Chapter Four Rory

I’m in a bizarro land where, poof! People from my past suddenly appear. Clearly orchestrated appearances over which I was given zero input.

“Why are you here?” I ask again, a sudden tornado of anger in my chest.

“Ginevra sent me.” He smooths the lapel of his gorgeous beige linen suit that he’s paired with cognac loafers, and despite myself, a swell of attraction washes over me.

Still, I maintain my brick-wall facade. “I figured that much.” Gabriele is Ginevra’s lawyer, so of course she sent him—but why?

“Well…” Gabriele shifts uncomfortably back and forth. “Scialla. Everything is okay, Rory. Calm down.”

My anger intensifies. Telling me to calm down has the effect of tightening every single one of my organs, on the precipice of explosion. I restrain myself from the explosion, though—unlike the other two Aronovs, I am quite good at restraining myself.

“You must be Max, Nate, and Caroline?” Gabriele says pleasantly.

“Reporting for duty.” If eyes could spit fire, Nate’s would.

“Yes, the whole crew is here,” I say, my sarcasm crackling more than I intended. “But I have no real idea why the whole crew is here. Maybe you can clear that up.”

Gabriele nods. “Well, please know that Ginevra wants this to be the best three days of all of your lives. She sent me here for two reasons. One, because she made an itinerary for your trip. Really, all she wants is for it to be the most perfect time. That the four of you see the most exclusive, exciting spots and eat the most delicious meals that Cinque Terre, Rome, and Positano have to offer. Price being no limitation at all. That you are happy with the service on the train. That your rooms are to your liking. That—”

“And she couldn’t just send photocopies of this magical itinerary to a staff member here?” Nate interjects. It’s a fair question, but his jealousy is obvious, his glaring suspicion at this man—a man he does not know but that he recognizes I do. Well, serves him right. I may have gotten more spiritual and Zen, but still, I have to be honest, there is something primally satisfying about Nate’s jealousy. Even as his presence here—his potentially wanting me back—confounds me.

Nate isn’t aware of it, but his jealousy of Gabriele is, in fact, warranted.

I met Gabriele through Ginevra, when I signed a litany of contracts at the beginning of my employment. Then Gabriele and I kept crossing paths, as I was staying in Trastevere, in an apartment Ginevra arranged for me, an apartment in a building that he manages and in which he also lives. Once we wound up sitting beside each other at the bar downstairs during lunchtime, when I was hunched over my guidebook. We decided to split a pizza and got to talking. Gabriele explained how he’d married at thirty—rare for Italians, who typically settle down later, in their later thirties or early forties. So, he explained, he wasn’t the typical mammone—a mama’s boy, who lives at home far beyond his youth. Sure, Gabriele said he was devoted to his mother, tried to make it to his parents’ outside the city every other week for il pranzo della domenica, the sacred family occasion of Sunday lunch. But he didn’t need his mother. Certainly not to do his laundry—he grimaced—and he could cook well on his own. And after his divorce, when his ex-wife absconded to Australia with her new boyfriend, he was raising his daughter, Chiara, on his own. I could see then how much was riding on Gabriele’s shoulders but how much he wanted to rise to the occasion. How he was rising to the occasion.

I thought he was deeply sexy. And I liked him immediately, or the flutter in my stomach told me I did. It was strange and new to think a man other than Nate was cute, to even look at a man who wasn’t Nate.

After that lunch, Gabriele offered to show me the less touristy sides of Rome. I accepted. He took me to explore Mercato Testaccio, where he got me to try a hot tripe sandwich (absurdly good), and to the Aventine Hill, where we peeked through the keyhole to the most picturesque view of the city. Gabriele knew I was getting over a broken engagement. That I was only looking for light and fun. And light and fun it was, until Gabriele told me he was starting to have feelings for me. That he was looking for something more. I understood, of course. We parted as friends, although I suppose you never really know what a person thinks of you after you’ve sort of dated.

“Well, think of me like your concierge.” Gabriele smiles, and I am reminded how genuine his smile is. Strangely, how much I trust him.

“Who’s staying with Cannoli?” I ask.

If you want to know who Gabriele is at his core, you need know only the story of his dog, Cannoli—a terrifyingly ugly mutt. Cannoli is jumpy and needy and pees everywhere and doesn’t stop barking. He’d been adopted four times, by different families, and they always wound up giving him up. They couldn’t handle him. They wanted a cuter dog. An easier dog. But Gabriele saw something lovable in wounded, acting-out Cannoli. He told me he’d never give Cannoli up, even when Cannoli drives him absolutely nuts. Because Cannoli needs a family that promises him forever.

Gabriele grins. “The most difficult part of this trip, I admit. Logistically speaking, at least. Nino.”

Ah, Nino—our cantankerous upstairs neighbor. But he loves Gabriele, because Gabriele is always bringing him ribbolita or steak, claiming he accidentally made extra. It’s not extra, I know. It’s intentional. Gabriele—lawyer, real estate manager, Super Dad, good-deed doer. And hottie. Can’t forget hottie.

“Extra ribbolita for Nino, I presume,” I say, my heart thumping noticeably faster.

“Ribbolita for all of eternity, more like it.” Gabriele groans, then his face goes businesslike again. “But listen, what I began to say is that Ginevra doesn’t want any of you to pay for anything or worry about figuring out the best restaurant, the perfect vista. She’s planned it all. The best of the best. She wants this to be the trip of a lifetime. The most perfect trip of all of your lives.”

I nod, but I still don’t get it. Not even close.

“She also wanted you to have these.” Gabriele clicks open his tan leather briefcase and pulls out books.

Shit. My heart grinds to a halt. Not books, but the book. The one about me.

I can tell it’s not a finished copy because there’s no elaborate cover, and it’s not Ginevra’s usual hardcover. Instead it says Bound Manuscript and the title: The Cabin on the Lake.

A shiver springs down my spine. I hear a gasp. It’s Max, his face gone startlingly white. Then my eyes travel to Caro, her knuckles white where she grips her glass. Even Nate’s shoulders have shot up to his ears. Strange—they all look as anxious about this book as I feel.

The Cabin on the Lake. Of course, that’s what Ginevra’s titled it. Makes perfect sense, but I didn’t know it till now. The title clearly references the shared trenches of our childhood. Our rickety cabin on Orchard Lake—the lake Papa adored, property around which he could hardly afford though sprung for all the same. The title conjures my first memory, in fact, knees knocking in terror, as Papa cajoled me to jump into the water off our dock. He said to pretend I was a tree. Chop, chop. He made the motions on my calf. Now, timber, Rory. After it’s cut, the tree is meant to fall down.

Papa wanted me to fall, so fall I did. I crashed onto the water. I still remember my body’s slap against the surface. Then Papa’s arms, embracing me. But first, the slap.

The fall without catching me was pure Papa. He lived a harrowing life filled with tragedy in the former Soviet Union. He emigrated to the United States, to freedom, with great risk and by the sheer force of his perseverance and will. So, yes, he was always there for us, always, always, and truly, the best father I could imagine, but Max and I were raised to know we were each responsible for ourselves. We had to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. No one was going to clean up our own poop. (Papa had some catchy eye-rolling sayings.)

In other words: chop, chop, timber. I had to fall, and swim, and save myself. And then Papa would be waiting there, arms wide open. Kisses and love and support galore.

Except now he sometimes doesn’t even know who I am.

Could Ginevra have set the book in Michigan?

Our hometown in southeast Michigan, in the suburbs of Detroit, is a world away from Ginevra’s native Rome. What does Ginevra know of Michigan anyway? I didn’t tell her all that much about my home state, really. As far as I know, she’s never been there before. She did ask to go in person, to interview Max and Caro, and Papa. But I didn’t like the idea of signing the people in my life up for days of interviews. They could certainly consent to Zoom—that was reasonable. Anyway, it wouldn’t be right to subject Papa to an interview with a person he didn’t know, not in his current state. So I politely declined Ginevra’s request to interview Papa, and said she could talk to the rest remotely. Ginevra accepted what I offered without a fight.

A frisson of nervous energy comes over me now, worrying that perhaps Ginevra will have set this book in my hometown. Sullying or exploiting it. It’s a possibility I hadn’t contemplated. I thought for sure she’d throw me on a Zimbabwean safari or an expedition in the Arctic.

No. It can’t be. Ginevra won’t have set the book in Michigan. Her settings are always exotic: Istanbul, Iceland. Siberia, even. Murder in a place that oozes with intrigue, ripe with atmospheric and natural elements, the more brutal the better. Extreme heat, extreme cold. Sharp ravines to hide dead bodies. The kind of places UNESCO canvasses, appealing to armchair travelers worldwide. That’s Ginevra’s specialty. Employing—as the critics often marvel—characters who feel eerily real.

To call Ginevra’s writing method quirky is spectacularly understating it. For each book, she uses a new real-life person as her main character. She then mines that main character for handsome reward, delving into the most minute corners of their past, using their genuine tics and traumas to craft an otherwise fictional tale. When my job crashed and burned, and Nate broke off our engagement, she offered me the gig. One hundred thousand dollars for a few months of answering questions about my life and submitting to private investigators and psychological evaluations and the like. Plus full room and board in Rome. And unexpectedly, this train trip leaving bonus.

Once the book comes out, I’ll have to do press with her, too. Easy enough. I know how to operate in front of a camera, even though the shame of my derailed career as a news anchor is still fresh—a constant sour sloshing in my stomach. Anyway, I knew Ginevra from my news days. I interviewed her a few times, about her creative process, about her latest bestseller. She was one of my most high-profile gets. We got along. That’s how she wound up offering me the job as main character. I never imagined I’d do something like this, but then, why not?

When I signed up as main character, I figured that I didn’t have any secrets. Nothing to hide. Just some hardships. Some regrets. Who walking on this planet doesn’t?

What did I mind if Ginevra sifted through my life? Talked to my family and friends? Crafted fiction from my truth?

But so much has happened since I agreed to be the main character. Now I stare uneasily at the books—saying what? Painting me how? And an even more gnawing worry: What secrets are buried in these pages? What messages lurk between the lines, or explicitly within them? Will Ginevra have revealed—

“Ginevra wanted you each to have one of her books,” Gabriele says cheerfully, interrupting my spinning thoughts. “She told me it’s the proudest she’s ever been of a story.” He distributes a thick copy to each of us. No one speaks. Nate palms his book between his hands, his face screwed in confusion.

“You all contributed, of course. Consented to interviews, agreed not to sue if Ginevra used certain elements of your likenesses, too. These are rough drafts. Ginevra’s process is to write furiously as she interviews her main character. To let the story reveal itself as the main character does, too. She’s still making final edits as we speak. She thought it would be fun—a bonding experience for you all to read it. She apologizes in advance, though. One of you had to die.” He winks. “She does write murder mysteries, after all.”

My heart is now a bass drum, battering my chest. “So you came to give us itineraries and the books?”

“Well, and…” Gabriele’s smile strains. “Ginevra had one other request. For Rory, in particular.”

“Okay?” I arch an eyebrow at him. God, this is weird. Pretending we weren’t at the Spanish Steps together a couple of months ago, eating gelato, my head on his shoulder as the sun crept toward the horizon, setting aglow all the terra-cotta facades of the Piazza di Spagna.

Gabriele frowns almost apologetically. He hands me an envelope.

“It’s a note from Ginevra. You can read it in your room, if you’d like. And then I’m happy to discuss any questions that come up as a result.”

The envelope sizzles at my skin. It’s puffy, like it contains multiple sheets of paper. How can she possibly have that much to say to me, especially after we’ve spent three months in each other’s company? Does she finally tell me about… I mean, will she finally reveal the truth?

“Her intentions are good.” Gabriele pins down my eyes with his. “I really think her intentions are good, Rory. That this can be the trip of a lifetime, if you allow it to be.”

I nod, suddenly sapped of all life force. “I’ll read it later.”

“And you’re joining our trip, Gabriele?” Nate asks. “Like, you’ll be hanging out with us in Italy? You’re not just dropping this stuff off?”

“I’m here to stay,” Gabriele says pleasantly. “With my daughter, in fact.” He motions across the room to a nine-year-old girl with round pink eyeglasses, legs primly crossed, sipping from a glass bottle of Fanta.

Chiara. I never met her, of course, only saw her in passing. Gabriele wouldn’t introduce us unless it was serious. But I heard lots about her—how brilliant she is, how precocious. In the accelerated path for genius kids. How, because she’s so smart, acts almost like an adult, she’s had trouble making friends.

“Ginevra thought it would be fun for me to have my daughter here, for the trip. She’s generous like that. You won’t even notice us. I’ll be in the background, making sure everything runs smoothly.”

“She’s really a puppeteer, isn’t she?” Nate shakes his head. “Ginevra Ex. What is that name even? Was she born with that last name? Ex. So strange. Gathering us all here…”

Gabriele frowns. “I wouldn’t call her a puppeteer.”

“Really?” Nate glances around at us to galvanize support. “Am I really wrong? And now, giving us these crazy books!” He waves it in his hand, something flashing in his eyes that I can’t decipher. “What are we supposed to do, decode them? Figure out what’s truth and what’s fiction? Is this all part of a diabolical plan, writing about us and then throwing us all into her train blender of crazy?”

Nate’s tirade settles like cement in my stomach. He’s being sarcastic, but his rant strikes a chord. What is Ginevra’s plan? Could she actually have something diabolical up her sleeve?

“You’re wrong.” Gabriele shakes his head. “You’re totally wr—”

“Is he, though?” I ask, a realization suddenly dawning on me. “Ginevra’s last book totally bombed. I overheard her with her publicist, with the publisher. Readers thought the last main character was dim-witted, a dud. They said Ginevra’s losing her magic touch. She’s worried. They’re worried, her whole team. There’s a lot riding on this new book. Is having us all here—with the books—some kind of publicity stunt?”

“No!” Gabriele says. “Really, you’re off here. Truly, Ginevra has pure intentions. She—”

“She’s a puppeteer,” Nate says again. “Pure intentions or not. And I understand why you may not share my view, Gabriele. Because if she’s the puppeteer, then I guess that makes you her puppet.”

“Nate.” Now I frown. “Don’t be rude. Gabriele’s not trying—”

“No,” interrupts Max. “Gabriele’s not the author’s puppet, Nate. He’s almost irrelevant to the equation.”

Signature Max tact.

Max waves a hand at Gabriele. “No offense, man. I’m just trying to say, we’re Ginevra’s puppets.”

I absorb that. Are we Ginevra’s puppets? Is that what I’ve been the past few months, after all? I take in this weird, weird trip. My life shattering and now inexplicably sitting before me again, all in shards. With a bottle of glue placed in my hands—perhaps the means to cobble parts of it back together, if I want.

Do I want? I have zero freaking clue. Anyway, I can’t even contemplate that yet, not until I can get into my cabin, alone, and read the letter and the book. The envelope is hot on my lap; the book nudges almost portentously against my thigh. All of my thoughts are a thicket in my brain, obfuscating me from any truth.

Now Max leans back on the sofa, his lips quirking in a smile. “You know what, guys? Let’s give Gabriele a break. So the author wants to pay for us all to enjoy Italy? Well then, let’s enjoy Italy. It’s been ages since I’ve had a vacation. I had to move a shit ton around to even get here on such short notice, and Caro and Nate did, too. Besides, when do we ever get a vacation, let alone together? And I for one am not complaining about this setup your author arranged, Ror.”

Max raises his glass. “If we’re gonna be puppets, guys, then I say let’s drink to being well-fed, well-liquored-up ones!”