Rome in Love Read online

  “Have you talked to Daphne about this?” John asked.

  Philip flinched and his cheeks turned red. He pictured Daphne with her silky blond hair and graceful neck and long French nails.

  “Daphne is going to Columbia to get her MBA.”

  John stood up and gazed at the Botticelli. He studied the girl’s glossy brown hair and hazel eyes and alabaster cheeks.

  “Then you owe me two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Philip spluttered.

  “I sent you to Yale so you could take over your grandfather’s business,” John replied. “I’ll give you ten years to make it as a journalist, then you have to pay me back.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Philip demanded.

  “You can make fifty-thousand-dollar installments, starting in the summer of 2015.” John turned and looked at Philip. “If you default you have to join Hamilton and Sons.”

  Philip gazed at his father’s graying hair and felt sweat trickle down his spine. He knew he was crazy; there was little chance he would make that kind of money. But he pictured a crowded newspaper office, the flashing computer screens, the surfaces littered with soda cans and crumpled sheets of paper and knew he had no choice.

  He stood up and extended his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  John smiled and shook his son’s hand. “Did you bring Daphne? Your mother would love to see her. Shall we say seven o’clock at the Four Seasons? I’ll book our usual table.”

  * * *

  Philip gazed at his father’s martini, wishing he had accepted a cocktail. He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. “You know I was unfairly fired, I was on my way up.”

  John saw the anguish in his son’s eyes and fiddled with his straw.

  “I’m a fair man; you can pay me twenty-five thousand in August and twenty-five thousand at Christmas.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.” Philip slumped in his chair.

  John drained his glass and placed it on the napkin. He took a wad of euros out of his pocket and put it on the table.

  “I’ll have Edna book your flight. You can stay at the house until you get settled; your mother redid your room. We’ll have a welcome home dinner at Gramercy Tavern and invite the old crowd.” John stood up and smoothed his slacks. “Your mother ran into Daphne at Barneys, she said she looked wonderful. Did you know she just made associate partner?”

  Philip watched his father cross the thick Oriental rug to the elevator and felt his pulse race. He remembered the last time he saw Daphne when she packed her Krups espresso maker and her Louis Vuitton cosmetics case and her closet of Donna Karan suits and moved to a brownstone on the Upper West Side. He remembered lying on the sofa and gazing at the leak in the ceiling and feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. He remembered long hours of tapping on his computer and running laps around Washington Square.

  Philip reached into his pocket and took out Max’s ten-euro note. He scooped up a handful of macadamia nuts and signaled the bartender.

  “A dry martini please.” He handed him the note. “Straight up, no ice.”

  chapter four

  Amelia perused the platters of roast beef and sliced ham and bread rolls. She saw bowls of M&M’S and plates of chocolate chip cookies and baskets of bananas and green apples. She saw cartons of cold cereal and cans of soda and smiled. No matter where one was on location, the food always looked like the contents of a high school cafeteria.

  Amelia grabbed an apple and rubbed it against her sweater. They had been reading through the script all morning and she was hungry and tired. But the jet lag and loneliness had been replaced by a feeling of anticipation and excitement. When she looked in the mirror she saw Princess Ann in her white ball gown and long white gloves and diamond tiara.

  “You were perfect,” a male voice said behind her. “I knew you were my Princess Ann, your delivery is sublime.”

  Amelia turned and saw Sheldon Rose filling a plate with cheddar cheese and stone wheat crackers. He added a bunch of green grapes and a peanut butter cookie.

  “I want to apologize again for yesterday,” Amelia explained. “It was the champagne and the jet lag, I’ll never miss a call again.”

  “When I made Picasso’s Mistress with Natalie Portman, she missed the first two days of production. I finally tracked her down to an artist’s studio on a cliff in Majorca. She was splattered in paint and staring at an empty canvas.” Sheldon smiled. He was in his early sixties with thick white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a beige sweater over a collared shirt and khakis. “I can allow my lead actress some leeway if she delivers a great performance. Audrey Hepburn won an Oscar for her Princess Ann, I think you can do the same.”

  Amelia watched Sheldon cross the room to talk to the director and pictured Sophie’s large blue eyes and upturned nose and creamy white skin. Even before she told Amelia she was a princess there had been something regal about her. She thought about her stories of arranged marriages and ladies-in-waiting and suddenly had an idea. There was no better way to capture the essence of Princess Ann than spend time with a real princess.

  * * *

  Amelia took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the hallway. She was still floating from Sheldon’s praise and from reading the script. She felt like Princess Ann was slipping under her skin, the way she raised her eyebrows when she talked, her shy smile, the way she wore her hair.

  Amelia knocked on the door and waited.

  Sophie flung open the door. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She wore a white crepe dress and flat gold sandals. Her hair was knotted in a low bun and she wore a gold belt around her waist. “I’ve been shopping all day and I’m exhausted.”

  Amelia entered Sophie’s suite and saw bags scattered over the marble floor. Silk dresses and cotton blouses covered the gold velvet bedspread. There was a stack of shoeboxes on the glass coffee table and a pink ostrich Hermès bag on the Regency desk.

  “Where did you get all this?” Amelia fingered a silver evening gown and a floral sundress and a pink angora sweater. There was a pile of silk scarves and several pair of sunglasses.

  “The Via Condotti has Prada and Gucci and Armani boutiques.” Sophie wrapped a red silk scarf around her neck and stood in front of the full-length mirror. “I’ve always had a dressmaker who comes to the palace. Do you know what it’s like to walk into a shop and try on anything you like?”

  “What about when you were at boarding school?” Amelia asked.

  “My father sent me with six suitcases of clothes.” Sophie tried on round white sunglasses. “He didn’t want me becoming Eurotrash in halter tops and miniskirts. Lentz is very conservative; all my dresses had high collars and lots of buttons.”

  “This must have cost a fortune.” Amelia gazed at the ostrich-skin bag and soft Prada pumps.

  “I pawned a tiara.” Sophie shrugged.

  “You pawned a tiara!” Amelia spluttered.

  “It was only a small tiara, nothing my father would miss. I didn’t have any money, my lady-in-waiting takes care of my expenses.”

  “I keep thinking you’re making this up,” Amelia mused, walking to the window. The red rooftops were bathed in the afternoon sun. Amelia could hear cars honking and the low rumble of buses. She peered down at the street and saw uniformed crossing guards and bicycle messengers with brown leather satchels.

  “Monarchy is about tradition.” Sophie took off the sunglasses and sat on a blue silk sofa. She crossed her long legs and tapped her fingers on the coffee table. “Do you know why Catholics revere the Pope? It’s because no matter what terrible things happen in their lives—losing a job or finding out their husband is unfaithful or having a sick child—they can always go to the Pope for comfort. The Pope never changes; he never has his own problems or appears on the balcony of the Vatican in board shorts and flip-flops.”

  “I never thought about it like that.” Amelia nodded.

  “For six weeks I get to wear whatever I want and
do what I please and no one will know.” Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “Let’s go out, there’s somewhere I want to show you.”

  “You’re supposed to keep your foot up.” Amelia hesitated, glancing at Sophie’s ankle that was still wrapped in a bandage.

  “I’ll be careful,” Sophie persisted. “I only have twenty days left, I don’t want to waste them.”

  “If we’re seen together the paparazzi might follow us.” Amelia shook her head.

  “Not if you wear this.” Sophie handed Amelia a large floppy hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses.

  “On one condition.” Amelia slipped on the sunglasses. “You teach me how to be a princess.”

  Sophie’s face broke into a wide smile and she tied a white scarf around her hair. “I’d be delighted.”

  * * *

  “The Villa Borghese was built in 1605 for Pope Paul V’s nephew, Cardinal Scipione Borghese, it was the most luxurious residence in Rome,” Sophie said, smoothing her hair. “Now it is one of the largest parks in the city, with a museum and galleries and a private lake.”

  Amelia followed Sophie through the entrance on the Piazza del Popolo and gazed at the leafy trees and colorful gardens and marble statues. She saw couples on bicycles and children clutching pencil boxes and sketch pads. She smelled roses and bougainvilleas and hyacinths.

  She walked along the gravel path, remembering Sundays at Golden Gate Park. Whit never worked on Sundays and they often attended outdoor concerts. Amelia loved strolling through the rose garden or flying a kite on the grass. When they got hungry they ate scones and jam in the Japanese Tea Garden.

  “It’s as if the city didn’t exist,” Amelia mused, standing in the Flower Garden. The noise and congestion of Rome stopped outside the gates. The only sounds were ducks splashing in the lake and children playing hopscotch on the cement.

  “The Romans loved the Borghese family because they opened the park to the public on Sundays and public holidays.” Sophie admired the marble arches covered with green trellises. “I want to create a park like this in Lentz, a place where people can come after church and bring their children. I’m going to fill it with roses and oak trees and a coffeehouse and a carrousel.”

  Amelia gazed at the lake and saw a familiar figure sitting on a stone bench. He held a turkey sandwich and a bag of roasted chestnuts. He had blond hair and wore jeans and a polo shirt.

  “You are the patient who didn’t write her name on the clipboard,” the man said to Sophie, walking toward them.

  “How did you recognize me?” Sophie asked. She wore a white tunic dress and flat sandals. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked under her scarf.

  “I know my own handiwork.” The man grinned, pointing to her bandaged ankle. “My name is Theo.”

  “Sophie.” Sophie gingerly shook his hand. “This is my friend, Ann.”

  “I told you to keep your foot up.” Theo frowned.

  “I’m good as new.” Sophie waved her hand. “I wanted to show Ann the Borghese Gardens. It’s my favorite place in Rome.”

  “What do you do when you’re not falling down staircases or disobeying doctor’s orders?” Theo asked, eating a handful of chestnuts.

  “Do?” Sophie repeated.

  “Do you live in Rome or are you on vacation?” Theo prompted.

  Sophie watched a group of schoolchildren throw bread crumbs into the lake and turned to Theo. “We’re tour guides, we lead school tours all over the city.”

  “I volunteer at an orphanage once a week.” Theo’s eyes lit up. “It’s my favorite part of being a doctor.”

  “We have to go.” Sophie tugged Amelia’s arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You should make your friend rest.” Theo turned to Amelia. He had smooth brown cheeks and a small cleft on his chin. “She’ll heal faster if she follows my orders.”

  * * *

  “Why did you say we were tour guides?” Amelia asked, sipping an iced coffee. They had spent an hour in the gallery admiring the paintings by Titian and Raphael and Caravaggio. Now they sat at the outdoor café, drinking iced coffees and sharing a chestnut puree.

  “I got flustered.” Sophie shrugged, scooping up whipped cream and nuts. “If I told him we were tourists he would have asked where we were from.”

  “He’s very handsome.” Amelia looked at Sophie pointedly.

  Sophie looked up from her iced coffee and flushed. “I didn’t notice.”

  They finished their coffees and visited the Temple of Diana and the Pincian Hill. Amelia looked down on the Villa Medici and wished Whit was standing beside her. She wanted to show him the lush gardens and the statues by Bernini and Rubens and Canova.

  “My feet are killing me,” Amelia said. “Let’s go home. I want to take a hot shower.”

  They walked to the entrance and stood in line for a taxi. Amelia saw Theo striding toward them, his hands jammed into his pockets.

  “You should come with me,” he said to Sophie when he reached the taxi stand.

  “Come with you where?” Sophie peered at him from behind her sunglasses.

  “To the orphanage,” Theo continued, running his hands through his hair. “I’m driving there tomorrow.”

  “Why would I go with you?” Sophie asked.

  “The children never see any women except the nuns,” Theo explained. “It would be lovely for them to meet a beautiful young woman.”

  Sophie lowered her eyes and studied the pavement. She saw a taxi pull up in front of them and turned to Theo. “All right, I’ll come.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Theo beamed. “Where shall I pick you up?”

  Sophie climbed into the taxi and leaned out the window. “I’ll meet you at ten o’clock at the top of the Spanish Steps.”

  * * *

  “What was I thinking? I’ve never done anything like that before,” Sophie groaned, pulling off her scarf. She sat on the blue silk sofa in her suite with her foot propped on an ottoman. The curtains were open and the sun had dropped behind Saint Peter’s Basilica. The sky turned purple and a light fog settled over the rooftops.

  “He’s cute and he liked you,” Amelia replied, reclining against the yellow silk cushions.

  “I’m engaged!” Sophie exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to say yes, it popped out of my mouth.”

  “Do you really have no contact with your fiancé?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.

  “My father thought it was best.” Sophie hesitated. “He didn’t want us to be tempted before the wedding.”

  “You must have had boyfriends,” Amelia continued.

  “We had dances at boarding school.” Sophie reached down and massaged her ankle. Her long lashes were coated with thick mascara and she wore light powder and pink lip gloss. “I kissed a lot of boys, but it was as exciting as practicing on a pillow.”

  “You’ve never…?” Amelia stopped, trying to find the right words.

  “I don’t mind waiting until I’m married; I have my whole life ahead of me.” Sophie twisted her ponytail. “I should call Theo and tell him I can’t come.”

  “He’ll be disappointed,” Amelia replied. “He was as excited as an overgrown puppy.”

  “I want to visit the orphanage but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.” Sophie’s eyes were wide and she bit her lower lip.

  “Welcome to the world of dating.” Amelia laughed. “It’s like a Shakespeare play. No one says what they mean and someone’s heart is bound to get broken.”

  * * *

  Amelia took the elevator to the lobby and crossed the marble floor to the gift shop. It was early evening and the space was filled with men in dark silk suits and women in glittering cocktail dresses and narrow stilettos. Amelia glanced at the striped velvet sofas and mirrored walls and ornate ceilings and caught her breath. Even the fragrance from the huge vases of yellow roses was intoxicating.

  She purchased Vanity Fair and Variety and a packet of Life Savers. She was tired from spending all morning on the set an
d the afternoon at the Villa Borghese. She wanted to curl up in bed with a room service tray of insalata mista and gnocchi pomodoro and tiramisu.

  She walked toward the elevator and saw a man standing at the reception desk. He had dark curly hair and wore a blue blazer with beige slacks. He had a leather backpack slung over his shoulder and clutched a bouquet of pink roses.

  Amelia froze, her heart hammering in her chest. Whit couldn’t possibly be here. He wasn’t the kind of person who jumped on a plane and flew over the Atlantic to surprise her. She ran toward the desk and tripped on the Oriental rug. Her package went flying and her magazines spilled on the floor.

  She scrambled to collect the magazines and felt a hand on her arm. She looked up and saw Whit’s blue eyes and white smile.

  “What are you doing here?” she stammered.

  Whit found her hair clip and fastened it in her hair. He gathered the magazines and slipped them in his backpack. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “I came to take you to dinner.”

  * * *

  “You didn’t fly to Rome to take me to dinner,” Amelia said, standing on the balcony of the Villa Medici Suite.

  Whit stood beside her, gazing at the outdoor bar and marble fireplace. The balcony had a polished travertine floor and a glass dining room table and leather chairs. Music played on hidden speakers and twinkling lights bathed the space in a yellow glow.

  “Evan has been trying to hire Alex Tomaselli, the top designer at Maserati, for months.” Whit turned his eyes to the skyline. “I volunteered to fly over and close the deal.”

  “That was noble of you.” Amelia giggled, breathing in his Hugo Boss cologne.

  “I have heard Rome has delicious food,” Whit mused, pulling her toward him. “Apparently the pizza is better than in America.”

  “I was going to order room service,” Amelia murmured, pressing herself against his chest.

  “I’d like to take you somewhere where we can talk.” Whit’s eyes suddenly clouded over. “Somewhere quiet where we can eat pasta and drink a bottle of Italian wine.”