Willow
The agent Leo recommended provided a list of muted colors he believes will sell well, or in his words, will mesh with the London elite’s decor. Inspiration from these hues is elusive, compounded by my mind circling back to last night with Leo.
From a starry-eyed, romantic perspective, he’s gorgeous. Sexy. When I approached him in the shower that first night, I expected we could enjoy each other, and intimacy would increase the value of our nontraditional arrangement.
What I didn’t expect is the closeness intimacy would breed. I absolutely love what he can do to my body, and he’s far more skilled than Jules. Or at least, sex is better with Leo. But as much as I love the physical, it’s our time after, in the dark, where we talk and touch that I treasure. His walls fall. Well, not really. He doesn’t talk about business, and I get the sense he’s holding himself back, but he asks lots of questions. After sex, he doesn’t roll over and sleep. He wants to talk. That means something, no?
I can’t wait to meet his family—not just to meet them, but to learn more about him. And does that desire mean I’m falling for him? If I care, is that such a horrible thing? We’ll likely be together for years. Maybe over time he’ll fall for me too.
My mobile vibrates, and the name Ludovica Gagliano flashes on the screen. I welcome the break from plotting my next piece, since I’m making no progress, anyway.
“Mamma,” I say, letting genuine happiness color my greeting.
“Mia bellisima figlia, how are you, dear? Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.” I sink down into a puff chair I purchased for the studio. “I’m at a good place for a break.” She knows when I’m in the middle of something, if I don’t want to lose my pace, I won’t answer.
“Things are good?”
“They are. My agent found two galleries interested in showing my work.”
“I’m so proud of you.” There’s a hint of sadness to her words. She rarely calls during the workday, as she’s typically busy in our community. She volunteers at the local library, and she helps with the elderly.
“Is everything okay, Mamma?”
“It’s fine. I’m calling to check on my daughter, a married woman. Can I do that?”
“Of course.”
“In this time of, I believe the word is vicissitudes, this time of change, what I need to know is, are you happy? Does your husband make you happy?”
“He does.” My mother understands it’s an arrangement, but truthfully, almost all marriages in our world are arranged. In her time, arrangements were the only marriages. There were no exceptions.
“Is he a good man?”
“He is,” I answer with conviction.
“You do not regret your choice?”
In her eyes, I had a choice. That’s laughable.
“I’m happier than I could have hoped.” I’m telling her the truth, and it’s an unexpected realization.
“That’s good, then. That makes it all worthwhile.”
Odd.
“Ludovica, who are you talking to?” The man’s voice is familiar.
“My daughter.”
“Mamma, who is that?”
“Security detail.” There’s frustration in her tone. “You have your security with you, yes?”
“I do. Leo insists.” Of course, I won’t allow John to be in the room with me while I work. I need to be alone when I paint. Leo rented the room next to mine for John. There are small cameras installed in the corners, and I’m fairly certain John sits behind his computer in his office, watching me from right next door. It’s something I try not to think about.
“That’s good. How many does he employ?”
“I spend my days in an art studio. There’s one bodyguard with me at all times, and that is more than sufficient.”
She sighs.
“That’s all Papa ever hired for me.” I don’t know why I’m defensive. John has probably never been more bored in all his life. Pretty much all I do is walk between my studio and the flat. “He asked me to use a burner phone when I call Scarlet, in case someone would track it.”
“That’s wise.”
“Is something going on? Is everything okay back home?”
“We’re fine, bella. Do what your husband says. Be a good wife. He’ll keep you safe. Remember, it’s important to listen. The men deal with things we don’t always understand, and we need to trust in them.”
“Mamma, what’s going on?”
“I love you, bella. Stay safe.”
The call ends, and I stare at the blank screen. I’d call Orlando to check that all is okay at home, but he’s in school.
Vicissitude. Variations in circumstances or fortune.
I pick up the burner phone I carried down in my bag and dial Scarlet. She lives in the same house as my parents, and she listens. She rarely speaks to my parents, but she always listens.
“Ciao!” Her excited greeting has me smiling. The rain outside is heavier now, and droplets stream down the glass in rivulets.
“Ciao, bella,” I reply.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” She reverts to English as readily as Orlando and I.
“I got a call from Mamma. Is everything okay there?”
“What did she say?”
Scarlet’s question roils my sixth sense. “What’s going on?”
“Rumors. There are always rumors. What did Aunt Ludovica say to you?”
“She sounded sad. Wanted to know if I’m happy. She mentioned vicissitudes.” I struggle to remember. “We didn’t talk for long, but she sounded off. Wanted me to obey my husband. Her security interrupted us, but she wanted to make sure I had security. Are we at war again?”
When I was much younger, we were at war with the Cosa Nostra family. Hushed conversations not meant for children’s ears would begin, and we’d be sent outside or to the playroom.
“The rumor is that Massimo isn’t happy with your father for giving you to Leo.”
“Because of Leandro?”
“That’s the rumor. He doesn’t feel respected or some such bullshit. But Leandro hasn’t been around. Some say he left on business. But…”
“Scarlet, just say it.”
“Others say he went to find you. Aunt Ludovica must’ve heard that rumor. And maybe there’s more to it than what I’ve heard if her security detail was near.” She’s right. Mamma doesn’t like them nearby.
“You think he’d go after Mamma? Where’s Papa?”
“He’s away on business.”
“Well, that’s normal.” But as I say it, unease takes residence in the pit of my stomach.
“No one’s questioning your father’s absence. But, given everything, just be careful, okay?”
“Why did you say that? Do you think Massimo hurt him?”
“Don’t let your imagination run wild. The rumors are about Leandro’s absence.”
“What would Leandro even do if he found me? I’m married.”
“That man is a psychopath. It’s a good thing you’re in another country.” Movement in the doorway catches my attention. It’s John, peering in.
“Do you need anything? I’m going to the lavatory,” he says.
“No, I’m good,” I tell him.
“Don’t leave until I return.” He pulls the door closed and the lock clicks.
“Was that your security?”
“Yes,” I answer, frowning at the locked door.
“How is married life?”
I rest back against the chair, scanning the ceiling. My cheeks warm as I remember last night.
“It’s good.”
“You’re one of the lucky ones. An arranged marriage that delivered love?”
“I don’t think they’re as rare as you believe.”
“Oh, trust me, they’re rare.”
She’s jaded, but after her experience, I can’t blame her for her views.
I could tell her I’m falling for him, but it’s unlikely he will reciprocate, and without reciprocation, it feels hollow or foolish. I don’t want to be foolish.
He’s concerned about my age and reminds me daily that this is temporary. Not that I would ever share these details with Scarlet. I love her, but she’d leap into protective big sister mode. And there’s no need to say the falling bit out loud.
Our conversation reverts to Italian, and we talk a while longer, with her filling me in on mundane details. It’s a gorgeous day in Italy with blue skies. She’s been swamped at work due to some tax deadlines. She works within Titan Shipping’s accounting department, and it often sounds like she carries the department. Dad recruited her years ago, not long after Vincent’s death. She’d been listless, and my mother feared she suffered from depression.
When our call ends, I resume painting.
I’ve never understood Scarlet wanting to work for my father as a bookkeeper, because to me, working with spreadsheets all day would be torture. She’d been training as a nurse, but that required she come into close contact with the Lupi Grigi men, and, as she once told me, the men she comes into contact with in the office are preferable, and in the office, she doesn’t have to touch them.
By the close of the day, I have a vision for a set of three pieces in muted colors that reflect life’s daily subtle variations and time’s more momentous shifts, and I steal my mother’s word. I title the series Vicissitude.
I wrap up, exit the studio, lock it, and, as I approach John’s office, he exits.
“Do you have an umbrella?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine. Rain won’t hurt me.”
Without a word, John returns to his office.
Geoff comes out of his studio down the hall, and I wave. He steps toward me, but when John appears with an extra umbrella in hand, Geoff changes direction. My stomach sinks. Does Geoff believe I’m with organized crime? That’s what happened on campus. Once students figured out I had security trailing me, they connected dots. Why else would a young woman have a bodyguard?
Those first two weeks, John didn’t come with me to the studio, and I lived the life of a normal person. But since Leo’s return, he has insisted John follow me everywhere. It doesn’t quite seem fair, but then my mother’s call and Scarlet’s rumors have me wondering if there’s more going on, and Leo doesn’t trust me to handle it. Meanwhile, I’m the one who handles issues. If I didn’t address my challenges head on, I’d be married to Leandro. And if I didn’t take the first step, Leo would’ve never touched me.
John escorts me wordlessly back to my apartment. I sense his shadow, even though the clouds mask it, and I catch glimpses of him in rain-streaked glass reflections.
“Goodnight,” I tell him when we arrive in the lobby, but he doesn’t make a move to leave. “Are you going home now?”
“Aye, I am. After I see you to the forty-first floor.”
He joins me in the lift, and, wordlessly, we ascend. When the doors open, he peers in.
“It doesn’t appear Mr. Sullivan is back,” he says.
“Was he out today?”
“Business meetings. If you don’t mind, I’m going to look around before I leave.”
“Go right ahead,” I tell him, as I have no choice in the matter. He heads up the stairs as I remove my wellies. I give him a few moments, then climb the stairs. He passes me on the stairwell.
“All’s clear. See you in the morning. Don’t leave or let anyone up until Mr. Sullivan gets home.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” I salute him with my finger, and he might smile. He might not. For someone who spends an awful lot of his time near me, he hasn’t warmed to me much. But I suppose he’s not family, whereas so many of the men around my father’s home were.
Wistfulness for my family home sweeps in out of nowhere. The paths along the beach where I spent so much time, the faint scent of my mother’s gardenias on the breeze, and the sun’s warmth on my skin, I miss them all with a yearning I haven’t felt since those first university days. I had been naive to believe I might be allowed to live in Florence forever. That the famiglia’s rules didn’t apply to me because of my father’s status.
The rain outside soundlessly patters the thick-walled glass, and the dense clouds blur the skyscrapers into nonexistence. Inside, I fix tea and biscuits and await Leo’s return.