Ariana slid on her sunglasses and waited. Behind her, Paolina met the children at the door with hugs and led them inside. The children clung to her as if she were their mother, which made Ariana wonder if she was. Plenty of married couples worked together. She couldn’t recall if Paolina wore a wedding ring, but now she realized she probably was the children’s mother.
And Alessandro’s wife.
Alessandro strode toward her. “I’m sorry I had to rush out, but you can see why. I’m afraid I lost track of time. And then the kids…it’s always something with them.”
Striving to be cordial, she said, “They’re adorable. How old are they?”
“Sandro is seven, and Carmela is five. They’re so inquisitive and rambunctious. Do you have children?”
“No, no.” Ariana stumbled over the word, but she wasn’t about to divulge her secret to a stranger.
“Not married?”
Nor was Ariana going to share her disastrous attempt at marriage. “Absolutely not.”
Alessandro rocked back and forth in his loafers and chuckled, though his laughter had a strangled, nervous edge. “Then, may I ask you out for coffee sometime? Or dinner? I don’t know—whatever it is that you do in America. Drinks?”
Did I hear him correctly? Ariana’s lips parted, and she swung her gaze from Alessandro to the children, who were chattering away with Paolina in the doorway. Something wasn’t right here. But she was not going to be the American fling for a month.
Whipping off her sunglasses, Ariana lashed out at him. “I can’t believe you would ask such a thing—and in front of your children?”
“Che cosa?” He spread his hands and stared at her. “What?”
Ariana snapped on her sunglasses. “I appreciate your help today, but I shouldn’t have to explain.” She whirled around and opened the passenger door to Gia’s car.
Gia hung up the phone, looking a little frazzled.
“Let’s go,” Ariana said, disgusted and angry that Alessandro ruined what had been a perfectly lovely day.
“My little girl is sick,” Gia said. “She has a fever, so I have to pick her up and get medicine for her.”
Before Ariana could tell her about Alessandro, the conversation shifted to Gia’s daughter.
“That’s okay,” Ariana said. “I just remembered I have to talk to my aunt about something.” Like trying to set her up with unsuitable replacements for Phillip—which was even crazier than buying a villa in Italy.
A sudden thought seized her. This behavior was unusual, even for Ruby, who could be impulsive about little things, like new shoes or hairstyles. Or surprising her with a weekend trip to a spa. But extravagant purchases like a villa in Italy?
Ariana slid her hand over the back of her neck in thought. Maybe there was another explanation, although it was one that Ariana hated to address. Could Ruby’s lapse in judgment be attributed to mental decline?
Ariana sighed, recalling her own Nana Pat, who’d had Alzheimer’s disease for almost as long as Ariana could remember. Patricia and Ruby were sisters. Could Ruby’s behavior be an early signal that the disease was attacking her, too?
Chapter 10
Rome, 1952
* * *
A messenger boy clad in baggy, faded trousers held up by suspenders raced toward the fountain where Ruby was sitting while writing postcards to her family back home.
On this muggy morning, she’d discovered that sitting downwind of the fountain was the coolest—and she used that term relatively—spot to watch the hub-bub of life before filming began.
Being on set was thrilling, and Ruby soaked up everything she could. She never grew tired of watching Audrey Hepburn, who acted so naturally that she hardly seemed to be acting at all.
The boy skidded to stop in front of her. With perspiration beading on his face, he panted, “Ruby Raines?”
“That’s right.” He was probably one of the crew’s children, making himself useful on set while his parent or parents worked. Many of the cast had brought their families along for an extended holiday. Even Mr. Wyler’s children, Judy and Cathy, had been in the school scene as schoolchildren.
“You have to report to David in Costumes right away. Mr. Wyler’s order.”
Ruby tucked her postcards into the pocket of her skirt. At Mr. Wyler’s request! Could this be her lucky break? She hurried on her way.
When she arrived, David gave her a quick hug. The assistant wardrobe supervisor was a wiry whirl of energy this morning.
“The stand-in for Miss Hepburn is sick today,” David said as he pulled clothes for her. “Even though Mr. Wyler is shooting in black-and-white—thanks to budget constraints—we still need to approximate Miss Hepburn’s wardrobe for lighting. We needed a fill-in, so I suggested you. You’re the same size as Miss Hepburn, and Mr. Wyler approved. The camera and lighting supervisors agreed. Same height, same skin and bones. Are you a dancer, too?”
Ruby nearly burst out laughing with one of those awful hee-haw honks that her mother always shushed. She was in Rome now, a professional actress on a set—well, almost—and she was supposed to be acting not just her age, but older.
“Oh, yes, I dance, too,” she said with what she hoped was an air of calm and sophistication.
Never say you can’t do anything. Her agent’s words rang in her ears. You can learn how. Say anything to get the job.
David tossed a scarf over a hanger. “Thought so. Muscular calves, strong arms.” He flipped open a book that contained sketches and swatches. Frowning with concentration, he ran his finger down a list.
She’d earned her long, lean muscles not from ballet as Miss Hepburn had, but from herding cattle on horseback with her father. And the only dancing she knew was the Texas kind. The two-step with its quick-quick steps, the schottische with its funny little hops, and the traditional polka that she danced with her grandpa at Gruene Hall in New Braunfels and parties in Fredericksburg. She knew how to waltz Texas-style, but that looked little like the grand, sweeping waltz she’d seen in the movies.
“What’s that?” Ruby asked, peering over David’s shoulder at the thick binder he was consulting.
“Our costume bible,” he said, tapping a page. “This has Edith Head’s sketches, fabric swatches, measurements, and a complete list of every accessory and detail for each scene. For continuity purposes, not a hairpin or a sock will be out of place from one day of filming to the next. And heaven help the actor who gains weight. Or loses it.”
“Why?”
“Alterations take time and damage continuity.” He put his hands on his hips. “Gregory Peck is losing too much weight, but he’s a star,” he muttered. “With all this fabulous food around, who loses weight in Italy?” A frown knitted his brow. “Pity we can hardly partake of the feast.”
Ruby laughed. The unionized craft services provided American-style food on the set, which included tasteless white bread with American cheese, pressed bologna, and canned peas. She’d always had crisp peas fresh from the garden; these strange, gray-green pretenders were salty and mushy. And the bread was nothing like they made at home.