“I can barely work the register in my own store,” said Catherine sympathetically, before catching the daggers coming from Peri’s eyes. In response, she bought a gray knitted backpack and a black beaded evening bag.
Peri, mollified, began wrapping up her purchases with great care, folding them in layers of tissue.
“Going to some great parties in Italy?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” said Catherine, who most certainly wasn’t planning on having fun ever again. “I don’t really have an itinerary for the trip.”
“Dakota said you had a lot of work to do, finding one-of-a-kind things.”
“Right, yes, of course there’s that schedule,” lied Catherine. She really didn’t know what she was going to do with herself, however. She’d already canceled her previously arranged trip to the Cara Mia Vineyard and had let go of the apartment she booked. She just wanted to be on her own and think. And stew. And punish herself for falling into a fantasy future.
“You’re so lucky,” said Peri, carefully placing Catherine’s purchases in a large lavender Walker and Daughter shopping bag. “I envy how you have it all together, Catherine.”
“Oh, you know what they say,” said Catherine. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
Staring at the waves was a profound and unexpected pleasure. Anita spent hours watching the rolls of blue water and foamy white bubbles over and over.
“All is forgiveness out here,” she told Marty, leaning in for a hug as he kissed the top of her head. “Constant renewal.”
With her acupressure bracelets on her wrists to prevent seasickness, Anita was thoroughly enjoying her days on the boat. She nibbled on tea sandwiches in the afternoon, joined the sixty-year-old brothers who were sitting at their dinner table for a regular game of trivia in the mornings, and indulged her sweet tooth with three scoops of French vanilla ice cream (and an extra wafer cookie) every night. Marty took her to the casino, where she won forty-seven dollars that she promptly stashed in her pocketbook, and they attended several wonderful history lectures. Not to mention she’d brought over a great deal of beautiful yarn—all in cream, her signature color no matter what Dakota had to say about it—so she could work on her wedding coat. Because she’d finally decided what she was going to wear when she married Marty: a long sleeveless gown topped with a delicate and light knitted coat that would fall in puddles and trail behind her as she walked down the aisle. So you see, she told herself as she knit yet another row on tiny size 3 circs, it truly is a good thing there’s some time before the big event.
But filling her days was all just a holding pattern until they could get to Southampton and meet with the private eye Marty had selected. She’d brought all sorts of things with her: old photographs, family papers, the stack of postcards—the one of Big Ben had arrived in April 1968—and contemporary pictures of her own children and grandchildren. She’d even tucked in some photos of the club, and of her working in the shop with Georgia and a young Dakota. No matter where or how she found Sarah, she was determined to catch her up on the details.
“It’s possible she’s passed on,” said Marty, once again finding Anita at the railing, staring out at the ocean. “There’s been no postcard. Let’s be prepared for the disappointment.”
“Nonsense,” said Anita, not lifting her eyes from the water. “She’s a good fifteen years younger than I am. She’s only sixty-three.” But even as she said it, she realized again how much time had passed and she frowned.
Anita had anticipated all sorts of scenarios. That she might not recognize Sarah, or that Sarah would look very tired from years of struggle and hard work, or that she and Sarah would meet again and discover they had nothing whatsoever to say to each other, even after all this longing. The gap had grown too wide and the distance could not be bridged.
She alternated different worries for different days so that she could properly wear herself out with every concern.
Anita tried to remember Sarah’s favorite songs, favorite colors, and favorite foods. Chicken soup, she thought. Or maybe that was Nathan? What if she’d simply mixed it all up over the years and the crumbs of Sarah she had held on to were really parts of someone else’s story? Wasn’t that, in its way, worse than losing her outright?
“Did you and your brother Sam ever have a big fight?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, yeah, we were squabblers,” said Marty. “But when it came down to things, we’ve always made it work.”
“Sarah was more like my daughter, sort of, than a sister,” said Anita. “We couldn’t giggle and whisper late at night because I was practically out of the house by the time she came along. But she always felt like a gift.”
Marty nodded, paying close attention even though they’d talked of little else but Sarah for days, weeks, now.
“How easy it is to forget how things used to be,” Anita said finally. “So few things cause scandal anymore.”
Alone in Venice—James had moved on quickly to Rome—Catherine did her best to play tourist: she drank a glass of wine and listened to a violinist in Saint Mark’s Square, and she went to the studio of one of her favorite glassblowers and spent an astronomical sum of money until he nodded his approval at her and she felt, for a brief moment, worthy.
Then she felt disgusted with herself.
You’re lost again, Catherine, she told herself as she took a water taxi back to her hotel for a quiet lunch alone. She was doing so well and then . . . what? Lonely is lonely but was she really going to let herself wander through life as one half of a mysterious whole?
It’d be no good to trudge her way through a city as glorious as Venice, she told herself, as she put on a large hat to shield her fair skin from the sun and made her way to the Museum of Archaeology. She investigated the ivory carvings and mummies, and admired bust after bust of handsome Roman generals and emperors. After a while, in spite of the craftsmanship, in spite of the presentation, she began to giggle.
They were all the same. Over and over again. The heads, the pose. Oh, maybe a nose here or there was different. But the busts were simply repetitive.
“Someone should have broken the mold,” she said to a madras-shorts-clad tourist beside her, who frowned to demonstrate he was a solemn art connoisseur who took museum visiting very, very seriously.
Each figure looked confident and handsome. Self-assured even after two thousand years. Surely they must have been frightened some days, thought Catherine, facing dangerous battles or watching their friends die. Certainly, too, they anguished over wayward lovers, though they likely had the luxury of strangling more than a few.
How peculiar, she realized, that as an art history major she’d spent years admiring form—the beauty and the perfection—and not wondering very much about the men behind the great statues. The subjects, putting forth their best impressions, keeping their privacies to themselves. The artists, choosing to reflect only what was ideal, and ignoring, for example, double chins and scars and wrinkles. And in doing so, their monumental talents had all but wiped clean that which made each of these men unique. All that had been left behind was the impression of their power.
It was an approach that once made perfect sense to Catherine. But not anymore.
“I am my own artist,” she said aloud. And with her focus on being perfect, perfect, perfect, she was always trying to obscure Catherine the woman. Over and over: she did the same thing. And, unlike these great faces, in doing so she gave away all her power and esteem.
“Time to try a new pattern,” she said, to herself this time. She hadn’t been in love with Nathan, she knew; she’d been in love with the idea of living Anita’s charmed life. Of getting a ready-made family, tied up with a bow. Of knowing with absolute certainty that she had a place.
But she’d always had a place. With herself. She’d just forgotten.
“Thank you, Julius. You’ve been a great help,” she told the statue, barely registering the museumgoers who stepped cautiously around the woman talking to the artwor
k. “I’ll buy you a drink when I see you in Rome.”
twenty-one
The flight to Rome had been a miracle. Ginger wanted to do anything and everything Dakota did, and that included sitting quietly, speaking in a low voice, and sipping at her juice slowly.
“Let’s have a conversation,” the five-and-a-half-year-old strawberry blonde said to Dakota, who was sitting on her right. Ginger had the middle seat, tucked in between her mother and her new best friend.
“Excellent idea,” agreed Dakota, who reached down to her backpack and pulled out an American Girl catalog. “Let’s discuss which dolls we like and why,” she said, as Ginger nodded vigorously and Lucie, so pleased she’d persevered with James, whipped out a cushy neck pillow and dropped off into an exhausted sleep, not even minding being stirred by Ginger’s and Dakota’s giggles as they laughed at her snoring.
Their arrival at the Rome airport was less sanguine, however, when they discovered that their luggage had inexplicably been sent to Chicago.
“It will arrive soon,” said a man with a clipboard in heavily accented English.
“When?” asked Lucie forcefully.
“Maybe tomorrow,” said the man, before adding, “Or the next day.”
“You said Polly would be safe,” accused Ginger, pointing a chubby finger at her mother.
“Toys,” said Lucie by way of explanation to Dakota, before insisting to her daughter that Polly and friends were simply on a longer flight.
“It’ll be okay,” said Dakota, “I have an extra T-shirt in my backpack that you can wear.”
Instantly, all worries about the toy bag were forgotten.
Clutching carry-ons and Sweetness, Ginger’s stuffie who had been the sole member of the toy community to sit with the people, they made their way through customs and to the waiting car, ready to take them into the newly refurbished V hotel in Rome. Staying there had been one of James’s many conditions, but Lucie was more than happy to stay there. Dakota had been less impressed, frustrated by her father maneuvering his way into her adventure. She imagined he’d still be following her around when she was thirty.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” had been Catherine’s response to Dakota’s entreaty that she prevent James from tagging along. “I’ve heard of far worse things than working in the international development office of V in Italy. Your father’s a talented man and, against your best efforts, you just may end up learning something.”
Catherine had also been a pain lately, hard to get hold of for a chat and so on.
But her first sight of the Italian countryside as the small auto careened up the freeway toward Rome thrilled her.
“I love seeing new places,” cried Dakota, staring out the car window.
“Me, too,” said Ginger, reaching over to Lucie and holding her hand absentmindedly.
In short order, they were in the city, watching the shops and homes fly past outside the window, people strolling on the sidewalks, choosing fruit, talking into their cell phones. It was just like New York except it was completely different.
“Even the old ladies look fashionable,” exclaimed Dakota, twisting her head to catch peeks out both windows.
“Yeah,” enthused Ginger. “Nice ladies!”
The taxi sped through the fortifications of the ancient city, the brown stone and brick remarkably intact.
“Can’t you just feel the marching footsteps of the centurions?” asked Dakota.
“That’s just a scooter in the distance,” laughed the taxi driver. “The energy of Rome will win your heart. You will love it!”
“Oh my God,” said Dakota in reply. There, more impressive than seeing the building on any television program, were the wide arches of the Colosseum.
“It’s just right there, on the side of the road.”
“Yeah,” seconded Ginger. “Look, Mommy.”
The car continued moving with the traffic—there was no time, no place to stop—but the honking and noise of the city faded away as Dakota gaped. On either side of the street were columns that once held up buildings and now stood, majestic and alone, a reminder of days gone by.
“It’s really . . . real,” said Dakota. “The past is present. Right here. This is people. It’s like feeling ghosts.”
In a way that her trips to Scotland and even seeing its castles had not quite made clear, Dakota felt awe like she’d never previously experienced. The modern-day Roman actors dressed as gladiators and taking photos with the tourists notwithstanding, Dakota felt a deep joy at seeing the proof of this ancient civilization. A world that had left its remnants behind. “Look at us,” the ruination seemed to say. “We were here. This was ours. And now we’re gone. Everything disappears. Everything stays.”
Finally, then, this was a city that understood her soul.
“Dakota’s crying,” said Ginger confidently to Lucie. “She doesn’t like Rome.”
“Are you kidding?” Dakota reached over and rubbed the top of Ginger’s head. “I love it!”
“Me, too!” shouted Ginger, earning them a sharp glance from the driver as they made their way to the V.
This summer, Dakota knew, would be a time of discovery. Each passing second revealed something new and glorious—and she wasn’t even out of the car yet!
She didn’t have any idea what she was looking for. But here in Rome, she was going to find it. She just knew it.
Getting to the V, checking in, riding up the elevator to their suite—a room for Lucie and Ginger and a room for Dakota—and ordering up a platter of breakfast was more than enough for one day, Lucie declared. Ginger was practically comatose on the sofa, lolling about and trying to stay awake to keep listening to Dakota, who was still going on about the Colosseum.
“And you haven’t even been inside yet,” pointed out Lucie.
“I know,” shouted Dakota, before lowering her volume. “If it’s this cool from the street, imagine what it’s going to be like when I get through the entrance!”
“We’ll see it all, I promise,” said Lucie. “Together and when you’re exploring on your own. But for now, let’s have a nap.”
“No,” muttered Ginger, out of force of habit. She could barely keep her eyes open. Lucie covered her with a blanket and, making sure the door was locked, went to her bedroom and took a long, hot shower—flights always left her feeling grimy—before flopping down onto her pillows and sleeping.
When she opened her eyes, it was dark in the room. And, when she opened the blinds, dark outside. Dressing quickly, she ventured out into the living area. Ginger, clutching Sweetness, didn’t stir. And a few knocks on Dakota’s door produced no reply. She went to her handbag and picked up her global cell phone and checked the time: one forty-five a.m. Had they really managed to sleep for ten hours? Wow. They must have been more exhausted than she realized. Picking up Ginger, she carried her to the bedroom and undressed her, slipping her sweet baby and Sweetness together under the covers. “I should have brought shin guards,” she said to herself, remembering how much Ginger could kick in her sleep. And then she crawled into bed next to her daughter and nodded off quickly.
When she awoke again it was still dark. No. It was even darker. There was no light at all, in fact: the blinds were very effective at their chosen profession. Something was missing. There was no clock radio with red numbers blinking at her. That was it. Feeling disoriented and thirsty—hungry, too—Lucie stumbled her way to the living area of the suite, just as Dakota was coming out of her bedroom in a long T-shirt.
“What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Lucie, who picked up a phone to call the lobby. Dakota waited as she asked for the hour and then hung up.
“It’s a quarter to two in the morning,” she told Dakota. “Only I swear I was up at this time hours ago.”
“We slept until the middle of the night?”
“Yeah,” said Lucie, reaching into her purse and checking the time on her phone, which seem
ed to think it was nine forty-five a.m. “Oh, man,” she said. “I could have awakened us all at a normal hour, but my phone’s time was off. We have now officially slept through our first day in Rome.”
“I am so starved,” said Dakota. “Any limits on the minibar?”
“Not tonight,” said Lucie. “Let’s raid that sucker and eat all the ovepriced chocolate and snacks we can find.”
“Should we wake up Ginger?” asked Dakota.
“Oh, Dakota. Definitely not,” said Lucie. “I can see you still have so much to learn.”
Three first-class tickets. That’s what Catherine bought on Monday morning, one for herself, and two more for the young couple with the giant backpacks waiting in the station.
“Why?” they asked, clearly confused, when she presented them with the tickets.
“Because I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said, feeling quite satisfied with herself. She hadn’t brought a book or a magazine with her for the train journey to Rome. Instead, she was going to sit by herself for a little while and stare out the window. And then she was going to use her very expensive phone minutes and call someone she’d never taken the time to get to know: KC. The only person she imagined wouldn’t be horrified at the Nathan debacle. Catherine suspected they might, in fact, have a great deal in common.
Plus she was going to eat a very delicious panini-style sandwich with sun-dried tomatoes and chicken, and not worry about getting crumbs on her pink silk blouse and cream skirt, and she wasn’t going to limit herself to just half a sandwich lest it all go to her hips.
Catherine settled into her seat and put on her sunglasses, ready to be dazzled by the green Italian countryside.