Chapter 17
Rome, Italy
Estelle flew from Portugal to Rome the first week of August. The expectation of what awaited her there filled her with a sense of angst she struggled to shake.
On the plane, she ordered green tea and tried to meditate.
But clearing her mind seemed out of the question.
After all, Rachelle lived in Rome. Rachelle, her long-lost granddaughter, very well might be at Estelle’s reading that very night.
What would Estelle say to her when she saw her?
Would she yell at her for letting so much time pass?
Would she cling to her and never let her go?
The stewardess assumed that Estelle was frightened of flying and paid her extra attention, eventually bringing her a ginger ale and a chocolate-y Italian snack. Estelle thanked her, smiling. But she couldn’t pretend to be all right, not even to shake the stewardess.
When the plane landed, Estelle took a taxi to her downtown hotel, where she was shown a one-bedroom suite with a balcony that overlooked the Coliseum.
Estelle draped her arms over the stone railing and watched the people streaming down below, eating gelato and biding their time till their next plates of pasta and glasses of red wine.
Estelle couldn’t wait to dig into the food here, of course.
But she hoped that she would be doing it with Rachelle across the table from her.
Before Estelle left for the bookstore, she called Sam to check in on things in Nantucket.
“We’re okay,” Sam said. “Darcy and Remy are holding up well, and Gavin’s a force of nature, as ever. I had everyone over for dinner last night. The kids loved the gifts I brought from Europe.”
Estelle pictured her daughter, maybe on the veranda of The Jessabelle House, her face lined with worry for Remy.
“They have another appointment tomorrow to discuss their strategy,” Sam went on. “I wanted to beg to go to the doctor with them, but it’s obviously not my place.” She laughed at herself. “I don’t know what to do with all this anxious energy. And now, goodness me. You’re in Rome!”
“I’m in Rome,” Estelle repeated. She could hardly believe it herself.
“I imagine she’s walking down the street right in front of you,” Sam said of Rachelle. “I imagine she’ll pop around the corner, and everything will be just as it was. But I know it’s a fantasy.”
Estelle didn’t want to make any promises about finding Rachelle and bringing her back. It wasn’t like you could force a thirty-year-old woman to do anything, especially not one as headstrong as Rachelle.
“I’m going to make sure she’s all right, at least,” Estelle promised instead.
Sam sighed. “It’s enough. It has to be.”
After Estelle got off the phone, she wandered through the ancient streets and found her way to the English-language bookstore, where her books were already displayed in the window.
Her face was featured, along with: “Estelle Coleman, Reading, Tonight!” Estelle prayed that Rachelle had spotted it, that she was making up her mind about whether or not she’d come.
Inside, the bookstore manager introduced herself as Sarah.
She was a thirtysomething Canadian woman who’d been living in Rome for the better part of ten years.
“I opened the bookshop because I was tired of ordering all my English-language books online,” she said.
“I wanted a store that offered all the books I’d been wanting to read.
It was a selfish act, all in the pursuit of my own reading pleasure. ”
Estelle laughed. She wondered if Sarah had parents and grandparents back in Canada who missed her and wished she’d come home. But she knew that wasn’t a question she could get away with asking, so she asked another.
“I have something funny to ask you,” Estelle began, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“I promise, I hear all kinds of funny stuff from writers,” Sarah said. “Nothing can shock me.”
Estelle took a breath and told her not to chicken out. “I wondered if you know someone. An expat, like you. Her name is Rachelle. Rachelle Earhart. Or maybe she goes by Rachelle Coleman these days, I don’t know.” Estelle’s heartbeat quickened. “She’s a chef.”
Immediately, Sarah’s face folded and echoed worry. “Rachelle Earhart, of course. I’ve met her a few times. The expat community in Rome isn’t so big. Those of us who’ve been here a while tend to run into each other.”
Estelle could hardly believe it. Her ears rang.
“I take it she’s a relative of yours?” Sarah tilted her head.
“Yes. My granddaughter.” Estelle felt her shoulders slump forward. “I’m curious how she’s doing. When was the last time you saw her?”
Sarah had the good manners not to ask why Estelle didn’t know anything about her granddaughter, why she had to ask a perfect stranger about Rachelle.
“It’s been a dramatic summer for Rachelle, as far as I understand it,” Sarah said tentatively.
“I haven’t seen her since spring. When we talked, she was underwater with plans to open her own restaurant.
” Sarah snapped her fingers. “She was going to name it Coleman! I remember that now. She said it was a family name.”
Estelle’s vision grew blurry with tears.
“Oh, but it was a big disaster,” Sarah said.
“They had a soft opening and invited some influencers and celebrities and Rome-based foodies, that kind of thing. I knew a guy who was there. He said the food was incredible. But suddenly, something exploded in the kitchen. It burned from the inside out, before Rachelle had a chance to get started.”
Estelle gaped at Sarah. “An explosion?”
Sarah shrugged. “They deemed it an accident. Something to do with the electricity, I think? Anyway, I really felt bad for Rachelle when I heard about it. She gave everything to that place.”
Estelle sputtered. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Thankfully no,” Sarah said. She turned to adjust Estelle’s stack of books, as though the conversation had grown too intense for her.
“Is she going to reopen?” Estelle asked, demanding more of Sarah than she could give.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But what I hear about her now aligns with a super different vein.” Sarah’s eyes glinted. “She’s engaged to Rome’s number-one bachelor.”
As Estelle’s heart pounded, Sarah explained who Riccardo was and what it meant to marry into a family like that.
“They have insane old money,” Sarah said.
“Every woman I know is really jealous of Rachelle, actually. She’s going to get an Italian passport, for one, which makes everything easier for her.
But also, I mean, she’ll probably never have to work again. ”
Estelle’s mouth went dry. “Are you jealous of her?”
Sarah laughed. “No! I love my bookstore, and I like working. Also, from what I hear, being a part of that family is difficult. They have expectations. Apparently, your granddaughter fits in. Otherwise, they wouldn’t let that marriage happen. I guarantee it.”
Sarah went back to the office to make a few phone calls, leaving Estelle feeling cold and worried. Did Rachelle know what she was getting herself into? Did she really love this Riccardo guy? There was so little Estelle still knew.
That evening at seven thirty, Estelle settled into the chair in front of her excited audience and read not only from the pages of The Morning We Knew, but also her untitled “widow project.” Her fans were captivated, throwing up their hands to ask questions.
It was only when Estelle had answered four questions about being a widow and writing about it that she realized he was here.
Albert. He stood near the back, his arms crossed, his eyes glinting. It was as though he’d decided to wait until she noticed him before he, too, raised his hand. Estelle couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes?” she addressed him.
“I wondered what the process has been like for you,” Albert asked. “Writing this new novel as you travel through Europe. Has anything inspired you?”
Estelle remembered their gorgeous night on the river in Paris, how romantic it had felt, how her heart had opened up to fresh possibilities and new stories.
“Well, that’s such a great question,” she replied, still smiling stupidly.
She wondered if her fans could tell that she and Albert knew each other, that his appearing here was a part of a dramatic story they were making up as they went along.
“I suppose, being from the United States, everything in Europe feels entrenched in a history that’s entirely romantic to me.
I walk the streets, people-watch, and write in my journal.
I see myself as part of a larger, grander story.
And it makes me understand that I wasn’t meant to be at home, mourning my husband for the rest of my life.
Yes, I miss Roland. I will always miss Roland.
He’s written into my DNA. But I’m seventy-three years old. I don’t want to count myself out yet.”
“Well said,” Albert said, before passing the microphone on to another.
By the time Estelle managed to get away from her fans to find Albert outside, the sun had set over the city.
It was still hot, maybe ninety degrees, and they were sweating and smiling like teenagers.
Like a good European, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
She remembered that she hadn’t thought she’d see him again, if only because he was so wealthy.
“You started writing it,” he said, speaking of her new novel.
“I couldn’t stop myself,” she said. She didn’t tell him how much she’d ached for him to appear in the South of France, in Spain, and in Portugal. He was here now, and that was all that mattered. “Are you in Rome on business?”
“Sort of. But I’m here for a number of other complicated reasons, as well,” Albert said.
“Sounds cagey.” Estelle wondered if he had a girlfriend here, if he had snuck away for the night to see Estelle at the reading.
“If you want, we can go for another walk again,” he said. “I can tell you what’s going on.”
Estelle agreed.
Later, a little after midnight, Estelle slipped out of her hotel suite to meet Albert downstairs. They walked to the Trevi Fountain, where they stood, rapt, gazing at one another. A plaque read that the fountain had been built in 1732, which seemed impossible.
“I wanted to see you before now,” he said. “I know it’s been a little while.”
“You said you’ve been busy,” she said, teasing him.
“I have been.” His smile faltered. “I’m here for family, mostly.
I haven’t seen them in years. Turns out that since I last saw them, they’ve lost millions upon millions of euros.
We were always a prominent, wealthy family.
We practically ran this city. But now, the assets they own are basically property-based.
They have very little money in the bank.
They’re looking at me to bail them out of all of their problems. Not everything they’re up to seems legal, either.
It’s been exhausting, to say the least. I know it sounds awful, but I don’t know how to love them just now. ”
Estelle squeezed his hand. “Can you step away from them? Go back to New York? Leave them to deal with their own problems?”
Albert sighed. “I wish I could. But I feel that I’ve already involved myself too much in their mess. And to tell you the truth, after my most recent divorce, they’re all I have left.”
Estelle considered pointing out their relationship. But she knew it was only a fantasy, something that existed in the late nights in beautiful cities. Maybe it couldn’t survive in the real world.
“You’re a good person, Albert,” she said.
Albert laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. But I think knowing you has made me a little bit better. For as long as I’m allowed to know you, I’m grateful.”
Estelle smiled, biting her tongue to keep herself from crying. Why did it seem that being alive was just one goodbye after another?