The Knotty Bride (14 page)

I don’t make it out to Ca’ Buschi much while Brandon is away. I’m so busy working at the ice cream shop that I barely see my boys. I think that’s what I hate most about my job. I only see my boys in the mornings when I am shuffling them off to daycare. By the time I return home, Uncle Tomasso has the boys all tucked in bed fast asleep.

We’ve had a few discussions, Brandon and I, about my future. He thinks I should quit my job and the boys and I should move in with him. I’ve told him absolutely not. “Moving in” is not a permanent state of being, is it? My boys need permanency, and they need a mother and a father. They’ve already watched their own father skip from woman to woman, and look how that turned out. “I’ll be happy to quit my job and move in the moment we’re married,” I always reply. The “married” word continues to elicit groans on Brandon’s part.

The discussion about me quitting my job, and perhaps going back to school to do what I want is always followed by what I call the car and jewelry discussion. That discussion generally goes like this:

“You need a new car. Your Punto is a hazard to the road. How ‘bout a nice Maserati?”

Now every woman in the world should be so lucky as to have their boyfriend offer to buy them a Maserati, but honestly where would I park it? Out on the street in front of my sad, concrete apartment building?

“Absolutely not,” I always respond.

“An Alfa Romeo?”

“No.”

“A sporty little Mini?”

This one always makes me hesitate a bit. I could see myself zipping around in a Mini Cooper, maybe a nice blue one with white racing stripes.

“No, no, no,” I always say. “The Punto may not be a nice car, but it’s my car. Bought and paid for.”

We have the same discussion about jewelry. Brandon wants to buy me things, but honestly what would I do with a fine pearl necklace? Hawk it to pay my credit card debt? That would be silly. Sometimes when we’re out strolling the fashionable streets in nearby Milan, he offers to buy me something that sparkles. I always reply that I will sell it and donate the money to help Rupa’s rescue. Generally that ends that conversation.

“Ah well,” I sigh, thinking through it all this morning as I do the ironing on the kitchen table. I lay Luca’s canary yellow button-down shirt down on a towel, and press it hard with my heavy iron, releasing steam into the air.

A few shirts later, and I am ironing the wrinkles out of my pillow cases thinking about all the mysteries that have been tied up in the last few months. We know what happened to Carlo Buschi, and we know about Signor di Meo’s fraudulent behavior. The only thing we still don’t know is who is the heir to Villa Buschi? There’s a part of me that wants to go search the creepy Buschi basement again looking for clues. After all, we need to find the heir, and convince her to take the cash instead of Brandon’s beloved home.

I sigh some more, and move on to ironing my blouse. The clock on the stove registers 2:25 p.m. I need to hurry up. I have to be off to work.

Still my mind drifts back to the idea of searching the villa basement. I know we’re supposed to leave Signor Buschi’s things alone. We’re not to disturb anything in case the heir wants everything back. Still, if we don’t go search through his things, how are we going to find her? All we have to go on is “La Zafferana,” --the Saffron one.  That is the only clue left on the list of three important birthdays that we found on the piece of paper on the Buschi estate in Switzerland. Next to the words “La Zafferana” was written the birth year of 1952. Rupa, in her spare time, has taken to researching records of baby girls born in 1952 in the Arona area. Of course, we don’t know where Buschi’s daughter might have been born –Arona, Switzerland, Cairo? She could have been born anywhere. So far, Rupa has come up with a list of 36 candidates in the local area. But what are we supposed to do with her list? Go knocking on doors and ask, “Hey there, my name is such-and-such and we’d like to ask you who’s your daddy?”

No, no that will never do. Francesca and I even pored over Buschi’s old diaries once again. There’s absolutely no mention of the girl. In my mind, the only course of action is to return to the basement where all Buschi’s old things were stored and search for clues. It’s the only way.

I am just ironing a new blouse purchased on one of my recent shopping sprees when, what do you know, my intercom beeps. It’s Francesca. She flounces into my apartment in her latest designer dress and plops on my couch looking miserable.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I was just thinking about you. I need your help,” I start in before she can even open her mouth. “Let me explain quickly, because I’ve got to run off to work,” I yell as I head back to my kitchen to unplug the iron.

I return to my living room to find Francesca sitting sullenly on my love seat with huge circles under her eyes.

“I got fired.”

“From Pronto Pizza?” I ask, feeling all hot and indignant that anybody would fire Francesca.

“From Pronto Pizza,” she replies dejectedly.

“But why? You had all those old ladies who would order pizzas just so you could deliver them and tell them news from their dear departed husbands.”

“I wasn’t exactly telling every widow something from their beloved. You know my gifts don’t work like that.”

Oh right. Yes. As I recall the dead talk to her when they want. They don’t come to her when she bids. Dealing with spirits is more like dealing with cats than dogs. Anyway…

“But recently I was delivering a pizza to a lovely lady on Via Manzoni, and her husband told me to tell her to close her fridge. She became a little upset. She wanted to know why her husband would say a dumb thing like that. I said I don’t know maybe it’s because you left the refrigerator door open.”

In typical Francesca style, she breaks off and begins to examine her cuticles.

Right, we’ve got to speed this up or I’ll be late.

“And?” I prod.

“And low and behold she went to the kitchen and it was wide open and she began screaming. She wanted to know more, like ‘how was he,’ ‘how is heaven,’ ‘why did he have to have a heart attack at a time which was very inconvenient for her’ and ‘who was the woman in the tight blue dress who came to his funeral?’ Blah, blah, blah, she had all these questions and she was ordering a pizza a day. All her friends began calling ordering pizza, wanting me to answer their questions as well. I told them it doesn’t work like that, I can’t just ask a question and receive an answer. Anyway, when I couldn’t answer all their questions, the widows started getting angry and bugging my manager. So this morning he called and told me I’ve become too much of a hassle and I’m fired.”

Gosh.

Well, no matter. She is young.

“Look, Francesca, I need to talk to you about something else. How do you feel about helping me search the basement for clues to finding Buschi’s daughter? We won’t have you go back to that room where the hutch fell and pinned you. That would be too dangerous.”

“Lily? Did you even hear what I said? I got fired from my job.” She looks out at me through protuberant eyes.

She’s right. How could I be so callous?

“I’ll tell Brandon to hire you back as a part time maid. Alice could really use the help. She’s running ragged doing it all on her own, especially with Jason and Anna always at the villa.”

“Really?” Francesca asks, and her smile extends all the way to her dark eyes.

“Really!” I exclaim. “I’ll call and arrange it on the way to work. You can start tomorrow. Now how about it? Ready to go back down to the basement with me?”

“No,” Francesca states firmly, “I’ll never go down there again, not even to help find Carlo’s daughter.” With that adamant declaration she rises to her feet and drifts out my front door.

Shopping for wedding stationery and dresses in Turin with Anna turns out to be loads of fun. We have to hurry because she’s leaving tomorrow for Los Angeles. To set our plan in motion, Anna needs to work her magic on the lady who runs
La Bella
Sposa
on Via Della Basilica in the city’s main shopping district.

It helps that the stationery store is right next door to the dress shop. Anna searches through each paper and design carefully. An hour passes before she chooses a glassine paper for her wedding invites. When they’re done and etched in white script with all the details, they’ll look divine. The man who waits on us is short and has stringy hair, despite wearing an impressive Armani suit. His face becomes grim with distaste when he asks how many invitations we want and Anna replies, “Three.”

“I’m sorry, Signora, the smallest quantity we can order is 200.”

That’s about 197 more invites than we really need, seeing as how Rupa, Dario and Ada Brunetti will be the only recipients, but we order them anyway.

Then we’re off to
La Bella Sposa
where I almost fall over with delight. The owner closed down the shop for us because Anna is a famous movie star. While Anna gravitates to the more glamorous styles, I am all in for the traditional ball gowns with sweetheart necklines.

“Ah, look at this,” I point out a dress on a stand. It’s a classic sleeveless ball gown with cream-tinted floral embroidery, crystal beading, and a silver jewel fashioned to a pale pink satin belt.

“Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”

“It’s very vintage chic, isn’t it? Why don’t you try it on? You’ll be getting married soon enough,” Anna laughs and the frumpy shop owner smiles in cheerful agreement.

Inside my stomach churns. I won’t be getting married anytime soon because my boyfriend won’t even discuss the matter. He’ll buy me a Maserati, but he won’t walk down the aisle and say “I do.”

“No, I can’t try it on. That’s not what we’re here for. You’re supposed to be the one trying things on.” I pull Anna aside and whisper, “and you need to ask whether or not we can have the selection of dresses show up on Rupa’s special day.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll get to that. Just trying to build a rapport with the owner first. But come on, I’m going to be trying dresses on, so you might as well too.” She walks over and pulls a long sheath dress off the rack. It’s plain silk with a bow that ties dramatically in the back. It definitely says “Hollywood Actress,” and when she exits the small, gilded-mirrored dressing room, she looks like she’s about to get married at a Polo match.

“How do I look?” She trills, the silk rustling as she twirls slowly in front of the three way mirror.

“Like money,” I sputter and Anna laughs.

“No, I mean it, you look quite expensive.”

Anna tries on several more gowns, all with decidedly different looks. She tries a long flowing veil with an A-line gown and then chooses a bird cage veil with a more retro dress and a full skirt.

“Now it’s your turn, you try on the dresses you like, while I work on the sales lady. Not to worry, I know she’ll let us do what we want, especially when I tell her how much we’re willing to pay for our special request. And don’t forget to try on some shoes , they have the most divine ones in the next room.”

Do I dare do it? Do I dare tempt fate by trying on these beautiful dresses? I look at the vintage dress I have been eying for the last hour. No, I won’t do it. I can’t put pressure on Brandon, if he’s not the marrying type then I need to accept things as they are.