to the stove and stirred the pasta sauce. She had years of practice of ignoring us.
Where Branwell and I took after our mother’s Scottish ancestry in build, Chiara was one hundred percent Italian. Petite, dark and constantly in motion.
“I think I’m going to side with Branwell on this one,” she said as she turned around. “What’s up, Dante?”
“Is something up with Dante?” That came from our mother, Judith.
Mom strolled into the kitchen on Chiara’s heels, a white rat on her shoulder. Tall and curvy with vivid blue eyes, it was obvious why our father had fallen so hard for her.
“He’s deflecting.” Chiara waved a tomato-sauce covered spoon in my direction.
“Dante is an expert deflector.” Mom stroked the white rat fidgeting on her shoulder.
Mom had sold her veterinary clinic in Portland four years ago and moved to Italy. Given the situation with Tennyson at the time . . . she had been desperately needed. Once here, she had converted part of our rooftop terrace into a makeshift animal hospital for strays. Most she re-homed. But every now and again, she kept one.
Like the white rat, Boney, currently on her shoulder.
I was nearly a hundred percent sure Mom’s rat was the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. Though people always had silvery shadows, animals only occasionally did. And you just can’t part with an animal who had once been the Nightmare of Europe.
Boney liked being petted and running on his wheel. But every now and again, he would stand on his hind legs and press a tiny paw to his chest. His entire body coming to attention.
In those moments, the resemblance was uncanny.
“Com’è il sugo?” Nonna waddled into the kitchen, walking over to the tomato sauce. The small space was getting crowded.
My grandma was a truly traditional Italian nonna . The ultimate love child of Sophia Loren and Martha Stewart, as Chiara described it.
Nonna cooked and cleaned in a knee-length tight skirt, nylons and heels, her short silver hair always curled and thoroughly sprayed into place. She wore a mink fur coat to do her grocery shopping. In other words—your average, elderly Italian woman.
“Would you like me to cut the bread, Nonna?” I asked, switching to Italian.
“Please.”
I slid past Branwell—careful not to brush his skin—and grabbed a bread knife from a magnetic strip on the tiled wall.
“We’re not done discussing Claire,” he murmured to me. “I won’t let you deflect this away.”
Seven
Claire
C laire, darling, could you hold on a second?” My mom’s breezy voice sailed through the connection.
“Sure. No problem.”
Phone to my ear, I stood on the Ponte Vecchio, nestled between overhanging medieval houses and under the arched Vasari Corridor. (Sixteenth century. The Medici’s private commuter lane.)
Mom’s voice murmured in the background, talking to someone.
Jet lag had caught up with me after the Colonel’s meeting. I had returned to my hotel room and crashed. I awoke this morning with a clearer mind and managed to get some preliminary work done—research on Michelangelo’s composition in the Battle of Cascina and building a list of items to examine. I couldn’t really do anything more until I physically examined the sketch.
So now I was rewarding myself with a jaunt through my favorite parts of Florence.
Which led to thinking about Grammy.
Which led to wondering if Grammy had known the Colonel.
Which led to calling my mom.
Which might have been a mistake.
“Claire, are you still there?” Mom’s voice came back.
“Yeah. I’m here. I just had a quick question for you—”
“No, no, Micky. The gauze needs to be over there, nearer to the light.” Mom’s voice faded out as she pulled the phone from her ear to talk to someone. Micky, I assumed.
Finally Mom came back to me. “How hard can it be to get gauze wrapped correctly around pink flamingos?”
“Right? Gauze.” I gave a strained chuckle. “Look, I just had a
Where Branwell and I took after our mother’s Scottish ancestry in build, Chiara was one hundred percent Italian. Petite, dark and constantly in motion.
“I think I’m going to side with Branwell on this one,” she said as she turned around. “What’s up, Dante?”
“Is something up with Dante?” That came from our mother, Judith.
Mom strolled into the kitchen on Chiara’s heels, a white rat on her shoulder. Tall and curvy with vivid blue eyes, it was obvious why our father had fallen so hard for her.
“He’s deflecting.” Chiara waved a tomato-sauce covered spoon in my direction.
“Dante is an expert deflector.” Mom stroked the white rat fidgeting on her shoulder.
Mom had sold her veterinary clinic in Portland four years ago and moved to Italy. Given the situation with Tennyson at the time . . . she had been desperately needed. Once here, she had converted part of our rooftop terrace into a makeshift animal hospital for strays. Most she re-homed. But every now and again, she kept one.
Like the white rat, Boney, currently on her shoulder.
I was nearly a hundred percent sure Mom’s rat was the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. Though people always had silvery shadows, animals only occasionally did. And you just can’t part with an animal who had once been the Nightmare of Europe.
Boney liked being petted and running on his wheel. But every now and again, he would stand on his hind legs and press a tiny paw to his chest. His entire body coming to attention.
In those moments, the resemblance was uncanny.
“Com’è il sugo?” Nonna waddled into the kitchen, walking over to the tomato sauce. The small space was getting crowded.
My grandma was a truly traditional Italian nonna . The ultimate love child of Sophia Loren and Martha Stewart, as Chiara described it.
Nonna cooked and cleaned in a knee-length tight skirt, nylons and heels, her short silver hair always curled and thoroughly sprayed into place. She wore a mink fur coat to do her grocery shopping. In other words—your average, elderly Italian woman.
“Would you like me to cut the bread, Nonna?” I asked, switching to Italian.
“Please.”
I slid past Branwell—careful not to brush his skin—and grabbed a bread knife from a magnetic strip on the tiled wall.
“We’re not done discussing Claire,” he murmured to me. “I won’t let you deflect this away.”
Seven
Claire
C laire, darling, could you hold on a second?” My mom’s breezy voice sailed through the connection.
“Sure. No problem.”
Phone to my ear, I stood on the Ponte Vecchio, nestled between overhanging medieval houses and under the arched Vasari Corridor. (Sixteenth century. The Medici’s private commuter lane.)
Mom’s voice murmured in the background, talking to someone.
Jet lag had caught up with me after the Colonel’s meeting. I had returned to my hotel room and crashed. I awoke this morning with a clearer mind and managed to get some preliminary work done—research on Michelangelo’s composition in the Battle of Cascina and building a list of items to examine. I couldn’t really do anything more until I physically examined the sketch.
So now I was rewarding myself with a jaunt through my favorite parts of Florence.
Which led to thinking about Grammy.
Which led to wondering if Grammy had known the Colonel.
Which led to calling my mom.
Which might have been a mistake.
“Claire, are you still there?” Mom’s voice came back.
“Yeah. I’m here. I just had a quick question for you—”
“No, no, Micky. The gauze needs to be over there, nearer to the light.” Mom’s voice faded out as she pulled the phone from her ear to talk to someone. Micky, I assumed.
Finally Mom came back to me. “How hard can it be to get gauze wrapped correctly around pink flamingos?”
“Right? Gauze.” I gave a strained chuckle. “Look, I just had a
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