Read Online The Girl in the Glass by Susan Meissner - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Meissner
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told me to. But we Medici are mortal. Soon there will only be me. And then when I am gone, there will be no one who knows what I know, so I will share all of it with you in these pages. I do not care if it means I set a boundary stone between you and me. I do not fear the specter of solitude. I am surrounded by beauty at every turn. I do not know what it is to be lost. And I do not know what it is like to be alone.
I have a story to tell you. It is a story of Florence and a Medici princess that time has all but forgotten.
Hers is the voice I hear in the statues and paintings all around me. Her name was Francesca Eleonora Orsini.
But everyone called her Nora.
The slow, steady dripping of the coffee onto the kitchen floor coaxed me out of Sofia’s memoir, pulling me back to my ordinary Saturday. I set the pages down on the counter, grabbed another paper towel, and cleaned up the mess. I was anxious to read the rest of the pages I had printed and was strangely disappointed that Lorenzo had only sent me the first two chapters.
As I tossed the paper towels in the trash, the doorbell rang, and with some irritation I went to answer it.
My mother stood at the threshold with a potted bromeliad in her hands. She was wearing a lime-green-and-white striped shirt and white capris, hoop earrings, and new white Keds. Her hair wasn’t pulled back into its usual Saturday pileup but hung curled and sprayed into place. Red Orchid by Oscar de la Renta wafted about her.
She held the plant aloft. “I got this at the farmers’ market. It was the last one. Thought you would like it.”
I opened the screen door for her. “He’s already gone, Mom.”
She frowned and stepped inside. “That’s not why I’m here.”
The door closed behind us, and she turned to face me. “So you’re telling me he left already? What kind of visit is that?”
“I thought you said that’s not why you’re here.”
She stepped into the kitchen and set the plant down on the tiled counter, next to the toaster. Poppy seeds were scattered about, and she stared at them. Then she turned to me. “It’s not. I thought we needed to talk. About last night. Devon thinks maybe I owe you an apology.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.” She walked over to my sink and washed her hands, rubbing at a smudge of potting soil on her knuckle with vigor. “I actually think you owe me one, too, but he doesn’t think so. But then again, he didn’t hear what you said in the ladies’ room.”
She applied more soap and rubbed harder. “He said it wasn’t fair that I didn’t tell you I was dating someone and then to have sprung it on you with him sitting right there was a bit inconsiderate. I guess I see his point.” She turned off the water and scrutinized my dishtowel hanging off the drainer. “May I have a clean towel?”
I opened a drawer, pulled out a folded towel, and handed it to her.
“He said it was probably a shock for you to see me with a date,” she went on. “Especially one younger than me, when I really haven’t dated anyone in years. I don’t even know how long it’s been—”
“It was. A shock, I mean.” You’ve no idea how much of a shock it was . “And I am sorry if I offended Devon—”
“Oh heavens. You didn’t offend him. He’s on your side.” She folded the towel neatly and hung it over the oven door handle.
“My side?”
“You know what I mean. He’s not offended. He feels bad for you that you weren’t given a heads-up. He’s very thoughtful toward other people, Meg. It’s the first thing I noticed about him.”
The rest of Sofia’s pages were resting near my arm, calling to me, but I pulled out a kitchen chair. “You want to sit?”
She ignored my question. “Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not mad. And I’m sorry for what I said about your age. And his.”
She paused a moment. “And what about what you said about me and your father? How do you feel about that?”
It seemed like the kitchen was still warm
I have a story to tell you. It is a story of Florence and a Medici princess that time has all but forgotten.
Hers is the voice I hear in the statues and paintings all around me. Her name was Francesca Eleonora Orsini.
But everyone called her Nora.
The slow, steady dripping of the coffee onto the kitchen floor coaxed me out of Sofia’s memoir, pulling me back to my ordinary Saturday. I set the pages down on the counter, grabbed another paper towel, and cleaned up the mess. I was anxious to read the rest of the pages I had printed and was strangely disappointed that Lorenzo had only sent me the first two chapters.
As I tossed the paper towels in the trash, the doorbell rang, and with some irritation I went to answer it.
My mother stood at the threshold with a potted bromeliad in her hands. She was wearing a lime-green-and-white striped shirt and white capris, hoop earrings, and new white Keds. Her hair wasn’t pulled back into its usual Saturday pileup but hung curled and sprayed into place. Red Orchid by Oscar de la Renta wafted about her.
She held the plant aloft. “I got this at the farmers’ market. It was the last one. Thought you would like it.”
I opened the screen door for her. “He’s already gone, Mom.”
She frowned and stepped inside. “That’s not why I’m here.”
The door closed behind us, and she turned to face me. “So you’re telling me he left already? What kind of visit is that?”
“I thought you said that’s not why you’re here.”
She stepped into the kitchen and set the plant down on the tiled counter, next to the toaster. Poppy seeds were scattered about, and she stared at them. Then she turned to me. “It’s not. I thought we needed to talk. About last night. Devon thinks maybe I owe you an apology.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.” She walked over to my sink and washed her hands, rubbing at a smudge of potting soil on her knuckle with vigor. “I actually think you owe me one, too, but he doesn’t think so. But then again, he didn’t hear what you said in the ladies’ room.”
She applied more soap and rubbed harder. “He said it wasn’t fair that I didn’t tell you I was dating someone and then to have sprung it on you with him sitting right there was a bit inconsiderate. I guess I see his point.” She turned off the water and scrutinized my dishtowel hanging off the drainer. “May I have a clean towel?”
I opened a drawer, pulled out a folded towel, and handed it to her.
“He said it was probably a shock for you to see me with a date,” she went on. “Especially one younger than me, when I really haven’t dated anyone in years. I don’t even know how long it’s been—”
“It was. A shock, I mean.” You’ve no idea how much of a shock it was . “And I am sorry if I offended Devon—”
“Oh heavens. You didn’t offend him. He’s on your side.” She folded the towel neatly and hung it over the oven door handle.
“My side?”
“You know what I mean. He’s not offended. He feels bad for you that you weren’t given a heads-up. He’s very thoughtful toward other people, Meg. It’s the first thing I noticed about him.”
The rest of Sofia’s pages were resting near my arm, calling to me, but I pulled out a kitchen chair. “You want to sit?”
She ignored my question. “Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not mad. And I’m sorry for what I said about your age. And his.”
She paused a moment. “And what about what you said about me and your father? How do you feel about that?”
It seemed like the kitchen was still warm
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