Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

MAY 2019

Wednesday

By mid-morning the next day, she had purchased another ticket for the castle—this time from a man she guessed was Emilio's father. He'd been at the front desk of the hotel when she'd finished breakfast on the patio. He was quite elderly, his face lined with wrinkles, and his neck, too, above the first button on his white shirt. And where his hairline had receded, she could see age spots dotting his scalp. Still, he was a handsome gentleman. His hair, combed away from his face, was silvery white, and his eyes were a clear blue, his teeth even beneath a short, well-groomed mustache. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and his English, though labored, was precise and elegant. When he smiled and handed her the ticket to the castle, she recognized the same warmth that she'd seen in Emilio, and she supposed he'd been as sociable and outgoing as his son when he was young.

With her ticket tucked into her pocket and Pietro's notebook deep inside her shoulder bag, she set out once again for the piazza. It was another beautiful day, and she was wearing a white linen sundress and wedge sandals with straps that crossed over her ankles. It was such a fun summer outfit, one of her favorites. She loved how white felt so light and carefree in the summer. She loved the simple V-neck style, which felt casual yet neat. And most of all, she loved how its silhouette framed her body while still feeling airy. It always filled her with admiration and delight, how even a simple garment could have such a strong and important impact on the wearer.

At the dock, she waited for the ferry to return from its earlier run and start to load the next boatful of passengers. The piazza was once again busy, with many people standing in line to get to the island, and she found a place on a bench to sit under an overhang and wait. In the distance, she could see the ferry gliding through the aqua water, looking so small and insignificant with the massive, still castle behind it. But as moving as it all was, she knew she couldn't stay here much longer. She was scheduled to stay for another week but thought maybe she should go home sooner. Especially since, after what she'd learned about Giulia, she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to meet her. Despite Emilio's urging that she keep an open mind.

Even more important, she was needed at home. She'd spoken to Molly after she returned to the hotel last night and had some dinner—a delicious chicken dish with capers, pine nuts, and white wine that Emilio's daughter had sent up. She'd timed the call for three forty-five in the afternoon back home so she could catch Molly in Marilene's car, during the half hour between the end of school and the start of ballet class. Although she was beginning rehearsals for the recital as a member of the corps and not as the lead, Molly had sounded stoic. That was to be expected; Mademoiselle Diana ran a tight ship, and complaining was not tolerated. Tori had said she was sorry about the ballet casting, and she knew it must be disappointing, as Molly had wanted the bigger role .

"It's okay," Molly had said stiffly. "I can handle it."

"Of course, you can," Tori said. "But that doesn't mean you don't feel sad?—"

"I'm fine, Mom," Molly had said. "Fine. We don't have to talk it all to death. It's fine."

"Okay," Tori said and went on to ask what was going on at school and with her friends. She hadn't wanted to harangue Molly or make her feel bad by continuing to harp on about the casting decision. But she kept hearing Emilio's voice, and what he'd said on the boat yesterday: It's not about what we say that tells the story. It's what we keep secret . She had to wonder: what was Molly keeping secret?

On the ferry, Tori enjoyed the cool breeze and the sight of Parissi Island coming closer. When they docked, she stepped off the boat and proceeded up the stone staircase with the other visitors. She was sure Emilio would be here—he'd said he was working today. But she didn't see him in the lobby or any of the galleries on the second floor. She had to find him. She still had the notebook, so he'd have to let her back into the archives if only to return it to the box. But that wasn't the only reason she wanted to go back. She wanted to learn more.

She wandered around the museum, studying more exhibits about Parissi and his guests, and reading menus of sumptuous meals and daily agendas for the staff. There were lists of staff members and their room assignments, and she took a guided tour of the staff quarters behind the kitchen. At one o'clock, she bought herself another lunch of fruit, bread, and cheese and ate at a table on the patio. But all the while, she kept a lookout for Emilio.

She was gathering her trash, getting ready to go back inside the museum, when she heard her phone buzz. Sitting back down at the table, she reached inside her bag and pulled it out.

It was Jeremy.

She froze for a moment, her breath static inside her chest. She hadn't expected to hear from him. And though he'd been on her mind from time to time, she'd mostly been consumed with thoughts of Molly and Giulia. She supposed she had intentionally focused extra hard on the search for Giulia so that she didn't have to think about all she'd lost when she'd turned Jeremy down. About how lonely she'd feel when she returned home and it hit her that he was no longer part of her life. She'd hoped that night when he'd said goodbye that he'd change his mind and agree to let their relationship remain as it was. But the realist inside her said that was not going to happen. He was not going to compromise. Not this time.

The phone continued to buzz, and she knew she should answer it. But she was scared this was the final break-up call, the moment when he'd make it official that they were over.

Pressing the fingers of one hand to her lips, she used her opposite thumb to answer the call. She couldn't believe how much her hands were shaking.

"Hey," she said, trying to sound casual.

"Tori, hi." His voice sounded warm and filled with love, the way it always did, and the realization that she probably wouldn't hear it again after today made her breath stick in her chest.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" he said. "What is it, like almost two o'clock there?"

"Well…" she hesitated, as it struck her that he knew she was away. "Wait… how do you know that? I mean, you know where I am?"

"I ran into Marilene downtown yesterday evening. I was going over to set up the equipment at Danny's for our set, and she was picking up Molly from her ballet class. I guess she had spoken to you a couple of hours earlier. I asked how you were, and she… she told me everything."

"Oh," Tori said. She felt embarrassed. There Jeremy was, setting up for his evening gig at the club, probably after a day planning his syllabus for his summer classes or maybe meeting with the Broadway producers who were hiring him as musical director for their new show. He had been right that night at dinner—he did have his life together. He had designed it exactly as he'd wanted, doing the work he loved. He was ready to add to his life, to make it bigger. To add to his circle, to widen his world, to love more.

And she was in a different place. Her life was a mess. Her family was a mess. Her parents were gone, and the grandmother she'd grown up with was not her grandmother at all. She'd come here looking for connection and identity. Hoping to find her real grandmother, and answers that would make all that had happened in the past make sense. Except that the Giulia she'd somehow hoped to find—a loving grandmother who could explain everything—didn't exist. No, her Giulia was someone capable of a major betrayal, according to Pietro's notebook.

That was so hard to accept. And she believed she had little to offer Jeremy now. He was better off with someone less in shambles. Someone more normal.

"It must have been quite a shock," Jeremy said. "I'm sure you never suspected anything like that. And I'm sorry I wasn't… I mean, with the timing and everything. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you found it all out…"

She felt her defenses rise, making her jaw clench and her chest tighten. She pressed her lips together and looked out toward the water, and up at the beautiful sky that seemed to go on forever. Yes, it was a big shock, what Marilene had told her. But she could handle it.

"I'm fine," she told him firmly. "I can deal with this. For myself, for Molly. And for Marilene, too. I know it probably sounds bizarre, that I came running here to Italy all by myself. I'm sure it sounds crazy to you?—"

"No— "

"Really crazy?—"

"No," he said. "Not at all."

She paused. "It doesn't?" she said softly.

"Tori, I have no doubt that you're doing exactly what you need to be doing," he said. "And I know you can handle it. You handle a million things on your own that I could never do—your work, and heading up your household, taking care of Marilene, and the way you're raising Molly. Tori, you're the strongest person I know."

She looked down at her lap, feeling all the tension, all the defensiveness, melt off her shoulders. She could hardly believe how good it felt to hear him say that.

"If you need to be there, then it was right that you went," he said. "And I know that whatever you're searching for, you'll find it. And you won't give up until you get those answers. I only called to tell you that, Tori. That no matter what happened between us, I believe in you. Whatever you're searching for, you'll find it. And when you come home, it will be because you were ready to.

"That's the person I've always known you to be," he said. "And it's one of the reasons I'll always love you."

She pressed her hand to her mouth. This was the man she knew him to be. The only person who truly saw her and understood her. And that was why she loved him. Of course, he believed in her. Of course, he had confidence in her. That was the person he'd always been.

"Tori?" he said. "You okay?"

She sighed and then spoke, trying to steady her voice. She didn't want him to hear how much his words had affected her. Or how much he meant to her. Because it wasn't fair to him, to show all that. She had turned him down, and he was moving on. He deserved for her to accept and respect his decision.

"I'm okay," she said. "And… and Jeremy… thank you. For saying that. "

"It's the truth," he told her. "Anyway, I should get going, I have to be in the city today. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will," she said. "You, too."

She hung up the phone, then stared at it for a few moments. Suddenly all the despair she'd pushed aside that night after he proposed came pouring out. She put her elbows on the patio table and covered her face with her hands. She loved him so much. She didn't know how she would get over that. His decision to walk away had become even more painful with this quick trans-Atlantic phone call.

What was wrong with her anyway? Why couldn't she have said yes that night at the restaurant? Was she missing something, some genetic code that would cause her neurons and synapses to fire like crazy when Jeremy was around, and would induce her to see choosing a partner as a path toward security and stability—and not as an obstacle to it? Did the same genes that produced all the qualities in her—her brown hair, her dark eyes, her artistic talent—did they also have a bit of DNA that made her unable to love fully and completely? Was her need to stay apart something she'd been born with?

Something passed down from Giulia?

She thought about all the brides she had dressed and gowns she had dreamed up in the small workroom at the back of the home furnishings store. Through it all, she'd known there was something to this wedding thing that she didn't understand. What was it to love another person the way her brides loved their fiancés? What allowed a person in love to change their plans, their vision of themselves, their priorities, their whole life? How did they know they weren't sacrificing too much? Or that the card they were playing—the ace of hearts or the jack of diamonds—wouldn't make the remaining ones worthless? How did they march ahead to their wedding day, bold and unwavering, while the thought of marrying troubled her so much, she was willing to say goodbye to the most wonderful man in the world—the man she loved with all her heart, the man who wanted to marry her and be a good, loving father to her daughter?

She lifted her head and looked toward the museum, where so many of Giulia's secrets lay. She wished that Jeremy would call again to say he was willing to wait for marriage. That losing her was worse than having her turn down his proposal. She wished he'd tell her to forget that awful night, that they could go back to the way things were before the velvet box dropped out of the dessert napkin. But she understood why he didn't. He'd made it clear that five years was enough, and he wasn't going to delay the next chapter of his life any longer.

And it was sad, because the chapter they'd written together had been so wonderful. Starting on that magical night when he'd invited her onto the stage. It was warm for spring, and the band had been playing outdoors on the club's rooftop patio. Molly had a sleepover party at her friend's house that evening, so Tori had taken Marilene out for a special evening to celebrate her recent birthday. She remembered looking up, thinking about the juxtaposition of the deep-blue sky and white-hot stars. They glittered so brightly.

She couldn't help herself from wondering whether she could produce that effect in a wedding gown. How could she make the white appear so clear and vivid that it almost became a color never seen before? Would there need to be a darker counterpoint of some kind to set off the white? Maybe she could use satiny white lace atop a translucent, shadowy base fabric. But how could she do that in a way that would highlight the white instead of muting it?

She continued gazing at the sky as the evening wore on, trying to memorize what she was thinking and seeing as the music played. When she looked back down, she saw that Marilene was yawning. She knew she should get her home and tried to spot the server to ask for a check. That's when she realized that the band's lead singer was looking at her from the stage. A moment later, he addressed her as though they were the only two people in the club.

"This next song—somehow it seems written for you," he'd said softly into the microphone. "Would you come and join me up here?"

She couldn't believe this handsome musician with a wide, open smile was addressing her. Why her, of all people? Maybe he felt sorry for her, being there with her grandmother when all the other tables had couples who seemed to be in love. Maybe he'd felt she needed cheering up. She'd waved him away a few times, shaking her head and repeating "No, no, no. Really, no!" But the crowd was clapping, and Marilene was squeezing her hand on the table, and she understood that nothing was going to change until she accepted his invitation.

And to her surprise, she realized that she wanted to accept his invitation. She almost never trusted people off the bat. It took her time to warm up to people, to allow them to connect with her and to believe that they wouldn't… wouldn't hurt her somehow. New people made her nervous, so it had always seemed safer to avoid strangers, and to hold those she had to deal with at arm's length. Often when people stopped trying to get to know her—the other mothers at the ballet school, the brides she fitted who wanted to be friends—it felt like a relief. She'd even been relieved when Molly's father had moved across the country and she didn't have to hear from him except when he sent Molly a birthday card each year.

But there was something so unthreatening about this guy who was now extending his arm toward her. His face was guileless, his smile natural and casual, like an impromptu grin. He wasn't movie-star handsome, at least not in any way she could define. He didn't have huge bedroom eyes or a chiseled jaw. But he had kind, smiling eyes and a tender manner. She knew he wasn't the type to embarrass her or use her to make himself look good. Or make her regret accepting his invitation. There was something about that sincere grin, the way his eyes turned quarter moons when he smiled, and his posture, the way his shoulders were low and relaxed. This was a man who was an open book. And she liked how at ease that made her feel.

She'd risen from her seat, and the crowd erupted in cheers that she'd finally agreed. "What am I doing here?" she'd asked as he met her at the top of the three steps leading to the small, square stage, surprised at how nice her hand felt in his. She hadn't held hands with a man in so many years. His touch was gentle, his fingers warm and solid, the pads slightly roughened, no doubt from his guitar playing. She liked that his skin reflected his work, how committed he was to his art.

"You're here because Jeremy hasn't been able to take his eyes off you all night," the drummer said. "He was coming so close to the edge of the stage, we thought he was going to fall off."

Jeremy, she'd thought. What a great name.

He'd scowled at the drummer and shook his head. "You're here because I think you're beautiful," he said.

He'd gone on to sing a song he'd written called "The End of the Night Sky." It was pretty, she'd thought—tuneful and lyrical. The words—which were now sitting on her dresser at home, she'd had the original music framed—told the story of a guy who has only one night to prove how much he loves the woman he just met, and how it seemed as if the night were conspiring against him, giving way to dawn too fast. Although she'd never considered herself particularly romantic, Tori believed that everything she was feeling at that moment was encapsulated in those dreamy lyrics. Like the guy in the song, she too felt that the evening, the moment here on stage having this lovely man sing to her, was flying by.

As the song ended, Jeremy stopped playing his guitar, letting the keyboard player keep the tune going. He'd moved his microphone between them so she could sing the final line of the chorus with him: "And when the moon drifts away and the night finally ends, please, please still be here." She was reluctant at first—she didn't have a great voice—but he'd sung the line several times already, and she knew the words and melody by heart. And though she couldn't believe it the next day—she'd never done anything like that before—she leaned in at that moment and sang with him, to the cheers of the audience and Marilene's glowing smile.

He told her that weekend, when they went out to a popular Thai place in town for their first date, that he'd never done anything like that before either, and that when they said goodbye and she'd left the stage, he'd felt ridiculous and was sure she must have given him a fake phone number.

"That's what I would have done," he'd said. "I would have thought I was either a conceited jerk or just a big goof. But I saw you and your grandmother were getting ready to leave just as we were about to play that song, and I had to stop you. I had to do something. You were truly the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

She'd shaken her head. She wasn't at all beautiful. Her hair wasn't particularly straight or curly but somewhere in the boring in-between, the color a nondescript brown. She was short, and her bottom lip was too thick, her eyebrows not dramatic enough, her face a simple oval instead of a delicate heart shape. It didn't bother her, though. It was fine. And besides, she didn't have time to worry about her looks. She was too busy running her household, taking care of Molly and Marilene, and making a living to ensure they had a comfortable lifestyle. While Marilene earned a bit as a bookkeeper, it was Tori's income—at the store and also through the wedding gown business she ran on the side—that kept them afloat.

"It was your eyes," he said. "I saw you looking up at the sky every few minutes. Those beautiful eyes drinking everything in. I see it now, the way you soak in the world. What does this girl see, what does this girl know? It was all I could think of that night as we were playing. I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at the sky."

Tori had taken Jeremy's hand at that moment and threaded her fingers with his. She loved that he saw her that way. It was the way she thought of herself, too—someone who yearned to understand… everything. Herself, her life, her background, her upbringing. The world, the universe, the way she interacted with it. Her feelings, her fears, the things she yearned for without even knowing she yearned for them. The things, the pieces of her, that were missing. It felt like the most wonderful compliment she could ever have received.

And here she was, she thought as she sat at a table behind the museum, in this foreign country where she was chasing the ghost of the strange woman who was her grandmother. Alone without the man she loved, the man who had written that beautiful song about the sky and sung it to her. He was the only one in the world who saw her for what she was, and who admired her for it. Other people would have thought she was crazy to be here. Marilene hadn't even completely understood it. She would have been just as happy if Tori had stayed home. But Jeremy did. He understood it. He understood her.

And yet she had turned him down.

She stood and brushed the crumbs off her dress. And suddenly she realized why she liked the dress she was wearing so much. It was the one she'd made last year, the one she'd worn last summer when Molly was away at a dance program and she and Jeremy had rented an Airbnb on the South Shore of Long Island for a week. She loved the way the skirt felt so airy and swayed in the breeze.

One evening, they'd gone to Jones Beach, the huge state park that was crowded with people strolling on the boardwalk or playing shuffleboard or pickleball on the adjacent courts. There were big signposts along the boardwalk, lit by a spotlight from below, that recounted the history of the park. It had been built in the 1920s, as a refuge mostly for New York City dwellers who wanted to escape the summer. She and Jeremy paused to read each sign, which was accompanied by photos from long ago, the women in flared skirts and sweaters, the men in baggy trousers and button-down white shirts with undershirts peeking through at the neck. Jeremy had taken her hand, as they contemplated what they might have been doing had they lived in the 1920s, '30s, or '40s and spent an evening here. Would they have danced to swing bands on the plaza just past where the pickleball courts now were? Played shuffleboard? Found seats in the big outdoor amphitheater and listened to a concert? Would they have been the same people they were now? It had been such a fun, playful game.

But now the memory was no longer fun. Nor was the idea of shuffleboard or swing bands or amphitheaters by the boardwalk. Not even the white summer dress made her smile now.

Because now everything felt serious. Jeremy was right, she was searching for answers. Not just in this moment, but before, too. It suddenly seemed that for her whole life, she'd been searching for explanations about why she and her mother were the way they were. Answers that might be rooted in what had happened there on Ciani Island and why Giulia had made the decisions she did.

Jeremy understood why she was in Italy, and he had confidence she would find those answers. She decided to embrace his confidence.

Because she would never be able to live with herself until she found them.