Seeking Sara Summers (9 page)

Sara laughed. She had also forgotten how frank Julia could be.

“Some things never change.” Julia winked as though reading Sara’s thoughts.

“So what drove you insane?” Sara asked, hoping these were not traits she possessed.

Julia paused. “Am I allowed to be catty?” Sara nodded and Julia leaned close as if to tell Sara the most delicious of secrets. “For one thing he wore this little short terrycloth robe with his initials monogrammed on the right butt cheek. That’s not something you buy yourself. Is it? I think he has a wife back in the States that he wasn’t telling me about. And if that wasn’t enough, he was absolutely paranoid that Roberto didn’t like him. Roberto didn’t, of course. But the man practically lost sleep over it.”

“I guess that is
catty
,” Sara said. “Pun intended.” They laughed.

Julia took two cups from the glass-fronted china cabinet and poured them each a cup of the freshly brewed coffee and then gestured toward the food. “Shall we?”

Sara nodded.

After they filled their plates Julia led them into the dining room where two elegant place settings awaited, as well as crystal glasses of juice and water. Sara complimented Julia on how beautiful everything was, which Julia promptly waved away.

She continued on about Roger. How he wore his socks to bed and moved his lips when he read. They laughed at Roger’s expense, which Sara felt mildly bad about. She had liked Roger when she had met him. But she had missed laughing. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed this way. Laughter deep enough to make you ache, gasp for air and cross your legs all at the same time.

Sara also hadn’t realized how much she had missed the sound of Julia’s voice. The highs and lows of it, and its resonance. They finished brunch and took a second cup of coffee back to the terrace. Sara looked down into the courtyard. An old woman sat knitting on the steps at the back door of the building. She gestured for Julia to look.

“That’s Mrs. Vinci,” Julia said, “my friend Francesca’s grandmother. She’s been a widow since her husband was killed in Sicily in World War II.”

“You’re kidding,” Sara said. 

Mrs. Vinci looked up as if she had heard them. Julia waved and called out, “
Ciao
,” which the old woman ignored. “She hates Americans,” Julia said.

Directly across, Mrs. Baraldi walked out on their balcony, a laundry basket in her hands. Julia called the same to Mrs. Baraldi who responded in a lilting, singing greeting. She began to hang out laundry on their balcony, pinning the clothes to the small line with quick perfection, stringing up Mr. Baraldi’s white jockey shorts like flags on the mast of a ship.

Mr. Baraldi opened the window above his wife and waved when he saw them. “Are you enjoying the reunion with your friend?” he asked Julia.

“Yes, very much, thank you,” Julia answered.

“We met her downstairs,” he said. He and Sara exchanged polite nods. Then he wished Sara a pleasant visit.

A floor apart, Mr. and Mrs. Baraldi conversed briefly in Italian before going back inside. Moments later they heard the clatter of dishes and a lively discussion when they reunited in the kitchen.

“Do you think they’re talking about us?” Sara asked.

“About me, at least,” Julia said. “I’m the strange American with no husband, two cats, and no job, at least as far as they can see. Someday I hope to understand the language well enough to catch them at it.”

“They seem nice,” Sara said.

“Oh, they’re wonderful,” she said. “I have been blessed with good friends and good neighbors.”

The exhaustion in Sara’s body was her only evidence that the scene wasn’t a dream. She took a deep breath and relaxed into the chair on the terrace. It had taken her thirty years to arrive at the place she had dreamed about as a girl. A rush of gratitude filled Sara as she realized the emotional and physical distance she had traveled to be sitting on Julia’s terrace.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As the afternoon progressed Sara and Julia moved inside to the living room. Sunlight streamed through the side windows producing much better light than her home in New England with all the mature trees around it. Julia asked Sara about Grady and their children. Was it odd for her to imagine Sara with Grady? For years he wasn’t someone either one of them would have considered romantically. He was their friend, of course, but also the guy they couldn’t seem to get rid of.

Sara filled Julia in on her life in worded snapshots. Julia studied Sara as she spoke, as if the artist in her was taking in shape, shadow and light. Sara kept her eyes lowered; looking up only periodically to make sure Julia was still listening. Did she avoid eye contact when they were girls? She couldn’t remember. Occasionally their eyes met before Sara looked away. Julia leaned closer, as though intent on capturing her gaze and locking it into place. But at that moment, Sara didn’t want to be captured.

“I can’t believe you work at Beacon High,” Julia said.

“I teach English in Mrs. McGregor’s old room.”

“We had some good times in that room, didn’t we? How is the old place?”

“The same, really,” Sara said. “Too hot in summer; too cold in winter. A different generation of kids, but the same angst.”

“I remember that angst,” Julia said.

“You?” Sara asked. “You didn’t seem to have a care in the world.”

“You’d be surprised.” Julia sipped her coffee, her long, slender fingers caressing the cup, her nails perfect, but unpolished. Two silver rings graced her right hand, one a simple wide band, the other quite ornate with a turquoise stone in the center. “I haven’t been around teenagers since I was young myself.”

“Lucky you.” Sara laughed. “I had three teenagers in the house at the same time.”

“I can’t imagine,” Julia sighed.

Roberto slid his body under Sara’s hand.

“Watch out for him,” Julia said. “He has the finesse of an Italian male.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sara said.

“I would,” Julia smiled.

Sara caressed Roberto’s head. He closed his eyes, as if perfectly content. Sara thought briefly of Roberto’s disdain for Roger and felt pleased that he had accepted her.

Sara’s thoughts wandered between past and present, bridging the years since she and Julia had seen each other. Julia was different, she decided, yet the same. Beautiful as ever; yet also older, less dependent on her beauty. And still the dominant force in a room. Was the girl she once was permanently imprinted on every woman?

“Tell me about you,” Sara said. She wasn’t ready to tell Julia about the cancer. If she told her at all. From her experience people changed once they knew. They developed an attitude of pity, peppered with relief that it hadn’t happened to them.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Julia said. She sat regally on the plush gold sofa, a queen presiding over her court. Even thirty years later Sara served at her pleasure.

“Your paintings are marvelous,” Sara said. Had she told her that last night? If not, she had meant to.

“Thank you,” Julia said. “It’s hard to believe I’m painting again. I dabbled a little bit in high school, as you know. But then got lost in my career and didn’t give it another thought until about four years ago.”

“I wouldn’t call what you did in high school ‘dabbling,’” Sara said. “You won awards. You had an exhibit in the library our junior year.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course,” Sara said. “I’ve never told you this. But I was very proud to be your friend.”

Julia leaned back and looked at her. “You were always so sweet, Sara.”

Her face burned from Julia’s compliment. Sweet? Had anyone ever called her sweet?

“I’m not sure why I gave up art,” Julia began again. “Except that I needed to make money if I was going to go all the places I wanted to go. So I went to law school and worked in London for a number of years. Traveled all over Europe when I could get away, which wasn’t often. But then at some point it just wasn’t enough. I had to try the painting again or I would have always wondered. The great ‘what if?’ you know?” Julia paused thoughtfully.

Yes, Sara knew about the great ‘what if?’ She had been thinking about it a lot lately.
What if
Julia had never left Northampton?
What if
they had gone away to college together like they had planned? Sara probably would have never married Grady nor had their children. But would she be happier?

“Now that I think about it,” Julia began again, “coming back to painting was like being reunited with an old friend. Kind of like us.”

Several seconds of silence passed. But not the kind of silence she was used to with Grady. This silence felt full instead of empty, pregnant instead of barren.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Julia asked.

“I’d love to,” Sara said. She welcomed a less intimate venue. Having Julia’s undivided attention after so many years was exhausting.

“While we’re out, I’ll show you around a little bit,” Julia said.

Sara grabbed her purse and Julia took keys off a hook near the door, calling goodbye to Roberto and the unseen Bella.

They walked down the marble steps. “Remember that cat you had when we were girls?” Sara asked.  “I can’t remember his name anymore. But half of one ear was missing.”

“Oh, that was Vincent,” Julia said. “I haven’t thought of him for years.” She paused on the dimly lit second floor landing, as if recalling the past. “Vincent had been in one cat fight too many, but he was a sweetheart. He lived to be some ungodly age, like twenty-one or something. He stayed with my parents after I left for college.”

“Animals always loved you,” Sara said. “At one point you had Vincent, the cat with one ear, and that poor dog that chased his tail until he fell over.”

“That was Picasso,” Julia laughed. “I can’t believe there’s someone in the world who remembers my childhood besides me. It’s been years since I’ve thought of Vincent and Pico. I guess I was destined to be an artist if I named my pets such silly names.”

“It wasn’t silly,” Sara said. “The names fit them perfectly.”

Sunshine greeted them as they entered the street. Within seconds, the cathedral bells began to toll. Their foreign, sacred sound stopped Sara in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Oh, Julia, this is amazing.”

“If you think that’s amazing, just wait. We haven’t even begun to reach amazing yet.” She locked her arm in Sara’s as they walked through the narrow streets of Julia’s neighborhood. They crossed the Arno River into the main section of town. With Julia’s leadership they moved through the crowds with ease. Sara observed her surroundings as if a camera documenting every frame. If this was her farewell tour, she was determined to make the most of it.

Julia squeezed her arm. “You act like someone who has been living off bread and water and is suddenly introduced to elegant food.”

“You don’t know how true that is,” Sara said. She stopped and looked up at a building in the square. A relief of the Virgin Mary graced a stone shelf above a large wooden doorway. “From what I’ve seen so far, she seems to be everywhere,” Sara said.

“She watches over the city,” Julia said. “If you like this, there’s a fountain at Max and Melanie’s that you’ll absolutely love.”

They crossed a square to admire the famous doors of the Baptistery. The doors opened up into a glorious round room with a domed ceiling. Characters from the stories of Sara’s childhood catechism classes looked down on them from every angle; classes that Sara had stopped when her mother died. Angels and saints in gold watched over the font where wealthy Florentines had baptized their infants. As Sara took in the gilded sight, Julia watched her.

“Relax Sara, you don’t have to take it all in on this one trip.”

But I do, Sara thought. She had no idea of how to tell Julia that she might be dying. As long as she was in Italy she wanted to pretend that everything was all right. She had gotten good at pretending. Except that a part of her actually wanted to tell Julia the truth. When they had been friends they had always been truthful with one another, even if it hurt. If there was anyone Sara could be real with it was Julia. But did she even know what
real
was?

They crossed the piazza to the Duomo, a cathedral with one of the most famous domes in Europe. Sara had had a photograph of this dome posted on her wall as a girl. Before going to sleep, she would imagine herself there. And here she was! Her imagination could have never dreamed up how spectacular it was.

“You know, we just don’t have anything like this in New England,” Sara said.

Julia laughed. “You sound just like a tourist.”

“I am a tourist. A glorious, grateful tourist.”

“Well, I’m happy to be your guide,” Julia said. “I doubt that home will ever be the same for you again.”

“I wonder if that’s good or bad,” Sara said, as they walked inside.

“I guess you’ll have to decide that for yourself,” Julia said.

For several minutes she studied the ceiling of the Duomo. “Visiting Florence can be hard on a person’s neck.” Sara rubbed the evidence of this fact.

Julia’s laugh echoed through the rotunda. Had she always loved Julia’s laugh? she wondered.

“Tomorrow, we’ll start on the art museums,” Julia said. “First the Uffizi, then the Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David.”

“Are you sure you have the time? I can give myself the tour.”

“I’m sure,” Julia said. “But be aware that the sheer volume of art here can be overwhelming. You’ll see lots of glassy-eyed tourists along the way. Then after you’re totally saturated with art, we can take the train to Siena and visit Max and Melanie in the country. That should restore you completely.”

The large, full tears that Sara had held in most of the day filled her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Julia said.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sara said. “It’s that everything’s so right. Thank you,” she added.

Julia took her hand. “For what?” she asked.

“For being here. For giving me a reason to come to Italy.”