Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Tuscany
Alexander was on his feet, streaming across the veranda of his mother’s villa, his arms outstretched.
The daydream or nightmare of this day was proving unstoppable, and he’d decided to ride along with it, to throw himself into his love for his family, to try to fix past hurts and wrongs.
When he hugged his mother, he recognized how much frailer she truly was.
He felt her skeleton clearly under her beautiful Italian fashion. She reminded him of a baby bird.
When he pulled back, he realized there were tears in his mother’s eyes that she, it seemed, refused to let fall. She’d always been strong, but Alexander wondered, not for the first time, how much of it was an act. She put her hand on his cheek and said, “Alexander. My darling son.”
“Mom,” he said. He felt something in his chest breaking. Although he’d seen her a handful of times over the years, he’d never seen her together with any of his siblings. Warmth flowed through his arms and chest and legs.
“Tell me,” she said, speaking in that dreamy Italian of hers, “how are your children? You haven’t sent me photographs of them in so long. They must be close to retirement age by now.”
Hearing about his children sent Alexander into a momentary spiral.
Janie took the kids, he remembered. She isn’t telling me where they are.
She isn’t answering the phone. She doesn’t trust me.
But with a shaking hand, he removed his phone from his back pocket and showed off his most recent photographs of Xander, Gwen, and Conor.
Francesca sat at the table between Nina and Charlotte, and the three of them scrutinized the pictures, saying things like, “Oh, Gwen has your eyes!” and “Xander looks so much like Dad, it’s uncanny,” and “Conor has my great-aunt Teresa’s eyes.
” Alexander refilled their glasses with wine and fetched an additional glass for his mother, feeling like a ghost in her massive villa.
Soon, he’d go next door to check on his famous director grandfather and grandmother.
I should have spent more time here, he thought, his chest filled with shame. There was so much time he couldn’t get back.
Out on the veranda, Francesca returned Alexander’s phone and closed her eyes.
The three Whitmore children waited, sensing that their mother had something to say.
But the silence stretched on a little too long.
For the first time, Alexander wondered if his mother was entirely healthy and all right.
She was thin, terribly thin. She’d just taken a midday nap but already seemed to need another, and she was smiling much more than she ever had.
Was she acting this way because of aging? Or was it something else?
It wasn’t the kind of thing you could ask about outright, but Alexander burned with questions.
What if something was wrong?
Finally, Francesca opened her eyes and said, again in English so that Nina could understand, “I have a request.”
“Sure, Mom,” Nina said. “What do you need?”
Alexander glanced at Nina, surprised. She spoke to Francesca tenderly, although she’d learned that Francesca wasn’t her birth mother. Maybe they’d talked about it and moved on? Then again, was that really something you could move on from so easily?
“I want to ask that we have a normal night together,” Francesca said, raising her chin. “I want to ask that we don’t talk about anything serious, that we don’t mention Nantucket unless it pertains to happy memories, and that we don’t speak ill of the dead.”
Nina, Alexander, and Charlotte glanced at one another, surprised at Francesca’s rather tender request.
“We’ll be normal,” Charlotte said.
“We’ll be kind,” Nina promised.
Francesca looked across the table at her eldest son, waiting for his answer. Alexander felt like he had a frog in his throat.
“I’ll be good,” he assured.
Francesca smiled and reached for her glass of wine. “It’s all I want.”
For a little while, the four of them caught up on basics that had nothing to do with the darkness that stirred beneath their family.
It was clear that Nina and Charlotte had spent a great deal of time with Francesca, presumably around the time Alexander had sent Ned the private detective to the villa to “fish around.”
“I’m so glad you came back,” Francesca said to Charlotte and Nina several times, squeezing their wrists, their knees. She was far sweeter than she’d ever been. Nina had never experienced Francesca like this, Alexander was sure.
Alexander wondered if Nina knew the identity of her birth mother. He guessed that Francesca wouldn’t readily say the name. It wasn’t a comfortable part of her past.
He wondered, too, if Charlotte knew the identity of her true father—that she wasn’t a “real Whitmore,” genetically speaking. But as he considered this, weighing up additional questions and the density of their shared past, he spotted someone in the distance riding a horse.
“Who’s that?” he asked during a moment of silence, remembering Jefferson Albright, the man who’d fathered Charlotte after his mother’s intense affair.
“He’s an Italian I hired to deal with the horses,” Francesca said, an air of sorrow to her voice.
Last Alexander knew, Jefferson had been living here at the villa with his mother.
They’d had a later-in-life romance that had flourished into a full-blown, monogamous relationship.
When had that fallen apart? Had something happened to Jefferson?
And was that why their mother seemed so frail?
Heartache could do monstrous things to a person.
He knew, because his own body was going through enormous changes right now.
His “breakup,” or whatever it was, with Janie was the first breakup of his life that hadn’t been his idea.
The rejection was startling, to say the least. It felt like a chainsaw going through his heart.
For two hours, Francesca, Charlotte, Alexander, and Nina spoke about happy things.
Alexander talked about Xander’s and Conor’s and Gwen’s hobbies and sports; Charlotte spoke about her documentary projects and the funding she’d finally secured; and Nina spoke about her children, Will and Fiona, who were away at camp.
“I tried to pick them up early, but they begged to be taken back till the start of school,” Nina said, with an edge of sorrow to her voice.
Francesca talked about the Italian village nearby, the produce she’d grown in her garden, and the conversations she’d had recently with their crazy-intelligent grandfather.
Her life seemed slow, simple, easy in a way that didn’t match up with the intensity Francesca Alexander had known back in Nantucket.
For dinner, Charlotte made a glorious pasta with fresh herbs and freshly grated Parmesan cheese.
It was warm, and they sat on the veranda, wrapping pasta around their forks and watching the day fade to night.
Alexander, who’d quit carbs a few years ago to ensure he retained his “captain physique,” felt as though he’d never tasted anything more delicious in his life.
He got himself a second helping. Maybe if the airline never let him return, he could sit around, eat pasta, and enjoy his life again.
But I can’t give up on my dream, he thought, remembering how hard he’d worked to get to where he was.
Francesca said good night shortly after she finished her small serving of pasta.
“Are you sure, Mom?” Charlotte asked, popping up to clear the plates.
“I’m sure the three of you have much more to talk about,” Francesca said. “I already laid down ground rules for our conversation. Ground rules have been canceled! Talk about whatever you like after I’m gone.”
“We’d rather spend time with you,” Charlotte insisted.
But Francesca wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll be asleep in half an hour.” She paused at the double-wide door and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers. “I love you, my darlings,” she said in Italian. “Sweet dreams.”
For a little while, the three Whitmore children waited in the dark, sipping the last of their wine and watching the wind rustle through the spooky poplars.
August was right around the corner, and Alexander couldn’t help but think about his children back in Los Angeles (wherever they were), getting ready for their first days of school.
He remembered how nervous Xander had been for first grade, telling him and Janie that he wasn’t prepared because he didn’t know algebra yet.
He’d wept and wept. Janie and Alexander had tried to tell him that algebra was for bigger kids, but that had made it worse.
It hadn’t occurred to Xander that he’d get big.
“I don’t want to move away!” he’d cried.
“Alexander,” Charlotte said, interrupting his reverie, “does the name Seth Green mean anything to you?”
Alexander turned to look at his sister. Seth Green. Was it an actor’s name? A friend of the family? Or was it Charlotte’s newest boyfriend, maybe a guy she’d met back in Nantucket?
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t know the name.”
Charlotte inhaled sharply and looked at Nina, as though asking permission to go on.
“Seth Green is Jack Whitmore’s new name,” Nina said flatly.
Alexander’s stomach curdled. “I’m sorry?”
Charlotte and Nina nodded furiously and began to talk at once, until Alexander demanded that they slow down and walk him through what they knew.
“I left Italy when I was twenty-one or so,” Charlotte explained.
“I went to New York City to make documentaries that nobody really cared about or watched. But at one of my screenings, this guy came who looked really familiar. I followed him down the street and into a bar, and then I realized he was my brother. My brother, who was supposed to be dead.” Charlotte’s eyes bugged out, and she turned to look up at what they knew was their mother’s window. It was dark.