Chapter Twelve
The Grand Hotel Tremezzo featured three swimming pools: one built inside a floating dock in the lake designed to be memorably photographed, its azure waters in stark contrast to the lake’s darker hues; an infinity pool connected to the hotel’s spa, which provided the breathtaking illusion of its waters flowing outward toward the mountains; and the Flowers Pool, which was tucked in a nook behind the hotel with fragrant blossoms, mature olive trees, and Riviera palms filling the air with an intoxicating scent. The Flowers Pool deck is where they found Clara in a seafoam cocktail dress, which should have set off her tan, but instead gave her the dreadful look of unease.
“I’ve arrived,” she announced as confidently as she could, and while she may have meant it in every sense of the word, Patrick wasn’t sure she was truly selling the delivery. “Let the party begin!”
Clara’s brothers exchanged glances; it was the rare social function that found its swing with their sister’s entrance, but tonight they were going to go with it, as the kids were excited to see their aunt Clara—their enthusiastic hugs caught her off guard, nearly sending her into the pool. Instead of reprimanding them, she returned their embrace with equal fervor; Clara had loosened up quite a bit since her divorce was finalized, although she kept her married name, Drury, as she had muddled through enough of her life as Clara O’Hara and saw no need to return to such a metrical name. Patrick had joked she could reclaim her identity by leaning into the rhyme—divorce with no remorse, a sister with no mister, that sort of thing—but she could not be bothered with such Seussian nonsense. Not that it mattered. The single Clara Drury was much more fun than the married one and lately had been game to try new things. She had even hopped over to London on Patrick’s first break from filming and they paddled down the Thames in a canoe, an activity Patrick had found skimming some magazine’s list of unique things to do, before having martinis at an upscale bar called WC, which had opened in what used to be public toilets.
Greg, too, was happy to see his sister, as he was distracted with a long list of wedding chores and, if nothing else, Clara knew how to get things done.
“Patrick.” Clara grabbed her brother’s arms and pulled him close. “We’ve got to stop meeting in foreign countries like this. People will think we are spies.”
“Aren’t we?” Patrick asked as he scrutinized Livia’s family gathered near the pool’s deeper end while Clara hugged Greg and the kids. Something about the scene had raised Patrick’s antennae and he could imagine himself a sort of Gay-mes Bond trying to coolly diffuse this heterosexual nightmare before it could explode.
As soon as Greg latched on to Livia and was safely out of earshot, Clara whispered in Patrick’s ear, “Thank god you’re here. I don’t know a soul.”
Patrick once again scanned the crowd. It was indeed light on people they knew. “How was your fligh—”
“You’re wearing espadrilles,” Clara said, interrupting his inquiry into her travels. “And is that an ascot?”
Patrick looked down at his clothes. He was indeed wearing the canvas shoes, along with a navy-blue shirt with a pineapple on it and cream-colored slacks. Not very James Bond, he supposed, although he could imagine the outfit on Daniel Craig. He fussed with his ascot. “Greg said I couldn’t wear one of these to the wedding, so I’m torturing him with it now.”
“Well, I never know how to pack,” Clara confessed, but looking at her, Patrick thought she had done rather well. She took in the scene with a slight look of fear. “So this place is unbelievable.” Even though they were on the hotel’s garden side, part of the pool extended beyond the main building’s edge and was open to the lake and the lush green hillsides surrounding it. “You know they gave me the room next to yours? I think the nightly rate is more than I paid for my car.”
Patrick wanted to say that was more a statement about Clara’s ratty old car than it was the hotel, but Greg jumped in before he had time. “Your hotel bill has been covered. We want our guests to have a good time.”
“Wonderful,” Clara said. “Now I’m related to two assholes with money.” She was still toiling away in the nonprofit world. “Kids, why don’t you go mingle?”
“What should we say?” Grant asked as he glanced around at the other faces, skeptical that any of his usual conversation starters would fly.
“A day on the moon and a year on the moon are the same thing,” Patrick said. Grant’s head bobbled like one of those toys.
“Is that true?”
“Who am I, Lance Bass? You’re the space cadet. Go see if anyone tells you otherwise.”
Greg put his hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “Watch after your brother, would you?”
Maisie had other ideas. “I’d like to stay and taste my first champagne.” She looked at her father with such faux-hopeful sincerity, Patrick almost didn’t recognize the bit; as soon as he did he nudged his niece in Grant’s direction and the two of them scampered off around the pool.
“She’s fourteen!” Greg said incredulously.
“She’s teasing you. It’s a line from The Sound of Music. We’ve been on a bit of a kick.” Patrick cupped his hands around his mouth to call after her. “It’s called prosecco in Italy!” He turned back to Greg and said, “She’ll learn.” But Greg wasn’t certain he wanted her to.
“What is it with you and that movie?” Clara groaned.
“What?” Patrick feigned innocence.
Clara leaned closer to confide in her brother. “If seven kids start singing good night to me at this party, I’m using that time to refill my drink.”
Livia approached with her parents, whom she introduced as Lorenzo and Giana Brasso. Giana was a perfect dumpling of a woman, slightly pickled, but well preserved. Lorenzo towered over her and had large moist eyes and a dry pink head, and eyebrows that met in the middle, threatening to slalom down his nose. While Giana’s clothes were perfectly tailored to her round figure and flattering to her skin tone, Livia’s father’s were as loud as he was, over-patterned and wrinkle-prone, and Greg had forewarned them that Lorenzo’s humor was his bluntest instrument of torture. Patrick and Clara offered their hands to shake, but were instead enveloped in the kind of boisterous hug that bruised ribs. “Patrizio! Chiara!”
“I’m sorry,” Clara apologized. “I don’t know what to call you. I mean with your titles and everything.”
Greg looked at his shoes, as if his family was failing him already, but Livia’s mother wagged a finger that was dripping with elegant rings. “Please. We are Lorenzo and Giana. Here we are family! We must dispense with formalities.”
“How noble of you,” Patrick said, and after an awkward beat they all laughed boisterously as the wordplay sunk in. Patrick leaned in to Clara and whispered, “Here we are family? Isn’t that the slogan for the Olive Garden?” as their brother and his fiancée begged away to greet other guests.
Lorenzo placed his meaty, but likewise well-manicured, hand on Patrick’s shoulder and proceeded to run down his entire family’s genealogy as far back as it could be traced, before asking, “You’re the comedian?”
“I’m an actor, yes.”
Livia’s father then launched into a very long-winded joke involving an overcured ham, circumcision, and rosary beads. Patrick returned the torture by not laughing, then caught Greg’s eye from across the pool and burst into fake guffaws to keep the peace. If there was any offense taken, Patrick would never know, as Giana looked at him with sorrowful eyes.
“We had you down for a plus-one. Where is your marvelous Emily?”
Emory, Patrick thought. He tried to make eye contact with Grant, who’d made the same mistake the summer he and Emory first met.
“I’m afraid there will be an empty seat at your table.” This was like a knife through the heart.
Lorenzo turned to Clara.
“And you are the sister, from where?”
“Hartford,” Clara answered.
“HARTFORD!” Lorenzo bellowed, before his face was overcome with fake sorrow. “Am not familiar.” Then he brightened again as he focused his attention back on Patrick. “And you. Are you any good at the acting?”
“I have a Golden Globe, if that counts for anything.”
Lorenzo punched Patrick hard on the arm. “The Hollywood Foreign Press!” he cried with absolute delight. “Come! Let’s away to the bar. We must drink to celebrate.”
Patrick didn’t know if they were celebrating upcoming nuptials or his winning a Golden Globe, but he wasn’t about to say no to a drink, even if the drinks he’d been served at weddings always seemed to disappoint. “I’m always able to take nourishment in the form of a weak cocktail.”
“Weak?” Lorenzo bemoaned. “We’ve paid for enough alcohol to fill one of these fine pools!”
“Come. You must meet our friends.” Giana linked her arm with Patrick’s and his mood brightened—the evening was looking up.
“Well, okay then! But you must introduce me as Golden Globe winner Patrick O’Hara.”
Lorenzo howled with laughter.
“Patrick,” Clara chided. “He’s kidding.”
“I am not,” came Patrick’s reply. “I’ve earned my titles.” More riotous laughter from Livia’s parents. Either they really liked him or they were already smashed.
“Please excuse Patrick,” Clara said. “His favorite subject is Patrick.”
“Isn’t it everyone’s?” Patrick asked.
They only made it halfway to the bar, when the Brassos excused themselves to intervene with some other guests, who were gesticulating wildly at a server. Clara whispered, “They don’t know Hartford, but they know the Hollywood Foreign Press?”
Patrick was ready to rush to his new fan club’s defense—of course they know the Hollywood Foreign Press, they were foreign—but she dismissed him in favor of a Bellini before he could vindicate them. Left solo, he procured himself a glass of prosecco from a passing waiter and decided to rescue the kids from their grandparents-to-be, who were now fussing and fawning and pinching cheeks like nonnas and nonnos from the old country.
Before he could move, a small commotion at the shallow end of the pool drew Patrick’s eye. The crowd parted and a young woman appeared, hair slicked to one side with thick eyebrows and high cheekbones, looking very much like a young Isabella Rossellini when she modeled for Vogue. The woman was dressed in wide palazzo pants and a men’s dress shirt that was perfectly tailored in a way that made it look both masculine and feminine. Behind her, three women undulated while wearing a similar androgynous style, and together they marched forward to join the party like they’d just stepped out of an eighties music video.
“Who is that?” Patrick muttered.
Grant stared all agog and Patrick had to gently slap him on the back of his head. “Her? That’s Palmina,” he said when he came to his senses. Patrick turned to Maisie and she was likewise entranced by the women approaching.
“The lesbian?”
“Yeah, why?”
Patrick stammered for something devastating to say about Palmina or her entourage, but came up short. “No reason. I just didn’t know you could fit that many into a Subaru.” And Livia had called him a clown?
Palmina torpedoed straight toward them, and as soon as she was in earshot she greeted the children.
“Maisie! Grant!” The kids hugged her tightly, and with more affection than they had ever displayed with Livia. She wore earrings that resembled brass curtain rings; were she more bullish, one of them would have been perfectly at home through her nose.
Patrick tried to mask his confusion. “You three know each other?”
“You must be GUNK,” she began, with an Italian accent that bordered on Transylvanian. “We meet at last.” She said it with a villainous inflection; perhaps he was more like James Bond than he thought.
“GUP.” Patrick cleared his throat. “GUP is what the kids call me. Their guncle is what I am.”
“GUPPY,” Palmina cooed, as if that had been one of the options presented. “Like a little fish I could squish.”
Maisie turned back to her uncle. “We met in New York. She came to visit Livia and we spent the day in the city.”
“Where was I?” Patrick said, masking hurt feelings; a day in the city was sort of his thing. “I like the city. I live in the city.”
“You were in London,” Grant said. “Seeing a movie.”
Patrick nearly choked on a sip of prosecco. “I wasn’t seeing a movie, I was filming a movie.” He looked at Palmina, who was alarmingly almost his height. “There’s a big difference.” He glanced down to see if she was wearing heels, but any shoes were hidden by her wide pants.
“I’m Palmina. People call me Palmina.”
“Like the horse,” Patrick said in retaliation for “Guppy.”
“That’s palomino,” Maisie said, as if everyone knew that. “Palmina means like a palm tree.”
“Like Palm Springs,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. The nerve of this woman, horning in on his turf left and right. He grabbed both kids around their shoulders and pulled them in close. “These two lived with me there for a time.”
“You were their guardian devil,” Palmina said with a wry smirk. “These are my friends. Bruna, Carla, and Zita.” Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. He was having flashbacks of JED—John, Eduardo, and Dwayne—the gay throuple who lived behind his house in Palm Springs. “I hope to see you at dinner. We’re having fagottini.” With that, she motioned for her backup dancers to follow her to the bar.
“We’re having WHAT?” Patrick exclaimed, but they had already woven their way into the crowd. Greg materialized by his side.
“You met Palmina!” he said with excitement. “I knew you two would hit it off.”
“And the Robert Palmer girls?”
“Who are the Robert Palmer girls?” Greg asked loudly, while conspicuously waving his elbow in Livia’s direction. “You and your generation!”
Patrick looked at his brother with dismay. Was he still trying to pass as younger? It was a performance so over-the-top it perhaps deserved its own Golden Globe, but Patrick was lost in thought studying his new rival, watching her glide through the party and everybody wanting a piece of her like the celebrity he usually was.
“I thought all gay people traveled in packs,” Greg said. “Besides you.”
Patrick ignored the remark. “Where did she come from?” He was as impressed as he was annoyed.
“Palmina? She’s been living the past few years on Capri.”
“Capri?” Maisie repeated with great fascination, like it was the kind of island paradise Wonder Woman hailed from; wherever Palmina lived, she imagined it had plenty to offer.
“Where is Capri?” Grant produced his notebook to take down the answer.
Patrick replied without tearing his eyes from Palmina. “It’s a small island off the Amalfi Coast.”
“Oh, like Rhode Island is a small island off of Connecticut,” Grant said, as if it all made perfect sense; he flipped his notebook closed.
Up four steps from the pool’s deck was an elegant bar with a stone pizza oven that produced some of the finest pizzas in the Como region. Tonight, the wedding party had taken over most of the outdoor space and expert pizzaioli were assembling a special menu of classic summer pizze, pasta, and insalate for the wedding guests. The tantalizing smells of tomatoes and melted cheeses overtook the pool’s floral scents and everyone suddenly recognized how hungry they were.
Greg crouched to face his kids, straightening Grant’s collar in the process. “Shall we get you some pizza?”
Grant thought for a moment before replying, “I could have the margherita.”
“That’s a pizza, not a drink,” Maisie clarified.
Greg looked up at Patrick; his brother’s influence never failed to delight. “Yes it is,” Greg agreed. “How did you know that?”
Grant shrugged. “We’re very worldly.” He then headed for the nearest table, where a waiter pulled back a seat. “Grathie,” he said to the server, almost as an afterthought, his old lisp creeping into his rudimentary Italian as he sat.
At dinner Patrick was seated between Maisie and an absolutely reptilian individual soaked in cologne whom the Brassos called Cousin Geppetto. If that was his Christian name or a joke, Patrick didn’t know, but he still made a crack about wanting to be a real live boy, which landed with a thud. Pizzas were delivered to the table in a near-endless parade, as well as salads and pastas. Patrick even had a helping of the aforementioned fagottini, and made sure Palmina witnessed him take a bite; there was no way he was giving her the upper hand so early in the night.
“Everything smells so good,” Grant observed. It always made Patrick laugh when he sounded like a little adult.
“Does it?” Palmina asked.
“Palmina,” Grant continued, “what does the inside of your nose smell like?”
Palmina’s friends snickered. Oh, good, Patrick thought. Let their new launt take a swing at fielding one of Grant’s infamous questions. Patrick had years of practice answering; a newbie was sure to flail.
Palmina, however, seemed unfazed. “The inside of my nose smells like oranges, and like the lake, and magnolias, and the cool mountain air that sweeps down from the Alps, and like cypress trees because that’s what is all around us.”
Grant scrunched his face. “What do cypress trees smell like?”
Patrick glanced around to see who was listening to this absolute line of bullshit, but the rest of the table was engrossed in their own conversations.
Palmina took his hands. She closed her eyes and Grant did, too. “Take a deep breath. Inhale. Smell that? It’s... How would you say? Herbaceous and woodsy, with spice.”
Patrick turned to Clara and rolled his eyes, but even she seemed to be under Palmina’s spell. Does anyone not see this witchcraft for what it is? But Grant was agreeing enthusiastically, happily lapping this bullshit up. Only Maisie seemed less than amused.
Palmina and Grant opened their eyes. “What does the inside of your nose smell like, Grant?”
Grant cupped his hands up under his nose and took a deep breath. “Like human flesh,” he said. “And a little bit like Marlene when she’s wet.”
“Marlene is their dog,” Clara offered.
“How wonderful that the inside of everyone’s nose smells different,” Palmina observed. “You must miss Marlene. That is why your nose is filled with the scent of her. That way you won’t forget.”
Grant bowed his head solemnly. He had never felt so very far from home. Patrick interjected; it was time to put an end to this sorcery.
“Do you have a dog, Palmina?” he asked.
Lorenzo caught wind and scoffed. “A dog? My daughter can barely care for herself.”
Giana placed her hand on her husband’s to quiet him. “Palmina has a bird. Named Flavia.”
“Oh, come on,” Patrick groused. He turned to Maisie for help. There was no way she was buying this.
“She’s cool, isn’t she?” Maisie said. Another goner, Patrick thought.
“She’s something,” he muttered, not ready to commit to what. Flanked by her backup dancers, the whole thing seemed like an act.
“We could call her GAP,” Maisie offered. A lifeline at last?
“Like the low-rent Banana Republic? I like where your head’s at, but it may need some work.”
“No, like GUP. Gay Uncle Patrick, Gay Aunt Palmina.”
Patrick dropped his fork and people turned to stare as it clanged on the ground. He must put a stop to this before it got out of hand.
Patrick excused himself from the table when he couldn’t stomach another bite and wandered away from the crowd. The trip was becoming a real battle of the bulge and he might have to engage in some shopping, not as extravagant vacation indulgence, but as necessary waistline management—although what he really should be doing is hitting the hotel gym. He promised himself he would later that night, then took a seat at the bar next to the enormous pizza oven, where he watched as a few embers from the fire escaped the clay opening, burned brightly, and then blinked into nonexistence.
“Buonasera, signore,” a young bartender greeted him. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, I...” Patrick wasn’t sure exactly how to finish that sentence.
“Are you with the wedding? Are you the groom?” he asked with accelerating excitement.
“No, no. Brother of the groom. Fratello. Fratello?”
“Fratello,” the bartender confirmed. “Weddings are molto.”
“Indeed.” Weddings were a lot. “Molto,” Patrick repeated, thus exhausting his Italian.
Dusk was settling over the Tremezzo and water rippled gently over the pool lights, its blue reflections making everything dance. It was a jovial scene, people laughing, waiters ensuring no glass of wine dipped below half full, Maisie showing Palmina how to work SayHi. He inhaled deeply. Dammit. His nose was filled with the scent of the cypress trees. And the mountain air and the lake and whatever other nonsense Palmina had spouted. The scent had been there the whole time, he just hadn’t relaxed enough to appreciate it.
Patrick pulled out his phone and stared at it, unsure as to why he did. That happened a lot lately. It was the interesting thing about straddling a generational divide. He’d lived more than half his life without a smartphone and everything had been fine. Now he reached for his device impulsively with an overwhelming desire to cut short the moment he was in, hoping for a different, better moment, like his entire body had been neurologically rewired. It was a sick addiction.
But since his phone was in his hand, he scrolled back for his last text from Emory, something about a package that had been delivered. Despite their breakup, he was letting Emory stay at his apartment while he was on location for the film; they’d never officially moved in together, but Emory had spent the bulk of his time at Patrick’s whenever he was in New York. When Patrick needed his space, Emory had the ability to bounce around: he worked a lot, and traveled for that, and when he needed a place to crash he had no shortage of friends that took him in. It was one more thing on a long list that made him seem too young. And yet, Patrick was judging Emory for adequately dealing with a situation of Patrick’s own creation, his requiring space. Which he didn’t need; maybe a little in the way everyone does, but not really any more than that. He was just putting Emory through impossible tests he was destined to fail, as Patrick graded on such a steep curve. He fought the urge to text Emory now and tell him how sorry he was for being such a ridiculous creature. But Emory was a catch and Patrick had no trouble imagining he had moved on with his life.
“The most terrible poverty is loneliness.” Patrick sensed the barstool next to him slide back, and by the time he snapped out of his trance, Palmina was already seated by his side.
“Oh, goody. Rock bottom has a basement,” he mumbled.
Palmina tapped a box of cigarettes on the counter to pack them. “Pardon?”
“I said, ‘That’s rich,’?” Patrick lied, doubting Palmina knew much about poverty, metaphorical or otherwise. She tilted her head quizzically, the double meaning lost in translation.
“There is a whole party happening over there. And yet you are over here.”
Patrick looked beyond Palmina at the boisterous gathering; even the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves, Grant entertaining Livia’s parents with a magic trick involving a napkin and his thumb, and Maisie now deep in conversation with Clara.
“I just needed a minute.” Patrick held his phone up as some excuse. “I was thinking of texting my boyfriend.” As soon as the word boyfriend left his mouth, he regretted it. Not because it was a lie so much (it was only two letters shy), but because it skirted too close to vulnerability. But what was he to say to someone who was here with three dates, when he, if you did not count the kids, had none?
“Why is he not here?”
Patrick didn’t know how to answer, his face riddled with indecision. Palmina read him anyway.
“I see.” She produced a cigarette from her pack and held it with the kind of effortless elegance that only Europeans could do. “You will never know what it is you want until you are certain of who you are.”
Patrick bitterly swallowed that wisdom.
“I just broke up with my girlfriend,” she confessed, offering Patrick a smoke. He declined with a wave of his hand.
“Really.”
“Sì. She was much older.” Palmina lit the cigarette and took a long drag, adding as she exhaled, “Like you.”
Patrick laughed. It was all he could think of to do. “She sounds beautiful. Wise.”
Palmina studied him carefully, as if Patrick’s English took an extra beat to compute. “She was both of those things.”
“Is. Unless you killed her.”
Palmina inhaled deeply and then noncommittally blew smoke out the side of her mouth.
“Did you kill her?”
Palmina didn’t answer. The relationship was dead, that’s all he needed to know.
The bartender placed a small bowl of Marcona almonds soaked in olive oil between them.
“She was too old for you?” Patrick asked, feigning sympathy, hoping to extract some nugget to gain the upper hand.
“She was too possessive for me.” Palmina helped herself to an almond. “Being older had nothing to do with it. Americans are too hung up on age.”
Patrick could not grasp her understanding of English. He assumed it was a second—if not third—language, yet she had nailed idioms? “It has been my experience that age and treachery will win out over youth and beauty.” Patrick held her gaze until she blew smoke just to one side of his face. It had a rich tobacco smell that he found strangely appealing.
“What is ‘treachery’?”
Patrick reached for a definition that would make sense. “Like a betrayal of sorts.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“No. Someone gave it to me on a birthday card once when I turned—” Patrick stopped cold. Americans were too hung up on age.
She scrutinized him further as she enjoyed a few more drags on her cigarette. “Come back and join the party, treachery,” she finally said with a twisted grin. He wasn’t certain, but he thought for the first time that perhaps they liked each other, or at least understood one another in a way that would make their rivalry fun. As she sauntered back toward the table, Clara approached with a curious expression.
“What are you doing over here?” his sister asked.
“Fraternizing with the enemy.”
“What do you think?” Clara turned back just as Palmina resumed her seat at the table.
“Of Palmina?” Patrick took a deep breath. What did he think? He wasn’t yet ready to say.
“Of this marriage,” Clara said. “Maisie has been giving me an earful.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Greg’s old enough to make his own mistakes.” Despite whatever age he was pretending to be.
“So you think it’s a mistake?”
Patrick waved his hands no. “I’m not saying that.”
Applause broke out and they glanced back at the kids. After his third attempt, Grant had successfully completed his trick. He beamed.
“Greg is not the only consideration,” Clara said.
That much was true.
Patrick turned to reach for some almonds and, still full, was both relieved and amused to find Palmina’s cigarette stubbed out in the dish.