changed so much then?” She wore a thin, button-up, old-womanish sweater over a nondescript collared blouse and tan pants, along with a pair of bulky, multicolored running shoes.
“You haven’t changed at all. I just didn’t expect to see you, that’s all. You look wonderful.”
She looked, he thought, like absolute hell. Lea Pescallo, the daughter of Bella and Basilio Barbero, had been an early love. He had first known her-and then forgotten her-when they had both been children at the villa. But later, on a family visit when he was eighteen, he had fallen passionately, hopelessly in love with her. At that age, he had been pretty much a younger version of what he was now in his forties: knobbly, gangling, vaguely ill-formed. (He’d been desperately shy, too, but that, at least, he’d been able to overcome with the years.) But Lea… Lea had been heartbreakingly beautiful; seductive and ethereal at the same time, like something out of Botticelli.
“That one will die young. You can see it in her face,” his mother had remarked years before, but Phil had found Lea’s fragile beauty, her gentle, wonderfully graceful hands, her soft voice, her quiet, modest ways, heartbreakingly attractive… and miles beyond anything a misfit like him might conceivably hope for. Around her, he’d turned into a nitwit, blushing and perspiring after every dumb thing he’d said.
They had somehow become friends in spite of this, and had carried on a chaste, pointless, increasingly intermittent correspondence for years, until she had fallen in love with and married the impossibly dashing Raffaele Pescallo, he of the gleaming white teeth, a rising star on the European motocross circuit. As a sort of self-punishment-for what he wasn’t sure-Phil had come to the wedding, a predictably flashy affair in Arona. It was the last time he’d seen her and it was clear that the intervening seventeen years had been brutally hard on her. Someone seeing her now for the first time-the defeated shoulders, the faint pink smudge of mouth, the puffy, watery eyes underscored with bruiselike streaks of fatigue-would have a hard time believing that this drab, beaten-down woman had once been beautiful, and not such a very long time ago at that.
“Are you here for the consiglio?” Phil asked, searching for something to say. It wasn’t only her appearance that had devastated him, but her question: “Have I changed so much then?” No effort at irony, just a melancholy, rueful query-more a statement, really-to which she already knew the answer.
“The consiglio? Oh… no, I wouldn’t feel comfortable at that. I don’t really belong. No, I’m just… visiting.”
“Ah. Well. Are you still working for that hotel group?” The last he’d heard, she was some kind of consultant for a consortium of hotels that operated throughout Europe.
“Oh, yes. And you, do you still… the tours, the travel books?”
“Yes.” He was wildly pleased that she remembered. “That’s really why I’m in Italy now, doing a tour.”
“Ah. Well…” She was getting ready to go.
“Is Raf here with you?” he asked.
“Raf? No. I’ve left him, didn’t you know? No, why would you know? It was three months ago. I’ve been staying here, with my parents, until… well, until I can figure out where I go next.”
“I’m sorry.” He waited to see if she’d tell him anything more, and after a few seconds she did.
“I was wrong and everybody else was right about Raf,” she said humbly. As her lips pressed together, he noticed for the first time the dry, middle-aged lines that radiated from their corners. It was as if a pincer squeezed his heart. “He was never cut out to be a husband. I thought he would change. I should have known better.”
To his shame, a surge of something like vindication flowed through him. If you had married me instead of Raf, you would still be beautiful. I would have made you happy. You should have married me. The fact that he had never
“You haven’t changed at all. I just didn’t expect to see you, that’s all. You look wonderful.”
She looked, he thought, like absolute hell. Lea Pescallo, the daughter of Bella and Basilio Barbero, had been an early love. He had first known her-and then forgotten her-when they had both been children at the villa. But later, on a family visit when he was eighteen, he had fallen passionately, hopelessly in love with her. At that age, he had been pretty much a younger version of what he was now in his forties: knobbly, gangling, vaguely ill-formed. (He’d been desperately shy, too, but that, at least, he’d been able to overcome with the years.) But Lea… Lea had been heartbreakingly beautiful; seductive and ethereal at the same time, like something out of Botticelli.
“That one will die young. You can see it in her face,” his mother had remarked years before, but Phil had found Lea’s fragile beauty, her gentle, wonderfully graceful hands, her soft voice, her quiet, modest ways, heartbreakingly attractive… and miles beyond anything a misfit like him might conceivably hope for. Around her, he’d turned into a nitwit, blushing and perspiring after every dumb thing he’d said.
They had somehow become friends in spite of this, and had carried on a chaste, pointless, increasingly intermittent correspondence for years, until she had fallen in love with and married the impossibly dashing Raffaele Pescallo, he of the gleaming white teeth, a rising star on the European motocross circuit. As a sort of self-punishment-for what he wasn’t sure-Phil had come to the wedding, a predictably flashy affair in Arona. It was the last time he’d seen her and it was clear that the intervening seventeen years had been brutally hard on her. Someone seeing her now for the first time-the defeated shoulders, the faint pink smudge of mouth, the puffy, watery eyes underscored with bruiselike streaks of fatigue-would have a hard time believing that this drab, beaten-down woman had once been beautiful, and not such a very long time ago at that.
“Are you here for the consiglio?” Phil asked, searching for something to say. It wasn’t only her appearance that had devastated him, but her question: “Have I changed so much then?” No effort at irony, just a melancholy, rueful query-more a statement, really-to which she already knew the answer.
“The consiglio? Oh… no, I wouldn’t feel comfortable at that. I don’t really belong. No, I’m just… visiting.”
“Ah. Well. Are you still working for that hotel group?” The last he’d heard, she was some kind of consultant for a consortium of hotels that operated throughout Europe.
“Oh, yes. And you, do you still… the tours, the travel books?”
“Yes.” He was wildly pleased that she remembered. “That’s really why I’m in Italy now, doing a tour.”
“Ah. Well…” She was getting ready to go.
“Is Raf here with you?” he asked.
“Raf? No. I’ve left him, didn’t you know? No, why would you know? It was three months ago. I’ve been staying here, with my parents, until… well, until I can figure out where I go next.”
“I’m sorry.” He waited to see if she’d tell him anything more, and after a few seconds she did.
“I was wrong and everybody else was right about Raf,” she said humbly. As her lips pressed together, he noticed for the first time the dry, middle-aged lines that radiated from their corners. It was as if a pincer squeezed his heart. “He was never cut out to be a husband. I thought he would change. I should have known better.”
To his shame, a surge of something like vindication flowed through him. If you had married me instead of Raf, you would still be beautiful. I would have made you happy. You should have married me. The fact that he had never
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