Kissing in Italian (23 page)

Oh no, please
, I think frantically,
no more adults beating themselves up! I really don’t want to hear it!

“But that is not for Violetta’s ears,” he goes on, earning my eternal gratitude. “I think the best thing to say here is that Violetta, you must take time and decide for yourself how you feel. Your
mamma
and
papà
are your parents, not me. It is for you to say how you want to go ahead with anything in the future as far as I am concerned.”

Aunt Lissie looks at him directly and prompts:

“And can you tell her—can you say what you told me about—”

“Ah yes!” The principe nods. “Yes, Violetta, I also must say that I understand very completely Lissie’s reasons for not telling me about you.”

Hearing an Italian say “Lissie” is so funny that it actually makes me smile a little, something I never would have thought could happen in this situation. Catia’s been teaching us that, to pronounce Italian correctly, you have to pronounce every letter of every word; the principe turns my aunt’s name into “Leess-ee,” lengthening it out till it sounds as long as an entire sentence.

“She was correct to not tell me,” he says, smiling diplomatically at Lissie. “Or rather, it was for her to decide. I accept that completely.”

“Thank you,” Lissie says gratefully.

I’m still standing up, and I’m fighting the urge to pace
madly back and forth across the room. From being exhausted, I now feel very restless, itchy, overwhelmed with information and emotions to process.

“Should I order some tea?” Mum says, going very English. “Tea and cakes? Some sugar would be good, wouldn’t it? We must all be feeling very … well, shall I order tea? Violet darling, is there something you’d like?”

I realize that all of them are staring at me, and they’re all looking nervous. I must be wearing a very odd expression on my face.

“I think I need to go outside and be by myself for a bit,” I say.

There’s a hubbub of fuss and people saying that I must do exactly as I feel and to take my time and that it’s totally okay for me to want to be alone and they’ll be right here and blah blah blah, et cetera et cetera. They’re still babbling as I walk across the sitting room into the foyer, concentrating on keeping my steps even, telling my legs to walk straight. Once the door closes behind me, I start to run. I’m heading for the lift, but when I see a fire door I dash through it instead and down the stairs, taking them two at a time, the relief of some physical action huge; I hammer those steps so hard that by the time I’m down however many flights there were to the ground floor, I’m breathing hard and feeling at least a little better, as if some tight knot has loosened itself inside me.

I can see daylight and sunshine flooding through the glass doors of a bar area, so I walk toward them, white-jacketed waiters smiling and nodding at me as I pass. Emerging into the fresh air, seeing the green grass of the garden,
with its stone fountain playing into a lily pond surrounded by a deep-red circle of rich geraniums, instantly makes me feel calmer. Set into the stone wall built along the boundary of the island are a series of wrought-iron embrasures with white cushions in them, and I sink down on one, kicking off my sandals, curling up into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees. I stare out over the blue lagoon, listening to the waves slapping against the stone foundations below, breathing in the salty air, listening to the seagulls.

Trying to make a small quiet place in my head where I can just be. Letting it all sink in.

Luca is definitely my half brother. We’re related by blood
.

Ironically, everything else that I’ve discovered today is hugely positive. I couldn’t possibly have imagined a better solution to the mystery of the way I look. My mum is my mum. My dad is my dad. My aunt is, very firmly, my aunt. Nothing, truly, has changed. I’m testing the ground beneath me and finding it firm and solid. No holes for me to fall through.

Apart from … Luca.

Eventually, I realize that my hands are cramping, my legs getting stiff. I straighten up and emit a little yelp at the sight of the principessa standing by the fountain watching me. She starts to walk toward me, slowly, tentatively, as if she thinks that I might bite, or scream, or run away if she startles me.

And though I want to run away, I slip my sandals on and I wait. I have no idea what she wants to say to me. But if there are any more secrets, anything else that needs to be said, I want to hear now, today. To wake up tomorrow
morning with the knowledge that nothing else is hanging over my head.

“Ciao, Violetta,”
she begins cautiously. “I know you must feel … 
strana. Confusa
.”

“It’s okay,” I mutter. “What is it?”

I know I’m not exactly being gracious. But she can’t really expect perfect manners under the circumstances. A waiter glides elegantly down the gravel path toward us, pauses, takes in the awkward atmosphere, and demonstrates his five-star training by swiveling on his heel and gliding away again rather than disturb us.

“May I?”

She gestures at the seat beside me. I nod abruptly.

“I ’ave something very important to tell you,” she says, smoothing down the back of her skirt, lowering herself neatly onto the cushion, and sitting with as straight a back as if she’s in a full corset. Her face isn’t white anymore, or at least not all over. Her cheeks are bright dots of pink, and on her neck I can see a red flush rising, ugly, nervous blotches.

But she was right. What she proceeds to tell me, in a halting mixture of English and Italian, truly is very important. More than important: crucial.

Because it literally changes everything.

I’m going back the way I came, on a high-speed Silver Arrow train tearing down the spine of Italy. From Venice to Florence, the train rocking with speed, the landscape shooting past. And it still isn’t fast enough. Nothing would be. I want to be there so urgently that I’m biting my lip, tapping my foot, fidgeting so much that eventually Paige threatens to throw her phone at me if I don’t calm down, and I smile reluctantly.

It’s just me and Paige, sitting in the dining car, drinking cappuccinos and feeling hugely grown up. After yesterday’s dramatic family reunion, both my mum and dad and the di Vesperis pretty much threw themselves at my feet and asked me how I felt, what I wanted to do, what they could give me
to make up for all this. I probably could have grabbed a Tiffany catalog and circled everything in it.

But as it happened, I knew
exactly
what I wanted. And I made them go along with it without even asking why.

Only the principessa knows why I’m rushing back to Chianti. No one else. I haven’t confided in any of the girls. I’m lucky that it was Paige who volunteered to come with me, because the only stipulation my parents placed on me setting off first thing this morning was that I had to have a travel companion. Kelly, amazingly, has performed a hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround; she said she’d messed up by moping through her first days in Venice, and wanted a chance to really enjoy it before Catia packs them all up and onto a later train back this evening. Kelly and Kendra are going out together to do the Ca’ Rezzonico again, and then a couple of modern art museums they’ve chosen together.

Whereas Paige was extremely, enthusiastically keen to give up a last day in Venice and get up at the crack of dawn to throw herself on a train to Florence. Not only that: she hasn’t even asked why I want to head back so badly. She’s too busy texting and fiddling with her phone and smiling to herself, playing with her hair and repeatedly touching up her makeup. It’s a relief, but it’s also a bit disconcerting not to be asked a single question about why I’m so keen to make this trip. I was braced for an interrogation, and yet Paige, bizarrely, seems entirely uninterested.

Which definitely isn’t normal. She’s the only one who hasn’t asked a single question. Last night, when I got back to the palazzo after having a quiet dinner at the Hotel Cipriani with my mum and dad and aunt Lissie, Kendra and Kelly
were dying to know why I’d been whisked away, why my mum had suddenly appeared. And I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell them. Not yet. Not until tonight, when they all get back to Villa Barbiano. When, hopefully, the last piece of the puzzle will have been put into place. I can’t wait. I just can’t wait.

“Stop
tapping
!” Paige says, widening her eyes at me. “You’re like Road Runner in a cage! You’re driving me crazy!”

She grabs my cappuccino and pulls it away from me.

“No more caffeine. That’s the
last
thing you need.”

“We’re nearly there!” I say excitedly, looking at my watch. “We stopped at Bologna ages ago. I think there’s only about twenty minutes more, if we’re on time.…”

“Yeah,” Paige says, sipping my cappuccino and looking thoughtful.

“So, look,” I say, “Giulio will be waiting on the platform to collect us”—Giulio is the husband of Benedetta, Catia’s cook—“and he’ll drop you at Villa Barbiano, and then he’ll take me on to—”

“Here’s the thing,” Paige says. “I’m actually not coming with you to Villa Barbiano. Not, like, right now.”

“You’re what?”

“You’re going to need to cover for me. Say I decided to spend the day shopping in Florence. I’ll meet Catia and the girls off their train and get a ride back with them this evening.”

I stare at her blankly. This makes complete sense; Paige would much rather shop in Florence than laze around the villa with nothing to do. But why is she just springing this on me now?

“Paige,” I ask, and for the first time since all of yesterday’s family drama, I realize that I’m not thinking about myself. “What’s up?”

She’s looking serious now, but her eyes are sparkling.

“You have to have my back, Violet,” she says firmly. “I came with you today, and you couldn’t have come without me, because no one else wanted to, they wanted an extra day in Venice—”

“Paige, tell me!” I lean forward, planting my elbows on the smart brown fake-wood table of the restaurant car, my voice rising so much that the waiter looks over at us. “What on earth is going
on
?”

I have absolutely no idea what she’s about to say. And even so, her answer absolutely gobsmacks me.

“I’m engaged,” she says.

The train jolts. My elbows bounce painfully on the table. And I barely even notice. I’m staring at Paige, who looks positively transformed; she’s glowing. Her face is prettier, more gentle, than I’ve ever seen it.

“My folks are
completely
against it, of course,” she says calmly. “They say we’re much too young. Which is
way
hypocritical, ’cause Mom was twenty-three when she had Evan. But you know, blah blah blah, I have to go to college and have a life and date a lot before I’m ready to settle down, and you know what? I
want
to go to college and have a life, I just don’t want to date a lot! I want to be with Miguel.”

I’m so taken aback by all this that I focus on the least important part of her entire speech.

“Miguel?” I echo. “Is he Spanish?”

“Hispanic American,” Paige corrects, rolling her eyes.
“He graduated West Point last year, and now he’s a second lieutenant in the army.”

“He’s in the
army
?” My voice is getting weaker and weaker.

“He’s been serving in Afghanistan,” Paige says proudly. “When he finished his tour he was shipped back to Germany, to a military base. But he’s wangled some favor or something, and he flew into Pisa this morning. There’s a big US base there called Camp Darby. So he got the train down and he’s at Florence station now, waiting for me. We’re going to spend the day together.”

I shake my head slowly in disbelief.

“I just—” I say feebly. “You totally didn’t act like you had a boyfriend, at
all
, this summer. Fiancé!” I correct myself. “You
totally
didn’t act like you had a fiancé! You were so flirty with everyone!”

“Exactly,”
Paige says complacently; I’m hugely grateful she didn’t take offense. “I was flirty with
everyone
. I let off steam but I didn’t do anything with
anyone
. Did I?”

She raises her perfectly groomed and penciled eyebrows. “All I did,” she points out, “was have fun.”

I think about it; she’s quite right. Paige flirted madly, but now I think about it, I never even saw her kiss a boy at a party. I nod slowly.

“Was it all an act?” I ask, a bit confused.

She tilts her head from side to side, blond ringlets bouncing.

“Yes and no,” she says. “I really did want to have a good time. And I couldn’t see Mig anyway, because he was overseas. And I knew my mom had told Catia that she was
sending me off to Italy to distract me from thinking about Miguel.” She pulls a face. “Mom thought if I met some sexy Italian boys I might decide I wasn’t ready to settle down after all. Mom and Dad really like Mig—he’s one of Evan’s best friends—but they don’t want me to get married so young. And that he’s an officer in the army freaks them out. I mean, they’re really proud he’s serving our country and all, but they’re worried about how I’d cope. Which is
stupid
! I’ll go to college, I’ll be fine. I’m tough. I don’t panic. I can totally deal with having a husband serving overseas.”

Her jaw is set determinedly: she looks like she’ll pick a fight with me if I don’t agree. But I’m already nodding. I think Paige will cope brilliantly as a military spouse.

“How do you know that’s why they sent you to Italy?” I ask curiously.

“ ’Cause I heard Mom on the phone to Catia,” she says instantly. “I knew something was going on, so I was super sneaky. Believe me, I’m really good at that when I need to be.”

“Honestly, Paige,” I say, shaking my head again in disbelief, “I really underestimated you. Does Evan even know?”

“Well, he knows about Mig, but not that we’re meeting up today. Look, I’m not super clever, not like Kendra and Kelly,” she says frankly. “But I’m really good at getting what I want. And I know I’m not going to change my mind about Mig. He and I are meant to be together.
But
, if Catia tells Mom that I had a really good time in Italy, and went out with tons of boys, and partied my head off, Mom’s going to relax and think I forgot about Mig while I was away. And then it’ll be way easier for us to see each other when we’re
back in the States. They won’t be watching what I do or where I go all the time.”