I met him on a tour myself. It’d been the Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius one. I’d arrived late, and the only seat left on the bus was the one beside him. During the two-hour ride, polite conversation had turned real as we discovered shared passions for medieval history and old movies.
A week after that, I bumped into him at my favorite morning cappuccino spot. It wasn’t until months later that he reminded me that he’d asked for coffee shop recommendations under the guise of passing them on to clients. Then he’d popped in for cappuccino every now and then, hoping for that “casual encounter.”
The trip down memory lane, though, doesn’t divert me. That package waits downstairs, and I could safely open it while Marco sleeps.
I need to open it. I won’t rest until I do. I’m just afraid.
Afraid? No, terrified.
Ten years ago, I fled the US, planning to live a transitory life abroad. See the world while never settling in one place. I’d spend two years in England, two in France, two in Germany, two in Italy . . . That was four years ago. Rome stuck, and I will not allow that box to detonate my life here.
I didn’t fight hard enough the last time. I was too young, too bruised. I will fight for this, and the battle begins with opening the damn package.
Marco doesn’t stir as I slide from bed. I tiptoe down the steps. They creak, as usual, and I pause at the bottom, straining to listen as the apartment remains silent.
I lift the package and set it on the table. Then I ease a knife from the drawer, slit the tape and tug one cardboard flap. It opens to show another box inside. A glossy snow-white box with a crimson lid, wrapped in a thick, black ribbon shot through with glittering silver thread. In silver script, the lid proclaims, “Ainsworth & Kent.” It’s a gift box from a Fifth Avenue staple, one I wouldn’t dare set foot in.
I tug one end of the bow, and it dissolves into a puddle of black velvet. Inside, bright red tissue paper is fastened with a silver Ainsworth & Kent seal. I peel back the seal and unfold multiple layers of tissue, first red and then gray and then white. The final layer reveals folded cashmere. I pull it out and find myself holding a silver-gray cashmere shrug with a single ebony button in the shape of a violin.
I lift the shrug for a better look. It’s like hoisting a cloud, and I can imagine draping it over my shoulders when Marco and I go out at night. Light enough to tuck into a bag, the color suitable for any dress. The button shows this is no random present. Someone took great care with their selection.
I remove the gift box from the cardboard package. It seems empty, but as I lift it, something shifts in the bottom. It’s a white envelope with “Lucy” written in looping script.
I touch my name, and a memory nudges. A letter with my name written in the same hand. The memory sinks leaden in my gut, and my fingers tremble. When I try to snag the memory, though, my mind slams shut and refuses to divulge a name.
I slit open the envelope. Inside is a folded sheet of paper. As I pull it out, my gut twists. That flash of memory again. My name on an envelope. Pulling out a folded sheet. Reading . . .
The memory reel snaps, leaving only my clenching gut and the smell of . . .
Jasmine?
I lift the paper. It doesn’t smell of jasmine. Doesn’t smell of anything. That’s the memory, jasmine-scented paper, and I’d opened the envelope, my heart lifting, so certain that that letter would contain . . .
Again, the memory clamps shut.
Just open the letter, Lucy.
I still call myself Lucy. My full name is Genevieve Lucille Callahan, after my two grandmothers. According to family lore, my dad struggled with Genevieve. It didn’t roll off his tongue, and he misspelled it on my birth notice even though it was his mother’s name.
Dad used Lucy as his pet name for me. He died when I was five—T-boned by a drunk driver—and I started going by Lucy in tribute to him. I’d reverted to Genevieve when I decided to make a fresh start in Europe, but in my head, I will always be Lucy even if, at times, that feels like self-flagellation, the occasional lash to remind me I will never truly be Genevieve with her quirkily unorthodox and deeply satisfying life.
Just open the damn letter, Lucy.
Yes, I’m procrastinating. I know from experience that it does no good. How many days did I tell myself that if I just didn’t look at the news, it wouldn’t exist? The news exists. My story exists. This letter exists.
Deep breath . . .
I unfold it.
Dear Lucy,
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from—
I freeze. I’m not even certain I process the words. I see that salutation, in that script, and the memory slams back, that jasmine-scented letter in this same hand.
Dear Lucy,
I trusted you. With my children. With my home. With my husband.
The letter falls to the floor as I clench the table edge. The floor seems to dip under my feet, and I want to drop to it. Drop and bang my head against it for not recognizing that damned perfect handwriting.
I snatch the letter from the floor, march across the tiny kitchen and yank open a drawer. I have to dig to the back of the assorted junk—paper clips, elastic bands, take-out cards—until my fingers close around a small cardboard box.
I strike a wooden match, flame hissing to life. Then I hold up the letter and . . .
I hesitate there, the flame an inch from the paper. Hesitate and then snuff out the match with my fingers and let it drop to the floor.
A fine sentiment, but if I burn this letter, I’ll only spend more sleepless nights wondering what she’d said, what she wanted, what she was threatening to do if she didn’t get it.
Isabella Morales knows where I am.
Of all the people I fear having that information, Isabella tops the list. I haven’t heard from her since that infamous letter, and now something has happened to make her reach out, and that bodes no good.
I turn the letter over and begin reading again.
Dear Lucy,
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, but we need to talk. While I understand you’re in Italy, I’m hoping I can persuade you to come to New York for a weekend, at my expense, of course. If you would prefer I came to Rome, I’d happily do that, but I suspect you won’t want me intruding on the life you’ve built there.
I have never forgotten what happened fourteen years ago. I suppose that goes without saying. But as time has passed, I’ve gained enough distance—and, I hope, wisdom—to look back on the events that transpired and realize you were little more than a child, and he took advantage of that. In my pain, I needed someone to blame. I should have aimed that anger at him. Instead, I turned it on you.
I know I cannot make amends, but I would like to talk. Please call me on my private cell so we may arrange a visit.
She gives her number and then signs with a familiar flourish.
This is exactly what I wanted to read fourteen years ago when my trembling fingers tore open that first letter. I hadn’t spoken to Isabella since the incident a month earlier, and enough time would have passed for her to realize there had to be more to the story. She would contact me, and I would tell her everything. I would apologize—fall on my knees and apologize—and she would hug me and tell me it wasn’t my fault.
Of everyone I’d hurt that day, this was the trespass that kept me awake at night. Isabella had been nothing but kind to me, and I’d made a stupid and juvenile mistake. She needed to know it wasn’t what the tabloids said.