Page 9 of Return to Whitmore
Suddenly, Addison let out another sob. It was the cry of a broken woman, and it forced Charlotte back to reality. “I have to take her home,” she told Vincent.
“When did you get back?” Vincent asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” Saying it made Charlotte feel as though she were breaking her own heart all over again. “It’s a beautiful restaurant, Vincent. You should be proud.”
With that, she and Addison slipped back into the inky night.
Chapter Five
Spring 1999 - Tuscany
It was a Sunday afternoon, sixty degrees, and Charlotte, Lorelei, and Allegra were eating al fresco at their grandparents’ villa, watching the sun dim to a darker orange over the stone pine trees. Already, they’d been living in Italy for more than half a year, and Charlotte realized that she and her sisters had begun to speak much less English and far more Italian, even alone at the villa with one another. She wondered if her American-ness would dry up one day, if she’d reach for an English word and not be able to find it.
She wondered if Vincent ever thought of her, or if he’d already moved on. As she twirled pasta around her fork, she tried to imagine what Vincent was up to and what a new girlfriend (if he had one) looked like. She wondered if any of her high school girlfriends had tried to date him. She pondered if he’d let them.
She felt sour, but when her grandfather brought up one of her short films, one he approved of, she brightened immediately.Film work was her future. Vincent was her past. She had to focus.
Her grandparents were celebratory that afternoon, pouring them glasses of wine and telling stories. Charlotte hadn’t seen them so happy since before Tio Angelo’s death. Twice, she saw her grandfather kiss her grandmother’s crown and whisper in her ear. Even Allegra and Lorelei were in good spirits, teasing one another and talking about future plans. They both wanted to go to university, maybe in Rome or Florence. The fact that they still hadn’t gone to college, despite their age, boggled the minds of their grandparents, who couldn’t understand, maybe, how powerful the pull had been to work with the Whitmore family at the White Oak Lodge. That pull was gone.
There was also a rumor that Alexander was going to visit soon, their elusive older brother training to be a pilot.
Things were looking up.
As they ate their dessert, they gazed out across the rolling hills to spot their mother, riding on horseback next to Jefferson Albright. Charlotte’s good mood crashed to a halt. Since her sisters had hinted there was something she didn’t know about Jefferson Albright, something important and life-changing, Charlotte’s thoughts had run in circles. Annoyingly, her sisters still refused to tell her, saying it was just a rumor, anyway. It meant that Charlotte had to draw up her courage and demand answers from her mother, eventually. But Francesca terrified her.
Sometimes Charlotte thought that Francesca terrified just about everyone. Was her father scared of her, too?
A half-hour later, Francesca and Jefferson joined the Whitmore sisters and their grandparents for a final glass of wine before night crept in. Francesca looked joyous and beautiful, smiling at Jefferson Albright as they talked about where they’d ridden that day. Francesca said that she was getting braver andfaster, and Jefferson assured them, in his clunky Italian, that she was the best and most natural rider he’d ever trained. This was obviously not true, a lie he’d concocted because he was in love with her.
Their love was as plain as day. For Charlotte, who was now twenty years old, this was particularly painful. They’d lost their father not even a year ago. Hadn’t their mother loved him?
Marriage seemed complicated, filled with lies and affairs and mysteries that had nothing to do with the romantic films Charlotte watched with her sisters. Charlotte was beginning to think that marriage was off the cards for her. Why would she subject herself to such heartache?
Now, as Francesca and Jefferson told another story of their riding adventures, Charlotte tried to read her grandfather’s expression, tried to gauge what he thought of Jefferson Albright. But her director grandfather was not an open book in the slightest. He knew how to carry himself, how to conceal his emotions and worries, and he welcomed Jefferson Albright to his home because he was such a special friend of his daughter. Charlotte would have given anything to hear what her grandfather said about him behind closed doors. She knew she wouldn’t get the chance.
Later that week, Charlotte was in her bedroom with her video recorder plugged into her television. Fast-forwarding and backtracking, she was trying to get her mind around a new idea for a documentary—one that revolved around her curious and uncomfortable relationship with her mother. Her grandfather had always said to explore the things that fascinate you, and there was nothing on the planet that fascinated Charlotte more than Francesca. What was on her mother’s mind?
Charlotte returned to the footage she had of that afternoon she followed her mother across the grounds to meet Jefferson Albright. She paused it, trying to gauge her mother’smannerisms and the way she looked at Jefferson. This time, she couldn’t help but feel there was something familiar about Jefferson Albright, something that made her think of a deep past, probably at the White Oak Lodge. Had Jefferson been her riding instructor back in Nantucket? Was it possible that Charlotte and her sisters met him back then? Maybe Alexander would remember his name. Perhaps he could tell her more details, when and if he ever came to Italy.
That’s when she heard her mother's voice, from behind her. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Charlotte burst around to find Francesca standing in the crack of her bedroom door. So lost in thought, Charlotte hadn’t heard her open it, hadn’t realized she’d been spying. Charlotte’s eyes smarted.
“Why are you spying on me?” Charlotte demanded.
Francesca arched her eyebrow. “It seems one of us spied first.” Her voice was sinister.
Charlotte realized she’d been caught. She got to her feet, put her hands on her hips, and frantically weighed up what to do next. She’d never been keen on arguing with Francesca, had never really known how to handle her mother’s power. But Charlotte knew Francesca had the upper hand, and Charlotte had to surprise her out of it. So she said, “What aren’t you telling me about Jefferson Albright?”
It had the desired effect, at least at first. Francesca’s face drained of color. She stepped into Charlotte’s bedroom and clipped the door closed behind her, before she said, “How dare you?”
It felt like a smack. Charlotte had to fight to keep from smiling. She’d riled Francesca up.
She took a step toward her mother and raised her chin. “I know there’s something about him. Something I deserve to know.” She was sure they’d had an affair, sure, now, thatFrancesca had cheated on her father before her father had ever cheated on her. She felt a sudden and fiery rage in honor of her father, her father whom she’d adored, her father whom she dreamed of almost every night. How dare her mother move on so quickly—to someone she’d already hurt her father with?
Suddenly, Francesca burst into tears and cried out, “I loved your father, Charlotte! I loved him, I loved him more than you could ever know, and now, he’s gone!”
Charlotte was struck dumb. She’d expected her mother to lie or make something up, but she saw no lie in her mother’s face. She reached over and turned the television off, not wanting to see the image of Francesca and Jefferson Albright again.
