I come awake in stages. It’s early, probably just after dawn. Gray light filters between a crack in the drapes. The room is quiet and cool, which makes the heat at my back all the more strange.
I turn my head and find a giant black head on the pillow next to mine.
Cornelia’s mouth is open. She’s gently snoring, her long pink tongue lolling out of her mouth onto the pillow. One of her paws is draped over my side.
The damn dog is spooning me!
Trying not to startle her so I don’t accidentally get mauled, I quietly say, “Yo, dog.”
She doesn’t wake up. I nudge her in the belly with my elbow.
Nothing. This animal sleeps like the dead.
A little louder, I say, “Wakey-wakey, Cornelia.”
Her big black eyes flutter open. She blinks slowly, then cracks open her massive jaws and yawns in my face.
Ugh. Dog breath. Grimacing, I wave my hand in front of my nose. “Thanks for that.”
She falls perfectly still. Her eyes go wide. She looks at me with an expression of terror, as if she just realized who I am and where she is.
“Don’t freak out,” I say gently. “I’m not gonna yell at you.”
She looks at her paw slung over my waist, looks guiltily back at me, then slowly withdraws her leg.
It’s adorable. So of course I feel bad. “Did Beans kick you out of her room?”
Cornelia buries her face in the pillow.
“Yeah. She’s a real meanie, that one.”
Cornelia’s log of a tail starts to wag, tentatively at first, until after a few seconds it’s thumping the mattress so hard the bed jiggles.
I have a terrible feeling I’m going to be waking up next to this horse every day from now on, and sigh. “Okay, dog. We’ll be friends. But we’re not sleeping together. I’ll get you a proper doggie bed. Deal?”
Cornelia gets so excited I think she might pee herself. She leaps up onto all fours, wriggling like a puppy, panting and pawing at the covers, raining slobber onto my face.
“Gross.” I wipe my face with the sheets and flip off the covers. Cornelia jumps off the bed and waits in the corner, watching me with worry as I yawn and stretch. When I stand, she turns in a circle, knocking over a floor lamp. She’s so frantic with excitement she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
I look at her sternly and point at the floor. “Sit.”
She promptly falls down and plays dead.
“That’ll do. Good dog.”
I head into the bathroom and take a shower, wondering how I’m going to make it through this day.
The funeral is at eleven o’clock.
The only black clothing I brought with me is a pair of slacks. I had no thoughts of funeral wardrobes when I was packing in San Francisco. I have a gray cashmere sweater that will have to do for a top, but I don’t have heels, and there’s no time to go out and buy anything.
I would’ve altered one of the dresses at my father’s shop, but none of them were black. He always said a woman should never wear black unless she was grieving because it leeched all the color from her skin.
Papa.
Grief passes through me in a wave so strong it leaves me breathless. I have to flatten my hand against the shower wall to steady myself. I swallow hard, again and again, until the sob that wants to break from my throat subsides. Then I promise myself I’ll hold it together until I can be alone again. I refuse to break down in front of the WS.
Or him.
I turn off the water and dry off. After I’m finished blow drying my hair, I go back into the bedroom. Cornelia’s gone, but something new has appeared that makes me stop in shock.
Laid out on the bed is a dress. It’s black, made of stiff silk organza overlaid with lace. It’s knee length, with a sweetheart neckline, a nipped waist, a full skirt, and a matching jacket.
I don’t have to look at the tag to recognize it’s Dior couture.
“I thought you might need something to wear.”
The marchesa stands in the doorway of my bedroom. She’s pale and somber in a housecoat and slippers, both black. Her hair is down, and she doesn’t have any makeup on. Dark shadows lurk in the hollows beneath her eyes.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her look like a human being.
I don’t know what else to say except, “Thank you.”
She gazes at the dress. “It was my mother’s. Dior, circa 1950s.”
“The New Look,” I murmur, unsure how to act. She’s being nice to me!
“Yes. My mother loved French couture. It was all she wore. This dress was only worn once.” She glances up at me. “To my father’s funeral.”
Okay, that is totally fucking weird. “Um . . .”
“You’re a size six, correct?”
I nod.
“It should fit perfectly. Your figures are very similar.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear it? I mean, it has sentimental value for you, so . . .”
“I’m too broad in the shoulders, and my waist hasn’t been that small since before Matteo was born.” Her eyes grow distant, as if she’s lost in some old memory. “After she died, I donated all her clothing to the haute couture exhibition at the Palais Galliera. She had the most incredible collection. Practically priceless, by today’s standards. This one I kept because the one time she wore it was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry.”
Her voice grows quiet and sad. “She hated to show emotions. She said it was undignified. Weak. Whenever I cried as a child, I’d get a beating.”
Our eyes meet across the room. The silence pounds between us, deafeningly loud.
Then she turns on her heel and disappears.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rest my hand on the dress, which isn’t really a dress but an olive branch.
I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a day.
I’m in the kitchen with Lorenzo, nervously waiting for the limo to pick us up, when Matteo arrives.
He walks into the room and all the air goes out.
It’s not fair that someone should be so beautiful. The light treats him differently than it does the rest of us, caressing the bones in his face, adding a loving sheen to his hair. He’s wearing a gorgeous black suit and tie, black shoes polished to a mirror gleam, and a chunky silver watch that probably cost more than my college education.
His expression is somber. So is his voice when he says hello.
“Hey.” I look at my fingernails, in dire need of a manicure. I decide this is the last time I’ll let him in this house without calling the cops, and almost mean it.
Lorenzo murmurs a greeting, then we’re all silent.
Finally Matteo says, “Has she come down yet?”
“No,” answers Lorenzo. “She’s not ready.”
I glance up in time to see the two of them share a strange, meaningful look, which irritates me because I don’t understand it.
“You’re in the limo with us, Lorenzo.”
His eyes widen. “Oh no, signorina, that wouldn’t be proper. I will drive behind.”
I say flatly, “Family rides in the limo. You’re riding in the limo.”
I get the feeling he doesn’t want to contradict me, so he looks to Matteo for help. But Matteo simply inclines his head in agreement.
Lorenzo implores him in Italian, in answer to which Matteo waves a dismissive hand. Then he flicks an inscrutable gaze in my direction and says a few curt, quiet words.
I really have to learn that damn language.
When the doorbell rings, I stand, my heart thumping. “It’s time.”
Lorenzo says, “I’ll get Lady Moretti,” but Matteo quickly puts the kibosh on that.
“No. Wait for us outside.”
He walks out of the room, leaving Lorenzo and me alone. He offers his arm. “Signorina.”
Outside, we’re greeted by the limo driver, a small man with black hair and a nose the size of a cabbage. I get in, but Lorenzo stands outside, waiting.
And waiting.
It’s ten minutes before the marchesa arrives with Matteo, and by then my ears are burning with anger. I can’t believe she’d make us all wait for her, today of all days. What could she be doing, anyway? Drinking champagne? Then Matteo assists her into the limo and I see her face, and my anger vanishes.
She looks stricken. She’s as white as a sheet. Her hands are shaking. She swallows and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.
Matteo instructs Lorenzo to sit beside her, then he climbs in beside me on the long bench seat opposite them. I feel him looking at me, but I won’t look back. As the driver shuts the doors, Matteo reaches over and squeezes my hand.
He doesn’t let go until we arrive at the church.
The church is three hundred years old, and so is the priest.
I sit beside the marchesa in the front pew, staring at my father’s casket. On my other side is Matteo, and on his other side is Lorenzo. Dominic kneels in the pew on the other side of the aisle, his head bent in prayer.
All the pews are full, which isn’t surprising. My father was always the most popular person wherever he went. Outgoing, kind, with a permanent smile, he made friends everywhere.
When I visited him on my summer vacations from school, the house was always swarming with people. Neighbors dropped by unannounced. There were impromptu dinner parties and afternoon picnics on the lawn. On Sundays after church he always put out a big brunch with champagne and everyone was invited.
When I think of it now, I realize that maybe he didn’t have bad money-management skills. Maybe saving it and making it wasn’t as important to him as how he spent it.
Maybe he simply had different priorities.
The ancient priest dodders over to the pulpit, signaling the start of the service. When he starts to speak in Italian, I stop listening to the words. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the cadence. To the responses from the crowd. To the painful beating of my heart.
There’s a full mass, including communion. Hymns are sung, bible passages are read, people stand, sit, and kneel at the appropriate times.
I do, too, aware always of Matteo on my right and his mother on my left. Aware of his constant, grounding presence. Aware of his gaze, which doesn’t stray from me for too long.
There are no eulogies, because my father thought it was morbid to talk about the dead. Then it’s over.
I survived. Barely. The scream inside my chest survived, too, and is impatiently clawing for escape from my throat.
I’ll let it have its moment later, when I’m alone.
Matteo, Dominic, and Lorenzo are three of the six pallbearers who bear my father’s casket out of the church to the waiting hearse and to the gravesite. The service at the grave is a blur. All I remember is that at one point, I swayed and Matteo caught me before I fell. He kept his arm clamped around my shoulders for the rest of the service, which was lucky for me. I doubt if I would have been able to stand unsupported.
I throw a fistful of dirt on my father’s casket, then it’s over.
I don’t remember walking back to the limo.
I don’t remember the drive back to the house.
I don’t remember anything, until I look up when the limo pulls to a stop and I see a familiar figure pacing back and forth in agitation in front of the front door of Il Sogno.
When I gasp in horror, Matteo whips his head around and looks at me, then follows my gaze through the window and narrows his eyes.
“Who’s that?”
Though my mouth has gone bone-dry, I manage to answer, “It’s Brad. My ex.”
When Matteo makes a terrifying sound in his chest—like a bear’s growl, only more lethal—I wonder if we’ll be having more than one funeral today.