Ache For You

39

She gazes at the dress. “It was my mother’s. Dior, circa 1950s.”

“The New Look,” I murmur, unsure how to act. She’s being nice to me!

“Yes. My mother loved French couture. It was all she wore. This dress was only worn once.” She glances up at me. “To my father’s funeral.”

Okay, that is totally f*****g weird. “Um . . .”

“You’re a size six, correct?”

I nod.

“It should fit perfectly. Your figures are very similar.”

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear it? I mean, it has sentimental value for you, so . . .”

“I’m too broad in the shoulders, and my waist hasn’t been that small since before Matteo was born.” Her eyes grow distant, as if she’s lost in some old memory. “After she died, I donated all her clothing to the haute couture exhibition at the Palais Galliera. She had the most incredible collection. Practically priceless, by today’s standards. This one I kept because the one time she wore it was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry.”

Her voice grows quiet and sad. “She hated to show emotions. She said it was undignified. Weak. Whenever I cried as a child, I’d get a beating.”

Our eyes meet across the room. The silence pounds between us, deafeningly loud.

Then she turns on her heel and disappears.

I sit on the edge of the bed and rest my hand on the dress, which isn’t really a dress but an olive branch.

I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a day.

I’m in the kitchen with Lorenzo, nervously waiting for the limo to pick us up, when Matteo arrives.

He walks into the room and all the air goes out.

It’s not fair that someone should be so beautiful. The light treats him differently than it does the rest of us, caressing the bones in his face, adding a loving sheen to his hair. He’s wearing a gorgeous black suit and tie, black shoes polished to a mirror gleam, and a chunky silver watch that probably cost more than my college education.

His expression is somber. So is his voice when he says hello.

“Hey.” I look at my fingernails, in dire need of a manicure. I decide this is the last time I’ll let him in this house without calling the cops, and almost mean it.

Lorenzo murmurs a greeting, then we’re all silent.

Finally Matteo says, “Has she come down yet?”

“No,” answers Lorenzo. “She’s not ready.”

I glance up in time to see the two of them share a strange, meaningful look, which irritates me because I don’t understand it.

“You’re in the limo with us, Lorenzo.”

His eyes widen. “Oh no, signorina, that wouldn’t be proper. I will drive behind.”

I say flatly, “Family rides in the limo. You’re riding in the limo.”

I get the feeling he doesn’t want to contradict me, so he looks to Matteo for help. But Matteo simply inclines his head in agreement.

Lorenzo implores him in Italian, in answer to which Matteo waves a dismissive hand. Then he flicks an inscrutable gaze in my direction and says a few curt, quiet words.

I really have to learn that damn language.

When the doorbell rings, I stand, my heart thumping. “It’s time.”

Lorenzo says, “I’ll get Lady Moretti,” but Matteo quickly puts the kibosh on that.

“No. Wait for us outside.”

He walks out of the room, leaving Lorenzo and me alone. He offers his arm. “Signorina.”

Outside, we’re greeted by the limo driver, a small man with black hair and a nose the size of a cabbage. I get in, but Lorenzo stands outside, waiting.

And waiting.

It’s ten minutes before the marchesa arrives with Matteo, and by then my ears are burning with anger. I can’t believe she’d make us all wait for her, today of all days. What could she be doing, anyway? Drinking champagne? Then Matteo assists her into the limo and I see her face, and my anger vanishes.

She looks stricken. She’s as white as a sheet. Her hands are shaking. She swallows and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.

Matteo instructs Lorenzo to sit beside her, then he climbs in beside me on the long bench seat opposite them. I feel him looking at me, but I won’t look back. As the driver shuts the doors, Matteo reaches over and squeezes my hand.

He doesn’t let go until we arrive at the church.

The church is three hundred years old, and so is the priest.

I sit beside the marchesa in the front pew, staring at my father’s casket. On my other side is Matteo, and on his other side is Lorenzo. Dominic kneels in the pew on the other side of the aisle, his head bent in prayer.

All the pews are full, which isn’t surprising. My father was always the most popular person wherever he went. Outgoing, kind, with a permanent smile, he made friends everywhere.

When I visited him on my summer vacations from school, the house was always swarming with people. Neighbors dropped by unannounced. There were impromptu dinner parties and afternoon picnics on the lawn. On Sundays after church he always put out a big brunch with champagne and everyone was invited.

When I think of it now, I realize that maybe he didn’t have bad money-management skills. Maybe saving it and making it wasn’t as important to him as how he spent it.

Maybe he simply had different priorities.

The ancient priest dodders over to the pulpit, signaling the start of the service. When he starts to speak in Italian, I stop listening to the words. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the cadence. To the responses from the crowd. To the painful beating of my heart.