Chapter Ten
Patrick gripped the wheel of their tiny bubble rental car with both hands, not once moving them from ten and two the length of Lake Como’s shoreline drive. There was barely room in the boot for even half of their luggage; Grant was smushed with the rest of their bags in the rear. Patrick himself was comically slumped over the wheel, his six-foot frame much too big for the driver’s seat. The cars were small, street signs were all in Italian, and there was only a single lane in each direction, which many raced down like it was the Autobahn—but at least the Italians drove on the side of the street he was used to. Every so often Patrick and the kids would pull into a small town and the traffic would slow to a crawl, and then, as if all European motorists had death wishes, it would resume lightning speeds again. Twice he almost clipped old Italian men out for walks with their brindled fleabags.
It had been a long time since Patrick had driven with the kids and he did a double take seeing Maisie in the passenger seat. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be sitting up front with me?” Maisie leaned her forehead against the side window.
“Do I have a choice?” Indeed they were packed in like sardines. “I’m fourteen, you know. You can drive in South Dakota when you’re fourteen.”
Are wein South Dakota? Patrick thought. “Who told you that?”
“My friend Winsome.”
“Winsome?”
“Yes.”
“As in you win some, you lose some?”
“It means lighthearted.”
Patrick questioned not only where Winsome got her name, but where she got her information, but kept his focus where it belonged. “That’s because there’s nothing to hit in South Dakota other than Mount Rushmore. Here, on the other hand...” And as if to illustrate his point, a Maserati coupe sped by going the opposite way.
“Where can you drive when you’re eleven?” Grant asked, muffled by some of their luggage.
“North Dakota,” Patrick quipped.
Maisie pointed to Patrick’s grip. “Also, it’s now recommended you keep your hands at nine and three, not ten and two.”
“You don’t know everything,” he replied, but as soon as his niece turned away Patrick’s hands involuntarily slid into the newly endorsed position.
“I liked it better when you didn’t drive.” Maisie was referring to the decade after Joe died in a car accident when Patrick refused to get behind the wheel, which seemed to him like a low blow.
All three of them were more than a little on edge, their time as a tight trio was coming to a close. Greg and Livia were waiting for them dead ahead, and soon even Patrick’s older sister, Clara, would arrive. There was this lesbian, too, to contend with—this future launt—not to mention the rest of Livia’s family of fat cats. It wasn’t too late, Patrick thought, to turn the car south to Rome. The kids were excited to see their dad, but he suspected he could interest them in the Colosseum if he went into great detail of how bloody gladiatorial events used to be. The harsh realities of a wedding were settling, in particular the speak now of it all, and the forever holding your peace. For differing reasons, it felt like they were all three about to be tossed to the lions.
“I’m going to hug Dad first,” Grant said.
“Ladies first,” Maisie said. Patrick glanced at her as long as he dared; five years ago she would have been loath to identify as such.
“I don’t see any ladies,” Grant teased. Maisie pushed her seat back to squish him, but they were already so tightly wedged in it hardly moved half an inch.
Patrick intervened. “What about me? Your dad is my brother. Maybe he’ll be happiest to see me.”
“No one is happy to see their brother,” Maisie said in retaliation.
Grant pulled her hair while saying, “You can hug Palmina.”
“Paulina?” Patrick asked, wondering if the boy meant Porizkova. There was no telling what prominent Europeans Livia knew. “Who is this Paulina?”
“Palmina. She’s the lesbian,” Grant informed him.
“Her name is Palmina?” Patrick’s mouth turned instantly dry. “I really got the fuzzy side of that lollipop.”
The hotel materialized out of nowhere and Patrick had just enough time to glance in the rearview mirror to make sure they wouldn’t be rear-ended before slamming on his brakes. He waited for three oncoming cars to pass and then made one of the tightest left turns of his life onto the property’s shallow keyhole-shaped driveway; he hadn’t expected the building to sit so close to the road.
“Buongiorno!” the valet said as Patrick exited the car.
“Buongiorno,” Patrick replied with a groan as he got out. He’d never been so in need of a good massage. Surely the hotel had a spa.
“Salut,” Maisie sullenly added as she emerged from the passenger side. No translation app was needed; she’d mastered the art of abruptness.
“Welcome to the Grand Hotel Tremezzo.”
Maisie reluctantly let her brother exit, but not before he gave several swift kicks to the door. Patrick walked around the car to usher them away from the busy road, afraid they might bicker themselves into a tragedy. He’d been a perfectly responsible guardian for the past several weeks, he wasn’t about to get a failing grade in the final moments of the exam. He placed himself between the kids and took each of their hands, something he was shocked they allowed him to do. Then, collectively, they looked up at the hotel in awe. The building looked both imposing and twee, like something out of a Wes Anderson film. While Italy’s tipping culture was unclear, Patrick handed the valet twenty euros and together he and the kids started their ascent to the lobby.
According to the plaque at the base of the stairs, the Grand Hotel Tremezzo was a palace built in 1910 as a playground for the social elite. The hotel’s art nouveau facade was painted a golden yellow, and stood so close to the shores of Lake Como it almost appeared to be rising out of its depths. Ivy-covered stairs snaked to their left and their right, leading up to a ground floor with Creamsicle-colored awnings. Above, each lakefront room had its own balcony, and several were occupied by guests, who once upon a time could have been properly employed models for 1950s travel posters. In short, the whole thing looked like a page ripped from Travel + Leisure—the perfect venue for a wedding, if that union was an occasion for merriment.
Greg and Livia descended the grand lobby stairs like they owned them, their feet practically floating above the gold and cabernet runner. The reception and concierge desks were tucked off to the side, adding to the illusion that they were entering a private home. The kids dropped their backpacks, ran up the first few steps, and threw their arms around their dad.
At the foot of the stairs was a round banquet in tufted red velvet with an arrangement of the most opulent roses Patrick had ever seen towering above the backrest. He slumped onto the settee as a rose petal fell into his lap. Like Beauty and the Beast, he turned to say to the kids, before remembering he no longer held their attention. And then he brushed the petal onto the floor, as he didn’t like the symbolism of the rose representing the Beast’s dying hope for finding true love. As he studied this family tableau, Patrick felt pangs of loneliness, as if he were destined to remain a beast forever.
“Let me see you,” Greg said as he peeled the kids off his legs before crouching with tears in his eyes. Patrick had to imagine this was the longest he’d been apart from his children since Patrick had watched them that first summer after Sara died. But while Greg only had eyes for his children, Patrick’s eyes were squarely on Livia, who stood off to one side and two steps above, holding her hands in front of her with her corresponding fingertips touching in a way Patrick had once told Grant looked like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror. She was very attractive, Patrick gave her that, and had a soft demeanor that looked almost maternal. Until she grinned with the smile of a shark, then she really did resemble a brunette Eleanor Parker, Greg the poor fool in over his head without an attractive young woman from the convent to save him.
“Children,” Livia said, part greeting, part statement of fact. She tucked her hair behind her ear on one side. Patrick covered his face with one hand to shield himself from the awkwardness; he didn’t want to watch, but could also not look away. She stepped between them and they each half hugged their stepmother-to-be, turning their faces safely to the side, as if they might catch something by breathing in her perfume. “Ciao. Benvenuti in Italia. Welcome to Italy.”
Greg whisked Grant into his arms in a manner that would have most certainly wrenched Patrick’s back, and the boy, despite being too old for such foolishness, squealed. Greg then spotted Patrick, and as soon as his brother locked onto him, against his will, Patrick’s own eyes welled with tears. After the years he spent in hibernation blocking out all emotion, and after everything that had happened with Sara and the kids since, it often felt like emotion was making up for lost time. He used to joke that he only cried if a piano or a safe fell on him, and for a time perhaps that was true. But now he was often appalled to find himself a shell of that former self. Thank you, Greg mouthed to his brother. The truth was, Patrick realized, the pleasure had been all his.
At dusk, Patrick made his way to the hotel’s wine bar veranda, an extension of their celebrated wine cellar. The menu boasted thirteen hundred of the finest Italian labels; Patrick had the sommelier recommend a crisp white from a smaller producer—he was in the mood for a local blend, something he had never tasted before. Now that he was alone, he indulged in a few of his love languages himself. Silence, finer things, together forever in the company of someone whose company he enjoyed (in this case, namely himself). Ordering a drink probably didn’t qualify as an act of service, but perhaps keeping the vintner and sommelier employed was. In short, he was ready to exhale.
Patrick approved as the server showed him the bottle and he waited patiently as she then corked it and poured a small taste. He raised the glass by the stem, inhaled deeply, and then tossed it back in a single gulp. He’d seen many Hollywood types make a meal of this act, and he’d probably been guilty of such a spectacle in his younger days, but with no one to impress he couldn’t summon the pretension. The sommelier promised hints of apricot and kaffir lime with an acidity she described in Italian as “lively.” Patrick had no idea if that’s what he was tasting, but it went down easily—almost too easily—in the warm evening air, and if it paired with anything it was with the stunning panorama. “Grazie,” Patrick said, and she poured him a full glass before gently positioning the bottle in an ice bucket and stepping aside. Alone, Patrick took a proper sip and enjoyed his view of the lake.
Greg and Livia had taken the children to dinner and Patrick found himself without any responsibilities; for the first time in weeks he was not attending to anyone’s needs but his own. He wasn’t translating a menu, or deciding what someone else might like, or scouting the nearest bathroom. He wasn’t planning the next day’s activities or answering questions about the day they just had. He wasn’t teaching anyone about love or why loving is an essential part of living and he blessedly wasn’t being asked to stop a wedding or meddle in someone else’s affairs. It was just him, a bottle of wine, and the quiet of the lake. He had truly earned this respite.
“Buonasera,” a warm voice purred from behind and, although it sounded vaguely familiar, at first Patrick wasn’t certain the greeting was directed at him. “Patrick?” He closed his eyes. Why now? The last thing he wanted was to be bothered. When he opened them, Livia stepped into view. She had changed since that afternoon and was wearing a stylish navy dress with two pockets on the front piped with white trim, hemmed short to show off her tanned legs. It looked like a designer art smock. Patrick scrambled to remember if he’d seen her in anything like this stateside, or if this was European resort wear or her attempt at looking like somebody’s mom, as if the pockets might be filled with Handi Wipes and Juicy Fruit gum. “I had to come all the way to the cellar to find you.”
“Turns out it’s where you Italians keep the best wine.” Patrick reluctantly gestured for her to join him. She pulled back the adjacent empty chair so that they both sat facing the lake and made herself comfortable on the orange-and-white-striped cushion while looking out over the water. He watched as her face relaxed—even if you were Italian, there was no taking for granted this view. “Is dinner over already?” There was still a ribbon of light in the sky.
“I didn’t go. Your brother and the kids deserved some time alone.” Patrick thought so, too, which is why he found this tucked-away lounge so that he wouldn’t possibly intrude. But he wasn’t sure if hers was an act of generosity or neglect.
His server appeared with a second glass and Patrick nodded his permission for her to pour Livia a glass. “Vino bianco?” she asked.
“Grazie,” Livia replied, both to Patrick for offering and the server when shown the bottle. “A lovely vineyard. Nice family. The grapes grow on a tiny island off the west coast of Sicily. The ocean air gives them a surprising salinity.”
Patrick scratched his chin, which was covered in stubble. He hadn’t shaved since Austria. “Is that good?”
“If you like that sort of thing.”
Patrick laughed. It was a perfectly valid observation to make, but it was also flat and laced with potential judgment—mechanical instead of warm. He knew Livia well enough to know she was less critical than people thought, but he also understood why the kids had trouble reading her. She spoke to the server again in Italian, and when the server walked away Livia explained to Patrick that they both thought the sky was threatening rain.
“Salute,” she said as she raised her glass.
“Salute,” he repeated, and they tossed back a good slug together. “Is Italy that small that you know everyone?”
Livia pushed her hair back from her face. “We know the important families.”
“You know, when you say ‘important families’...” He didn’t need to finish the thought.
“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. You of all people should know better than to peddle in stereotype.”
Things grew awkward and they sat in silence. Patrick studied the mountains across the water, each layered with a slightly different color, haziest purples in the back, growing increasingly crisp and vibrant in the foreground. There was a small town in the foothills and its lights shimmered like fireflies.
“Greg and I wanted to thank you for taking the kids. It allowed us the time we needed to make a lot of decisions.” Patrick wondered if one of those decisions was not to get married, but she was still wearing an impressive rock on her finger.
“That’s some ring,” Patrick said, and Livia employed her right hand to lift her left, as if it were too heavy to raise on its own. It was even more impressive than Sara’s.
“Thank you. My sister, Palmina, is a jewelry designer who has a boutique on Capri. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”
Patrick swished a sip of wine in his mouth like Listerine, looking for the salinity Livia had mentioned. When he swallowed, he said, “It was no problem. Taking the kids I mean.”
She stole a last look at her ring and then reached for her glass of wine. “You have such a way with them.” This was Livia at her most complimentary.
He decided to be magnanimous in return. “Now,” Patrick chuckled. “It wasn’t always that way.” He didn’t mention that he was emerging on the far side of a sweet spot he’d found with both kids, and now that they were adolescents, he found it at times a struggle once again to relate.
“You sell yourself short. You three have a natural rapport.” Livia took another sip from her glass before adding, “The three of us do not.”
There was a time, not that long ago, when you could have knocked Patrick over with a feather by saying he had a way with the kids. “You’ll develop your own. One unique to the three of you. It takes time.” He pointed at a boat speeding by, as it struck him as quintessentially Italian, but then felt foolish and lowered his arm. “Right now I imagine they think of you as a threat.”
“A threat to what?”
Patrick thought it would be obvious. “They lost their mother. I think they worry about losing their father, too.”
“To me?”
To you, to anyone, to Italy.
“Is that what they said?”
Patrick clasped his hands around the stem of his glass and turned to face her. “I’m like their doctor. Or their therapist. Or their priest.”
“You are none of those things.”
“Like. I said like. In that they enjoy total confidentiality with me.” He made a motion of zippering his lips. “It’s the only way it works.”
Livia sat with that information, either with quiet acceptance of the privilege or while looking for ways to pierce it. “How did you do it?”
“Gain their affection? Oh, I bought it. It was for sale, I had money, and I thought it would be nice to have. I bribed them over time with many things. I think it was the dog that sealed the deal.”
“That hasn’t worked for me.”
“Yet,” Patrick said. She certainly had the resources to keep trying.
“To them I’m the wicked stepmother.” She smiled demurely. Patrick reached for their bottle.
“You’re just going to let that sit there?” she asked. “You seem to have a smart comment for everything.”
Patrick refilled Livia’s drink with a heavy pour. Was that payback for her perhaps calling him a clown? “I don’t swing at softballs.” He returned the bottle to the ice bucket with a splash and then swept a tiny bug from his neck.
“The truth is, they don’t know for years how I tried to be a mother.” Livia’s eyes welled and she did not make any effort to hide it. Patrick recognized a very real struggle, one she endured without shame, and in that moment he felt deeply for her. “Sorry, I don’t know what softballs are,” she continued. “I don’t understand American sports references.”
“You think I do?” Patrick placed his hand on Livia’s and squeezed. He didn’t want the meaning of what he had to say getting lost in a language that wasn’t her first. “I’m sorry your journey has been so hard. I think the key now is not just wanting to be a mother so much as wanting to be theirs.”
Livia wiped her eyes in stoic agreement. “You were very close to their mother?”
“I was.” Patrick realized he was still holding her other hand and, uncomfortable, pulled his away. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be close, too.”
“Good. I would like that. The truth is, I’m grateful for her. For loving Greg and the kids as she did.”
Patrick wished he could run back to his room and call Sara and share every detail of the awkwardness of this conversation. “The kids will come around, especially if you love their father. I talked to them quite a bit about love on this trip.”
“I do love their father.”
Patrick was relieved, even though in the moment Greg was not his primary concern.
“He is a good man.”
That wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but to Livia perhaps that was enough. He didn’t delve deeper. Patrick was more than ready to turn the page on this conversation.
“So what’s this Palmina like?” Patrick asked, changing the topic. He then stifled a laugh, imagining an answer she would never give: Like a Dutch retaining wall.
“What’s funny?” Livia asked defensively.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sorry. I’m tired.”
Livia relented. “She’s a lot like me, but the opposite.” If she caught the ridiculous nature of her reply she didn’t let on.
Their conversation faltered, and when the silence had gone on too long, Patrick said, “This feels nice.” He could have been referring to anything. The wine, the hotel, the scenery, the company. What he really meant was having a moment without the kids.
“It does,” Livia agreed, and he worried she meant the same.