You Have Seven Messages (21 page)

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, sweet thing. Everyone,” he proclaims, putting the lid on the giant pot, “gets their heart broken at least once, some repeatedly. It’s a fact of life.”

“So, was that the only time? For you?”

“That was the one that really struck me. If I saw Roddy Johnson today, I’d probably kick him in the balls.”

The phone rings and Julian expertly multitasks while zesting a lemon.

“Ciao. Eight o’clock, dear. Tuscany time, not Fiji time. Okay, ciao bella.” He hangs up and moves from zesting to washing some lettuce. I’ve been assigned to chopping basil. “That was Isabella. She’s a rock star in Canada. She’s spent the last two years in Fiji and her sense of time and responsibility is, well, let’s just say ‘off.’ Not that rock stars are ever on time, but she’s learning, I suppose. She’s got a husband who’s her polar opposite. The man, bless his heart, has maps and codes and lists for everything he does. When he’s not around, you really have to stay on top of her.”

I give him my first pile of finely chopped basil.

“Nicely done! We’re going to make a chef out of you yet. Now, I always say, a little wine while you cook helps bring out the love in the dish.” He pours himself a half
glass of red wine, and for me just a taste. There’s no label on the bottle.

“It’s from our neighbor’s vineyard. The stuff is mind-blowing.” He takes a small sip, swishes it around his mouth, then swallows with a smile. “It’s all blackberry all the time. Jam in a glass.”

I taste it and try to swish it around like he did but spill a little over my lip. After the artichokes are boiled, Julian takes them off the stove and puts on a CD of Italian opera. Maybe it’s the dramatic and triumphant music, but for a moment I feel like a real chef. He’s already cooked the noodles, so we begin the process of layering the lasagna. Ricotta, mozzarella, artichoke, tomato paste, basil, sweet Italian sausage, and so on. I’m a little lightheaded and starting to get really hungry. When it’s all done, Julian says, “We’ll finish the salad later. Let’s go upstairs and make ourselves pretty.”

I put my hair up and decide to apply a little of the mascara Janine gave me before I left. “You never know,” she said. I’ve never been one for makeup, but it does seem to highlight my eyes well. They’re far apart, like my mother’s. I used to think it was freaky, but people tell me it’s exotic. Whatever it is, the mascara helps. I can’t decide what to wear—everything I have seems too unsophisticated. After some time, I settle for a gray skirt with a simple flowing top.

Back downstairs, Julian’s slicing some peaches for the dessert. He pours us each some Pellegrino, and without fail, I think of Dad. I remember when I was in sixth grade and I got really sick. My mother was away on a shoot and Dad flew home from his filming in Vancouver. At the time we had a nanny who cooked us strange food and smelled like peppermint. Tile loved her because she sang to him. When Dad came home he served me soup in bed and forced me to eat crackers. Later, I read that it cost the movie $150,000 for the delay. That’s a pretty expensive stomach flu. But I was glad he thought I was worth it. I realize he has always been so perfect in my eyes, and part of me is still wondering what Richard and Julian’s secret look was about.

“You, my friend, have one more job.” Julian hands me four yellow tomatoes and says, “The size of a quarter.”

I start to dice, curling my fingers like I saw on the Food Network. Julian secretly admires my technique.

“I saw that box of stuff Richard left for me. Did you know my mother well? Was she ever, you know, here with you?”

He stops his own chopping and his eyes settle on me.

“Standing in that very spot.”

I start to feel very hot, like my skin is on fire. “I’m just gonna step outside for a minute.”

I walk past the pool and see the hills beyond, dappled with the last light of day. The edges of the trees and the fences have an orange glow. I want to scream. How can I be mad at her? Right now, I am. For leaving me behind
in this world, for screwing up what she had with my father—which I happen to know was something special.

For being the beautiful woman everyone always remembers, the one whose footsteps I will always walk in. I want to experience this on my own, but she is everywhere, and in everything I do.

When I come back in, Julian gets all wide-eyed.

“Darling, come here.”

He leads me into the powder room and sits me on the little chair, dabs a tissue with warm water and cleans up the mascara that has run down my face. Then he sits down on the closed toilet lid and says, “I miss her too. I’d see her after a year and it would feel like yesterday. That’s how you know when you really connect with someone. You can just click back on track.”

I stand up and check my teeth.

“Did you know Cole?”

“Met him a few times. He has a villa a few towns away. Seemed very nice.”

“That’s what everyone says! I mean, it’s kind of hard for me to blame him. But at the end of the day, someone has to be blamed, right? My dad was there, but he never would have been there if Cole … Oh my god, Julian, I’m sorry I’m going on and on and we have mangoes to marinate or whatever.”

He laughs, and the sound of it makes me feel better for an instant. But when we get back into the kitchen, it’s my mother’s brother’s house. I stand where my mother stood, probably drinking from the same glass. I start to sing the
lyrics from an old eighties song: “Always something there to remind me.…”

Richard comes in, kisses me on the forehead, and says, “Did you get the box?”

“Yes, but I haven’t opened it yet.”

“No rush. We can do it together if you like.”

“Okay.”

He puts his briefcase down and says, “I’m off to wash.”

Julian watches him go up the stairs and smiles. He pulls me into the hallway while he fixes a flower arrangement. “You know, that uncle of yours, it’s been nine years and he’s still, if I may quote R.E.M., ‘my everything.’ ”

“How come I only met you a couple of times?”

“I was on tour for four years. Richard and I would always meet in London. But I came to the island once. You were about nine. Do you remember?”

I try to think back.

“Yes! You had longer hair, though, right?”

“Frightfully so. You had a friend there … Rachel?”

Figures he would remember her name.

“Yes.”

“She kept grilling me about Richard. I finally had to come out to her.”

“She has that effect on people. I’m just so happy to be away from her, that seems like years ago already.”

“That’s the right attitude. Moving on …”

“Yes. Just not quite sure where.”

“To the top, babe,” he says, and we clink glasses.

The doorbell rings and Julian does about fifty things in twenty seconds, then takes off his apron and dashes toward the door. I see him hugging a woman with a gray bob and thin black glasses, carrying a bag that looks like it’s made of straw.

“Giovanna! Don’t you look precious. Come in!”

The woman looks like she was born in these hills, like she might have grown the peaches we just finished chopping. She gives me a wide smile and opens her arms.

“You must be Luna. I have not seen you in ages!”

She hugs me and her shawl smells floral, as if she’s just spent the afternoon trimming roses. She could be thirty or fifty, I have no idea. She steps back to have a look at me. “You were in diapers before and now you look like a
woman!” She touches my shoulder and then turns to Julian. “Have you any vino? I’m parched.”

“Of course. White, or would you prefer a sidecar?”

She turns to me and stage-whispers, “I think he’s trying to take advantage of me.”

I feel myself blush a little and sip my own glass.

“No, I’ll stick with some white, please. Tell me, Luna, how old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

“Going on thirty,” Julian adds, handing Giovanna her glass of wine.

Richard comes down the stairs in a white embroidered shirt, glowing from his shower, and kisses Giovanna on both cheeks.

“Hi, beautiful.”

“Oh, I thought you meant me,” Julian kids, adding a fake hair-flip.

Richard rolls his eyes like he’s used to it. It’s funny, but the way they are acting around each other is exactly like my parents. I know Mom and Dad were in love, I just don’t know when, or why, it all changed.

The doorbell rings again and this time Richard heads over to open it. A couple with a toddler comes in loaded with baby gear. The man is skinny and gangly, the woman curvy and short. The little girl has red hair and freckles. She runs right up to me and stares. I’m not quite sure what to do, so I just smile until the woman says, in a thick British accent, “Sorry, she’s a bit forward. She’s called Tamarind, Tam for short. And I’m Bridget.” She reaches
out her hand and I shake it. Tam makes a snort noise and runs outside.

“And I’m Charles,” the man says. “Chopped liver, I suppose.”

I smile. I already like these people and I don’t even know them.

We all sit outside by the pool and eat grapes and crusty bread with the neighbor’s olive oil. Isabella arrives last, a stunning woman with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a thin dress that reminds me of something my mother would have worn. Here I go again.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Your mother … she was like a summer day,” she says, “warm and sweet, always lingering. She taught me a lot, actually.”

What am I supposed to say? I settle for “Great,” which comes out weird. Then she’s whisked away by Julian, who apparently needs a private conference.

Eventually we’re all seated around their huge wooden table, which used to be a door in a church. Candles line the room and the lights are dimmed. Julian serves the dinner while Richard keeps the drinks flowing. I’m seated between Giovanna and Charles, who with my help gets Julian to tell the story of how he and Richard met.

“The Raleigh Hotel in South Beach. I had a few days off from my superhetero Van Morrison tour—in case you were wondering, the song was not called ‘Brown-Eyed Boy.’ ” Giovanna almost spits out her sip of wine. “Anyway, I thought I’d get a little diversion in South Beach, which was not the gay mecca it is now.…”

“Julian, let’s pick a lane and keep driving,” Richard says.

“Okay, there’s this teeny-tiny bar, and they were serving some nut that was really spicy, so Richard comes in, all suave and debonair as usual, and orders a gin martini. He smiled at me, and I thought to myself, yes, I want to look into this face tomorrow. We start chatting, and I learn he’s in town researching the biography he’s writing, which I thought was
molto impressivo
. To show off, he throws up a macadamia nut and catches it in his mouth and proceeds to choke on it!”

The table starts howling. Giovanna whispers to me, “I’ve heard this story a zillion times—sometimes the nut is an almond.”

“So he’s sitting there convulsing and his whole face is purple and the thing flies out and lands, I’m not kidding you,
in my lap
.”

“Passare,”
Isabella says with her long fingers waving. I glance over and notice that her other hand is on Giovanna’s thigh.

“So, did you pick it up and eat it?” Charles asks.

“I said, sorry, I already have two of those!”

The table laughs again, this time including Bridget, who seems to be drinking wine at a rapid pace. Tam is in her high chair, staring wide-eyed at everyone.

“But seriously, he wouldn’t stop coughing, so I suggested we go outside. Sure enough, he was better there. It was all very art deco and palm trees and even a moon.” He glances at me quick enough for only us to get the reference
and continues, “I told him he should be in pictures.”

“How clichéd,” Bridget says.

“No, it’s romantic,” Isabella points out.

“And he just stood there and looked at me, and something told me”—Julian gets a little choked up but holds it together—“that there would be no more searching. And here we are nine years later.” He raises his glass and indicates for everyone to do the same. “To my wonderful Richard and his darling niece, Luna!”

We all clink and I make sure to look everyone in the eye. My mother told me that whenever there’s a toast, you must look everyone in the eye. I always liked that, because then it means something more than just a boring ritual you do every once in a while.

Isabella and Bridget get up to help Julian serve dessert. I can tell the three of them are talking about more than how many peach slices go on each plate. The room feels a little deflated with Julian gone, like he was the warm air holding everyone’s spirits up. Giovanna goes to the bathroom and Richard dangles a flower in front of Tam. Charles and I sit in silence.

All through dessert I notice Isabella constantly touching Giovanna, and Charles seems to be flirting with Julian. It’s all very confusing to me, so I offer to take Tam outside for a while. Bridget says, “Please, take her for a week if you wish.” Charles winces a little.

It’s very dark outside but there are small yellow lights
on the edge of the garden, creating a halo around it. Tam pretends to smell one of the plants but it’s only a weed. I watch her do this for a while and it’s a welcome distraction. Then I hear the sliding door open and turn to find Bridget walking toward me and swaying a little.

“She’s very keen on you,” she says, pointing at little Tam.

“She’s cute. That hair!”

“Right? It comes from Charles’s mum.”

“Cool. How long have you been married?”

Bridget laughs a little. “We’re not. Not the marrying type, either of us.”

“Oh.”

I feel confused again. Bridget senses this, and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“We don’t need a piece of paper to prove our love. Some people do, but we’re sorted. Besides, no matter what happens, Tam will have both of our love and support. I think if we got married we’d loathe each other!”

She laughs again and I see there’s a calm about her. Maybe my parents shouldn’t have gotten married. Would that have taken some of the pressure off? Tam spins around really fast and falls down. She looks up at us to gauge whether she should cry or not, and decides to just wipe herself off and keep exploring the plants.