Follow That Blonde Page 3

  “Surely. There's a john just down the hall. In the upstairs one there's a bidet.” Show-off.

  “Downstairs'll be fine,” I said, and Nancy and I made a quick trip to brush our hair and fix our lipstick.

  “What do you think of the place?” Nancy asked, smiling widely.

  “Nice."

  “Imagine, Nick has a whole house. Bert says they're practically impossible to find—and cost a fortune, like New York. And he owns it. His mother's Italian. She's divorced from Nick's dad. He's American."

  “Nick must get his looks from his mother."

  “I don't know, he was raised by his dad, in the States."

  “You've been with Bert too long already. You inherit your looks, whoever raises you has no bearing on them. What does he do—the father, I mean?"

  “He has an electronics company, not computers. He does defense stuff for the American government."

  “Oh, one of those guys who sells nuts and bolts for a couple of thousand dollars."

  “Now don't start running Nick down, Lana. He likes you,” she said earnestly, in the interest of peace.

  She began rooting in her rat's nest of a shoulder bag. “Can I borrow your pink lipstick? Now that I'm getting a tan, it looks better than my red.” She went to the minor, talking over her shoulder, “God, I hope I don't get skin cancer. I'm going to buy a sun hat tomorrow.” Hers had blown out a bus window two days ago.

  We hastily fixed our faces and met Nick just coming into the hall with a tray of drinks. There was a bottle of Campari and a soda siphon on the tray. Bert was behind him, carrying another tray with glasses and an ice bucket. On the terrace there were padded lounge chairs and a glass-topped table. It was nice and cool, shaded by the house, with clipped yews forming a privacy hedge. Nothing a scorned lady could take sane exception to.

  “Sit here,” Nick suggested, indicating a pair of chairs a little removed from the table where Nancy and Bert were settling in. “This is the view of the Tiber."

  I stared into the dense, hedge. “I thought it'd be wet."

  “If you stand on your tiptoes and squint, you catch an occasional glint of green. That's it."

  The more interesting view was the sprawl of Rome, its domes and towers and campaniles gilded by the setting sun, with the stream of traffic just below us. A lovely cool breeze blew in. “They call it the ponentino—the westerly,” Nick explained. “It comes from the sea."

  We sat down edgily to become acquainted. He said “Cheers,” and clinked his glass against mine. We drank. I wondered why I had asked for Campari. A nice tall Tom Collins would have been better, but the alcohol had a soothing effect. I decided to forget that Nick and I were both here under duress and try to enjoy myself.

  In fact Nick looked so handsome in that romantic setting that I readied myself to be fascinating. But before I could speak, he looked me dead in the eye and said, “I expect I should apologize for abetting Bert. You didn't want to come, did you, Lana?"

  “No more than you did."

  “I was eager to come,” he lied glibly.

  “So I gathered from your general air of reluctance."

  “All right, I had made other plans. It doesn't mean we can't be civilized about it. You're a very handsome woman."

  “And you're a pretty man,” I retaliated.

  Nick looked confused, sensing it wasn't a compliment, but not knowing how to object. “Bert twisted my arm. He's crazy about your friend,” he said.

  “She's my cousin, actually."

  “Oh really? He didn't say so. You're so different from each other.” Before I could fully interpret this insult, he continued. “He's often told me about her—their broken engagement. That's why he left Troy, you know, because of the family's opposition to the marriage."

  Bert hadn't changed. Still inventing intrigues. I opened my lips to correct this lie, and closed them again. Why dump on Bert? Nancy and I would only be here for one evening. Bert had to spend the rest of his life here, and if he had made a friend in Nick, what good would it do for me to expose him? “I didn't know that,” I replied.

  “Oh yes. I hope, for his sake, that he can patch it up.”

  “He'll have to move fast. We'll be leaving Rome tonight."

  “Life can't be planned in too much detail. I always leave room for happy accidents—like spending some time with you,” he added, with a certain unconvincing continental charm.

  “And having your arm twisted into taking me to dinner,” I murmured, while my mind rapidly analyzed his speech. Was he hinting that we should remain longer in Rome? I knew he expected the conversation to become a flirtation, but I had no intention of obliging him. “It was quite a coincidence, meeting Bert. I haven't seen him since high school. It must be—oh, eight years."

  Something in Nick's eyes told me he understood my change of topic, and was willing to go along with it. “I usually meet an old friend when I travel. In Paris I met my kindergarten teacher at the top of the Eiffel Tower. She didn't recognize me, of course, but I spotted her.” His accent was beguiling. It wasn't the honking New England sound. Italy had softened it, blurring the vowels, fuzzing the endings.

  “That's true, about meeting people in strange places. I was browsing through Harrods and met my dentist.” It was pleasant to speak nonchalantly about Paris and London. I felt worldly, cosmopolitan, sitting on a terrace in Rome with a beautiful man, who was trying to flirt with me.

  “Teachers and dentists—odd we both met people we'd normally avoid."

  He knew bloody well I was a teacher! “Well, dentists don't pull your teeth when you just meet them in a store, and I'll try not to teach you anything."

  A little twitch of amusement moved Nick's lips. “Do you think you could?” he asked.

  “Only you would know whether you're capable of learning."

  “I can't if you don't even try."

  “Where did you meet Bert?” I asked hastily, to cut short this ambiguous line of talk.

  “I forgot you're a teacher. Honest."

  I shrugged my shoulders to show no offense had been taken and repeated the question.

  “I saved his life in a boating accident on the Tiber,” Nick explained. “According to an old legend, that makes me responsible for him."

  “And now he's your manager, or agent, or something?"

  “Agent, and a damned good one. Bert's clever—a rough diamond. The gallery that exhibited me was taking thirty-five percent. Bert takes fifteen. Sales haven't fallen off since I went with him either. I was already becoming known a little. Bert felt I could get along without the sponsorship of an established gallery."

  “Where does he sell your works then?"

  “He puts on an annual exhibition, and of course I get commissions. It's a living,” he said modestly.

  “He mentioned you were in Paris..."

  “Yes, when I graduated from art school in New York, I went to Paris to study for a year."

  “Isn't the more innovative work being done in the States now?"

  “It is, really, but the lure of the Left Bank drew me. Actually it was wasted time, but very enjoyably wasted time,” he added, with a nostalgic look.

  “Wine, women, and song, I suppose?"

  “That, too, but mostly painting. I fell into an abstract expressionist period, under the influence of my teacher. Angry streaks of red and black and yellow and white. My French Frustration period, I call it. I had an agent there, but he didn't manage to sell anything. My money was running low. I took what I had left and ran—to Italy."

  “Rome isn't cheap either."

  “I went to Florence first, the banks of the Arno, the cradle of Renaissance art, and studied the Botticellis, the Leonardos, the Raphaels—what craftsmen. I realized it wasn't abstract art I wanted to do. I wanted to be a master craftsman, too."

  “We saw the Botticellis at the Uffizi. They were magnificent."

  “I used to practice drawing there. I'd sit for a whole day, sketching a hand, the setting of an eye, the fold of
a garment. They can't really teach that at school. In the Renaissance they had the right idea. You observe the masters, copy them, do it, and do it, and do it again till you're in control of your hand.” He flexed his long, brown, artistic fingers, innocent of jewelry. He didn't even wear a watch.

  “I'd say you have your hand under control now, Nick, to judge by your exhibition."

  “For landscapes. The hard part is yet to come—the human form. The face—you have a Botticelli face, Lana."

  His dark eyes studied me closely. I never felt like one of those serene graces in my entire life.

  “You use tempera, I think,” I said, ignoring that comparison.

  Nick's eyes glowed with passion as he talked about his art. “It's a son-of-a-gun,” he said, shaking his head. “Bert says I'm a masochist. It's laborious, working in layers, preparing the materials. But it gives a smooth, luminous effect you can't get with oils."

  “Is it true they use egg white?"

  “Egg yolk, as a binder for the ground pigments. The yellow fades; it doesn't discolor the pigments. I'll show you my studio later. And how about you, Lana? That's a lovely name, by the way. So—gentle,” he said, hesitating over the word. It sounded liquid on his tongue. “What is it you teach?"

  “English."

  He nodded. “In Troy. Bert's told me a little about Troy."

  “I think he said you were raised in Boston?"

  “Yes, by my father, nominally. I was sent to boarding school for most of the year. My parents divorced when I was eight. Dad met Mom here, in Rome, and married her. He was the Italian rep for an American electronics company at the time. They recalled him to the States. Mom tried to live in the States, but her heart was here, she said. Rome is called the city of big emotions. She found everything else in the States too big, and the emotions not big enough. They're both remarried now."

  I found it strange he hadn't gone with his mother. “Do you see much of your mom?"

  He shook his head forlornly. The continental charmer was replaced by a lost little boy. After all these years. “Her heart found a new home in Paris. I used to see her there. We visit."

  I didn't like to ask too many questions. I saw a lot of those strangely disoriented children at school. From one-parent homes, from divorced homes, living with new fathers or mothers. You could tell when there was trouble at home. The kids become distracted, sometimes unruly. Would they become Casanovas when they grew up? My heart always went out to them. The word divorce was never mentioned between my mom and dad. We're an old-fashioned, stable family. One son, one daughter, lived in the same two-story brick house forever. Dad owns a drug store, Mom works there now sometimes, since the children are all grown up. Bob, my brother, is studying pharmacy at college. One day he'll take over the family store. Stable as the Rock of Gibraltar. I used to sense some glamour in my own ‘divorced’ friends when I was young. My life seemed dull compared to theirs.

  I briefly described my family background to Nick. “That's marvelous,” he said gently, almost enviously. “I'd like to have a family like that, one day."

  I felt a little sorry for him. Everyone's glass became empty at the same time. “Another one for the road, folks?” Bert called.

  “Maybe we should start making plans for dinner,” Nancy suggested.

  It was nice and peaceful on the terrace with the traffic streaming by below and the skyline of Rome gilded by the lowering sun, casting purple shadows on the house next door. And Nick wasn't so bad after all.

  He looked a question at me. “We can eat here, if you like. It'll save time,” he said.

  “Whatever you like."

  “We'll have another drink and discuss it,” he decided. “Do you really want to drink Campari?"

  “No."

  “Bert, let's concoct a special Roman cocktail for the ladies."

  “You're on. This Campari stuff is the pits."

  Bert got up and they went into the house. I joined Nancy at the table. “Guess what,” I said. She cocked an eyebrow. “Bert told Nick he used to be engaged to you. The family disapproved. He didn't say which family. Was it yours, or his?” I asked, with a conspiratorial grin.

  She met my gaze coolly. “Actually we never told our families."

  “You mean you were engaged to him!"

  “Secretly—for two weeks. It was Bert's last year of high school. He wanted us to run away. You know I always wanted a big wedding. I wanted to wait a year till I finished high school. That's why we broke up—because I wouldn't marry him right away."

  I was shocked into disbelief. “Good lord!"

  “And don't you dare tell anyone at home!"

  We sat silently a minute while I digested this. “Why?” was all I could think of to say.

  “We had our reasons. And I wasn't pregnant! We never—you know. I'd rather not talk about it right now.” She flopped her blonde mane over her shoulder and looked nobly into the yew hedge.

  “All right,” I agreed, but I meant to get the whole story soon. “Nick suggested we could eat here. What do you think?"

  “Who does the cooking? Or does he have a cook?"

  “I don't know. He probably has a woman who cooks and cleans."

  In a few minutes the men came back, carrying four tall glasses, filled with a pink fizzy liquid and a lot of ice cubes. “What's in this?” Nancy asked.

  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” Bert replied.

  “It sounds lethal,” she said with a laugh.

  Bert looked confused. “It'll curl your hair,” he promised, and took a sip. “Not bad, if I do say so myself."

  It was better than not bad. It was delicious. I could detect a variety of fruit juices below the gin. Pineapple, orange, lemon, and probably cranberry to color it. Nick and I stayed at the table and we all talked, the conversation becoming noisier and sillier as we drank. The Roman cocktails were strong, and on an empty stomach they began to lend a hazy glow to the world. When our glasses were empty, Bert suggested another.

  “Then we'll have to eat here,” Nick said. “I couldn't drive after another of these bombs."

  “You can't drive anyway,” Bert said, with a bleary, laughing eye. “Creamed his new car the week he got it. Has an accident a week. Worst driver I ever saw, and that's saying plenty."

  “I'm an excellent driver,” Nick said with haughty indifference. “It's just that other drivers keep getting in my way."

  “Selfish bastards, wanting a piece of your road.” Bert grinned.

  They took the glasses in. “I'm getting powerful hungry,” Nancy said, perhaps because she saw the gleam of curiosity in my eyes, and still didn't want to talk about her engagement. “I wonder if the cook's making dinner yet."

  “It's not even seven o'clock."

  She got up and went peering in windows. “They're coming back,” she said. “Oh great, there's a little guy going into the kitchen now. Nick has a male servant. Classy, huh?"

  She was innocently sitting at the table when the men came out with our refills. After half a glass, Bert said, “Let's go swimming."

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Hell, there's a river just down there. Here it comes, the girls don't have bathing suits. I bet you've never gone skinny-dipping with a guy, have you, Lana?"

  I have never even been skinny-dipping with girls. “Lots of times,” I said.

  “Then let's swim."

  “I'm too tired. I'd drown."

  “Not to worry. Nick'll save you. I ever tell you about how Nick and I met? I was in a little rowboat with a chick—Gina her name was. I tried to get friendly and she pushed me overboard.” Everybody laughed. “Seriously! I can't swim a stroke. I was floundering like a fish out of—in water and who should come along but old Nick. The devil himself. Fished me out, brought me up here. Been buddies ever since, right, buddy?"

  Nick gave a lopsided grin. I suspect all our grins were growing pretty lopsided. How else could it happen that we fell fast asleep, sitting in our chairs, with our heads inching ever closer
to the table for support? I remember the conversation petering out, and Nick's black eyes growing fuzzy. I vaguely recall Nancy saying, “I'm starved. When do we eat?"

  The next thing I remember is Bert shaking my arm. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Hangover city! Nick must have slipped a mickey in that drink. My head feels like Mount Helena. Thar she blows!"

  It was dark. Below, the stream of cars had turned to ribbons of light, piercing the blackness. The soft night air felt refreshingly cool against my fevered brow. I shook myself to attention. “Good lord, what time is it? Our bus to Naples leaves at ten."

  “You've missed the boat, kiddo. It's ten-o-five."

  CHAPTER 3

  “Great, we've missed our bus. How are we going to get to Naples? There must be a public bus or something.” I jiggled Nancy's elbow till she woke up.

  “Huh?” She looked all around, dazed and frowning. “Where are we?"

  “If it's Wednesday, it must be Rome,” Bert told her. “Roma, Nance. Ring any bells? Art exhibit, Nick Hansen. Me, li'l ol Bert Garr."

  “What—Bert?” She shook the sleep from her big green eyes. As sense returned she jumped up in alarm. “What time is it?"

  “Ten-o-five,” Bert said.

  “That's impossible!” We all exchanged a confused look. It did seem incredible that all four of us could have conked out.

  “Not to worry,” Bert said. “I'll get you to Naples by morning to meet up with your tour. Thing is, you won't be able to book a hotel room in Rome tonight. All the hotels are booked up tight as a drum at the height of the season."

  The look Nancy and I exchanged held a tacit question. Did that wretch of a Bert plan this? Had he doctored our drinks, or something? It seemed suspicious that he was the first to wake up. My head felt woolier than a sheepskin, and a lot more confused than a couple of drinks should have made it.

  Bert walked over and shook Nick. “A bit of a problemo has come up, Nick. We all goofed off, and the ladies have missed their bus to Naples. Boy, what a cocktail hour that was."

  Nick stirred to life by slow degrees. First he quit snoring, then his eyelids fluttered open, then he lifted his head, yawned, saw me staring at him, and frowned. “What happened? Christ, it's dark! What time is it?” He leapt up from his chair, graceful even in that explosive action.