Lake Como Page 8

  “Peter proposed?” Portia’s eyes grew wide.

  “I didn’t say yes.” Hallie walked to the railing. “I told him I was going to come here and think about it.”

  “Do you love him?” Portia asked.

  “Peter asked me to move in with him two months after we met. We never even went on a date.” Hallie hesitated. “Constance is dying to plan my wedding and all my friends think he’s perfect for me. But I don’t know if I can trust him.”

  “In Italy it is different.” Portia grabbed the railing, bending into a deep plié. “You trust your heart that you are in love, that’s all that matters.”

  “La dolce vita,” Hallie said, smiling.

  “Let’s go for a swim before the party,” Portia said grimly. “We need to forget about men.”

  Hallie gazed at the sun dancing on the lake. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  * * *

  Hallie and Portia descended a flight of white marble steps to the pool area. The pool was pale blue and surrounded by marble busts. A pool house was equipped with a sauna, exercise room, granite bar, and giant flat-screen television.

  “Sophia won’t allow television in the villa,” Portia explained, grabbing robes and towels. “It’s okay for Riccardo to cheat, but she thinks television is immoral.”

  “I would love to redo this room.” Hallie glanced at the bamboo furniture. “I’ve always wanted to decorate a pool house in greens and blues, with shag carpeting and windows shaped like portals.”

  “You think too much about work,” Portia said, shaking her head. “That’s almost as bad as obsessing about men.”

  “When I was eight I sat in my room every afternoon”—Hallie followed Portia to the pool—“sketching my dream house with a box of colored pencils.”

  “When I was nine I packed my overnight case with three pairs of ballet shoes, two leotards, and my diary.” Portia adjusted the straps on her bikini. “I left a note for Sophia and Pliny that I was going to join La Scala. My plan was to take the bus to Milan and become a member of the ballet school.”

  “What happened?” Hallie imagined Portia, small and slim as a pixie, darting through the gardens to the bus stop.

  “One of the cooks was sitting at the bus stop,” Portia replied. “She turned me around and marched me straight back to Sophia. I had to eat stale bread and stinky cheese for a week.”

  “Why didn’t you dance when you were older?” Hallie wondered.

  “Being a dancer is more scandalous than having a cheating husband.” Portia shrugged. “Tesoro women are wives, mothers, and leaders of the church.”

  “That sounds medieval.” Hallie dipped her toe in the water. The bottom of the pool was made of mosaic tile like shards of colored confetti.

  “The Tesoros have owned the villa since the eighteenth century. In 1763, Augustus Tesoro was given a plot of land for his service to the Duke of Milan. His wife was homesick. She wanted to sell the land and return to her family in Naples,” Portia began.

  “Augustus brought her to this spot and placed his sword on the ground. He said if she insisted they sell he would pierce both their hearts with the sword. She relented and Augustus commissioned Piero Adamo to build the villa.”

  “That’s a terrible story!” Hallie jumped into the pool, splashing Portia.

  “The Tesoro men have always been hot-headed.” Portia dove into the water, her body sleek as a seal. “My father can explode like a firecracker and then be gentle as a lamb.”

  “They do have exquisite taste in architecture.” Hallie grinned, swimming the length of the pool.

  * * *

  Hallie and Portia played in the pool like children on summer vacation. They swam races, they dove for pennies, they did jackknives from the diving board. They climbed out, tired and breathless, and dried themselves with plush, cotton towels.

  “Being a Tesoro woman seems to have certain advantages.” Hallie wrapped herself in a silk robe.

  “We enjoy the finest cuisine,” Portia agreed, picking at a prosciutto sandwich from the tray Lea had prepared. “We have a wine cellar stocked with the best wines. I can drive to Milan and order any gown I want.” Portia sighed. “But I can’t hold on to my own husband. Do you know what they did to deserted wives in ancient Rome?”

  “No.” Hallie bit into a sweet, firm peach.

  “They fed them to the lions in the Colosseum,” Portia replied.

  “They did not.” Hallie laughed, wiping peach juice from her chin.

  “They may as well have.” Portia sighed, lying back on the lounge. “If Riccardo doesn’t come back, my life is over.”

  * * *

  Hallie searched through her dresses, looking for the perfect outfit for tonight’s festivities. Sophia had assigned her the bedroom next to Portia’s, and Lea had hung her clothes in the cavernous walk-in closet. It felt wonderfully decadent to have her own room, to rub her feet on the leopard-skin rug, to stretch out on the four-poster bed, surrounded by fat down pillows.

  Hallie selected a yellow silk Fendi dress and slipped it over her head. She hardly ever wore yellow. Kendra insisted Hallie wear classic, subdued colors to social events in San Francisco. Hallie’s wardrobe consisted mostly of Donna Karan navies, Jill St. John browns, and little black dresses by Dior and Chanel.

  Hallie’s cell phone rang and she jumped. She hadn’t talked to anyone in San Francisco since she arrived in Milan. She’d sent her mother a text that she arrived safely, and replied to a long text from Peter with three x’s and o’s. Hallie saw Constance’s number appear on the screen and pressed answer.

  “Hallie, dear, what time is it in Italy?” Constance asked.

  “It’s evening,” Hallie replied, imagining Constance in her breakfast room, eating a sliced grapefruit.

  “How does Portia look?” Constance asked. “Has she been eating?”

  “Sophia is holding a feast tonight. I’ll make sure Portia eats sirloin tips and roast potatoes.”

  “How is Sophia?” Constance asked. “Did you give her my present?”

  “I’ll give it to her tonight.” Hallie searched her suitcase for the gold package. “You never told me you stayed at the villa.”

  “That was decades ago.” Constance sniffed. “Francesca was miserable. It was time Portia and Marcus were allowed to visit America.”

  “How did you convince Sophia?” Hallie asked.

  “I applied a little pressure,” Constance said. “Sophia is an intelligent woman, a little hard around the edges.”

  “Like a pointed dagger!” Hallie shivered.

  “Peter came for dinner last night,” Constance said. “We discussed the Labor Day party. He suggested we have two bands, one for the older crowd and one for the young people.”

  “Peter was there?” Hallie clutched the corner of the dressing table. Suddenly she missed his bright green eyes, his hard chest and long, sinewy legs. She wished she could conjure him up and they could stand on the balcony, watching the sunset over the lake.

  “He had great suggestions for the band,” Constance continued. “He’s been researching them for your wedding.”

  “Our wedding,” Hallie repeated.

  “I told him we would announce your engagement at the party,” Constance said.

  “You told Peter I was going to say yes?” Hallie asked.

  “You are going to say yes,” Constance replied. “He is so charming and madly in love with you.”

  “I just,” Hallie began. She pictured Constance alone in her mansion, sneaking gin and tonics when Louisa wasn’t looking. “Wanted to tell him myself,” she finished lamely.

  “You’re very lucky,” Constance said. “Peter worships you.”

  “I know.” Hallie closed her eyes and pictured Kendra, cool as ice, asking to see Hallie’s diamond ring. She saw Peter standing outside Gary Danko, pleading with her to believe him. “I have to go.” Hallie blinked. “I can’t be late, I’m the guest of honor.”

  “It’s wonderful to talk to
you,” Constance replied. “I feel like you’re just next door.”

  Hallie hung up and gazed at the lake. The sky was dark and stars glittered like diamonds. Suddenly she missed her own bed with its suede headboard and cream satin sheets. She felt far away from home, but she didn’t know if the world she and Peter shared, riding the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf, climbing the hill to Coit Tower, would be there when she returned.

  * * *

  Hallie descended the marble staircase, feeling like she was walking into a Fellini movie. Uniformed waiters passed trays of prawns and scampi. Bartenders mixed martinis and champagne cocktails. Hallie stepped outside and saw the balcony lit up like a Christmas tree. Paper lanterns swayed above and fairy lights were wrapped around tall plane trees.

  But it was the guests that made Hallie stop and stare. In San Francisco, cocktail parties were conducted with unspoken rules of decorum. Women wore gowns that did not show their cleavage. Men and women stood far apart, discussing the opera or the stock market until the hosts called them into dinner.

  Hallie slipped past women wearing metallic dresses and see-through chiffon. She saw men with heavy chains around their necks and gold rings on every finger. The men held cocktails in one hand and used the other to touch a woman’s cheek, caress her hair, run his fingers down her back.

  “I see Sophia invited the youngest and brightest.” Portia stood beside her. She wore a siren-red gown with a plunging neckline. Her hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes were painted like an Egyptian queen. She wore a large ruby around her neck and sparkling diamonds in her ears.

  “You look amazing,” Hallie murmured, feeling suddenly like a staid San Francisco socialite.

  “Sophia insisted on the jewels.” Portia shrugged. “She wants to remind Riccardo why he married into the Tesoro family.”

  “Riccardo didn’t marry you for your money,” Hallie replied.

  “Oh, Riccardo has plenty of money.” Portia wound her way to the bar. “But in Italy money can’t buy a title or a family tree. He’ll be here any minute. I need a double shot, no ice.”

  “I thought Sophia was a strict Catholic.” Hallie gazed at a woman whose dress was slit so high Hallie could see lace panties. “This is like a scene from The Decameron.”

  “In Italy the mating dance is conducted in the open.” Portia drained her glass. “Sex is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “The women aren’t wearing any clothing,” Hallie mumbled.

  “They wear their family jewels, their titles, and their ancestry. Half the women in this room are countesses or princesses. The men are princes and dukes. They have known one another since they were babies in their birthday suits.”

  “In San Francisco, even babies wear rompers or onesies,” Hallie replied, sipping a fizzy champagne cocktail.

  “Portia, Hallie, you shine brighter than any woman in the room.” Pliny strode toward them. He was freshly shaved and wore pleated navy slacks and a white silk shirt.

  “Sophia’s hairdresser spent two hours on my hair.” Portia touched the tendrils that framed her large green eyes. “I hope she got her money’s worth.”

  “Do not be angry with your grandmother,” Pliny said, frowning. “She wants what is best for you.”

  “Sophia wants a fairy tale.” Portia grimaced. “Oh, God! I see Riccardo.”

  Hallie followed Portia’s gaze. Riccardo stood in a corner, flirting with two girls wearing neon miniskirts and stiletto heels.

  “Riccardo is like a game hunter.” Portia rattled her glass. “He only likes young meat.”

  “Your father is right,” Hallie piped in. “You are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “That’s why I have family.” Portia smiled at Pliny and Hallie. “They always say the right thing. I may as well take the bull by the horns.” She set off in Riccardo’s direction. “May the best matador win.”

  “And you?” Pliny turned warm eyes to Hallie. “Did you recover from your fainting spell?”

  “I hope Sophia doesn’t hate me for ruining brunch.” Hallie blushed.

  “Sophia will be grateful if you convince Portia to take Riccardo back,” Pliny murmured.

  Hallie watched Riccardo kiss Portia briefly on both cheeks. She saw Portia lean in to him, her body fluttering like a bird. She wanted to tell Pliny that Riccardo didn’t want to come back, that Portia should be encouraged to move on. But she saw Pliny’s proud Roman profile, and knew he wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted.

  Sophia joined them. “I see Portia and Riccardo found each other.” She wore a green satin dress and gold slippers. A ruby ring as large as a bird’s egg dwarfed her ring finger.

  “The Tesoro ruby.” Pliny glanced at the ring. “Isn’t that a little excessive?”

  “It will be Portia’s one day.” Sophia shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to wear it in public.”

  “Find your enemy’s weak spot and go in for the kill.” Pliny chuckled. “You would have done well in the Medici court.”

  “Constance asked me to give you a gift,” Hallie broke in, handing Sophia the rectangular package.

  “Your grandmother is so thoughtful.” Sophia smiled. “I will open it later. I must make sure the Rothschild Sauvignon Blanc is chilled.”

  Sophia and Pliny drifted off and Hallie nursed her cocktail. Suddenly she felt alone and hungry. A dark-haired man strode toward her. He wore a patterned silk shirt and his face looked familiar.

  “You are not wearing the silk scarf I gave you.” He made a little bow. “I am crestfallen.”

  “You are the man at the airport!” Hallie exclaimed, recognizing the dark curly hair and sharp black eyes.

  “Alfonso Diamante.” He took Hallie’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I see you arrived in Como safely.”

  “It feels like a century ago,” Hallie said, and sighed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have business in Lenno,” Alfonso replied. “The Tesoros are known for their feasts and I am always hungry.”

  “I forgot how late Italians eat,” Hallie said. “I’m starving.”

  “I like an American who can eat.” Alfonso nodded approvingly. “Sophia would not like her guest to go hungry; we will fill you up.”

  Hallie followed Alfonso through the living room. They passed the dining room where a small army of waiters put the finishing touches on the table. They walked through a conservatory with a grand piano, and a gallery hung with watercolors.

  Alfonso opened the door to the kitchen and Hallie gasped. The kitchens she read about in the Hamptons and Dubai, the kitchens she dreamed about when she climbed into bed, could not compare with the Tesoro kitchen. The floors were antique wood, made smooth and shiny with pine oil. The counters were pink and white marble, luminous as seashells. Hallie’s eyes rested on the backsplash behind the industrial-size range. It was made of tiny mosaic tiles and depicted the Last Supper.

  “Sophia takes great pride in design, but now is not the time to study art.” Alfonso walked toward the pots simmering on the stove. “It is time to eat.”

  Alfonso heaped plates with risotto, asparagus, sweet potato, bruschetta, and olive pesto. He slipped a bottle of wine and two glasses under his arm and motioned Hallie to follow him.

  “We will go to the gardens,” he explained. “We will get in trouble if the cook finds the risotto missing.”

  “You know the villa very well.” Hallie followed Alfonso across the lawn.

  “I have known Marcus since university,” Alfonso replied. “I spent many summers swimming in the pool and sailing on the lake. The Tesoros are excellent hosts as long as you compliment Sophia on her wines and know how to dress for dinner.”

  Alfonso opened the door of the long, low greenhouse and turned on the lights. Hallie saw rows of azaleas and rhododendrons, heads of lettuce, bundles of asparagus, and bunches of baby carrots.

  “Here we will be warm, like the plants.” Alfonso found a tarp and spread it on the ground. “Marcus didn’t tell me he had a sister in
America.”

  “My mother was married to Pliny, but they separated when Portia was a baby,” Hallie replied. “She’s my half sister.”

  “Poor Portia.” Alfonso dropped his eyes. “I would like to take a skein of silk and wrap it around Riccardo’s neck.”

  “You know Riccardo?” Hallie raised her eyebrows.

  “Riccardo’s father owns a fleet of supermarkets from Naples to Milan, but Riccardo has the soul of a shopkeeper.” Alfonso frowned. “You don’t display your mistress like a side of beef.”

  “Portia is having a rough time,” Hallie conceded, scooping up a forkful of risotto.

  “She always had bad taste in men. Marcus and I used to tease her about the boys riding motorcycles she brought to the villa.” Alfonso swirled his wine in the wineglass. “Does the American half sister have better luck with men?”

  Hallie choked on the spicy rice and fish. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “But no ring.” Alfonso touched her hand. “American men remain children too long. An Italian would have put a ring on that finger.”

  Hallie dropped her fork on the plate. “We should go, I feel much better.”

  “You are right.” Alfonso gathered the plates and glasses. “Sophia will throw one of her famous tantrums if her guests are late to the table.”

  “I can’t imagine Sophia losing control,” Hallie replied when they walked outside. She breathed the crisp night air, relieved to get away from the sweet scent of hothouse flowers.

  “All the Tesoros have terrible tempers. I have seen Portia slice the tires of a motorcycle and shred a leather jacket into pieces.”

  “I hope no one was wearing the jacket at the time,” Hallie said, laughing.

  “If I remember, she had already kicked him out of the villa.” Alfonso grinned.

  Hallie followed him down a gravel path to the house. She caught her heel in the pebbles and grabbed a bush to steady herself. Her hand fell through the leaves, and she landed on the ground, her knees scraped by the stones.

  “Are you hurt?” Alfonso crouched beside her.

  “I’ll be fine.” Hallie struggled to get up. “It’s just a scratch.”

  Alfonso took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the blood on her knee. He pulled her up, brushing the dirt from her dress. He put one arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the balcony.