Lake Como (29 page)

“I grew up in Connecticut. My father was head of pediatrics at Greenwich Hospital and my mother was from old New York money. She spent most of her time at the Met and the Guggenheim and started her own modern-art collection. She found out she couldn’t have children and would have been quite happy serving on her boards, but my father was desperate for children. He would have adopted the whole pediatric wing. He loved going to baseball games, watching football, playing soccer. When he wasn’t working, he always had some kind of ball in his hand. We did everything together, but he died when I was eleven, dropped dead at the operating table.” Angus paused, drinking the red wine he had poured for himself.

“I was devastated. My mother didn’t know what to do with me. She sent me to boarding school in Massachusetts. Before I went, I found out I was adopted. I discovered the health forms she signed and underneath family diseases she wrote ‘unknown.’ I’ll never forget.” Angus gazed at Hallie. “That was the ugliest word in the English language.

“I spent most of my time in high school trying to discover my birth parents,” Angus said. “It was a closed adoption and my mother refused to help me. Finally, I gave up. That was pre-Internet, and it was easy to reach dead ends. I concentrated on sports, I hung out with my roommate. He was a scholarship student from Boston with five brothers and sisters. I applied to Stanford, my father’s alma mater, but I didn’t want to do pre-med. I double-majored in history and computers.” Angus gulped down more wine.

“I messed around with search engines and started a site where adoptees could look for their parents. You’d be surprised how walls come down online, and how slim are the degrees of separation. I helped hundreds and then thousands of teenagers and adults find their real parents.” Angus’s eyes sparkled. “I thought I was doing good, helping people achieve their dreams. I sold the site to Yahoo! six months after graduation. I bought a house in Los Altos Hills, a silver Porsche, a wardrobe of Hugo Boss and Armani. I invested in different things, considered joining a few start-ups. One evening about four months after the sale, a girl showed up at my door. She was about twenty, with bright red hair and pale cheeks dotted with freckles. She looked like a grown-up orphan Annie. I invited her in; lots of people came to my house. I used to have parties and invite all the Silicon Valley big shots. She sat down in my living room and took out a knife. She said she wasn’t going to hurt me but she was going to tear up every leather sofa and suede chair.” Angus flinched, as if she was in the room.

“I got her to give me the knife and tell me what happened. She said her boyfriend, Harry, just graduated from community college, was going to start USF in the fall. She said he became obsessed with finding his birth parents; he spent every minute on the computer. She told him to quit; it didn’t matter where he came from. But he found Connect and stayed on it all night and day until he discovered his birth mother. She was a manicurist in Burlingame, fifteen minutes from their apartment. Harry went to see her. She was in her late thirties, she’d had him when she was fifteen.” Angus paused, stabbing the risotto with his fork.

“She told him his birth father was in prison for life. He had raped and molested six teenage girls.” Angus glanced at Hallie. “Including her.”

Hallie gasped. “Oh.”

“Harry went home and told his girlfriend that his father was a rapist. He was so upset, he stormed around their apartment breaking things. She screamed at him that it didn’t matter, that it didn’t make who he was any different. Harry got so angry he put his arms around her neck, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to frighten both of them. His girlfriend ran to a friend’s place. When she came back she found Harry hanging from the ceiling fan with a rope around his neck.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Hallie insisted. “You didn’t even own the company.”

“I was sitting in a million-dollar mansion while her boyfriend was hanging from their ceiling,” Angus replied. “If it wasn’t my fault, whose was it?”

“He could have found his birth mother another way,” Hallie tried again.

“But he didn’t.” Angus threw his fork on the plate. “He found it through my site. No one ever wants to take responsibility, especially on the Internet. It’s a big free-for-all. I sold the house and the car; I never wanted to see a computer again. I went to India, but I didn’t belong there. I was twenty-five, I couldn’t spend my whole life questioning eternity.” Angus got up and walked to the glass doors.

“I went to Rome. I’d always been fascinated by the Renaissance. I started collecting Renaissance art. I loved the human anguish Michelangelo and Raphael portrayed on the canvas. I took a day trip from Florence and discovered Lake Como by accident. I loved the beauty of the lake, the timelessness of the villages. I thought I could find peace here, so I bought the villa.”

“Why did you make up Angus?” Hallie asked, puzzled.

“I was never Max Rodale to begin with. I didn’t know who I was.” Angus scowled. “I hated what Max did, I wanted to be someone different.”

“You can’t just change who you are,” Hallie said slowly.

“You can.” Angus jammed his hands in his pockets. “If you go somewhere no one knows you. I finally felt like the brick had been lifted from my chest. I could keep living.”

“You weren’t responsible for that boy’s death,” Hallie murmured.

“Angus isn’t, but Max was,” Angus implored her. “That’s why I lied. It had nothing to do with money. I don’t care about money. I’d be happy living in a tent.”

“You have to forgive yourself,” Hallie said, remembering her mother’s words.

“Will you help me?” Angus walked toward her. He pulled her up and kissed her softly on the mouth. He buried his face in her hair, stroking her thighs. Hallie tasted the wine on his breath, felt her body respond.

“I can’t.” She pulled away.

“I love you,” Angus said. “You can move into the villa, we can travel, collect art. You can redo every room.”

“I couldn’t be with someone who doesn’t love himself,” Hallie replied. “I’d never know what’s true and what’s a lie.”

“But I had a reason to lie,” Angus protested. “I was trying to erase the past.”

“And you may have another reason to lie,” Hallie said gently. “But that’s not an excuse. I should go, Sophia may have thrown Francesca into the lake.”

“Can I take you home?” Angus offered.

Hallie remembered the afternoons spent fishing on the lake, the glorious sunsets watched from his motorboat. She shook her head. “I’ll take the ferry.”

“You have to come back,” Angus insisted. “You have to finish designing the villa.”

“There are plenty of talented designers in Como.” Hallie walked toward the door. “I don’t think we should see each other again.”

Hallie ran down the steps to the lake. She heard the door open and saw Milo bounding toward her. She heard Angus call her name, and kept walking.

chapter twenty-three

Hallie slipped a jacket over her cotton shirt and grabbed her purse. She was going to meet her mother for lunch and explore the boutiques in Bellagio. Francesca suddenly had a desire to wear something other than jeans and sneakers, and they had spent the last three days on a shopping spree.

Pliny had been courteous and polite but Sophia would not allow Francesca to stay at the villa. She got a room at the Hotel Metropole and slowly formed a truce with Hallie. They ate breakfast on Francesca’s balcony, devouring Swiss muesli and mixed berries. They strolled through the shops where Francesca bought silk dresses, cashmere sweaters, leather bags and shoes. She insisted on buying scarves and gloves for Hallie, and a Moschino purse for Constance.

At first Hallie was hesitant to spend time with her mother, like a horse that refused to take its bit. But gradually she found she enjoyed her company. She liked ambling along the promenade pointing out their favorite villas. She enjoyed laughing at the Italian fashions, the ridiculously high heels and plunging necklines.

“Italian women display more cleavage in October than women in San Francisco show in June.” Francesca frowned, trying on a scooped-neck silk blouse.

“It’s gorgeous, buy it,” Hallie encouraged her. She loved seeing her mother wear a knee-length skirt and two-inch heels, holding a square Prada handbag.

“Only because I’m stuck here till Portia returns.” Francesca handed the blouse to the cashier to ring up. “Once I return to San Francisco, it will all get stuffed into my closet.”

Portia was still in Venice and Francesca didn’t want to leave without seeing her. Hallie still didn’t know what she was going to do, but she was relieved that she had put Angus behind her. The more she replayed his story, the more she pitied him. His pain was as raw as if the boy’s suicide happened yesterday. But Hallie didn’t think she could love someone capable of spinning a web of lies.

*   *   *

Hallie’s phone rang. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.

“Is this Hallie Elliot?” a female voice inquired.

“It is,” Hallie replied.

“This is Jane Finch, personal assistant to Vanessa Getty in San Francisco,” the voice continued. “Mrs. Getty would like to speak with you, if you have a minute.”

“Hallie Elliot.” Vanessa Getty’s voice purred down the line. “I was poring through
Architectural Digest
and discovered photos of the Villa Luce in Lake Como. I have never seen anything like it. The furniture, the drapes, the artwork. You have such an eye, it is like an Italian castle.”

“Thank you.” Hallie frowned, wondering how photos of the Villa Luce had ended up in
Architectural Digest
.

“My assistant did a little research and discovered the designer was from San Francisco!” Vanessa said excitedly. “My mother-in-law is a dear friend of your grandmother. I decided you must design our villa in Napa. I want to fill it with antiques, Venetian glass, sculptures by Michelangelo.”

“I hadn’t thought about returning to San Francisco,” Hallie stammered.

“You must say yes!” Vanessa implored. “I’ve been searching for a designer for months. When I opened the pages I knew you had the right vision. The rooms are so grand, yet intimate.”

“It’s very flattering.” Hallie paused. “But I need time to think about it. I just finished the Villa Luce.”

“Take your time,” Vanessa replied. “Say hello to Constance for me. Hallie, I’m so excited to have found you. I can’t wait to meet and hear your ideas.”

Hallie hung up and stared at the phone. She imagined a glorious villa perched on a hill in Napa. She saw rows of vineyards, the sun setting over the trees, a soft fog blowing in from the ocean.

Hallie picked up the phone and dialed Constance’s number.

“Hallie, dear.” Constance’s voice was faint. “I’ve been wanting to call you, but I came down with a nasty flu.”

“Are you all right?” Hallie asked.

“I’m improving,” Constance replied. “Francesca didn’t tell me she was going to Italy. She just got on a plane and vanished.”

“It’s good to see her,” Hallie said truthfully. “I think she’s enjoying herself.”

“I almost fainted when she told me she was in Lake Como,” Constance continued. “But she was very worried about you. Pliny said you were ill.”

“I’m good as new,” Hallie said cheerfully. “Have you spoken to Ann Getty lately?”

“I haven’t seen Ann since the Opera Ball,” Constance mused. “She was wearing the loveliest Diane von Furstenberg original.”

“I just got a call from Vanessa Getty,” Hallie said in a rush. “She saw photos of the Villa Luce in
Architectural Digest
. She wants me to design her villa in Napa.”

“That’s wonderful news!” Constance replied. “Vanessa and Billy are lovely people. I heard their new villa is spectacular.”

Hallie hesitated. “I wasn’t planning on coming back to San Francisco.”

“How is the Villa Luce coming along?” Constance asked.

“My work is done,” Hallie said evasively. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do next.”

“You said Portia is happy with Alfonso,” Constance broke in. “There is no reason for you to stay in Lake Como.”

“You think I should take the job?” Hallie wavered.

“Of course you should take it!” Constance replied. “Vanessa’s friends will be begging you to design their houses. You’ll have your pick of projects.”

“It is a golden opportunity,” Hallie murmured. “I guess I’ll say yes.”

“Darling, I’m thrilled.” Constance beamed. “You can stay here if you like.”

“I should get my own place,” she said, smiling. “But maybe I can stay with you until I get settled.”

“Let me know when you arrive,” Constance said. “I’ll send Louisa to pick you up at the airport.”

Hallie hung up and hugged the phone to her chest. Her mind flashed on Angus, his reddish-brown hair and almond-shaped hazel eyes. She pictured his long legs and thick fisherman’s sweaters. Angus must have submitted the photos to
Architectural Digest.

Hallie started punching numbers, then put the phone down. She wanted to thank him, but it was better that they didn’t talk to each other. She would send him a loaf of Boudin sourdough bread and a box of Ghirardelli chocolates from San Francisco.

*   *   *

Hallie arrived at the Hotel Metropole and saw Pliny getting into his Fiat. He wore black wool pants and a cashmere sweater and his sunglasses were perched on his forehead. He waved to an upstairs window and maneuvered the car down the steep driveway.

“Why was Pliny here?” Hallie asked Francesca. Hallie stepped into the hotel room, admiring a bouquet of roses in a ceramic vase.

Francesca sat at an antique desk, dressed in cigarette pants and a white silk shirt. She wore leather loafers and had a colored scarf wrapped around her head.

“We had to discuss details of Portia’s divorce.” Francesca pointed to the stack of papers on the desk. “Portia will be back this afternoon.”

“I hope she’s not still angry at me,” Hallie replied. “I said some terrible things.”

“Sisters quarrel and then they make up.” Francesca shrugged. “I’m anxious to meet Alfonso.”

“I just got off the phone with Constance.” Hallie frowned. “You didn’t tell her you were coming to Como?”