Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (6 page)

Farfalla nodded. “Sonja de Lennert designed Capri pants.”

“Right, big famous Italian designer, then.”

“Sonja de Lennert was German. Sonja did the Capri pants, and the Capri skirt and blouse set. All those clothes, that Audrey Hepburn wears in
Roman Holiday
— that was Sonja de Lennert.”

Gavin paused, a forkful of waffles in mid-air. “You sure know a lot about this.”

“I work in Milan. In the business.”

“You’re a
fashion model?
”

“No. No, I’m not tall enough. Well, yes. Yes, I work for the fashion houses. Sometimes they put me into the shots.”

Gavin Tremaine considered this. He silently placed his waffles in his mouth. He was trying to believe her.

“I translate for the foreign buyers,” Farfalla said. “Because I speak Portuguese and English. During the season, all the houses need help.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said. He set his fork down, and spread his rustling paper map of Capri across half the table. “So, tell me: where is the shopping district around here? Where are all the trendy fashion joints?”

Farfalla was caught flatfooted. She would never dream of paying retail for clothes in some stupid Capri tourist trap. Also, Farfalla really hated maps. She had never been able to tell north from south.

Yet, she was touched. The plight of guests always touched Farfalla’s heart. Look at this nice guy, trying to help out his weird Gothic freak of a sister. The kid dressed like she had fallen off a skateboard. The sister could obviously use a lot of help with her wardrobe, and in his helpless, lost-tourist way, at least he was trying.

A rich American teenage girl, with a credit card, alone in Capri? She would get skinned like a lamb on a hook. A fashion tragedy was waiting to happen. Farfalla could foresee that clear as day.

“Your sister is a Goth,” Farfalla warned him. “Capri doesn’t do Goth.”

“They don’t do Goth at all around here?”

Farfalla soberly shook her curly head. She was having a very good fancy hotel-shampoo hair day.

“So, what
does
Capri do?”

“Capri does Chanel. Capri has the big Chanel problem.”

“The big Chanel problem?” Gavin Tremaine sat straight up in his chair. He looked at her with frank fascination. “So, like the world-famous fashion house, Chanel? What kind of ‘big problem’ is that?”

“Chanel has been too famous too long! Chanel Number 5 was something Marilyn Monroe would wear. Now it’s something your dead grandmother wears.”

Gavin carefully draped the paper map across the back of an empty café chair. “So, Chanel Number 5 is the official perfume for dead women? Gosh, Eliza needs to know about that.”

“That’s why Chanel launched their new ‘Chanel Mademoiselle’ perfume. They have posters all over Capri for ‘Chanel Mademoiselle.’ Those are the posters where the girls wear no shirts.”

“Yes, I saw those. They’re hard to miss.” Gavin Tremaine cautiously sipped his orange juice.

“Capri is old-fashioned. The trendy young people go to Ibiza and Crete. That’s why the Capri government gave LOXY a grant to arrange this conference. So everybody will know that Capri has a future. That Capri
is
the future. That Capri is young, and not too old. You see?”

“Yes, I do see that. For the first time, this whole junket makes sense to me.” Gavin Tremaine gazed at her with respect.

Pleased to be such a hit, Farfalla leaned close across the tiny table. “There is this big, fancy consultancy board from Brussels,” she confided. “They arranged this Congress. The mix of fashion, music and technology... Those Europeans, in Brussels, they always meddle with Italy! Those people in Brussels, they always hope that some new thing... something new... that, even though Italy is so old, that somehow — “ Farfalla broke off, startled. Someone was calling out to her.

“Yoo-hoo! Farfalla! Hello there!” It was Professor Milo, the lady tourist from the day before. The American professor looked rested and perky-fresh lipstick, a brown tweed suit and stiff, permed hair.

“So sweet to see you two here enjoying your breakfast this morning!” gushed the professor, approaching their table with a click of her trim kitten heels. “Sir! I must compliment you! Your wife was so kind and good to me yesterday.”

“Oh yes, of course, good morning, ma’am!” Gavin rose from his chair like a gentleman. He grasped the professor’s dainty hand. “I’m Gavin Tremaine.”

Professor Milo beamed down at Farfalla. “’Farfalla Tremaine,’ what a pretty name that is.”

“Farfalla means ‘Butterfly,’” Farfalla offered, because Americans always asked Farfalla what her name meant. Also, Americans called her FARfalla, instead of FarFALLa. To be called “Farfie” by Americans — that was the worst.

“‘Butterfly,’ how sweet, I might have known! And you two have your map of Capri here. Look at that! How clever you people are.”

“We futurists specialize in directions,” smiled Gavin. He gracefully snagged a loose chair from another table, and gently slid the chair under the professor’s tweedy rump. “Let’s get you some fresh coffee, ma’am. If you’re just in from America, I’m sure you need it.”

“I’m Sandra Milo. I’m not a futurist, like you two. I’m just a humble little humanities professor. I came to Capri to do research on American expatriates.”

Gavin beckoned at the waitress. “Professor Milo, please, tell us all about your research project.”

Professor Milo looked doubtfully at Gavin, then at Farfalla, then at Gavin again. “Well,” she said at last, “Americans love Capri. American tourists played a major role in developing this island. Before the tourists arrived – and that was a hundred and fifty years ago – this island was miserably poor. So poor, they’d forgotten their own history! But, the Americans changed Capri, and brought it a past, and a future.”

“So,” said Gavin, gazing at the historian with rapt ice-blue eyes, “you’re researching the history of the Americans in Capri who were researching Capri history?”

“Yes. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Terrific. That concept does not surprise me,” Gavin announced. “Are you surprised by what our friend here is saying, Farfalla?”

Farfalla shook her head. “I’m never surprised.”

“You’re never surprised?” said Professor Milo, blinking at her politely. “Never surprised by anything?”

“Well, Americans never surprise me. Brazilians surprise me sometimes.”

The professor turned back to Gavin. “I admit, I have a special interest in one woman in particular. She was a famous American writer. A writer of romantic novels – Princess Amelie Troubetzskoy.”

“A princess,” Gavin repeated.

“Yes, an American princess. She lived here in Capri a hundred years ago, but she came here from Virginia. And my University has all her literary papers, so...”

The waitress arrived. Gavin, Professor Milo, and the waitress conferred, at length, over items on the hotel’s menu that might suit elderly American ladies with special dietary requirements.

Farfalla watched Gavin in growing amazement as he carefully worked his way through every possible menu option. He was tireless about it: so polite, so persistent. Very
‘puntiglioso’
⁷
.

The waitress left at last, shooting a ‘how-can-you-bear-this’ look at Farfalla, but Farfalla gazed back at her blandly. Yes, waitress, I can bear the craziness of foreigners because I’m a professional.

“So, Professor,” Gavin said, “you were telling us about this writer of romance novels who was also an American princess.”

The Professor basked in Gavin’s male attention. “So, my subject of study was a long-time resident of Capri. I know that Princess Troubetzkoy left some important material here. Now that I’m retired from active teaching, and able to travel, I have the opportunity to search for that material myself. And today, I start my search for the secret treasure of Princess Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy.”

“So, you’re on a quest, then,” said Gavin.

“You have such a perceptive way of putting things, Mr. Tremaine. That is very true!”

“As a futurist, I try to frame things simply, so that they make sense to my clients,” said Gavin. “Your story makes sense to me, because I’m on a quest here, myself.”

“Me, too,” Farfalla asserted. “I have quests every day!” Farfalla translated computer role-playing games for the Italian gamer market. Farfalla had seen quests by the thousands.

“Specifically, I’m looking,” said the professor, “for a statue of Cupid.”

5
“Could I get you something to drink?”

6
“Please, a real Italian coffee for my husband. A double espresso. And an American breakfast. Bacon and waffles.”

7
Punctilious.

Chapter Five: The Bohemian Loves of the Scapigliati

Gavin yanked the laptop from his travel bag. Normally, he never used his laptop when eating with others. He vastly preferred to listen to table talk. Gavin learned a lot about the future from people’s passing, unguarded remarks.

But this business about a mysterious bronze statue had the smell of a hustle to him. Gavin wasn’t the kind of guy who looked around for dishonest people. Still, the tech investment biz had plenty of crooks. Too many to miss.

Gavin felt sort-of okay about the cute, curly-haired Italian translator. Somehow, the translator had managed to marry him before breakfast. That was a freak occurrence. But, it wasn’t hurting anyone.

However, when an older woman also arrived — and these two women knew each other, somehow? They wanted to work together, searching for mysterious treasure statues of Cupid? How likely was a set-up like that? High time for a major fact-check.

“So, professor, I’m sure that Farfalla and I can help you out,” Gavin said smoothly, waiting for his computer to connect to the hotel’s wireless. “In Seattle, we have this Microsoft service called ‘Bing.’ In comparison tests, it works better than Google. Did you ever try ‘Bing,’ Farfalla?”

Farfalla shook her tousled head. Farfalla Corrado had intense, almost frightening dark eyes, but beautiful glossy, black hair. Splendid Italian fashion-girl hair.

“I never use computers,” declared Professor Milo, primly.

“Really? You don’t use computers?”

“I assure you it true, young man. I don’t even own a computer.”

“How do you even
survive?
How is that
even possible
?”

“I have a typewriter. It’s a very nice Olivetti ‘Valentine.’ It has worked for me since 1968.”

“Okay, how do you spell ‘Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy?’”

Professor Milo spelled out the name of the female Virginian novelist. This effort took her quite a while. To his surprise, Gavin quickly discovered that the “Princess Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy” had been a real person. She was not a ghost, phantom, or Internet fake. Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy was an actual historical personage.

The Princess had once lived in historic Castle Hill, the home of the aristocratic Rives family near Charlottesville, Virginia.

Gavin tapped at the hotlinks and rapidly clicked on the resulting pop-up boxes.

“There was a soughing rain asweep that night,”
Gavin read aloud from his screen,
“with no wind to drive it, yet it ceased and fell, sighed and was hushed incessantly, as by some changing gale.”

“That’s the opening line of Amelie’s most famous novel!” said Professor Milo. She turned to Farfalla. “That novel was called
The Quick or the Dead?
With a question mark.”

“Well,” asked Farfalla, with a practical tilt to her glossy, tangled head, “was the princess quick or was she dead?”

“She’s dead,” said Gavin. “Born in 1863, died in 1945. Her books are in the public domain now. So, Professor, you’re saying this famous novelist once lived here on Capri? Along with this Russian prince that she married?”

“Yes. Amelie lived here, on Capri. But it’s not a simple story. Amelie was a princess, because she married a prince, but Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy was not just any Russian prince. Pierre was Russian and also American, because his mother was an American actress. The Prince’s father was Russian. But in his heart, Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy was Italian.”

Gavin thought this over. “So, this charming Prince was Italian, American, and Russian? A hundred years ago? How was that supposed to work? That’s unbelievable.”

Farfalla spoke up. “I’m an Italian-American-Brazilian.”

“You’re not believable, either.”

Farfalla tugged at a lock of her witch hair. “Well, I don’t think
you
are believable.”

“Come on, I’m believable! I’m plausible, even!” Using his Bing image search, Gavin found a picture of Amelie Troubetzkoy. He turned his screen around to his companions. “Look, here she is, your princess, big as life.”

Professor Milo pulled tortoise-shell bifocals from her handbag. “That tiny little picture isn’t as ‘big as life!’ I saw that painting at the National Portrait Gallery. The painting is four feet tall.”

“But this is a real image of Amelie’s portrait. I just found it on the Internet. This proves that she’s real.”

“The Internet is virtual,” said Farfalla. “The Internet isn’t real.’”

Gavin had to smile. It was fun to get a witty zinger from a pretty Italian girl. Italy was a pretty country, and the prettiest things in it were pretty Italian girls with their look-at-me attitudes.

He caught her eye. She looked back boldly as if to say, “
Yes, American guy, you’re looking me over now, so what?”
This sexy little exchange woke him up all over. Suddenly, Gavin felt very alive. This was a smart cookie, here. The world didn’t bake any cookies smarter than a smart Italian cookie.
Wait a minute,
he thought,
this is actually happening to me
.
I’m not at home any more. I’m nine time zones away on the other side of the world.

At last, something refreshing and fun to distract him. His suspicions about a rip-off melted away. That was not what was going on here, they weren’t trying to steal anything from him. Something weird was going on.