Forbidden French

Emmett and I might have agreed on a friendship, but after his visit to the gallery, I don’t see him for two weeks. I hate that I know it’s been two weeks. In fact, it’s been a little over two weeks if I count to the exact day. I’ve been trying not to. There’s a certain ease to life if you’re careful not to open any tempting doors or fall too deeply into hypothetical thoughts. Since graduating from college and moving in with my grandmother, I’ve been careful to tame the wildness inside me. I don’t want to be anything like my mother, which means I should listen to my grandmother, let her guide me through life, keep things simple and comfortable.

After Emmett’s visit, my life continued on as if he weren’t in Boston. One night, I joined a group of forced acquaintances for an early dinner; I worked my usual shifts at Morgan’s; I volunteered at the YMCA, teaching art classes to children; I slipped into a designer dress and accompanied my grandmother to the Boston Ballet. We watched My Obsession, a collection of four ballets that explore the devotion and passion of lovers. I could barely sit still as I watched the dancers move on stage, their sinewy muscles so provocatively on display in their nude-colored costumes. I’m almost surprised my grandmother allowed me to stay through the entire performance. I could tell she hated it, that prim and proper look of disapproval likely to stay put for a full twenty-four hours.

I, however, loved it. I would have sat through it all over again as soon as it finished. More, more, more. I stood with the rest of the audience to give a round of applause, and after, as guests started to trail toward the theater exits, I looked down from the box we were perched in and froze. Emmett was there in the crowd, walking with a blonde woman. She looked pretty in her fitted navy dress. Her long curly hair tumbled down her back. They seemed, if not officially a couple, definitely headed in that direction. He dropped his hand to the small of her back to lead her through the sea of people, and I fought against my throat closing tight, emotion fighting to surface.

My grandmother was oblivious to my sighting. “We should go. I have no plans to stay for the reception. Whomever is allowing these choreographers to come in and display such overtly crass—”

I ignored her and leaned over the side of the balcony to keep sight of Emmett until the very last second. It afforded me a perfect view of his smile aimed at the blonde woman by his side, those prominent dimples meant for someone else.

Look up, I begged in my head.

He disappeared through the lobby doors, and my hands slipped off the railing as I turned and let the suited attendant lead my grandmother and me out of her reserved box. I walked through the opera crowd dutifully by her side and slid into the car waiting out by the curb. The heavy door slammed shut behind us.

In the last few weeks, Royce has been away on work. I should miss him, I think, but I’ll see him soon enough, in Italy, in fact. We’re traveling to a sprawling villa on the western shore of Lake Como to celebrate the 60^th birthday of Victor Sainsbury, my grandmother’s good friend. He’s a well-connected Manhattanite who seems to know anyone and everyone. He sits on the board at MoMA, served as president of Christie’s for fifteen years, and is universally known as the most prominent contemporary art collector in the world.

From talking with my grandmother, I know the guest list for the week-long celebration will be modest in number. There won’t be anyone as tacky as a Hollywood celebrity or a social media influencer. No one will be posing for selfies or posting to their feeds. This is about discrete power. Royalty, moguls, the upper crust of the upper crust.

I obviously don’t belong, but here I am, in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, sitting across from my grandmother. One of the wheels hits a divot in the road and we sway deeply to the right. I fear we might tip over, which is why I yelp and grab ahold of my seat.

My grandmother doesn’t bat an eyelash as we trudge on.

I sigh and release my death grip. “It’s a little theatrical, don’t you think?”

She inspects the plush blue velvet interior with unadulterated lust in her eyes. “It’s marvelous, straight out of the 1800s. Every detail is perfection.”

“How did Mr. Sainsbury manage to get his hands on so many antique carriages?”

“He commissioned them. It was my idea, actually. It took over two years to create the small fleet that will be used for the party, and once our week here is over, they’ll go up for auction at Christie’s London. One has already pre-sold to the National Gallery.”

The carriages are merely the last in a long line of transportation we’ve used within the last twelve hours. A private plane took us from Boston to Milan, where a hired car was waiting to drive us to Como. There, we paused for breakfast before continuing our journey to the Swiss-facing side of Lake Como. At our destination, we were stopped at a large gate and met by the fleet of carriages. A host of matching attendants in dark blue damask-patterned suits hurried to collect our luggage and offer us refreshment. I turned down the glass of champagne, and as we roll over yet another divot along the path, I’m glad I did. My dress would not have survived.

Finally, the carriage slows to a stop, and I peer out of the door’s curtain-covered window a second before an attendant opens it. A string of Italian follows, and though I understand some of it, I leave it up to my grandmother to answer him. She’s fluent in French and Italian, and, if pressed, can speak a good bit of German too. I took years of foreign languages at St. John’s—and aced them, by the way—but it’s all evaporated now.

An attendant extends a gloved hand to assist me down from the carriage, and when I have a solid footing on the gravel, I finally look up.

A gasp nearly escapes me as I take in the most picturesque view I’ve ever seen.

Before me, in the distance, is the grand three-story Villa Balbiano with its tan stucco façade. Dark olive green shutters frame each window. A stone archway beckons guests to enter, but to get to it, we first have to walk past lily-covered ponds and a long stretch of gardens. There are impeccably trimmed topiaries and towering Cyprus trees. Hedges soar upward, casting shade on our path. Beyond the villa, there’s the lake, and across the lake, a mountain range eventually gives way to a cloudless blue sky.

Without having stepped foot inside of it, I already know the villa will be the most romantic place I’ve ever visited. It’s a good thing I’m here with my grandmother as my date…

As soon as we enter, we spot our host. Victor is directing an attendant who’s carrying a floral arrangement the size of a modest car when he spots my grandmother and me. Immediately, his face lights up with excitement.

“Fay Davenport! My most coveted guest,” Victor says, rushing forward to meet us. “I’m so happy you two made it.”

He’s wearing an Italian cotton Riviera polo, white chinos, and light blue suede yacht loafers. His salt and pepper hair is curly and cut short, and his clear-framed glasses accent his handsome, deeply tanned face. Even though it’s late October, it looks like he’s been sunbathing in Italy straight through summer.

He air-kisses my grandmother in flamboyant fashion then steps back and turns to me. He isn’t shy about giving me a once-over, clearly appreciating my belted Dior maxi dress.

“Look at you! My god, you’re more beautiful every time I see you. I can’t wait to watch the men fawn all over you this week. If you’re not careful, you might end up a princess. You do realize the crown prince of—”

My grandmother clears her throat firmly, cutting him off.

“That’s all been taken care of, Victor.”

His eyes alight with mischief. “Has it? Our dear Elaine is off the market?”

My grandmother nods tersely. “Engaged as of a few weeks ago.”

“And who’s the lucky man?”

He looks between us, but it’s my grandmother who replies, “It’s not yet been announced.”

He tosses his hands up in protest. “Oh come on, surely you can tell me. I would never tell a soul.”

My grandmother’s single arched brow tells him all he needs to know regarding her opinion of his ability to keep secrets.

“Fine, don’t tell me. It’s not as if I won’t find out anyway. Will he be here this week?”

She gives him a single reluctant nod, which only excites him more.

“This is absolutely delicious. Oh, I can’t wait for dinner tonight.” He points a finger at me and narrows his clear blue eyes. “I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

“Wonderful,” my grandmother clips. “Now, may we see our room, or have you left your manners back in the States?”

He barks out a laugh. “God, you can be so acerbic sometimes. It’s what I love most about you. Come, come. I’ll show you to your rooms then I’ll ask one of the servants to give you a tour of the villa and the grounds. Have you been here before?”

“No, but I already know I prefer Villa Ponti,” my grandmother says with a note of disapproval.

He barely conceals his eye roll. I love it. Very few people stand up to my grandmother and live to tell the tale. On the contrary, in this situation, she seems to appreciate that he gives her a challenge.

“Of course. Villa Ponti is lovely. Unfortunately, the McConaugheys are there this week, and I didn’t feel like turning the lovely Matthew out onto the streets. No, this palatial villa will have to do, I’m afraid.” He winks at me conspiratorially before taking my grandmother’s hand, resting it on his crooked elbow and escorting us through the main hall. “The villa is an obvious jewel. It’s the largest private residence on Lake Como, and it’s filled to the brim with antiquity pieces, some of which date back to the original owner, Cardinal Tolomeo Gallio. They also acquired quite a few spectacular pieces to help fill the halls, some of which I helped them source while I was still with Christie’s.” He turns back to me. “There’s a 17^th-century fresco painted by the Recchi brothers that you two will love. I’ll show you later. For now, come upstairs. I’ve put you two on the second floor, in a suite overlooking the lake.”

A suite? As in just one?

I barely stifle the urge to groan. I didn’t realize my grandmother and I would be sharing a room for the week we’re here.

Victor must sense our unease with the arrangements. “Don’t worry, the suite is large, and you’ll actually have your own small room and bed, Lainey. It’s just that you’ll need to access it through your grandmother’s room. Odd, I know, but these old villas were built for different times. I suspect it was once used as a nursery.”

“It’s more than enough,” I assure him, guaranteeing an approving nod from my grandmother.

I know better than to complain about the accommodations. He could have stuck me out in the backyard with a threadbare sleeping bag and I would have smiled and thanked him profusely. My grandmother didn’t drill good manners into me for nothing.

“Though the guest list is exclusive, with forty-five people, I had to be strategic with room placements. Rest assured, you two have an en suite bathroom and a private butler who’s been assigned to your needs. Ah, there he is with your luggage. I’m sure he’ll have it put away for you in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear more guests arriving, and I need to play dutiful host.”

He gives us each a departing air kiss before heading for the stairs.

Inside our room, I’m pleasantly surprised. Our accommodations are small, but they aren’t meager. My grandmother is pleased by all the antique furnishings, and I’m pleased to find that, just as Victor promised, there is a separate bedroom just off the main one. Inside, my bed is small, a twin, maybe, but I’ll gladly take it. There’s a window and heavy drapes, along with a small chest of drawers. All the other furniture is back in the main bedroom where my grandmother is standing talking to the butler.

He introduces himself as Mr. Moretti. He’s a small middle-aged Italian man in the same blue damask suit as the other attendants we’ve seen. He’s been working hard on unpacking our luggage and is almost done, in fact.

As he works, he regales us with information about the villa. Even with his heavy Italian accent, his English is impeccably polished.

“I’d like to know about the grounds,” my grandmother says, walking over to peer out the expansive window.

“Of course.” He continues working on hanging our clothes as he talks. “The lakefront property stretches two miles from end to end. There are extensive gardens, a swimming pool, a private pier, and a boathouse. A lovely walking path will lead you around the entire perimeter of the property, and if physical activity isn’t what you desire, there’s a wonderful sitting area near the back porch that’s quite shady in the afternoon. If the weather cooperates, we will dine outdoors for breakfast and lunch. Dinner will be served in the formal dining room that abuts the ballroom.”

Having finished his task, he closes the closet doors and turns to us with a precise stance, neatly lacing his gloved hands together.

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging the clothes from your trunks based on occasion, most casual ascending to most formal. I’ll have your costumes for the masquerade party steamed. I did also notice a missing sequin on the young lady’s dress—I’ve already taken it to the washroom. If it’s acceptable, I’ll mend it.”

My grandmother turns and surveys him. “Yes please. Mr. Moretti, you said? You’ve made our introduction to Villa Balbiano very pleasant. We shouldn’t need anything until later. I like to have a Fabiola in the early evenings when I’m in Italy.”

“Of course. Would you like a sweet vermouth or dry?”

“Dry. And be sure the cocktail glass is chilled.”

He bows respectfully then turns to me.

“And for you?”

I smile. “Nothing, thank you. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have an Aperol Spritz, but I worry my jet lag will catch up to me too quickly if I have a drink before dinner.”

“Of course. If there’s anything else, ring for me and I’ll be right up.”

I thank him on his way out then join my grandmother at the window. We survey the view in silence for a long stretch, and I can barely believe a place like this exists. I’ve been to Italy more than a handful of times, but my travels here usually take me to the great museums and architectural marvels. Lake Como is slightly out of the way, and I know much less about the region than I do, say, Venice or Rome.

“Thank you for bringing me.”

My grandmother reaches out to take my hand, clasping it between both of hers.

“I can’t imagine being here with anyone else.”

“My late grandfather?”

I feel her shudder. “Definitely not him.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“I miss Margaret. She would have loved to be here with us.”

“Yes, I agree. We’ll have to bring her home a whole slew of treats.” She releases my hand and turns back toward the room. “What are your plans for the afternoon? Our travel took more out of me than I care to admit. I need to rest if I intend on eating my dinner rather than face-planting onto it.”

I laugh.

“I should rest too, but I’d much rather go for a walk to see the grounds.”

She’s already heading toward the closet where her favorite robe beckons. “Go. Enjoy. If you see Royce, say hello for me.” My grandmother already confirmed he would be here; we talked about it while we were packing. “I see no reason not to announce the betrothal at the masquerade party,” she’d said. “Oh sure, Victor will cry that I’ve stolen his spotlight, but only for a moment. Then he’ll realize what an honor it is to have played host to young love. His name will be mentioned in every article written about the engagement. In the end, he’ll thank me for it.”

I slip out of our room and make my way out into the second-story hallway. I didn’t have a real chance to take the villa in when we first arrived, but I’ll save a tour for later. After being cooped up in an airplane, car, and, oh yes, a carriage, I just want to be outside. While not totally practical, my strappy Italian leather sandals are well made and should be fine for a quick trip around the trail Mr. Moretti mentioned.

I pass butlers and attendants fluttering through the house carrying trays of tea and bouquets of flowers and folded linens in their arms. One man lugs a huge Louis Vuitton trunk down the hall, a bead of sweat collecting on his brow. I feel so bad I offer him a hand.

He smiles and shakes his head. “No, signora.”

I continue outside, through the back doors that open out onto a sprawling porch. To one side, there’s a fire pit and a collection of chairs. In the center stretches a long dining table with seating enough for twenty or more. There’s a charcuterie board set out on it, drawing a crowd of Victor’s guests. They sit and relax, eat and drink. I recognize most of the faces. I could even conjure up their names if pressed.

Royce is among them. He wears an easygoing smile while he listens to a redhaired man tell the group a story.

I wish I had the confidence to waltz over and join them, though I don’t see how it would be possible without somehow rudely interrupting. My cheeks flame just considering the thought of drawing everyone’s attention as I clumsily draw a chair back from the table. No thank you.

I turn away, surveying the backyard, trying to find an entry to the trail. I spot it just as I see Royce rise from the table out of the corner of my eye.

I’ve been noticed it seems.

I watch him make his way over to me, concentrating particularly hard on myself. What do my arms look like, what does my hair look like, is my smile as tight as it feels? Do I seem relaxed and happy to see him?

“There you are. I’ve been wondering when you would arrive.”

He gently touches my arm so he can lean in to kiss my cheek, and I go absolutely rigid.

“Royce, hello.”

He smiles broadly.

“Did you just get here?”

“Barely a half hour ago. I came outside to take a walk.”

I point toward the trail, and he nods. “Could I join you?”

It strikes me as an odd request, which I know is silly considering what we are to each other, but I’ve never been alone with Royce before. My grandmother is always at home when he comes by for a visit, and she takes her job as dutiful chaperone very seriously.

Even so, there’s no reason we can’t go on a walk together. In fact, it would be nice.

“All right. Yes.”

He gestures for me to lead then falls in step beside me.

We meet the trail where it dead-ends at the pier and then continue on, hugging the shoreline as we walk. The beauty of the landscape is hard to ignore. Lush mountains surround us on all sides. The deep blue lake looks so serene. The only interruption is an occasional speedboat slicing across the surface.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” he asks.

I nod, and I realize I’ve gone too long without saying something. I didn’t intend on having company during my walk, and it seems like a shame to have to waste this view on a conversation. A good companionable silence would be nice. Or better yet, solitude.

I shake away the depressing thought and turn to him with a smile.

“How was your flight over?” he asks.

“Fine, thank you. And yours?”

“Uneventful.”

The yawning pause that follows makes my stomach squeeze tight with nerves.

“And have you already settled in?”

“Yes. I’m staying in a guest house on the property, down closer to the main road.” He points further up the path.

“Oh. I didn’t realize there was a guest house.”

“I think there are a dozen of us staying there for the week.”

All right.

My brain goes absolutely mute. I can’t come up with anything. His flight! Then I recall that we just discussed that. I nearly laugh at the absurdity of having absolutely nothing to say, but I don’t think a wild unsolicited laugh would help me get out of this awkward situation.

Another speedboat races past, and with a stroke of genius, I ask him if he’s been to Italy before.

“No.”

One word, and no question in return.

If not for the fact that he invited himself on this walk, I would assume he didn’t want to be here.

Our feet crunch the gravel as we follow the path away from the lake, up along a line of hedges. My skin prickles at the absolute silence that blankets us. Is he thinking of how badly this walk is going, or is his mind on something else?

Again, I can’t seem to decide where my hands belong. Clasped at my back? Wrapped around my waist? Hanging loose and limp at my sides?

It’s unbearable.

We make it up the hedge line, and I suddenly stop. Royce does too, looking back at me expectantly.

“You know what? I just realized I promised my grandmother I’d help her finish unpacking.”

Never mind that this is a total lie.

Royce nods. “Of course. I can escort you back to the villa.”

Dear god no.

“It’s all right. You continue your walk. It’s such a nice day, I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”

His brows furrow as if he’s slightly disappointed.

“I’ll come retrieve you and your grandmother for dinner then.”

“Sounds good.”

One more tight smile, then I offer him a weird reverential bow like I’m one of the servants up in the villa before I turn and flee.