplace with logs neatly stacked, as if ready for Juliet's father (or servant, more likely) to set them ablaze. There was a heavy wooden chair ready for Juliet's mother (or nurse, more likely) to sit down and take up some darning. And there was a door leading out to the balcony, ready for Juliet to step through and address the gentle, loving night.

The rooms looked like an empty stage set, waiting for the actors to appear and bring the world to life. Except that understudies had apparently taken over the scene, and they were obviously ill rehearsed for their roles.

For example, the two teens who were now standing on the balcony. They giggled and waved to their friends below as if they were on a homecoming parade float.

“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” one of the girls called out in a silly, high-pitched voice.

Kate shook her head and turned away just in time to see Lucy and the boy from the courtyard enter the room, their heads bent toward each other, laughing. Quickly, she climbed the stairs to the next floor where more tourists were milling about, taking snapshots of the fireplace andirons and reading the informational placards out loud to one another.

Sighing, Kate ducked into a side room that was blessedly free of other people. And, in fact, there weren't many things to see except two glass cases displaying costumes for Romeo and Juliet, and a bed.

Actually, it was The Bed.

Then Kate read a sign on the wall and discovered that, far from being an antique, it was actually a movie prop from the 1968 film adaptation of
Romeo and Juliet
. Kate made a face at the bed and climbed the stairs to the next floor.

As she was taking a closer look at a fresco on the landing, she heard Lucy's breathless voice float up from the floor below.

“Oh, look! Is that—?”

“Yes. The very bed where Juliet slept,” he assured her.

Honestly. The sign made it quite clear the bed was a fake—

“It's pretty small, isn't it?” asked Lucy, the daughter of the South's Sofabed King. “You'd think Juliet would have had at least a queen.”

Kate shook her head at that. It didn't help when she heard him laugh as if Lucy was the soul of wit.

“Well, people were smaller then,” he said solemnly. “Juliet was probably quite petite. About your size, I imagine.”

Worse and worse! Annoyed, Kate cleared her throat loudly, then coughed, and then, for good measure, pretended to sneeze before stomping down the wooden stairs.

“Oh, hi, Kate!” If Lucy was put out by being interrupted, she didn't show it. “This is Giacomo.”

“Piacere,”
he said, smiling.

“Hi,” she said coolly.

Giacomo's smile dimmed a bit.

“And guess what?” Lucy went on. “This bed is the
actual bed
—”

“Actually, it's not.” Kate nodded toward the sign. “It's a movie prop.”

“Oh.” Lucy seemed a bit crestfallen at this news, and Kate wished she hadn't said anything.

She glanced at her watch and then at Lucy. “We should probably go, so we have time to get ready for the party.”

“Oh, yes, you're absolutely right,” Lucy said, “but I want to take a picture on the balcony first. Stay right here, don't move, I'll be right back.”

As she rushed out of the room, Giacomo turned his attention to Kate.

“You look very disapproving,” he said lightly.

“That's because I
am
disapproving,” she answered.

Not the faintest trace of a smile. Giacomo sighed. Probably not his type.

“Well, Juliet's House does attract such romantic young ladies,” he said. “It seems a shame to disappoint them.”

“Your work for the tourism board must keep you busy.”

Was there a sarcastic edge to her voice? Definitely not his type.

“Got it!” Lucy came rushing back, holding her camera up in triumph. “Thanks for waiting!”

“You're quite welcome,” Giacomo said smoothly, smiling down at her. But as they left Juliet's bedroom, Kate saw him glance toward the balcony, where another gaggle of girls had gathered. “I have a few matters to take care of before I leave, but perhaps we will see each other again.”

“Oh, I hope so!” Lucy said. She cast a quick, imploring glance at Kate. “Maybe we could stay just a
tiny
bit longer. . . .”

“We should have left fifteen minutes ago if we wanted to be on time,” Kate answered, checking her watch again. “If we leave now, we'll only be fashionably late, instead of embarrassingly late.”

Giacomo gave a rueful shrug and took Lucy's hand. “I fear that the fates have conspired against us. But remember, such moments were meant to be short, and being short all the sweeter.”

“Oh. Well. Yes. I suppose that's true.” Lucy sounded bewildered but pleased.

Kate barely refrained from rolling her eyes at this flowery and ridiculous good-bye. It was like Shakespeare, she thought, without the sense.

Lucy chattered on blithely as they walked downstairs and out the door, not noticing Kate's silence.

Not only was she silent, she was brooding. It was a good thing, really, that she had had her heart broken already, thus inoculating her at an early age from the folly and madness of love. It meant that she was now sensible and clear-eyed and calm, and would never make a fool of herself again, the way Lucy did by swooning over Giacomo.

But as they crossed the courtyard, Kate couldn't resist looking back over her shoulder. Giacomo was now standing on the balcony, smiling down at a girl who was gazing up at him with an expression that, even from this distance, was obviously adoring. As if he felt Kate watching him, he glanced up and, once again, their eyes met. He smiled and winked. Then he deliberately turned his gaze back to the girl's face.

And Kate lifted her chin, spun around, and walked away.

Entr'acte

Sarah and Annie had made a pact: They would read all Kate's e-mails and compose their answers to her in each other's presence. In this way, they reasoned, they wouldn't be tempted to offer the kind of advice and counsel that could result in her either falling in love (and thus resolving their bet in Sarah's favor) or resisting all forms of romance (and thus declaring Annie the winner).

This plan also allowed them plenty of time to comment (constructively and with great affection, of course) on their friend's foibles while consuming an enormous number of snacks. A few days after Kate had left for Italy, they had received the first e-mail.

“About time!” Sarah said indignantly on the phone. “Do you want to come over here? My mom's experimenting with a new version of chocolate cream pie and she needs tasters.”

“I'm on my way.”

They read the printout of Kate's e-mail while eating several slices of pie, then headed for Sarah's bedroom to discuss it in detail. It was, they agreed, annoying in the extreme: in what should have been the juiciest passages, it was as terse and uninformative as a telegram. . . .

“Read the part about Tom again,” Sarah urged. “He sounds cute.”

Annie found the requested section and obligingly read it aloud. “‘I'm not really sure why Tom wanted to be in this seminar. Every time I bring up an interesting topic, like the historical incident that
Romeo and Juliet
was allegedly based on or the literary precedents that used the same basic plotline, he changes the subject. Usually to soccer, which seems to be his only interest. Or at least it's the only thing he's interested in talking about.'” Annie lowered the paper and peered over it at Sarah, who was shaking her head.

“Historical incident?” Annie asked, incredulous. “Literary precedents?”

“Kate really has no idea how to talk to boys,” Sarah said sadly.

. . . or it was cryptic and incomplete as a spy's ciphered message . . .

“And what about Giacomo?” Sarah asked.

Annie flipped over a page and read aloud. “'I did meet a guy named Giacomo who, it turns out, is also one of the Shakespeare Scholars. But before you get too excited (yes, Sarah, I'm talking to you), I have to tell you that he is completely full of himself. He's the kind of guy who's always presenting his profile to its best advantage, if you know what I mean. You can just tell that he thinks he was put on Earth to delight every female within fifty miles.”

“I can't believe that's all she wrote about Giacomo!” Sarah was scandalized. “She didn't even tell us how they met! Or what he looks like!”

“Kate is a terrible correspondent,” Annie agreed.

. . . or it covered, in exhaustive detail, aspects of her trip in which Sarah and Annie had absolutely no interest.

“Why does she keep going on about
Shakespeare
?” Sarah asked impatiently.

“Because he's the greatest playwright in the English language. Because she's attending a summer conference on Shakespeare,” Annie said.

“I know, but still—”

“And because she has a completely ridiculous set of priorities,” Annie added, as they read on.

Act I
Scene V

“Make haste, make haste!” Kate's father cried as he pounded on the door. “The guests are arriving for the reception!”

Kate leaned against the double sink in the bathroom as Lucy peered raptly into the mirror, carefully sweeping blush across one cheek. Kate had finished her own makeup (mascara and lip gloss) in five minutes. Now she watched, fascinated, as Lucy created a new face with the concentrated patience of a portrait painter.

“We should probably go,” Kate said.

“Mmm,” Lucy said absently, as she engaged in a tiny adjustment to her eyeliner. “Just . . . one . . . more . . . minute . . .”

Kate turned to look uncertainly at her own reflection. She wasn't sure about the dress. When she had bought it for the ill-fated prom, she worried that it would look too fancy. But now that she was in Italy, her dress looked more like something a nun would wear. A nun who lived in the seventeenth century and didn't get out much. Lucy, on the other hand, was wearing a filmy turquoise dress that made her eyes look even bluer, and her gold hair was piled on top of her head in a careless mass of curls.

Another pounding at the door, and the sound of her father's voice. “Anon, anon!”

As Lucy delicately brushed another layer of gloss on her lips, Kate wondered idly how she would cast Lucy in a Shakespeare play. Wearing her ethereal blue dress, she looked perfect for the part of Titania, but Lucy's personality seemed too sweet for the strong-willed Queen of the Fairies. Perhaps Bianca in
The Taming of the Shrew
? Lucy seemed like the kind of girl who would have several suitors dancing attendance on her at once. . . .

Suddenly, Kate didn't care to stand there any longer watching Lucy turn a pretty face into perfection. She muttered an excuse and went to her open bedroom window, where she stood breathing in the soft, scented air and gazing out at the garden. It looked like a landscape from a dream: mysterious and shadowed in the deepening twilight.

And then, between one breath and the next, an unusual sensation swept over her. First, she felt as if she were floating outside of her body. Then she had the absolute conviction that her life back in Kansas—her ordinary, normal, regular life—was the dream world and that she had just awakened to a new, and enchanted, reality.

She had just reached forward to touch the window frame, which was reassuringly solid under her hand, when her thoughts were interrupted by a rapid knock on the door and her father's urgent voice calling out, “Come, let's away!”

With one last look out the window, she left her room to go to the party.

The villa was ablaze with light. The high windows were open to the warm summer night. A river of guests dressed in silks and satins and tuxedos flowed through the rooms on the first floor, onto the terrace that had been strung with twinkling lights, and down into the garden, where carefully placed luminaries glowed softly in the dusk.

Kate and her father walked into the ballroom, with Lucy and Tom right behind them. It was an expansive room, with large arched windows, six sparkling chandeliers, and pale yellow walls decorated with gilt. Lots of gilt.

“Wow,” Lucy said.

“This looks like the kind of room you'd sign a treaty in,” Tom said, looking a bit intimidated.

Kate's father bounced a couple of times from sheer joy. “Isn't this marvelous?” he said. “Oh, look, there's Sebastian!” He waved both hands exuberantly at someone at the other side of the room. “And Julian!”

Kate followed his gaze and saw a bald man happily clutching a drink in each hand and talking to another man with a remarkably strange toupee. But she knew that they weren't who her father was really looking for.

“Do you see Professoressa Marchese?”

“No.” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he glanced from one person to another. “Of course, I'm not sure what she looks like these days. Once she became rich and famous, she stopped attending conferences. Too busy to toil in the groves of academe with the rest of us.” He added waspishly, “And she's been using that same author photo for at least twenty years. Too vain to let the years show, I suppose.”

“Mmm,” Kate murmured noncommittally. Her father had spent two weeks hunched over his computer, learning Photoshop in order to “give a little touch-up, that's all” to his own faculty photo. “I wonder if she's even here.”

“Oh, she's here.” Her father's eyes darted around the room. “That woman loves being the center of attention. Quite narcissistic, Ollie Jameson says.”

His face brightened. “Ah, speak of the devil! There's Ollie over by the buffet table. Which looks absolutely stupendous.” His buoyancy restored, he plunged eagerly into the crowd, calling back over his shoulder, “I'll find you later! Have fun!”

In a far corner of the ballroom, Silvia di Napoli was attracting attention. She didn't have to see the shocked sidelong glances directed at her, or hear the appalled comments, or observe the dismayed expressions. She could feel the reaction of the crowd, and she reveled in it.

She leaned against the wall, holding a tall fluted glass of
prosecco
in one hand. Her pose was the picture of nonchalance, but it was, in fact, calculated to achieve exactly the effect she wanted. Silvia had chosen her dress tonight with great care. It was made from a silvery material that clung to her body like molten metal and then flowed to the floor, where it puddled at her feet and made the mere act of walking an adventure in staying upright. As if to make up for all the extra material lying on the floor, the middle had been cut out to reveal an angel-wing tattoo that stretched across her midriff. It was her latest move in a long-running campaign to drive her parents mad. They didn't have to know that it was only a temporary tattoo. At least not right away.

She had styled her dark brown hair so that it stood out around her head in a wild, gravity-defying halo, outlined her large eyes with smoky eyeliner and purplish gray eyeshadow, and coated her lips with a deep red color that bordered on black. In a nod to the formal nature of the evening, she had finally decided to put just one silver hoop in her right ear and three in the left. Still, she was satisfied that she looked threatening and dangerous and rebellious—the exact opposite, in other words, of the insipid hometown heroine, Juliet.

As she glanced casually around the room, Silvia noticed many of her parents' friends, all pillars of the community, all stodgy and conservative, and all secretly thankful that their daughters weren't like her. She saw Benno, who gave her a cheeky wink and was immediately scolded by the head waiter. And then she spotted the mayor of Verona, who was holding court with the town's more influential and wealthy citizens.

Silvia wrinkled her nose in disdain. The mayor was a short man who wore custom-made shoes with two-inch heels. He was a proud man who insisted on adding a silly scarlet sash to his tuxedo for official occasions. And, most damning of all, he was a completely embarrassing man who also happened to be her father.

His gaze locked with hers and his cheerful grin slipped for just a moment. Then, quick as a blink, it was back, and he was tactfully excusing himself from the conversation in order to head in her direction. Silvia braced herself. By the time he got to her side, his normally ruddy face had flushed a deep purple and she could see a vein pulsing in his forehead.

“
Ciao
, papà,” she said in as deadpan a voice as she could manage. “You look very well this evening. Quite dashing.”

He couldn't help himself; he glanced down and preened for just a moment before he remembered that this was his daughter speaking. She hadn't said anything that wasn't sarcastic since she turned thirteen. He felt a touch of nostalgia for the twelve-year-old Silvia, who had papered her bedroom walls with photos of clean-cut pop stars and cute puppies, who had begged to go to work with him just so they could be together, who had blushed if a neighbor chided her for being too loud. . . .

But that Silvia was gone. In her place was this, this
alien
who said everything with a sneer and eyed him disdainfully and made him feel like the oldest, most ridiculous man on earth.

“More to the point,
I
am dressed appropriately,” he said. He realized that he was gritting his teeth. He remembered what his dentist had said about cracked molars, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. “You, on the other hand—” He glanced at the tattoo and closed his eyes in pain.

“The invitation said formal,” she said, innocently. Her face darkened as she remembered that she had a grievance of her own. “
I
wanted to buy a new dress for this party, but
you
said it would cost too much!
You
said that the babies needed new high chairs!
You
said that our family now had different financial priorities! And this is the only formal dress I have, remember?”

“Yes, and I also remember that there used to be a bit more of it!” her father hissed.

Silvia glanced down complacently. “I know,” she said. “I altered it myself. It's an original design.”

“Original.” Her father glared at her. “You'll be lucky not to be charged with indecent exposure. And if you are”—he gave her a warning look—“don't expect any favors just because you're the mayor's daughter!”

Silvia ignored this comment with the disdain it deserved.

First, she never told
anyone
she was the mayor's daughter.

Second, her father was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an authority on fashion. She curled her lip at his tuxedo (which was vintage, but not in a good way), his high-heeled shoes (which kept making him lose his balance), and that scarlet sash (which made him look like an extra in a second-rate opera company).

“Fine,” she said loftily. “If the police arrest me, I will plead guilty to having a unique and inventive fashion sense.”

He remembered what his wife had said about keeping his temper and forced himself to smile. “At least try to behave yourself tonight,” he said with a passable attempt at sounding conciliatory. “That's all I ask.”

She lifted one eyebrow and waited. When her father said that something was “all he asked,” more demands invariably followed.

Her father did not disappoint her. “And please, get to the seminar on time every day,” he went on, “not twenty minutes late! And pay strict attention to Signora Marchese, and do all your homework, and don't dispute every single word she says, the way you do with me!”

“I
don't
dispute every single word you say,” Silvia snapped. “And if you're so worried about how I will do in this stupid seminar, I don't know why you went to so much trouble to get me in!”

“Shh!” His eyes darted around the room to see if anyone had overheard. “That is between us, Silvia, please, I told you that!”

He pulled a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. Silvia winced at the handkerchief but smiled with satisfaction at the sign of guilt. “You wouldn't be suffering from nerves right now if you hadn't decided to do something illegal,” she said primly.

“
Illegal?
I pulled a few strings, that's all!” he hissed. “When that girl from Germany had to drop out at the last minute, I saw an opportunity for you to better yourself—”

“And for you to get closer to Francesca Marchese,“ she said in an insinuating tone.

“Yes! Yes! I admit it!” He was practically dancing on his toes with outrage. “And so? What of it?
I
am the mayor!
She
is one of Verona's most prominent residents and internationally famous, to boot! And you,
you
—”

“People are staring, papà,” Silvia said. Her face was pure innocence, but her eyes sparkled with delight.

He opened his mouth to yell, then remembered what his cardiologist had said about high blood pressure and took a few deep breaths instead. He carefully tucked his handkerchief in his pocket, arranging it with great deliberation until it was again a perfect scarlet triangle. When he was more composed, he finished in a strangled whisper, “And
you
are a young girl who should be
grateful
!” He glanced at his watch. “I must go. It's almost time for my speech. Please,
mia cara
. . . just try not to attract more attention than you have to.”

He scurried off. As Silvia watched him move through the crowd, her sharp eyes spotted three teenagers standing across the room. The girl in the blue dress looked overawed by their surroundings. The other girl, with the dark blond hair and glasses, wore a simple black dress that was probably supposed to be elegant but managed only to look dreary. And the boy—Silvia clucked her tongue disapprovingly. His shirt didn't fit well, his tie was askew, and he kept glancing suspiciously at his glass of
prosecco
as if he'd never had sparkling wine before. They were, undoubtedly, the Americans.

Her smile broadened. Here, at last, was some new entertainment.

Silvia tilted her glass back to take the last sip of her drink, then headed across the room.

Tom went to a school on the California coast that offered a P.E. elective in surfing. He played soccer and lacrosse. His hair had been lightened by the sun to a pale gold, his tan was perfect year-round, he drove a BMW.

Even at a school where most of the students looked as if they could star in a TV series, Tom's easy grin and amiable manner meant that girls flocked to him. He never had to make the slightest effort to get a date. He walked across campus with an easy, rolling stride, the picture of unthinking confidence and grace. He was living a charmed life.

Of course, he hadn't known that. Not until now.

Now he was here, in Italy, and it wasn't just a different country, it was a different world. He took another sip of his drink and looked around the room, listening to conversations in different languages and realizing with shame that he couldn't figure out what language was being spoken half the time, let alone understand what was being said. The food was odd, too, and he'd never seen so many people dressed so fancily, and he was beginning to wonder just what he was doing here. . . .