When I open my eyes, the comforter is tucked around me, Booboo Kitty’s sitting on my pillow staring down at me, and Dave’s gone. I don’t even have to call out or look around for him. A place feels different when it’s occupied. People give off certain vibes—casual, neat, artsy—and I’m good at latching onto those when I decorate. Dave’s vibe, sort of casual and sexy, isn’t present.
I sit up, and Booboo, seeing signs of life, jumps onto the nightstand, wrapping her tail around a glass of water that wasn’t there last night. Next to the glass are two aspirin and my car keys. I take the aspirin, drink the water, and pad to the foyer to peek out the curtains. My Z4’s parked in the driveway, and I’m betting it has a full tank of gas. I sigh and go back upstairs to feed Booboo, but that’s been taken care of as well. Her bowls—food and water—are already full.
Okay, if Dave’s taken the trash out, I’m going to propose.
Thank God the trash is still full, and I don’t have to start calling myself Allison Tivoli. Later in the car with Gray, I don’t have to think too hard to know what Dave’s trying to tell me. A guy sneaks out in the morning, doesn’t say good-bye, doesn’t call, he doesn’t want a relationship. See what happens when a guy sees the real me?
I turn on Wrigley Drive in downtown Lake Geneva, and Booboo Kitty wakes from her nap, starts meowing, and scratches Gray’s leg in an effort to sniff the vents.
“How does your cat know?” Gray steadies Booboo so she can sniff without flaying his knee to bloody shreds.
“She’s smart. Or maybe the air smells different in Wisconsin.” Less smog, more patriotism. All the little downtown shops have American flags flapping in the breeze, and up ahead there’s a banner stretched across the street that reads “WIN BIG! MEMORIAL DAY AT THE TRACK!” Booboo meows.
“No, Booboo. No track for you. Those dogs will eat you up.”
We stop at a light and wave to Kristen Browning. She’s on the corner talking to Ashley Smith-Roberts, and both women are flanked by small children. Ashley turns and waves at us, too, lifting the hand of the toddler locked in her grasp.
Gray shakes his head. “Man. I used to date those girls. Now they’ve got kids. Makes me feel old.”
“You are old.”
He glares at me until Booboo swishes her tail in front of his mouth. “Ashley’s your age,” he says through a mouthful of fur. “And Kristen is only a year ahead.”
“Two,” I say, but I know what he means. I do feel old when we come to Lake Geneva. It’s part of who I am, my history. As soon as we exit Route 12, my childhood floods back to me: the first time I went sailing, the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I skinny-dipped. I have as many friends here as in Chicago, and over the years those friendships have served me well professionally. But there’s something bittersweet about coming back. I’m no longer the little girl who did cartwheels on the lakeshore and twirled a baton in the Fourth of July parade. I’m not Allie Bo-bally anymore and yet, I am. In so many ways, I am.
My parents’ house on Geneva Lake has a balcony on the second floor, and when I was in elementary school, Rory and I used to dress up in princess costumes—mine was a pink tulle skirt, pink leotard, and sparkly tiara—and twirl about on the balcony, looking out at the lake and hoping a prince (or Jedi, in Rory’s case) would sweep us away. My prince would sail in on his pirate ship (he was a bad-boy pirate prince, of course) and rescue me.
I’m not sure what I wanted to be rescued from, since my life was pretty good, but I think I saw enough of my parents’ world that I realized my idealized life couldn’t last. I would have to grow up, and even at eight, very little about adult life seemed innocent or uncomplicated. My parents’ friends divorced, remarried, divorced again; lost fortunes, made fortunes. My dad was always worried about money, and my mom worried about the lines on her face, and then there was all the drama with Gray. Certainly adult life was not as simple as spinning around and around until Rory and I were dizzy and falling down in a heap of giggles and pink tulle.
And how much has really changed? Nowadays, my princess clothes are a bit more expensive and any dizziness I suffer is probably alcohol-induced, but I still want to be a princess. I still want that magical, fairy-tale life. And the stupid thing is that more and more, I know there’s no fairy tale. As if the fudging kamikaze show has infected me, I keep trying to fix parts of my life that aren’t broken.
But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to let go of the fantasy. And that really messes up my life. And I know I’m doing it, but it’s like I can’t see the details as clearly as the big picture. This has always been my flaw as a decorator, and it’s my downfall in life and love, too. It’s like hanging a picture. I should measure, calculate, use a level, but I never do. I blindly pound the nail in every time, supremely confident—and supremely wrong—that I’ve eyed it perfectly.
With men, sometimes it seems like I throw the tape measure out the window. I ignore the details, always ready to try a new relationship on for size. And I’m always looking for that dream guy—the one who in my reality probably doesn’t exist.
I turn down the drive to Maytag Point, where my parents’ house overlooks the lake.
“Ow! Jesus!” Gray yells as Booboo Kitty tries to squeeze through the air vents. Gray struggles to keep ahold of her. “I don’t get it. The air downtown can’t possibly smell different than the air here. It’s only three miles away. How does the cat know?”
“Instinct, I guess,” I say, patting Booboo’s head. “The same way she always knows who doesn’t like her and goes to rub against their leg.”
“I wish I had instincts like that.”
“Me, too.”
“What’s with you this morning?” Gray says. “You’re really quiet. Sure you don’t have a hangover?”
“I’m just—Gray, whose car is that?”
Our parents’ house is up ahead, and next to my dad’s Lexus in the driveway is a Porsche Carrera.
“I don’t know. Cool car, though.”
I pull in behind the Lexus, shoo Booboo Kitty into her carrier while Gray gets our bags from the trunk, and we’re coming up the walk when my mother opens the screen door.
“You’re just in time! We’ve been holding lunch for you.” My mother is wearing a sundress and heels, full makeup, and a hat over her blonde hair. She’s not a real blonde, but she tells everyone she’s been one so long they gave her an honorary membership.
She kisses Gray and then me, closing the door behind us.
“Mom, why are you so dressed up?”
“I’m not dressed up,” she says. “I’ve had this old sundress for ages.”
“Mom, it’s Christian Dior, and I was with you when you bought it last month.” I set Booboo’s carrier down and let her out. She immediately runs for the back of the house and the deck. I’ll have to bribe her with tuna to get her back in so we can leave tomorrow.
“Yes, well, it wouldn’t kill the two of you to dress up once in a while. Why don’t you go change?”
Gray and I are both wearing shorts and T-shirts, the usual code of dress for a weekend at the lake house.
“The only thing I brought was a sundress in case we went to the yacht club,” I say.
“Whose Porsche is that?” Gray asks, dropping our bags by the door.
“Oh, why don’t you ask your famous sister? She’s full of secrets. Allison, go wash your face and put on some lipstick, then come out to the deck and say hello.”
Gray and I exchange wary looks, but I pick up our bags and head toward the stairs to our bedrooms. As I pass the guest room on the bottom floor, I notice a leather Louis Vuitton bag sitting right inside the door.
My room is at the top right of the stairs, but I pass it and drop Gray’s bag in his room first. Ahead is the master bedroom. The door is open and straight back are the French doors leading to the balcony. I can see the lake and white sailboats dotting the blue water through the glass panes. My room is in the front of the house and has two large windows—one overlooking the drive and the other the strip of woods between our place and the Iversons’. A half-mile down is my aunt and uncle’s place. Maybe I’ll walk down later and see if my cousin Cassie is around. Back in my room, I set my bag on one of the twin beds, both covered with pretty pink-and-white spreads.
I always slept in the one on the left and my friends—Rory usually—slept in the one on the right. The bathroom I share with Gray is across the hall, so I head there next. I don’t put on lipstick, but I do wash my face and drink another glass of water. When I step out of the bathroom, Nicolo is standing in the hallway.
“Oh, my God!”
He grabs my shoulders. “It is okay. Do not be frightened.”
“What are you doing here?” I shake his hands off me. “Get out!”
“I am here for work.”
I gape at him. “That’s your Louis Vuitton bag downstairs?” Piece of advice: No matter how freaked out you are, never miss a chance to say Vuitton.
“Yes. I wished to speak to you before you saw your parents.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? What have you done with them?”
“Nothing.” He spreads his arms. “As you see, I am harmless. Might we go into your bedroom and speak?”
“You’re not that harmless. Right here is fine.”
He sighs. “Very well. Again, I am sorry I frightened you.”
I nod, waiting for him to go on.
“When you signed the contract, you agreed to all access. I wanted to get to know your family, maybe take a little footage.”
“No cameras here, Nicolo. After what we did to that poor family’s house Wednesday, I don’t know if I even want to be part of this show anymore. But I do know that I don’t want to see you. Just take your Louis Vuitton bag”—see, lots of opportunities to get that in—“and go play reality TV with some other family. Leave me alone.”
“Allison—” He reaches out and touches my shoulder, but I shrug him off. “Very well. I will leave if that is what you wish, but the consequences may not be to your liking.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You signed a contract that stipulated all access. Are you reneging on the terms of that legally binding document?”
I glare at him, feeling like a cat on her way to the vet for shots. No escape. “You don’t care about footage. You’re just trying to weasel your way into my life.”
“That is not true.”
“Fine. Then send a camera crew, but you and your Louis Vuitton bag can go.”
“Allison”—he reaches for my shoulder again, but I give him a warning glare—“please, allow me to apologize for what happened at the fashion show. I am so very, very sorry. It will not happen again.”
“You’re right about that. Get out.”
I watch him closely. His face is so sincere—eyes puppy-dog–pleading, brows crumpled, mouth turned down at the corners. That soft, sensual mouth—damnit!
“Allison.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and this time when I remove it, he manages to keep hold of my hand. “Can you forgive me? You were just so beautiful, so sexy, I was overwhelmed.”
Okay, now this is a load of bullshit, but it’s nice bullshit. I mean, it’s not every day a girl’s told she was impossible to resist. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than words to win me over.
“If you pull any crap like the other night—”
“Allison!” My mother rushes up the stairs, probably picking her moment after eavesdropping from the first floor. She’s balancing a tray of deviled eggs in one hand and holding her hat securely with the other. “What is wrong with you? The prince is our guest, and”—she lowers her voice—“he came to see Y-O-U!”
I cross my arms. “Perfect.” I forgot how my mother can be. When she gets emotional—nervous, excited—she reverts back to when Gray and I were kids and she would spell all the words she wanted to keep us from understanding.
Nicolo smiles, all charm. “Thank you again for your graciousness in allowing this intrusion on your holiday, Mrs. Holloway. I have just been telling your daughter that if she does not want me here—”
“Of course she wants you here!” my mother protests loudly. “Allison is tired from the drive. Please, call me Mitsy, and come back out on the deck. Lunch is almost ready. Allison, why haven’t you changed yet?”
I roll my eyes and follow Nicolo and Mitsy downstairs. Nicolo’s taken the tray of eggs from her, and she’s looking up at him as if he’s her prince in shining armor.
“Allison, you didn’t tell me Prince Parma was so handsome. Of course, you didn’t tell me he was royalty, either.” She glares at me, but Nicolo just smiles.
“Please, it is a courtesy title, nothing else,” he says as we near the sliding glass doors.
Through the glass, I see that the weather is truly gorgeous today. The sky is as blue as the lake, no clouds speckle the sky, and a pleasant breeze teases the spires of the blue spruces and the leaves of the maple trees.
I follow my mother through the patio door and onto the deck. On the left is my dad’s grill, smoking with what smells deliciously like hamburgers. To the right, with the best view of the lake through the trees, are three chairs. Grayson’s already in one, and my mother motions to Nicolo to take his choice of the others. Gray glares at me, looking like he’d rather sit with Saddam Hussein than Nicolo.
Dad’s trying to affix a large American flag to the center rail of the deck. He’s already got Illinois and Wisconsin state flags up and flying.
“Allison’s here!” my mother announces.
My dad doesn’t turn from the recalcitrant flag, but calls, “Hi, darlin’.”
I leave Nicolo and wander over to my dad. “Hi, Daddy. Sorry about the unexpected guest.”
“No problem. Your mother practically asked the guy to move in. This is exciting stuff for her.”
“I noticed. She’s spelling again.” I glance over at my mom. She’s arranging the table just so. With Mitsy Holloway, everything is about appearances. She’s Miss Manners and Martha Stewart rolled into one. But get her on a bad day, and she can turn into Joan Crawford with an attitude.
“So what’s up, Dad?”
He’s about secured the flag and says through teeth gritted with effort, “Trying to get this flag up and flying. There we go.” He dusts his hands together, dislodging invisible particles of dirt. He slings an arm around my shoulders and stands back to admire his efforts. “So how do they look?”
“Who?” I glance around. My mother has enlisted Nicolo’s help in pulling the table forward on the deck to make the most of the light.
“The flags? How do they look?”
I study the flags. What answer to give here? They look like flags. “Um, they look…patriotic.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He nods. Obviously more is expected.
I draw on my interior design experience. I should really call Columbia College and suggest they add a course to train the Interior Architecture students for moments like these. They could call it “Bullshitting 101: The Art of Saying What the Client Wants to Hear.”
“Um…I love the way you’ve spaced them. The two state flags flanking the American one.”
“You’ll notice I’ve left gaps.” He gestures proudly to his creation, arm still around my shoulders, we two facing the vast horizon and three flapping flags bravely.
“The spacing is great. It creates the illusion of size.” Actually, the spaces pretty much look like big gaps between the flags, but you couldn’t pay me to tell my dad that.
He gives me an incredulous look. “Really? That’s what I was going for.” He points around a bend in the lake. “See the Boyds’ place?”
I stand on tiptoe and peer through the towering spruces. “Yeah.”
“See his flags?”
“Yeah.” The Boyds are from Dallas, Texas, and they’re flying not only the American flag, but the other flags that have, throughout history, flown over Texas. There’s the Lone Star, Mexico, France, Spain…“Dad, what’s that one with the circle of stars?”
“The Texas Confederate flag.”
We both frown and narrow our eyes.
“I don’t know what Luke’s thinking. This is Yankee country. I talked to Dick down on the city council, but he said much as he supports my line of thinking, there’s no restriction against Luke flying those Texas flags. So it’s up to me to shame him into taking them down.”
I glance at my dad. “How are you going to do that?”
“Put up bigger flags. More flags. I think it’s working, too. You just said my flags look bigger. I need to go into town and shop for a few more. Luke’s got—what?—six flags? We’ll fly seven.”
I do a mental eye roll. I’ve heard of penis envy, but flag envy? Everything is a competition to my dad. That’s probably why he’s so good at what he does and makes like five million dollars a year. I’m not sure what my dad does exactly. I never cared much, but a few years ago when Rory was at Northwestern studying accounting, we were here for the Fourth, and she asked him. I listened in, but all I got was that he makes money out of money. Rory had nodded sagely, and when I asked her about it later, she said—well, I don’t know what she said—but I think it boiled down to investing.
“Donald, are the B-U-R-G-E-R-S ready?” my mom asks as she brings glasses and silverware onto the deck.
Dad starts. “Oh, uh, I’ll check.”
I shake my head. He’s totally forgotten them, of course. Flags will do that to a man, you know. I give my dad a kiss on his cheek and watch him walk away. He looks older, his hair almost completely gray now. My grandma used to tell me that growing up he had red hair like mine, but I can’t remember it being any color other than steel gray.
“Lunch is ready,” my mom says. We sit down, and my mom, in her best society mistress role, passes the plate of burgers around and begins the conversation. “Allison, darling. How is your job at one of the T-O-P interior design firms in Chicago?”
I give her my please-don’t-embarrass-me look, which I thought after the age of seventeen I’d never have to use again. “Well, Mom, it’s pretty much the same as always. I’d love to tell you about the show, but I’m not allowed to.”
“A little bird told me there were TV vans at Lucinda Chippenhall’s place. Is she getting something I’m not?”
“No,” I say firmly. I don’t know whether it’s good news or bad that my mom hasn’t spoken directly to Mrs. Chippen-hall yet.
“And are you working on any big projects?” She looks at Nicolo. “Last year you redecorated Oprah’s studio.”
“The show’s pretty much taking all my time,” I say, putting lettuce and tomato on my burger.
“What about you, Grayson?” Mom trills. “How is your career as a supermodel going?”
I glance at Gray. He’s got that sulky model look on his face, which means he’s annoyed at her act. He doesn’t answer, but my father steps in. “This potato salad is wonderful, Mitsy. Have you ever eaten potato salad this good, Nicolo?”
“Ah, no,” Nicolo says. I glance at his plate. He hasn’t taken a bite of anything. “It is delicious.” He glances at me, and I raise a brow.
He clears his throat. “Mrs. Holloway, tell me a little about yourself. What was it like raising two children who have grown to be so successful?”
My mother beams, and we’re off. Embarrassing stories of my childhood aside, the rest of the afternoon goes pretty well. After a while, my family forgets Nicolo is a prince, and we end up having a pretty good conversation. Nicolo is naturally charismatic, and he makes everything easy. He smoothes the rough spots, asks all the right questions, and steers the conversation in the direction he wants it to go.
I hold up my end, but mostly I watch him. Since dating Bryce, I’d almost forgotten how uncomplicated it is to be with a guy who can hold his own with my parents—hold his own socially.
Nicolo knows the unspoken rules, the intimations, what questions are really being asked behind the pretty veneer of light conversation. He knows and he plays his part. At the end of ninety minutes, my mother is in love with him, Gray’s comfortable, and my dad’s slapping “Old Nik” on the shoulder.
I’m impressed at how easily Nicolo charmed my family, especially my dad, but overall my feelings are still mixed.
The conversation settles into a relaxed after-lunch lull, and I allow my mind to drift. Sitting here on the deck, I feel young again. It’s partly the association this place has with my girlhood, and partly Nicolo being here. He reminds me of all those childhood dreams and imaginings.
And so much of what is around me churns up those fantasies. The view of the lake is the same, blue and vast, now crowded with boats and Jet Skis. Our deck juts out, my dad’s varnished mahogany boat, The Lady Is a Tramp, with its blue and red Chris-Craft flag, bobbing in the water at the end. I’m surprised he’s gone to the trouble of taking it out of the boathouse, but my mom probably nagged him to do it because of Nicolo.
The house is the same, big and bright and comfortable; the neighbors, always friendly, stop by to invite us to a party or to play golf or to go out on their boats tonight. And my parents are the same: My dad made the traditional hamburgers on the grill and my mom put them on low-carb buns with sides of low-fat potato salad and reduced-fat potato chips. Nothing has changed except Nicolo’s presence.
When we’re no longer stuffed full of lunch, my mom brings out dessert—fruit or sorbet—and the eating and drinking and promising the neighbors we’ll play golf and tennis and stop by for a party catches up with me. It’s already afternoon, and I’m feeling my late night.
“Allison?” my mother says, and I blink several times, shaken out of my drowsy state. “Are you sleeping?”
“No.”
She frowns at me, her lips thinning in a way that means she thinks I’m neglecting my guests. I glare at her, my eyes narrowing to communicate to her that he’s her guest, not mine, and I’ll be as neglectful as I want.
But Nicolo has other ideas. He asks me to play tour guide, and my mom glares at me until I agree. By the time we get back from viewing all the mansions, the town, and the Riviera Ballroom, where Tommy Dorsey and Louis Armstrong once played, there’s a group going to play tennis and we get roped into that, too.
All in all, it turns out to be a pretty fun day. Nicolo kept me entertained with his dry sense of humor and his stories of an adventurous life, and as we step on my dad’s antique Chris-Craft to head for my aunt and uncle’s house and their party, I realize Nicolo is right back in my good graces.
Maybe I really did misunderstand him before. He seems like such a nice guy—my kind of guy.