The Knotty Bride (8 page)

“I don’t believe it…”

“Of course, I don’t know for sure that they are the actual remnants of the French Blue. I mean, they could be nine, dark blue, oddly-cut diamonds. But it seems like quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

I nod slowly.

“I need to send them off to a specialist for examination. That’s the only way we’ll ever really know if they are
the
remnants. I’ve already arranged for their safe travel to a top gemologist at
Harry Winston.
If they believe these diamonds are in any way related to the Hope, they will work with the Smithsonian to try to prove it. They explained the technique for dating diamonds over the phone, but I’m afraid I wasn’t listening very closely. I was too excited. You see I took these gems to be a sign.”

Wait a minute. What is he saying? Here at last are the long lost French Blue diamonds, and he’s going to send them away?

“Now, Lily, don’t look like that— with your brow all furrowed. I know what you are thinking, but if these diamonds are related to the Hope then they belong to all of humanity.”

Right, right he is. But there for a moment I actually thought he was giving them to me. And I kind of thought…well, I don’t know what I thought. I mean, he was on his knees, and he was giving me diamonds and well, that does seem like the perfect time to pop the question.

“The thing is, Lily,” Brandon is talking very fast now, “as hard as it is to believe it, I do believe Francesca was right.” He breaks off and stares at me intently.

Yes, I do believe she was. My goodness, it was well over a year ago that Francesca persuaded me to help her search for these diamonds. She said Carlo Buschi talked to her from the beyond and told her of their existence. But we never found anything other than a bunch of useless lira. Now I wonder, how many precious objects did Carlo Buschi buy from antiquity smugglers and squirrel away from the world? Of course, what I hold in my hand could be complete fakes. Carlo Buschi sounds like he was the kind of nut who would pay an outrageous amount of money to acquire nine diamonds without verifying their authenticity.

“So, as I was saying, finding these stones on that day—that day when I was so upset after arguing with you. Well, I took it all as a sign. It’s a sign that you and I should be together…”

“It is?” I ask incredulously.

“It is,” Brandon laughs. “Who else but you would ever believe this whole crazy story?”

Nobody. Nobody would believe it. My goodness, Carlo Buschi must have been a horrible man to have accumulated all these fenced artifacts. And he must be dead, right? Despite Ca’ Buschi’s crazy gardener who told us otherwise, Carlo Buschi must really be dead. How else would Francesca have received the information from the beyond?

It’s all so mind numbing to ponder that I just stare straight ahead. I still can’t believe Brandon is here, in this place, and that he has found the lost diamonds. Abruptly Brandon does something that makes me snap to attention. He sweeps the diamonds out of my hand and places them back in the little velvet bag.

“There,” he says, putting the sack back in his pocket. “I’ll put them in the hotel safe.”

I must look a tad disappointed. But just then Brandon reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a check.

“Here.” He hands it to me. “It’s your Christmas bonus. Very late I know, so I added extra interest.”

He thrusts the piece of paper into my hand, and I unfold it slowly.

“5,000 euro?” I flush with shame. I’m not sure why I thought Brandon was gifting me some priceless diamonds. (That would be terribly romantic wouldn’t it? Especially if it had been accompanied by a wedding proposal.) But a check for 5,000 euros seems seedy, as if it is money for services yet to be rendered.

“I cannot be bought!” I yell. In my ears ring the battle cry of liberated women everywhere. I grab my bag and am ready to race out of
The Lipari Luxury
B and B by Debi.
I will sail on the first boat back to Napoli; I don’t care how many people throw up along the way.

“What? Wait, Lily!” Brandon reaches out a hand to stop me. I shake it off.

“I’m not trying to buy you. It’s money you earned—with interest.”

I throw him a look.

“Alright, it’s true I added a lot of interest, but I know you are having a tough time of it at the ice cream shop.”

Darn Rupa, is there anything she hasn’t told Brandon? I am not some tragic heroine of a 17th century romance novel where my house and home are entailed to some bizarre male cousin and I have to take a job as a governess in order to make ends meet. No, I’m not. I can do it on my own. I turn to leave.

“Wait, don’t go,” Brandon says in a voice so soft and so soothing that I turn back around. Deftly he grabs the check out of my hand. “If it offends you, forget it. I revoke your Christmas bonus.” Brandon rips the check into smithereens. The pieces fall like confetti to the ground. I watch them circle to the ground and then look back up at Brandon. He looks so desperate and so lovely at the same time that I almost laugh.

“Come on, Lily. Give a guy a second chance. Say you’ll forgive me.”

Absolutely not. Absolutely not. I must be stone.

“Absolutely.” My lips betray me. “Absolutely,” I murmur again, and in that instant, all is forgiven.

L
et me just say
, dear reader, that I cannot tell you what happened next because it is nobody’s business. Oh wait. I can tell you some things. The minute I said, “Absolutely,” Brandon did a bit of his best acting to date and pretended like he was the tenor of Ravenna, re-serenading me right there on the plain tile floor of the lobby. He has a surprisingly clear baritone voice, and I blushed several shades of red. After which, the tenor of Ca’ Buschi showed me into
The Lipari Luxury B and B by Debi’s
dining room, where he ordered in a delicious meal from the local trattoria. I can also tell you that I saw very little of Lipari that week, and it wasn’t because of the bad weather. Oh, and one more thing I can tell you, a bit of advice actually, you should avoid renting room #5 in
The Lipari Luxury B and B by Debi
because the bed is terribly, terribly squeaky.

*****

We spent five days of pure bliss together, chatting by the fire in the living room, ordering take out, and doing things that shall remain unmentioned. Outside a storm raged, but we didn’t mind, we had nowhere to go. Finally, on the sixth day, the sun made an appearance. Brandon and I ventured out to take in the sights of the island. We even visited a lingerie store because, well, I don’t really think anyone needs to know why we visited a lingerie store. That part goes without saying, doesn’t it? Maybe I shouldn’t have even brought it up. Anyway, we spent the whole day peeking in stores, eating fabulous food and looking at the incredible view. That night we stayed out really late drinking spirits and watching the enormous harvest moon climb overhead.

The next morning, I am just waking up, feeling all happy and cozy in this slightly rundown inn, when all of a sudden I hear Brandon racing up the stairs. Turns out, Brandon is a bit of an early bird, and he likes to make me breakfast. But this morning when he rejoins me in guestroom #4, he is not carrying a pancake-laden tray. In fact, he isn’t carrying a tray at all. By the look on his face, all is not well. “Hurry up,” he instructs. “Pack your things. We need to leave for Civita at once.”

I squint up at him, trying to make out his face by the sunlight that streams through the shutters. Today is my last day of vacation. Brandon and I are due to depart Lipari this afternoon. Being the wonderful man he is, and given the newness of our relationship, Brandon is unable to deny me anything. Sweetly he has agreed to accompany me to Civita di Bagnoregio to pick up the two stray cats from Beatta Cavale.

“Why?” I ask sitting straight up in bed. “I thought we were going to leave at noon.”

“I know. Forget that.” He begins throwing his clothes into a suitcase he has thrust open on the bed. “There’s a ferry in thirty minutes. We need to be on it.”

“Why?” I ask again, not able to think straight without a morning cup of coffee. I stare at him agog, wondering about the mysterious ways of important men. What could be so pressing? We are on an island, just the two of us. Who wants to hurry away?

“Rupa called, and she sounded frantic,” Brandon says and wads his very expensive shirts into tight balls, shoving them into his suitcase.

Honestly, is that how this man packs?

“I didn’t understand it all, but she says we need to get to Civita right away.”

“Why?” I ask for the third time in a row. It’s like my mind is stuck in some kind of a loop. I can’t say anything but, “Why?” I really do need that cup of coffee. But given Brandon’s urgent tone, I climb out of bed, put on my robe, and then pull a shirt out of Brandon’s suitcase so I can fold it properly. Immediately he grabs the shirt out of my hand and jams it back in his suitcase. “No time for that,” he says.

Then it dawns on me, perhaps Beatta’s house has sloughed off the side and fallen into the abyss!

“Somebody’s died and Rupa said we need to get to Civita right away,” Brandon says.

“Somebody’s died?” I stiffen.

“Yes, a lady named Carmelina. Had a heart attack.”

“Oh no,” I say, feeling sad and relieved at the same time. There for a moment I thought both Beatta and Carmelina had died when their house went over the side.

“Oh dear, poor Beatta, she must feel so alone.” I stand still as a statue, unable to move, as around me Brandon is a whirling dervish. Finished packing his own stuff, he begins sweeping all my clothes into my large duffle bag.

“Get dressed. We’re going. If we leave anything behind, Debi will have to send it to us.”

Fifteen minutes later, we roll our bags down the sidewalk to the waterfront. Brandon looks quite handsome as he strides along in khaki slacks, a blue sweater and dark shades. I, however, must look affright in uncombed hair, jeans and a hoody. It really doesn’t matter what I look like though. The important thing is that Brandon and I are in this together.

“It will be okay, Lil,” he says. “We’ll get on the ten o’clock ferry, and then we’ll take the high speed train to Rome. We’ll change there and head for Orvieto.”

As the ferry pulls away from the dock, Brandon heads off in search of espresso from the cantina. I take a moment and lean against a large glass window to stare out at the sea. I’m not sure what the two of us can do for Beatta, if anything. But we need to try. And then what? I suppose it will be back to Arona and back to our normal lives. Although, I’m not sure how normal my life will ever be again. I am the girlfriend of a movie star. And not just a movie star, but a wonderful caring person; one who is willing to drop everything and rush off to help a woman he doesn’t even know.

But that’s what life is all about: helping others. It makes me a bit misty-eyed to think about it, but it’s true. Somehow, when I get my feet back under me and come back to earth, there are so many people I need to help. After we help Beatta, I have to help Rupa and Dario.  And then I need to figure out what really happened to Carlo Buschi. I need to find his daughter and help her recover her fortune because it’s simply the right thing to do. I would also like to help Federica, but I fear that is beyond my abilities.

And there’s one last thing— Phil. He’s not a person, I know, but all the same I can’t get his sad eyes out of my head. I need to help Phil find a good home.

I give a little sigh at the magnitude of the tasks ahead of me. But at least this time I won’t be doing it alone. I’m sure Brandon will help with everything. And maybe, someday soon, Brandon and I will be planning our own wedding. Never mind that he told me last night he’s not the marrying type. I’m sure that was just the wine talking. I’m sure he wants to get married just as soon as possible. In fact I’m positive.

I sit straight up. Why, I bet if I propose to him, right here, right now on the ferry, he’ll say yes. Oh, and here he comes now with our coffee.

Should I ask him? Should I?

Will he say yes?

Of course he will. I’m absolutely sure.

My boyfriend is a famous movie star. My boyfriend is a famous movie star. My boyfriend is a famous movie star.

Everybody in first class on the train from Rome to Orvieto is staring at us. Brandon is stoic and quiet, reading from his newspaper while I’m busting at the seams.

“Lily, stop staring at me,” he quips from beneath the paper.

“I-I wasn’t staring.” It’s just that I’m so happy. I never thought we would finally be a real couple. I glance around at all the other curious passengers. I meet their gaze and they seemed surprised.

Is it
? Their eyes ask mine.
Is that?

Yes, it is
, I nod back. Emboldened by my willingness to meet her gaze, a young woman stands up and heads over. In a thick Italian accent she asks, “May I havva autographa?”

I don’t even bother to think. My head is in the clouds. I snatch the notebook and pen out of her hands and sign my name. She looks very disappointed.

“I think she means me,” says Brandon.

“Oh right, right.” I hand him the notebook and he signs it with a big, loopy “B. Logan.” Unfortunately, I have started a trend. By the time we reach Orvieto, Brandon has posed for a picture with almost everybody in the first class carriage.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as we step off the train onto the platform no. 2. Brandon laughs and threatens to find a way to return the favor. We search up and down the station, but Beatta Cavale and the rescue cats are nowhere to be found. Not knowing what the latest plan is, given Beatta’s mother’s death, and unable to reach Rupa on her cell phone, we sit on a bench waiting while passersby do double takes.
Yep, he’s my boyfriend
, I beam back and slide even closer to Brandon. Unfortunately, Brandon turned me down earlier today when I asked him to marry me, saying once more that he’s not the marrying kind. I just laughed and replied, “Sure you are.”

We wait five, ten, fifteen minutes. Still no show. A small crowd has gathered and there are numerous glances in Brandon’s direction. It was cute before, but now there are so many people huddled around that they are impeding the flow on the platform.

“Let’s go,” Brandon insists gruffly. “We’ll hail a cab and go out to Civita and pick up the cats.”

Brandon is right. Beatta’s not going to meet us here in her traumatized state, and we aren’t even sure if Rupa relayed the message that we were arriving at 2:30 on the train from Rome. We stand up and push our way through the crowd.

We’re just finishing up stowing our luggage at baggage when the first flash goes off. Brandon grabs me by the arm, maneuvering me through the station. The man with the camera follows in hot pursuit as Brandon practically shoves me into a cab. Briefly, Brandon turns back to the paparazzo and yells a slew of obscenities that make my face turn red.

“That’s it, Lily, tomorrow the world will now you are my girlfriend,” he sputters, his jaw clenched tightly.

“The world will know I am your girlfriend,” I murmur and sink down into the cushy seats of the car.

Brandon stops looking so glum and smiles. “You think that’s okay?”

“Works for me.”

“Works for me, too,” he says before becoming all hands in the taxi. The driver shoots us disapproving glances but I can’t stop giggling. It’s taken Brandon and me so long to get to this point in our relationship, who could condemn a little innocent groping? Did I say groping? I mean, um, a little innocent peck on the cheek. Moving on.

It didn’t take long to reach Bagnoregio, although it took a while to hoof it through town and across the rickety expansion bridge to Civita.

“This place is a movie waiting to happen,” Brandon exclaims upon seeing the medieval city sloughing off house by house into the gorge below.

“I know. It’s gorgeous. We have to come back on vacation.”

“With the boys,” he adds.

“What is it with you and the boys?” I ask as we reach the end of the expansion bridge and cross underneath the archway to the old city.

“I love them, they’re so much fun.”

Be still my beating heart, a man who loves both me and my children. Who would have believed that such a successful, handsome man would be dating me? But that’s not the important thing right now, the important thing is that we check up on Beatta and extend our condolences.

We wind our way through Civita’s narrow streets, Brandon stopping every five seconds to admire a church or an old house or a carved archway. When we reach Beatta Cavale’s house, I ring the doorbell. The door swings open immediately. Beatta’s standing there in the same grey house coat as before, her face all puffy and red from crying.

“Come in, come in.” She motions. “I couldn’t make it today,” she adds through huge sobs. “I have the cats, they’re ready, but… well… come, see for yourself.”

Not only am I not a good first responder, I’m also terrible with death. When Beatta motions us into the living room, we see Carmelina flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with bulging eyes. I let out such an enormously loud “Oh, the poor sweet thing,” that I’m sure it’s heard all the way to Rome.

I can’t help it, it’s just all so terribly sad.