Ache For You

17

With a whimper, Cornelia ducks back into hiding.

The marchesa looks at me sharply but gets distracted by the sight of a tiny peach-colored furball marching imperiously into the room, nose lifted high in the air, plumed tail quivering with pride. The pink studded collar it wears probably weighs more than it does. It parks itself next to the marchesa’s right foot and glares at me with small black eyes that glitter with malice.

“Let me guess,” I say flatly. “This must be Beans.”

At the sound of its name, the tiny peach furball bares its teeth and growls.

“Yeah,” I say, glaring back at it. “I know the feeling, sister.”

SEVEN

“You’re shitting me.”

“I s**t you not. They each have a bedroom of their own, and they eat their meals at the table. The big one’s tall enough that it doesn’t need a chair, it just sits on the floor and gobbles its food right off the plate, but the tiny evil one has a booster seat like they give kids at restaurants—only it’s made of silk.”

“Dear God,” says Jenner. I hear his shudder through the phone. “Dogs at the dining table? How obscene.”

“What’s really obscene are the dogs’ wardrobes.”

“Don’t tell me. Your wicked stepmother has them wear dresses.”

“I’ll do you one better: my wicked stepmother has them wear dresses that my poor father sewed by hand.”

After a short silence, Jenner says, “Oh, honey. She must have a magical hoo-ha to be able to get a man to do that.”

I mutter, “I’d like to kick her right in her magical hoo-ha, I’ll tell you what.”

After our disastrous meeting at breakfast, the marchesa and I retreated to opposite corners of the house. She and the dogs appeared again for lunch, this time in matching outfits. The four of us ate at the long oak table in the formal dining room in silence interrupted only by the sloppy chomping of Cornelia. The marchesa and Beans consumed their food with the same delicate manners, exuding the same royal disdain.

When Lorenzo came in to inform us that my father’s attorney would be arriving later in the day to discuss some financial matters and read the will, I took the opportunity to excuse myself. I’d already researched local hotels and had booked one nearby so I didn’t have to spend another night on the sofa.

Or near the WS, as I’d begun referring to my wicked stepmother in my head.

“So when’s the funeral?”

“In three days. I made the arrangements this morning.” With the help of Lorenzo, because I don’t speak Italian and my father’s doting widow retired to her bedroom at the mention of the funeral. Probably to do a happy dance at the thought of what she’d inherit.

Il Sogno may be old and crumbling, but the land is valuable. The view of the Duomo alone is priceless. I’m sure the WS has plans to sell it to the highest bidder the minute the funeral ends. I don’t know anything about community property laws in this country, but judging by the way my father spoke of her, the WS will get everything, right down to the doormat.

Not that I care. Without Papa, this is just another old villa in the hills. He was the one who made it special. I didn’t grow up here. I only visited once a year—there’s nothing left to tie me to it except painful memories, and I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.

“And how are you holding up, Poppins?” Jenner asks gently. “This has been one hell of a week for you.”

I close my eyes and turn my face to the hot afternoon sun. I’d come out to the overgrown back gardens to be with the butterflies and the hummingbirds, hoping I could head off my pending mental breakdown with a quiet stroll, but the heat is as oppressive as my jet lag, and the hummingbirds are nowhere to be seen.

The WS must’ve boiled them in her cauldron.

“I’m surviving.” My sigh is heavy. “Actually, I think I’m in shock. It still doesn’t seem real. Any of it. Brad, the wedding, my father, my father’s secret wife . . . it all feels like a dream.”

“Nightmare, more like,” says Jenner with empathy.

“Enough about my problems.” I wave a hand in the air to dispel the somber mood. “How are you doing? What’s new in the modeling world?”

“You know, the usual: cocaine, bulimia, fake friends. I can hardly wait until I start to wrinkle so I can retire and do something meaningful with my life.”

I know for a fact that he doesn’t do drugs, have an eating disorder, or have fake friends. I’ve met all of them, and they’re almost as awesome as he is. The stereotypes about models are depressingly wrong. You’d think the beautiful people would be more f****d-up than the rest of us, but as far as I’ve seen, that’s not true. Jenner just enjoys pretending it is.

“You’re too pretty to wrinkle. You’ve only gotten better looking since I met you.”

He sighs as if his beauty is a terrible problem that’s been vexing him for years. “I know. Let’s talk about something else. Oh—tell me about all the gorgeous Italian men!”

Smiling, I walk deeper into the garden, meandering down the gravel path toward the stone fountain. After all these years in the elements, it’s still beautiful, and still one of my favorite things. It depicts Aphrodite and her lover, Ares, in a passionate embrace. It was my father’s wedding present to my mother. It’s been dry since the day she died, twenty-nine years ago.

“I’ve only met one gorgeous Italian, but that was in New York. But damn, he was a doozy.”

“I can hear the drool in your mouth, Poppins! Tell me everything!”