Niccolò’s eyes grew wide, and then he threw his head back and laughed. “I could kiss you for that,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, shielding her makeup with her hands. She’d whispered that she’d told a fib about her age, too.
“Heads up everyone,” the assistant director called out.
Ruby and Niccolò were still laughing when the scooter zoomed past. This time, the path between tables was wider, and the speed was a little slower.
Ruby saw Mr. Wyler nod his approval after conferring with his camera operator. “Excellent. Places, everyone. Again.”
“Hurry,” Niccolò said, taking her hand. “Now we’re being watched.” They took their seats at the table. With a wink, Niccolò whispered, “Chin up.”
Mr. Wyler sat down in his canvas director’s chair and tapped his fingertips together. “And, action!”
Ruby caught her breath, yet tried to act nonchalantly. They weren’t supposed to look at Audrey and Gregory on the Vespa—or the camera—but it was hard not to. Audrey was driving, and she executed the scene perfectly, driving right through the middle of the tables and chairs on the sidewalk café.
Right on cue, Ruby and Niccolò jumped up, waving their arms.
The camera followed the action for a while, then Ruby heard, “And cut.”
Everyone cheered and clapped at the success of the scene without incident, but the director looked unfazed. Mr. Wyler nodded and said, “Again.”
Once more, Ruby and Niccolò took their seats, and the scene was repeated. Over and over, they performed the scene, even though Ruby couldn’t see much difference. She thought all the acting was superb, and she was particularly impressed with how well the lead actors executed their parts. Watching them, she made mental notes.
“Someday that will be us,” Ruby said, nodding toward the leading pair.
Niccolò stared at her. “For you, I have no doubt.” He took her hand and cupped it to his lips, kissing the palm of her hand.
Ruby’s chest fluttered. Her mother had warned her against Italian men. Niccolò was only a year older, but he was a world apart from the boys she knew in Texas. They knew about horses and cattle and how to fix their pick-ups. Those boys could two-step in their best boots on a Saturday night at the local veterans’ hall, where the country & western music blared with Hank Williams and Kitty Wells. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine Niccolò there.
It was impossible.
But Ruby was discovering a lot of new things she liked. She adored the songs that Doris Day and Patti Page and Ella Fitzgerald sang. She’d also discovered Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra, although her father wasn’t keen on them.
Here in Italy, she’d experienced opera and Verdi and Aida. The grandeur had sucked her in and left her in awe. She hadn’t even known what she’d been starving for. Discovering the delights of a new world was like eating ice cream so fast it made your chest hurt.
Niccolò called it la dolce vita—the sweet life—and he was right. Everything appealed to her romantic sense, from the flavorful focaccia and fresh mozzarella to Roman art, architecture, and history that she drank in like her morning cappuccino or rich espresso. She’d never known so many types of olive oils and cheeses and bread. Even the fresh violets in her hotel room had a heady, sweet scent she’d never imagined.
The fashions sent her creativity spinning as well. Women wore full skirts in a rainbow of colors and silk scarves rendered in the most vibrant colors and intricate designs she’d ever seen. Ruby longed to bring home a dress or a real silk scarf.
And at the center of it all was Niccolò. She adored how he looked at her, touched her, and made her feel like she was the most beautiful girl on earth. His words sounded like music, soaring into the depths of her heart. He was so expressive and warm—nothing like any other boy she’d ever had a crush on.
But this feeling wasn’t a crush; it was so much more. What Ruby felt for Niccolò was new and exciting, more heartfelt than any feelings she’d ever known. She now understood the literature of Shelly and Keats that her neighbor Carol Clarkson often asked her to read aloud. Ruby loved the prose, but now she understood the source of the emotion.
Ruby knew, beyond a doubt, that she was falling in love.
Chapter 6
Lago di Como, 2010
* * *
“You’ve actually bought this place?” Ariana wrinkled her nose at the musty smell as she followed Ruby and Matteo into the dilapidated villa in Bellagio.
A chiseled stone marker read, Villa Fiori. Sure, the view on the drive was spectacular, Ariana thought. Yet, the grounds and interior were filthy and neglected—even with richly veined marble floors and ornate columns that looked like they belonged on a film set. It seemed more like a hotel than a residence.
Was her aunt losing her mind? Or at least, her judgment? Ariana couldn’t imagine why Ruby had acted so impulsively in buying this property. She could’ve stayed at the best hotel here for the rest of her life with what she’d probably spent on this monstrosity.
What was it about Lake Como that was drawing her aunt back?
“I wanted to surprise you,” Ruby said, clapping her hands with glee. “This is a genuine, historic villa. Although Villa Fiori is a fairly small villa by Como standards—many villas here are like palaces—this sweet place is special. It has witnessed a parade of heads of state, writers, and artists. You see, it once belonged to the legendary Francesca Sofia Vitelli, who rivaled actresses Sarah Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse in their day.”
“And exactly what day was that?” Ariana asked, furrowing her brow at an elaborate labyrinth of cobwebs.
“Late 1800s and early 1900s. The age of grand theater.” Ruby made an equally grand gesture. “This villa was an important gathering place, an intersection of art and commerce. Francesca’s husband was a wealthy silk manufacturer, and there’s even a museum in Como that has an entire wing dedicated to Alfredo and his work.” She pressed her hands together as a blissful expression lit her face. “Just imagine the splendid wardrobe she must have had.”
Frankly, the clothes would interest Ariana more than the house, which needed a deep cleaning, paint, landscaping, and who-knew-what in the kitchen and baths. “Please tell me it has indoor plumbing.”
“Darling, I’m surprised at you. This house was renovated in the 1950s. And even the ancient Romans had indoor plumbing.”
“That is true,” Matteo said, nodding. He looked vaguely insulted.
Ariana didn’t care. She was not looking forward to staying here. The musty smell was making her slightly nauseated, too.
As she looked up, her interest was drawn to the frescoes on the ceiling of cherubs and cascading vines and flowers, which she grudgingly admitted were beautiful. But something was amiss.
From the moment they’d stepped inside the house, her aunt had bloomed with a new, higher level of exuberance and enthusiasm—even for Ruby. Ariana had never seen her aunt like this. Ruby was swirling around the room like Rosalind Russell in Auntie Mame.
Her aunt pushed open wide French-paned doors that led to the terrace and stepped outside. “Isn’t this incredible? Imagine the parties we could have here. And there,” she added, pointing to a shady corner. “That’s a perfect nook for relaxing and reading.”