The Juliet Club Read online

  “Ciao, papà,” she said in as deadpan a voice as she could manage. “You look very well this evening. Quite dashing.”

  He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down and preened for just a moment before he remembered that this was his daughter speaking. She hadn’t said anything that wasn’t sarcastic since she turned thirteen. He felt a touch of nostalgia for the twelve-year-old Silvia, who had papered her bedroom walls with photos of clean-cut pop stars and cute puppies, who had begged to go to work with him just so they could be together, who had blushed if a neighbor chided her for being too loud. . . .

  But that Silvia was gone. In her place was this, this alien who said everything with a sneer and eyed him disdainfully and made him feel like the oldest, most ridiculous man on earth.

  “More to the point, I am dressed appropriately,” he said. He realized that he was gritting his teeth. He remembered what his dentist had said about cracked molars, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. “You, on the other hand—” He glanced at the tattoo and closed his eyes in pain.

  “The invitation said formal,” she said, innocently. Her face darkened as she remembered that she had a grievance of her own. “I wanted to buy a new dress for this party, but you said it would cost too much! You said that the babies needed new high chairs! You said that our family now had different financial priorities! And this is the only formal dress I have, remember?”

  “Yes, and I also remember that there used to be a bit more of it!” her father hissed.

  Silvia glanced down complacently. “I know,” she said. “I altered it myself. It’s an original design.”

  “Original.” Her father glared at her. “You’ll be lucky not to be charged with indecent exposure. And if you are”—he gave her a warning look—“don’t expect any favors just because you’re the mayor’s daughter!”

  Silvia ignored this comment with the disdain it deserved.

  First, she never told anyone she was the mayor’s daughter.

  Second, her father was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an authority on fashion. She curled her lip at his tuxedo (which was vintage, but not in a good way), his high-heeled shoes (which kept making him lose his balance), and that scarlet sash (which made him look like an extra in a second-rate opera company).

  “Fine,” she said loftily. “If the police arrest me, I will plead guilty to having a unique and inventive fashion sense.”

  He remembered what his wife had said about keeping his temper and forced himself to smile. “At least try to behave yourself tonight,” he said with a passable attempt at sounding conciliatory. “That’s all I ask.”

  She lifted one eyebrow and waited. When her father said that something was “all he asked,” more demands invariably followed.

  Her father did not disappoint her. “And please, get to the seminar on time every day,” he went on, “not twenty minutes late! And pay strict attention to Signora Marchese, and do all your homework, and don’t dispute every single word she says, the way you do with me!”

  “I don’t dispute every single word you say,” Silvia snapped. “And if you’re so worried about how I will do in this stupid seminar, I don’t know why you went to so much trouble to get me in!”

  “Shh!” His eyes darted around the room to see if anyone had overheard. “That is between us, Silvia, please, I told you that!”

  He pulled a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. Silvia winced at the handkerchief but smiled with satisfaction at the sign of guilt. “You wouldn’t be suffering from nerves right now if you hadn’t decided to do something illegal,” she said primly.

  “Illegal? I pulled a few strings, that’s all!” he hissed. “When that girl from Germany had to drop out at the last minute, I saw an opportunity for you to better yourself—”

  “And for you to get closer to Francesca Marchese,“ she said in an insinuating tone.

  “Yes! Yes! I admit it!” He was practically dancing on his toes with outrage. “And so? What of it? I am the mayor! She is one of Verona’s most prominent residents and internationally famous, to boot! And you, you—”

  “People are staring, papà,” Silvia said. Her face was pure innocence, but her eyes sparkled with delight.

  He opened his mouth to yell, then remembered what his cardiologist had said about high blood pressure and took a few deep breaths instead. He carefully tucked his handkerchief in his pocket, arranging it with great deliberation until it was again a perfect scarlet triangle. When he was more composed, he finished in a strangled whisper, “And you are a young girl who should be grateful!” He glanced at his watch. “I must go. It’s almost time for my speech. Please, mia cara . . . just try not to attract more attention than you have to.”

  He scurried off. As Silvia watched him move through the crowd, her sharp eyes spotted three teenagers standing across the room. The girl in the blue dress looked overawed by their surroundings. The other girl, with the dark blond hair and glasses, wore a simple black dress that was probably supposed to be elegant but managed only to look dreary. And the boy—Silvia clucked her tongue disapprovingly. His shirt didn’t fit well, his tie was askew, and he kept glancing suspiciously at his glass of prosecco as if he’d never had sparkling wine before. They were, undoubtedly, the Americans.

  Her smile broadened. Here, at last, was some new entertainment.

  Silvia tilted her glass back to take the last sip of her drink, then headed across the room.

  Tom went to a school on the California coast that offered a P.E. elective in surfing. He played soccer and lacrosse. His hair had been lightened by the sun to a pale gold, his tan was perfect year-round, he drove a BMW.

  Even at a school where most of the students looked as if they could star in a TV series, Tom’s easy grin and amiable manner meant that girls flocked to him. He never had to make the slightest effort to get a date. He walked across campus with an easy, rolling stride, the picture of unthinking confidence and grace. He was living a charmed life.

  Of course, he hadn’t known that. Not until now.

  Now he was here, in Italy, and it wasn’t just a different country, it was a different world. He took another sip of his drink and looked around the room, listening to conversations in different languages and realizing with shame that he couldn’t figure out what language was being spoken half the time, let alone understand what was being said. The food was odd, too, and he’d never seen so many people dressed so fancily, and he was beginning to wonder just what he was doing here. . . .

  And then he saw a vision.

  A slim girl was moving toward them, slipping through the elbow-to-elbow crowd as easily as a garter snake slithering through the grass. As she moved around a small knot of partygoers, Tom spotted her bare midriff and what looked like, even at a slight distance, a really amazing tattoo. He blushed and hastily raised his eyes. Despite her wild hair and dark, glittering eyes and that tattoo, she had a heart-shaped face that could have looked sweet, if it weren’t for her sardonic expression. Instead, Tom thought that she looked like an angel who had decided that it was far more amusing to be wicked than to be good.

  The girl sauntered up to them and coolly surveyed Kate, Tom, and Lucy. “Ciao,” she said, her voice faintly amused. “You must be the Americans.”

  Kate defiantly lifted her chin and said the only three sentences of Italian she had learned well enough to say with confidence. “Yes, I’m an American. My name is Kate. What is your name?”

  Tom barely heard her. He didn’t understand what she was saying, anyway. And the girl didn’t look impressed. “Silvia di Napoli,” she said.

  Tom decided to take this as his cue to join the conversation. “I’m Tom,” he blurted out. “Tom Boone. I’m from Laguna Beach. That’s in California, well, you probably knew that. . . .” His voice trailed off, then he added, with a touch of desperation, “Great surfing.”

  He winced as he heard the words come out of his mouth. As if this girl cared about Laguna Beach, about surfing
, about him.

  She gave him a cool look up and down, then rattled off something he didn’t understand. “Immagino che non parli italiano, vero?” I don’t suppose you speak any Italian, do you?

  He could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open. The rapid-fire words sounded like birdsong to him. Beautiful but incomprehensible.

  She sighed impatiently. “Just as I thought,” she said in English.

  He gathered his thoughts with difficulty and managed to say, “Um . . . what?”

  “You don’t know any Italian.”

  “Um, well . . .” He couldn’t stop staring at her. His mind was blank. He felt like one of those zombies in the horror movies that he loved to watch late at night: unable to move or speak of his own volition, an empty shell, powerless in the presence of a force much greater than himself. “Only a little bit. I mean, I know words like zucchini and fettucine and linguine.”

  This was terrible. This was awful. This was why zombies weren’t allowed to speak.

  “Basically, you know, I can say any ini word,” he said, trying to finish with a display of wit. He had heard somewhere that girls liked it if you could make them laugh.

  But Silvia did not laugh. In fact, the look she leveled at him was scorching. It was clear that, when it came to witty conversation, he had fallen far short of the mark. “We can speak English,” she said offhandedly. “I’ve been studying it since I was five.”

  “Oh, great!” He took a deep breath and forged on. “Anyway! Are you one of the other Shakespeare Scholars?”

  “Si,” Silvia said. After a minuscule pause, she added, “I mean, yes.”

  “We all know what si means,” Kate snapped.

  Silvia smiled a small, catlike smile. “Oh? Well, it is a beginning.”

  Kate narrowed her eyes. One of the witches in Macbeth, she thought. Most definitely. All she needs is a cauldron.

  Fortunately they were interrupted at that moment by a young waiter who swooped toward them through the crowd, holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres at a perilous angle. He skidded to a breathless stop and presented the tray to them with a theatrical gesture.

  “Buona sera!” he said. “May I offer you something this evening? Bruschetta? Stuffed mushrooms?”

  “Thanks.” Tom’s eyes lit up, and he reached for a mushroom.

  “Or perhaps the strange dry chips with the mysterious green paste on top? It is a new recipe, created especially for this evening by our cook.” He smiled at Kate as if they were sharing a private joke. He had wild black curls, sparkling black eyes, and a crooked grin that made him look like a mischievous and not altogether kindly sprite.

  Puck, Kate thought automatically, even as she tried to remember where she had seen him before. He would be perfect as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  “I am told that it is incredibly delicious, but”—he leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially—“the chef sometimes lies.”

  She couldn’t help smiling back; his good spirits were contagious. “I’ll try the strange chips,” Kate said.

  As she picked up one of the appetizers, the waiter winked at her. “Such bravery! Such daring! I stand in awe of your courageous spirit!”

  He gave a little bow. His hair badly needed to be brushed, but his bow was the essence of courtliness.

  Kate ate the cracker in one bite. “Very tasty,” she said.

  “Excellent,” the waiter said solemnly. “Our chef now has a reason to live.”

  “Oh, please.” Silvia turned to the others. “Benno always plays the clown with tourists. He says they love it.”

  “Yes, I get much bigger tips,” Benno agreed cheerfully.

  Kate’s smile vanished. “We’re not tourists. We’re here to study.”

  Instantly, his expression turned sober. “Of course not. I apologize most sincerely. And deeply? Yes, sincerely and deeply.”

  Silvia snorted. “Deeply is fine,” she lectured. “Sincerely is fine. But both together? No. That is too much.”

  Benno smiled and made a comic face. “Silvia is my English tutor. She is an excellent teacher. She keeps me on the straight and narrow.”

  “I don’t let him talk on and on and on, the way he does in Italian,” Silvia corrected him. She was trying to sound severe, but Kate could tell that she was pleased by the compliment.

  “Benno!” Across the room, a slim man wearing a severe black suit frowned and snapped his fingers.

  Benno gave an elaborate shrug of apology in response, then turned and winked at Kate. “Scusi. I’m supposed to be working.” He stood as tall as he could, lifted his chin, and strolled sedately through the crowd, his tray held perfectly parallel to the floor.

  Lucy said, “I hope he doesn’t get in trouble for talking to us.”

  Silvia shrugged one shoulder. “Benno is always in trouble. But Alessandro”—she nodded in the head waiter’s direction—“he’s Benno’s mother’s cousin’s son, so the most he will do is yell a lot.” Her eyes slid sideways to look over Kate’s shoulder. “And, of course, Benno is used to that—”

  She stopped in midsentence, her expression changing in an instant from amused to disdainful. The shift was so abrupt that Kate, Tom and Lucy automatically turned to see what had caused her reaction.

  It was the boy from Juliet’s House. Kate watched him as he descended the grand staircase as assuredly as a prince entering his throne room.

  “Oh, look,” Lucy said, her eyes shining like stars. “It’s Giacomo!”

  Silvia’s head turned toward her with sudden sharp interest. “You know him?”

  “Yes, we met him today,” Lucy said. “At Juliet’s House.”

  “Rrrreeeaally.” Silvia rolled her Rs and stretched out the vowels of that word, making it sound more knowing and scornful than Kate would have supposed possible. “How interrresting.”

  “Why is that interesting?” Lucy asked, but before Silvia could answer, Giacomo strolled over to where they were standing.

  “Ciao, Silvia,” he said, a mocking gleam in his eye.

  “Ciao, Giacomo,” she replied, a poisonous glare in hers.

  “That dress is very, ah—” He hesitated, smiling, as if sorting through a number of different adjectives. “Nice,” he finally said.

  “Nice?” she said, sounding cross.

  “Did I say nice? I misspoke.” He took another long, appreciative look. “Actually, it’s scandalous. Shocking. Borderline indecent.”

  Silvia sniffed, a little mollified by this, but Lucy said earnestly, “I think it’s absolutely amazing, but let me tell you, my mama wouldn’t let me out of the house wearing something like that!”

  Too late, she felt the atmosphere turn glacial. “Of course, my mother’s very conservative,” she added lamely. “We’re from Mississippi, you know.”

  “I think it’s great,” Tom blurted into the silence, then turned red as everyone looked at him. He stared down at his empty glass.

  “So! Giacomo! What are you doing here?” Lucy asked brightly.

  Before he could answer, Kate’s father came bounding up. “Hello again, Shakespeare Scholars!” he cried. “You’re all enjoying the party, I hope!”

  Kate turned her back on Giacomo. “Of course,” she said to her father. “It’s great.”

  “‘O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful! and after that, out of all whooping!’” said her father, who had had several glasses of wine. His eyes brightened as Benno swung by with a tray of appetizers.

  He motioned for Benno to stop, and started putting together a small plate of food while simultaneously flagging down another waiter for a refill of wine. “Grazie,” he said. Before Benno could move on, he added, “May I ask you something? Who is that man over there, by the portrait?”

  Benno looked. “Oh, that’s Franco Manzini. Very rich. Made his money in sardines.”

  “Ah.” Her father pursed his lips as if this were of great interest and gestured toward someone on the other side of the room. “And
the elderly woman in the purple dress?”

  “Signora Ricci,” Benno said agreeably. “Her family is very old. They’ve lived in Verona for centuries.”

  “Interesting, very interesting,” her father said, nodding sagely. “And, er, that woman over there, I wonder who she is?”

  There was a real note of interest in his voice this time, Kate thought, so she turned to take a closer look. The woman was tall and regal, both in her posture, which was perfect, and her dress, which was opulent. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a simple, elegant chignon. She moved in a stately fashion toward them, her mouth curved in a smile of secret amusement, as a small man bobbed eagerly along in her wake.

  The man, who was wearing a 1970s-era tuxedo, a bizarre red sash and—could those be platform shoes?—managed to shoot ahead of the mysterious woman at the last moment so that he could handle the introductions.

  “Buona sera!” he cried. “Allow me to introduce you to the driving force behind the conference, the creative genius who has brought international acclaim to the University of Verona and to our town, the author of books that have sold millions of copies worldwide, the brilliant Professoressa Francesca Marchese!”

  Kate felt her mouth drop open. This was the infamous, the wicked, the nefarious Professoressa Marchese?

  Kate snuck a quick look at her dad. He looked the same way he did that time last winter when he had slipped on an icy sidewalk and landed on his backside: too stunned to breathe.

  Francesca Marchese smiled and said in a sultry voice, “I am so glad to finally meet you in person, Dr. Sanderson. Although I’ve obviously known you by reputation for years.”

  Was it Kate’s imagination, or did Professoressa Marchese say the word reputation with a lemony touch of irony? She glanced sideways at her father and knew instantly that he suspected the same thing.

  He threw his head back in a challenging way and said, “Delighted, delighted,” sounding anything but. “I’ve followed your career with great interest as well. Although I must say I haven’t gotten around to reading The Shakespeare Secret yet.” He chuckled as if to say a fellow scholar would understand that. “You know how it is. One must stay current with the academic journals. Hard to find time for reading . . . hmm. What would you call your book? Popular fiction, I suppose.”