Through to where. to what?"
"To something better," I declared,
"Yes. To something better. A sailor's dream,"
she said, looking out at the horizon. "He would have come one day, you know. He would have come to fetch me and take me away from all this, your father.'
"Yes. I believe it. too. Mother." She smiled.
"At least, in his way he did come. He sent you.-
"Exactly," I said, grateful for a little light in her eyes, a little warmth in her smile.
For some of us, it's almost sinful to hope,- she said. I took her hand quickly.
"Then let's go to hell together. Mother," I countered. Her smile widened into a thin laugh.
"Come on," I said, tuning on her to rise. "Let's look at some magazines and think about a new hairstyle for you. We'll make appointments tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Why wait any longer to start again?" I asked.
"Hesitation just makes it all seem so serious."
"It is serious. For me," she whispered.
As if she were made of air, she rose at the end of my hand and let me lead her along like a balloon on a string, just as light, but just as fragile and just as vulnerable to a strong, stormy wind.
3
New Beginnings
.
Thatcher couldn't have chosen a mare
inconspicuous restaurant. I passed it twice, turned around, and practically crawled along the highway until I spotted it. The neon sign he'd described was so small, you really had to start down the driveway of the restaurant before fully seeing it, and the restaurant itself looked like someone's home, with a short walkway and steps leading to a small entry porch. The wooden cladding, stained by years of sea air, was a marine gray, reminiscent of a ship's hull. I recognized Thatcher's Rolls-Royce parked off to the right, sufficiently in the dark to go unnoticed by disinterested eyes.
I parked in a lot that contained a half dozen other vehicles and walked to the entrance. There was a short foyer with a dark oak desk on my right. The lighting was subdued, only a small lamp on the desk and a dull fixture above dripping just enough pale yellow glow to reveal a coat rack and a poster-sized map of Italy. I could hear some chatter coming from the room off to my left, but before I took another step, a short gray-haired lady in a black dress with a cameo on her bodice stepped in from the room on the right and went around the desk. She had a round face with Santa Claus–red cheeks and eyes the color of black pearls.
" Buono sera ," she said. "and welcome to Diana's. Did you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone who might have made a reservation," I said. "Mr. Eaton?"
"Oh, yes, of course. He's already here. Please,"
she said, indicating I should follow her.
We went to the right, but I glanced into the room on my left and saw a half dozen tables, all occupied. The recognizable voices of the famous three tenors— Carreras, Domingo. and Pavarotti— came over the sound system, but the volume was kept just low enough to serve as background and not overpower the conversations.
The room to the right was smaller, with only three tables. The one at which Thatcher waited was off to the left in the corner, screened by privacy walls on both open sides. He stood up quickly. A bottle of chilled champagne was beside the table and a bottle of red wine at the center, next to a basket of small rolls.
"Thank you. Mamma Diana," Thatcher said, and extended his hand to me. "Willow," he mouthed, kissed me quickly, and pulled out my chair.
" Bon appetito ," Mamma Diana wished us.
"Grazie, ma con il sou cibo, non c'è problema con l'appetito,"
Thatcher said, and she laughed as she moved away.
"What did you say?"
"I thanked her and told her that with her food, there is no problem with appetite."
"I didn't know you could speak fluent Italian."
" Cosi, cosi, abbastanza d'arrangiarmi . So-so, enough to get by." he replied, and sat.
"You can get by quite a bit with that," I quipped, and he laughed.
Then he reached across the table to hold my hand.
"I missed you so much.
"To something better," I declared,
"Yes. To something better. A sailor's dream,"
she said, looking out at the horizon. "He would have come one day, you know. He would have come to fetch me and take me away from all this, your father.'
"Yes. I believe it. too. Mother." She smiled.
"At least, in his way he did come. He sent you.-
"Exactly," I said, grateful for a little light in her eyes, a little warmth in her smile.
For some of us, it's almost sinful to hope,- she said. I took her hand quickly.
"Then let's go to hell together. Mother," I countered. Her smile widened into a thin laugh.
"Come on," I said, tuning on her to rise. "Let's look at some magazines and think about a new hairstyle for you. We'll make appointments tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Why wait any longer to start again?" I asked.
"Hesitation just makes it all seem so serious."
"It is serious. For me," she whispered.
As if she were made of air, she rose at the end of my hand and let me lead her along like a balloon on a string, just as light, but just as fragile and just as vulnerable to a strong, stormy wind.
3
New Beginnings
.
Thatcher couldn't have chosen a mare
inconspicuous restaurant. I passed it twice, turned around, and practically crawled along the highway until I spotted it. The neon sign he'd described was so small, you really had to start down the driveway of the restaurant before fully seeing it, and the restaurant itself looked like someone's home, with a short walkway and steps leading to a small entry porch. The wooden cladding, stained by years of sea air, was a marine gray, reminiscent of a ship's hull. I recognized Thatcher's Rolls-Royce parked off to the right, sufficiently in the dark to go unnoticed by disinterested eyes.
I parked in a lot that contained a half dozen other vehicles and walked to the entrance. There was a short foyer with a dark oak desk on my right. The lighting was subdued, only a small lamp on the desk and a dull fixture above dripping just enough pale yellow glow to reveal a coat rack and a poster-sized map of Italy. I could hear some chatter coming from the room off to my left, but before I took another step, a short gray-haired lady in a black dress with a cameo on her bodice stepped in from the room on the right and went around the desk. She had a round face with Santa Claus–red cheeks and eyes the color of black pearls.
" Buono sera ," she said. "and welcome to Diana's. Did you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone who might have made a reservation," I said. "Mr. Eaton?"
"Oh, yes, of course. He's already here. Please,"
she said, indicating I should follow her.
We went to the right, but I glanced into the room on my left and saw a half dozen tables, all occupied. The recognizable voices of the famous three tenors— Carreras, Domingo. and Pavarotti— came over the sound system, but the volume was kept just low enough to serve as background and not overpower the conversations.
The room to the right was smaller, with only three tables. The one at which Thatcher waited was off to the left in the corner, screened by privacy walls on both open sides. He stood up quickly. A bottle of chilled champagne was beside the table and a bottle of red wine at the center, next to a basket of small rolls.
"Thank you. Mamma Diana," Thatcher said, and extended his hand to me. "Willow," he mouthed, kissed me quickly, and pulled out my chair.
" Bon appetito ," Mamma Diana wished us.
"Grazie, ma con il sou cibo, non c'è problema con l'appetito,"
Thatcher said, and she laughed as she moved away.
"What did you say?"
"I thanked her and told her that with her food, there is no problem with appetite."
"I didn't know you could speak fluent Italian."
" Cosi, cosi, abbastanza d'arrangiarmi . So-so, enough to get by." he replied, and sat.
"You can get by quite a bit with that," I quipped, and he laughed.
Then he reached across the table to hold my hand.
"I missed you so much.
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