Page 5 of Return to Whitmore
But to her little sister she said, “I’ve dated my fair share. I almost got married, once, but it didn’t work out. Mom was irate when I told her it wasn’t happening. I think she’d already bought a dress.”
Nina wrinkled her nose. Charlotte could feel the tremendous horror lurking behind the story; the story she wasn’t telling. But she couldn’t speak it aloud.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said softly. “I won’t talk about Mom. I’m sure it’s not easy.”
Nina waved her hands. “No, it’s okay. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I was eleven years old. She’s more like a figment of my imagination by now.”
Charlotte remembered a point she’d brought up to her mother on the day they’d left Nantucket: that Francesca was the only mother Nina had ever known, that for the majority of her life, Nina had assumed her mother had abandoned her.
“I knew it was a struggle for her to raise me,” Nina offered. “I always thought I was an accident, someone she was too tired for when I came along. She’d already had four children. But I didn’t know how emotionally complex it really was.”
“She agreed to take Dad back,” Charlotte reminded her. “She should have known that meant showing love for you too.”
“Francesca was never so good at love,” Nina said with a soft smile.
“Maybe I got that from her,” Charlotte said.
Nina scoffed and reached across the table to take her hand. Charlotte was startled at the intensity in her eyes. “You were a brilliant and loving older sister. You were always there for me.” She wet her lips. “And you and Vincent were so loving, too. I was eleven and didn’t know anything about love, but I was so desperately jealous of your relationship! I think I had a little crush on him.”
Charlotte hadn’t heard the name “Vincent” in twenty-seven years.
Immediately, her eyes filled with tears that she quickly brushed away. Did Nina notice? If she did, she didn’t say anything.
Charlotte considered telling Nina how awful it had been to leave Vincent behind, that she hadn’t known what to do, that Francesca had said we’re going and they’d fled to the airport.
They were quiet for a moment. Nina released her hand from Charlotte’s and took a sip of mimosa. Their breakfasts were chilling between them. Charlotte got up to pour herself a mug of coffee and search her mind for another topic. Maybe she could ask Nina for more details about her date with Amos?
But that’s when Nina said, “Remember when you said that Francesca not being my mother was just the tip of the iceberg?”
Charlotte felt frozen with fear. Was this when Nina would ask her point-blank why she was living in Seth Green’s house?Was this when Nina would demand information that Charlotte had either promised never to give anyone—or didn’t even know herself?
“I remember,” Charlotte said meekly. Allegra would have said, stop being such a wimp.
“Can you explain what you meant by that?” Nina asked.
It was intelligent, Charlotte thought. Nina was allowing Charlotte the floor, asking her to say only what she felt called to say about a past that Nina hadn’t been privy to. Perhaps Charlotte owed her an explanation. Perhaps Charlotte could pick what she said.
Chapter Three
September 1998 - Tuscany
The villa into which Francesca, Charlotte, Allegra, and Lorelei moved was three hundred years old. Situated on the land their grandfather had inherited from his own grandfather, it boasted olive groves, spooky-looking stone pine trees, a graveyard with stones with unreadable engravings, and indoor plumbing that mostly worked. Mostly. Just next door was their grandfather and grandmother’s villa, the home where Francesca and Tio Angelo had grown up. It felt like another dimension from the one Charlotte knew back in Nantucket. Sometimes, she let herself pretend that her father, brother, and uncle hadn’t died—that they were on their way to the villa and simply hadn’t arrived yet, that they would feast when they got there, eating till their bellies were stuffed and sharing bottles of wine till the moon rocketed into the night sky.
It was a Monday and Charlotte’s big break, at least that’s how she thought of it. Over the weekend, she’d pressed her famous director grandfather for details about his current project, anItalo-American drama filming in Florence, and he’d said, “Why don’t you come along? You can spot me. It’s the best way to learn. Besides, you’re American, sort of. You have that American work ethic.” He’d winked. Allegra and Lorelei had shot daggers across the table at Charlotte, but she’d said yes anyway. When Allegra and Lorelei had asked her what on earth she was thinking, did she really think she was better than them?, Charlotte said simply, “I want to learn what he knows, so I asked. That’s all.” It didn’t feel like a crime.
Of course, with Allegra, everything felt jagged.
Charlotte’s grandfather sent a car to pick Charlotte up at eight thirty that morning. Allegra and Lorelei were still asleep upstairs, having nothing to wake up for and, really, nothing currently to live for, and Francesca hadn’t been seen in two days at least. It wasn’t that she’d left the property. It was only that, due to the heavy depression that had befallen her upon their arrival to Italy, she didn’t like to be seen.
She was still gorgeous as ever. She just didn’t feel like she was.
The doctor had been called numerous times, but when he prescribed medication, Francesca refused to take them. She was worried they would ruin her looks.
Francesca had dragged her daughters across the world and abandoned them.
That morning, Charlotte was dressed all in black with a backpack into which she’d packed a notepad, a change of T-shirt, and a bottle of water. She knew days on set could be long, that days in Tuscany could be incredibly hot, and she didn’t want to faint and be a problem for anyone. As they drove into Florence, her heart pounded, and her hands grew clammy. She tried to recall her father’s smile, the sound of his voice telling her that she needed to be brave and go after the life she wanted, but shefelt too anxious to find it. By the time she reached the film set, she’d worked herself into a tizzy.
Soon, an intern led her to her grandfather in his director’s chair, where he spoke earnestly with a cinematographer about how he wanted the shot to look. Charlotte listened and shifted her weight, unsure if she should find her pencil and begin recording everything immediately. She didn’t want to look nerdy, but she didn’t want to lose anything important either. But soon, her grandfather turned and flashed her a handsome smile, one that reminded her of Tio Angelo. “This is my granddaughter,” he told the cinematographer. “She wants to be a filmmaker.”
