Iz’s Journey

Doreen Perrine

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company • Fairfield, California

© 2012 Doreen Perrine

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

978-1-934452-78-3 paperback

978-1-934452-77-6 ebook

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In this sequel to Clara's Story . . .

After Claire buys a Brooklyn brownstone, she is forced to take a deadly dull job in her father's bank, instead of in the art world she loves. Her nutty family is as fractured as ever, and she can't forget her whirlwind romance in Italy with the charming, but quirky artist, Isabelle. Out of the blue, Isabelle arrives in New York, turning Claire's world—and heart—upside down. Topsy turvy life with Isabelle is filled with enticing glimpses of a happy future and with jumbled questions. Will Isabelle stay or be swallowed up in her world across the pond—again? And can Claire summon the sheer guts she needs to face the demons of her past, embrace the present, and reach for the sky?

For Grandma Z, Thank you for loving me

And for Pat who honored my art

“Love conquers all things. Let us surrender to Love.” Virgil

CHAPTER 1

CLAIRE SAT, HER knees drawn to her chest, on the crumbled brick steps. Well, she thought as she flipped open her cell phone, at least it’s ours.

The sellers had been eager to unload the four-story brownstone. It was an orphaned row house with no adjoining buildings on either side. By mid-June, she and Gary had settled into their apartments.

She pinched her forehead. The long, piercing whine of the drill on that hazy Monday grated on her nerves. Still, these construction guys didn’t come cheap. Nor did they come when they said they would.

She had been calling all week when they’d suddenly appeared on the stoop. She’d had to cancel a job interview. The drywall in the front room of her garden apartment was cracked. But first, they’d told her, the ceiling needed bracing. She would have to put up with the noise. And the wait.

As she listened to bleeping rings, she wiped her sweaty brow on her sleeve. She glanced at her watch. Ten after ten. Gary and his new partner, Sam, were at work. They already had the friend of a friend moving into their rental that week. If anything, unemployment would give Claire time to find someone, too.

The phone continued to ring. “Where’s the damn voice message?” she grumbled. 

Just then, a familiar, melodic voice cut through the line.

“Clara?”

“Isabelle?” Claire’s straight, auburn hair swept across her shoulders as she shook her head. “You’re not the plumber.”

“I hope not.” Isabelle laughed heartily.

“How did that happen?” Claire squinted at the phone. “Well, I’d much rather talk to you.”

“Ah, grazie.”

Claire pictured Isabelle’s warm smile—a striking image forever etched on her memory.

“How are you?”

“Va bene. Not bad. And you?”

Claire longed to confess that she had missed her terribly. Much more than she’d imagined she would. It had been an anguished month since they’d parted at Da Vinci Airport, just after Claire’s thirtieth birthday.

Isabelle had sent a postcard. But this was the first time they’d spoken since Claire’s return. She’d tried, with little success, to resign herself to the idea that they’d lose touch. Again.

“I’m managing.” Claire smirked at the weedy backyard. “A friend and I bought a building in Clinton Hill . . . Brooklyn.”

“That is excellent. You are such a clever business woman.”

“Umm,” Claire sighed at the choppy cracks in the concrete patio, “not quite ‘excellent.’ ” She quickly changed the subject. “How is your grandmother?”

“Getting older, more tired lately. But crazy as always.”

They laughed.

“She was impressed by you,” Isabelle said.

“Why?” Claire shrugged in wonder. “I barely spoke to her in my lousy Italian.” She stuck a finger in her right ear to muffle the renewed drilling.

“I told her that a wounded cat ran to you in Boboli Gardens.”

Claire giggled. “That put me on her good list.”

“It’s not a very long list, believe me.”

“I’m honored then.” Claire smiled to think of the feisty, but charming Nonna and her sunny houseful of stray cats.

“Listen, I have a New York exhibit in one month’s time.”

“Oh, Isabelle.” Claire’s heart leapt. “That’s wonderful news.”

“Nothing big. A small gallery in . . . I have no idea where this is.”

“Manhattan?”

“Certo. Certainly,” Iz answered. “But Manhattan is big, no? I’ll send a postcard.”

“Yes, please,” Claire replied.

Did she sound desperate? It felt impossible to restrain the joy that seemed to bubble from her heart, then course through her body.

“I hope I can see you again.”

“Just you try not seeing me,” Claire whispered in a sultry voice that, she hoped, expressed more desire than a plea.

The drilling whirred loudly. Had Isabelle even heard her words?

THEY SAT AROUND the cracked patio. It was nearly Labor Day and the late summer mosquitoes were intense. Claire had bought a bug spray, but Sam said they shouldn’t use that brand. It wasn’t “earth friendly.”

“Well,” Claire rolled her eyes at a mosquito hovering near her bare knee, “if the earth’s not being ‘friendly,’ why should we be?”

Gary’s light brown beard rose with his smile. “Thankfully, it’s just the mosquitoes, not the whole planet, we need to contend with.” Seated beside Sam, Gary wore a green t-shirt with the emblem for his college fraternity.

Sam fanned himself with a copy of Rent Brooklyn. His muscular legs were crossed over his striped shorts. His sandy blond hair was cropped and spiked. A thirtyish personal trainer, he often dressed in sleeveless t-shirts, Claire guessed, to advertise his pecs.

“Did you include ‘gay friendly’ in the listings?” Sam stopped fanning and trained his hazel eyes on Claire.

“Of course.” She scratched the swelling, red bump on her shin. She had tried all summer with no luck to find a suitable tenant. Was she being too picky?

She angled her chair away from the sight of the messy yard. After that rainy August, the scraggly weeds now reached to her neck. And, at five-foot-six, she was by no means short.

Roots had pried up the dirty white pickets of the lopsided fence. The sole pointy-leafed Tree Grows in Brooklyn was, according to Sam, actually an “invasive weed.”

It figured.

Once Claire got her half of the building fixed, her part of their deal would be complete. But that could only happen between job hunting. A job in its own right.

The yard was the least of her worries.

“I have to adjust to this rural living.” She slapped the bug that had landed on her unsprayed knee.

 “It’s Brooklyn,” Sam smirked, “not the Ozarks. Didn’t you see anything ‘rural’ in Europe?”

“No.” She stared unblinking at him. “I went as part of a scientific expedition. We brought back solid proof. There’s nothing rural in Europe.”

Gary, a thirty-three-year-old of medium build, eyed Claire quizzically.

She bit her lower lip. Did she dislike Sam? That wasn’t good with them all living so close. Luckily, they had the distance of two apartments between their living spaces.

Theirs was the top floor. They’d built a garden terrace after the roof had been restored. The yard had been bequeathed to Claire.

“Maybe if we helped you chop down those weeds,” Gary peered with his gray eyes at the yard, “it’d be less bug—”

Claire noticed Sam poke Gary’s side.

“—buggy . . . out here.” Gary furrowed his soft brow at Sam.

“It’s all right. You both have enough to do,” Claire said.

She held her hand across her forehead and surveyed her “personal jungle.” At least the weeds camouflaged the shattered glass, rusty cans, and tires. She suspected the junk had been tossed by the auto shop next door.

“And it looks we’re on the tail end of these damn renovations.” She forced a stiff smile for Gary who had been so patient.

“Well,” he grimaced, “we had to call the plumber again.”

“What?” She bolted upright in the wobbly chair she’d bought at the neighborhood thrift store. Though she had taken her furniture out of storage, she’d had no kitchen set. With its worn, red padding and thin brass, it looked like it had come from a fast food joint.

“Not to worry.” Gary waved his hand. “It’s the upstairs toilet. Our renter’s place.”

“Most likely it won’t affect your tenant’s apartment,” Sam added with a glib note.

“Most likely?” Claire pivoted on the chair. “Gary?”

“Nothing whatsoever to do with your place.” Gary chucked his chin at Sam. “Right, honey?”

“Only the plumber can tell for certain.” Sam went back to fanning himself.

Claire swatted another looming bug and sighed. What had she gotten herself into? Her practical father had been right, of course. This place was more trouble than she was able to grapple with. How dopey to have splurged a chunk of her savings on the down payment.

She gazed at Gary who smiled sheepishly.

“Don’t worry, Claire,” he patted her arm, “We’ll get there. These things take time.”

Would one lifetime suffice? she longed to ask, but simply returned the smile. She wasn’t about to risk their friendship. Hadn’t Gary brought a world of healing to her life?

Sam slapped his thigh, then sprang from his chair. “I won’t sit here another minute,” he huffed.

You’re not so earth friendly yourself, Claire nearly blurted, but checked her tongue.

The phone rang from inside the apartment. She hopped up. “I better get that,” she said awkwardly, glad for an excuse to get away from Sam.

They trailed her to the kitchen, then disappeared into the hallway.

“Were you a little rude?” Gary asked Sam outside the door.

“Hello?” Claire cupped the phone to her shoulder as she stepped out to bring in the chairs.

“Hey, sis. I didn’t want to bother you with . . . stuff while you were setting up your new place.”

“But you’re going to bother me now,” Claire teased.

Though they had eaten out after her trip, he’d never brought up any “stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” Matt’s voice strained with a familiar boyish plea.

It could only be one thing.

“Mother,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, Claire, she’s just . . . vicious.”

Their mother was up in arms. Beth had been contemplating a divorce from her “respectable” husband. Apparently, their mother and pregnant sister hadn’t spoken in a month. If she and her aloof sister had little in common, she could relate to needing healthy space.

When Claire had last called in June, Beth hadn’t had time to talk. Any rift with their mother hadn’t entered into the quickie conversation. Claire had simply asked to see her nephew. She’d bought a Pinocchio puppet in Florence and had offered to bring it. But Little Johnny was always involved in something—piano lessons, a school art club, little league. Claire shuddered to think a four-year-old had a better social life than she did.

By July, she’d boxed up the puppet, sealing it in thick bubble wrap, and mailed it.

“Mother says Beth hates her,” Matt recounted. “Now, I’m the only one our mother speaks to, and I can’t handle much more of her good graces. Help me!”

Claire smirked at the pink tiles on the kitchen floor. Had they once been red?

Didn’t she have enough of her own soap opera with getting the building in shape? And job hunting? But no. Clearly, the luxuryof her break from these family sagas had ended. 

“Did the doctor prescribe a refill for her anti-depressant?” She knew the routine by heart. Their mother took the pills sporadically, then let the prescription lapse.

“Jesus, she takes a shit load of pills,” Matt said. “I’m too embarrassed to mention any of this to Anya.”

“I don’t know, brother,” her pet name for Matt, “she seems like a smart girl. Anya’ll figure it out sooner or later.” 

“Poor Anya already got an earful,” he grumbled. “I invited her along when I took Mother out for her birthday.”

“Was it her birthday?” Claire flipped through the calendar from the hardware store above the table. Its chintzy, floral photos were the most decorative aspect of the kitchen. Sure enough, she had forgotten their mother’s birthday the month before. “Guess that’s why I haven’t heard from her.”

“Our mother made Anya cry right in front of me.” Matt’s manly voice grew childlike in its heightened whine. “Mother insisted she was saving me from a fatal marital mistake like she once made. I told her to mind her own business.” His voice cracked like it had when he’d hit puberty over ten years before. “She said I ought to be ‘grateful’ for her minding my business.”

“Are you?” Claire asked flatly.

“I love Anya. I want to marry her, in fact.”

“That’s wonderful, sweetie.” Claire brightened at the news.

“Thanks.” His tone softened. “I was hoping to tell you in a better way, but . . .”

“I know.” Claire propped her elbows on the wobbly table and sunk her cheeks on her fists. “Mother doesn’t make it easy for any of us.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not giving Anya up,” he declared.

“Don’t you dare,” Claire gently chided. “Or you’ll have me to contend with.”

Matt chuckled. “I’ll take that as your blessing.”

“Listen, brother,” she felt a sob well in her throat, “there’s nothing better or more important in this life than love.”

The moment Claire uttered the word “love,” a heart-tugging ache throbbed in her chest. She missed Isabelle more than ever. Two months had come and gone since her call. Then nothing. No postcard for the exhibit and no word after.

With no idea where the exhibit was, Claire had combed the gallery guide. Some galleries, she knew, weren’t listed. Where could it be? She’d left a phone message in broken Italian with Nonna’s old cook, Lucia.

Was Isabelle too busy or still too depressed over her breakup—possibly both—to reconnect with Claire?

“I wouldn’t involve Mother in your relationship,” she told Matt plainly.

Would she forever play the spinster sister doling out matronly advice? Christ, she clapped her forehead, I’d rather be a raging, alcoholic prostitute. At least her life would be more interesting.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Matt admitted. “I should never have brought her and Anya together.”

“Mmm. I stopped introducing Mother to my lovers ages ago.” Now that I have no lover that’ll work especially well, she thought gloomily.

“Our mother has all these issues.”

“Great.” Claire wagged her head.

“What’s so ‘great’ about it?”

“I was just thinking how I preferred sitting outside with bugs to talking about our mother’s ‘issues’.”

“What are we gonna to do about her, Claire?”

CLAIRE CLUTCHED HER red bag and a metrocard, ready to walk to the subway. She’d arranged to meet Matt in the lobby of their mother’s building.

According to the frazzled maid, Rosa, their mother hadn’t left her bedroom in a week. “It’s good I no speak so much English,” Rosa had told Claire on the phone. “I can no have a . . .”

“Conversation with her,” Claire had said. The woman groaned. “I’m so sorry. My mother is difficult.”

What an understatement! How many exasperated maids had Claire apologized to over the years? She’d lost count.

She slipped a small gift box into her bag. As she swung open the apartment door, Gary stood, his fist in midair.

“I was about to knock.” He stared sheepishly at the floor. “Do you have a minute?”

She glanced at her watch. If there were no subway delays, it’d be all right. She could phone Matt on her cell if she was running late.

“Just a few.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s the maid’s much-needed day off, and Mother’s up to her usual antics.”

“Oh?”

“Matt and I are staging an intervention.” Claire rolled her eyes.

“Hmm.” Gary stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Maybe you should be staging a coup instead.”

She chuckled, then opened the door wide. “Come on in.” 

“Umm, this won’t take long.” Gary entered the scant, middle room that served as her bedroom and office. “There’s something I . . . better tell you.”

“Shit.” She covered her mouth. “You’re selling your half of the building?”

“No, no.” He flitted his hand. “Nothing like that. It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“We can hear you,” he crooked his finger toward the ceiling, “sobbing through the vent.”

“Vent?” she asked, puzzled.

He stepped to the mattress wedged in the corner and pointed up. Claire lifted her head and gaped. Sure enough there was a rusty grating. Though she had seen it, she had no idea she could be heard through it.

“On the top floor?” She felt her cheeks flush as Gary gritted his teeth. “That means your tenant hears me, too?”

Gary stared at the floor in silence.

“Jesus.” She buried her face in her palms. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“It’s all right.” He shrugged lightly. “I think I understand.”

“Yeah.” She slumped on the mattress and frowned. “I’m such a lonely loser.”

“No.” He tenderly cradled his palm on her head. “You’re just . . . your heart is broken.”

“Can you tell all that from a vent?”

He sat beside her and draped his arm across her sagging shoulders. “You know, you never need to worry when a gay man sits on your bed.”

She smiled faintly, then rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Gary, what the hell is wrong with me?”

“You ache for her, don’t you?”

“Like I’ve never ached for anything in my whole damn life.” As if she could beat the ache from her chest, Claire thumped her heart. There was simply no denying it. Missing Isabelle, especially during the long, weekend nights, was sheer agony. “It’s been over two months since her call.”

Gary drew a tissue from the box on the floor. With her bangs veiling her teary eyes, Claire blew her nose. Even that reminded her of Isabelle blowing her nose in the hotel in Venice. The sound had echoed loudly across the shimmering canal.

Gary gently rubbed her scalp. “Do you know how I could tell your heart was broken?”

Claire shook her head glumly.

“From the sound of your crying. That mournful wail.” He gazed, his eyes wide and deadpan, at the recessed molding on the door. “I recognized it the instant I heard you.”

She squinted through blurry, moistened eyes at him.

“It’s a kind of animal sound no one else can . . . or should hear because your heart is just too raw.” He shrugged, his eyes damp.

Claire squeezed his shoulder. “Dear Gary,” she murmured.

“It’s the same sound I made when I lost Peter on 9/11 . . . almost two years ago.” He turned, his drawn face fraught with turmoil. “And for those first, torturous months after. That’s how I know,” he patted her hand, “you must really love this woman.” A solitary tear coursed down his cheek. “Only love can sound like that.”

She recalled how her mother had once told her little brother, “Men do not cry.”

Says who? Claire thought as she embraced her friend.

CHAPTER 2

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHER.” She dropped the gift box on the glossy, marble dresser.

Ordinarily, Claire bought pricey jewelry for her mother’s birthdays and at Christmas. Since she was jobless, and her mother always snubbed her gifts, she’d gotten a ten-dollar bracelet instead.

“A month later,” her mother snarled.

Almost noon and she still lay, flopped like a string-less marionette, in bed. Her disheveled head was sunk on a fluffy pillow raised against the massive headboard. She stared dully at a black-and-white movie on the widescreen TV across the room.

“I left a message with the maid . . . twice,” Claire said.

“Fulfilled your daughterly obligation, did you?”

Claire knew better than to answer her mother’s questions. Especially when she was in one of her foul moods. That was dangerous territory.

“Where were you while I was fighting to salvage your sister’s marriage?” her mother ranted in a familiar, carping voice. “Off in Europe doing God knows what.”

“Having incredible sex, what else?” Claire winked at Matt who grinned sheepishly. Well, she thought, that much was true of my whirlwind adventure with Isabelle.

Matt cowered behind Claire in the doorway. Was he trembling?

“Time to man our battle stations,” Claire whispered from behind her hand. She inhaled, then stepped across the plush teal of the spacious carpet.

“You’ve upset Matt, Mother. Was that necessary?”

“So you’re both ganging up on me?” 

Their mother’s makeup had always been too thick. But the harsh wrinkles on her pasty, unmade face appeared gruesome. Almost monstrous in the white glare of the television.

“Mother,” Claire stated flatly, “you’re going to have to find less dysfunctional ways to cope than taking it out on us.” 

Matt inched his way forward until they faced their mother together.

“Now you’re turning your brother against me?” She shot Claire a sulky glare.

“Claire has nothing to do with,” Matt said in a squeaky voice as he nervously raked his fingers through his peaked bangs, “your depression.”

Claire watched him with a questioning smile. She felt the old urge to protect her still-innocent brother. Otherwise, their mother, Claire had sensed when they were kids, would have made quick workof his soft nature.

“She,” their mother narrowed her eyes as though Claire were Satan Incarnate, “managed to turn Beth against me. Watch out, it’s your turn.”

“Please. I’ve barely spoken to Beth,” Claire began. “You might try—”

She wasn’t allowed to finish.

“You’ve always been jealous of your sister.”

“Umm, Mother,” Matt smirked, “I hate to break it to you, but Claire’s a lot better looking than Beth.”

Claire shook with silent laughter. “Leave it to a man to say a thing like that.” She affectionately tousled her brother’s wavy, dark brown hair.

His and Beth’s hair and round, brown eyes were clearly their mother’s. Claire, with her vivid green eyes, resembled their father.

“I see you two are having a good laugh at my expense,” their mother hollered across the room.

“If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry,” Claire muttered.

She studied the shriveled figure of their mother propped on the bulky pillow. Like a cresting wave, Claire felt the surge of her old pity.

Matt squinted at her with a familiar, perplexed look. It meant that he wanted Claire to explain, or translate, their mother’s double talk.

“Mother means that she loved . . . loves Beth more,” Claire answered without batting an eye.

Just then, a sadness swept over her. Where did that come from? She frowned. I haven’t cared what she feels for me—or doesn’t—in ages. If ever.

She recollected something Gary had said in therapy. “It’s not the relationship you have with your mother that you mourn, but what you never had.”

“My mother’s not dead,” she’d replied. “Not physically. So how am I mourning?” Gary went silent.

It was a dangling, rhetorical question meant for Claire to figure out. She hated those. But she knew. They were the crucial questions that needed a solid, unmitigated answer.

Matt gaped with the wide-eyed look of a kicked puppy. “A mother who can’t love her own daughter?”

Their mother thrust up her chin haughtily. Did she even love Claire, or anyone, for that matter?

Claire patted Matt’s shoulder. “I’m used to it, brother, believe me,” she said quietly.

“Are you playing the martyr again, Claire?” Was Gary in the room now? She nearly turned to see. His words had entered her thoughts with such clarity.

“Some things,” Matt smirked at their mother who had buried her face in the pillow, “you just shouldn’t get used to.”

He stormed out of the room.

Claire heard the apartment door slam with a bang. So much for our united front. Still, it was sweet of Matt to be incensed for hisbig sister. Why couldn’t she muster her own indignation? She gazed across the room and sighed wearily.

She felt little more than pity for the thwarted creature she called Mother.

“Maybe you need stronger pills.” Claire went to the nightstand.

It had been years since she’d managed her mother’s medication. She examined the label on the plastic, orange bottle. The doctor had simply renewed the same anti-depressant in a stronger dosage.

Even as a girl, she’d keep her younger siblings at bay during their mother‘s “spells.” Tantrum is a better word.

She rattled the half-full bottle. “These’ll tide you over till next week. You’ll need to get them renewed soon.”

“What do you care?” Her mother’s lip curled as she shot back.

Claire jumped at the nasty growl. She’d heard it before, true, but this time she felt it. She turned slowly. “Why do you hate me . . . so much?” she asked seriously.

“Everyone . . . all my children hate me because they want my money,” her mother snapped. “That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

“You’ve worked yourself up into a state.” Claire took the empty water pitcher off the nightstand. “And you’re watching too much television.” She raised the remote control, aimed it at the TV, and clicked off the power. “Tackyhousewives kvetching on talk shows are taking a toll on you.”

“I don’t watch that.”

“Good for you, Mother.” Gripping the pitcher, Claire stepped toward the door. “They’re such negative people, don’t you find?”

She went out of the room. “I better be in the fucking will,” she grumbled as she marched, her boots clapping the pearly tiles, down the hallway.

She slapped open the swinging kitchen door, then halted in her tracks. “Wow,” she exclaimed to the silent, white-walled kitchen.

Claiming an inheritance had never occurred to her. All she yearned to claim was freedom from her mother’s grasp on her life.

IT WAS BY no means cheap to get a cab back to Brooklyn. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to descend into the public subway for the dragged-out ride. She could just about bear to view a nameless driver from the back seat.

She’d snatched the notepaper off the desk in her mother’s den. A silver, calligraphic R for her stepfather’s surname was engraved on its top. Isabelle wouldn’t get that. No matter. The words couldn’t wait until Claire got home—and quite possibly—changed her mind.

She clutched a pen, then steadied the ivory paper on the flat side of her bag. Should she write Iz or Isabelle? Hadn’t she said, “My friends call me Iz” when they’d parted at Da Vinci airport? Maybe, Claire frowned at the blank page, they were no longer even friends.

Perhaps this should be more formal. What’s the protocol, she bit her lip to keep from bawling, for writing someone who has completely blown you off?

Dear Isabelle, she began, I was looking forward to your exhibit in New York. By now, that time is long past.

Jesus, she shook her head, sounds like a damned letter to the editor.

I hoped we could remain friends . . . She paused, then added, if nothing else. I’m sorry. She stared into the swirling waves of the East River below the Brooklyn Bridge. “Why not fill the page with SORRY,” she muttered under her breath.

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then lifted the pen. If you feel otherwise, I’ll have to understand.

But she didn’t understand.

Time for a short, sweet ending. No matter what, I wish you well. Clara, she quickly signed.

Despite the heart rendingache, she couldn’t wish Isabelle otherwise. Was she playing the martyr? Or just being a schmuck?

She folded the letter into the outer pocket of her bag. If vaguely worded, it was a goodbye.

THE MONEY MARKET funds left over from the sale of her SoHo loft were dwindling. Fast.

Thanks to Gary’s investment idea, she was saving a bundle on rent. Only she needed to foot the taxes, not to mention upkeep on her half of the building. She now paid out-of-pocketfor her health insurance. Not cheap. Still, having a crappy social life cut down on expenses. So why couldn’t she focus on her job search?

Her father reminded her.

“How’s the job hunt going, sweetheart?” he asked the evening after she and Matt had gone to their mother’s.

Something they’d never mention to their father. Hadn’t he suffered enough?

They’d been invited to Matt’s and Anya’s place on the Lower East Side. The two had been living together all summer.

Their father turned his soft, green eyes on Claire. “You know, dear, a statement clerk position is about to open up.”

Silver-gray and auburn streaked through his straight, neatly combed hair. The orange and brown stripes that lined his plaid, vintage jacket rose with his gentle shrug.

“It only requires a bachelors degree. But it’d be something.”

Claire had a masters in business administration with a minor in art history. She had a head for numbers, sure. But the idea of preparing bank statements for a living numbed her brain.

She smiled politely. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll give that some thought.” She wouldn’t. Though she’d been laid off from the gallery half a year before, her heart was still in her chosen field. Arts administration.

“Anything for my kids.” Her father smiled warmly.

Matt, with his broad back, huddled against the wall. The living-bedroom room of the studio apartment wasn’t much bigger than their mother’s walk-in closet. Claire squinted at the dingy yellow walls. Had they once been white?

“Hey, Dad, you’re making Mother look bad,” Matt grumbled at the small, chipped wood table.

Claire frowned knowingly. Their mother, Matt had confided, had stopped helping him financially. Not surprisingly, she’d cut him off right after he had moved in with Anya.

Their father had gotten Matt a part-time mail clerk job at the bank. He kept up his sociology classes in the evenings. Though their stepfather’s life insurance covered his tuition, Matt had to cover half of the rent.

“No easy feat,” Lloyd rolled his crisp blue eyes, “making your mother look bad.” 

Claire peered at Lloyd, easily three inches shorter, seated by her side. He had been strangely quiet during supper. Even his wavy blond hair, usually curled across his forehead, looked flat.

Had he and George been arguing about family stuff?Again?

Twenty-three-year-old Anya appeared in the arching doorway of the kitchenette. She toted a silvery tray of colorful pastries. “Matt to bring our coffee, if you please.” Anya, whose red hair curled in a bobbed cut, set five, mismatched plates and cups around the table.

Matt abruptly stood and bumped his head on the archway. Anya reached up. He instantly bent, and she kissed the crown of his head.

Everyone laughed.

“They are just too cute,” Lloyd remarked in a low voice.

He wasn’t sitting beside or, it seemed, speaking to George. That’s weird, Claire thought, not to hear their usual back-and-forth banter.

“Good thing you’re short, Anya.” Maybe Claire could ease the tension with a joke.

“Oh?” Anya tilted her head with a squinty, muddled look. Her dimples seemed to press her cherry red lips into a girlish pucker.

“You fit nicely into this apartment.” Claire covered her mouth. Had she said something stupid? Sarcasm, not joking, had always been her forte.

But no. Anya, who had a lively sense of humor, giggled.

Matt returned with a pitcher full of coffee.

“Your sister, she is too funny.” Anya jutted her small chin at Claire.

Matt beamed. Was there a look of pride on his round, boyish face? That felt good. Claire swiveled in her chair. Her father beamed, too.

“What?” she asked with a shrug.

“Claire is our princess,” George said. “Matt, on the other hand . . .” 

“Uh oh.” Matt clenched his wide teeth.

“. . . is our prince,” he added.

“Quick save there, Dad.” Matt flashed a grin that shone in the dusky room.

They took turns pouring half-and-half and spooning sugar into their clanking cups. Then Anya’s homemade, Ukrainian pastries got passed around.

“I too, have a more okay job,” Anya announced in her perky, singsong voice. “Not a waitress now. I am . . . umm . . .” She paused, then turned to Matt.

“Anya just got a full-time job in a stationery factory,” Matt explained between chews.

“Good for you, dear.” George nodded over the rim of his cup.

She shrugged casually. “It’s just a silly like job—”

“Honey,” Matt cut in, “it’s just a silly . . . Not ‘silly like.’ ”

Red circles formed the demure blush on Anya’s cheeks. She slapped her dainty hand to her mouth. “Oh, my English is too abnormal.”

Everyone but Lloyd laughed.

“Your English is fine, dear.” George reached around the tray and patted her hand on the table. “You’ve come a long way in only a year in New York.”

“Well, Cla-ire . . .”

Anya spoke with a halting accent that reminded Claire of Isabelle forcing out the “flat” sound.

“. . . must to appreciate my language problems. You spoke in your trip to overseas. Yes?” She widened her round, blue eyes at Claire.

Matt pinched his nostrils. “Hon—”

“Matt.” Claire recalled her hodgepodge Italian during Nonna’s delizioso supper. “How can Anya learn if you don’t let her speak?”

Matt flexed his large hand. “I know, but—”

“Son,” their father wagged his finger with mock gravity, “don’t you know better than to argue with your sister?”

“She who must be obeyed.” Lloyd winked lightly.

“Mmm.” Claire chucked her chin at Matt. “Some of us need reminders.”

She smiled at Lloyd who dropped his gaze. Why was he so sullen tonight? She’d have to get to the bottom of that. 

She tasted the knotted, almond-flavored cake Anya had called chrustyky. Then she gaped with the chewed food still on her tongue. “Yum.”

“These are scrumptious, Anya,” George exclaimed.

Anya bowed. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Claire said.

They gobbled up the pastries, then lingered over their last sips of coffee. Matt and Anya stood and cleared the table. Claire began to set the plates on the tray.

“No, no!” Anya fluttered her hand. “You are here, the guest of us.” She lifted the tray.

“You guys stay put,” Matt piped in a cheery voice.

“Yes,” Anya slipped her arm around his waist, “we have one more extra specialness.”

George chuckled. “Those pastries were extra specialness.” He rubbed his belly.

Matt planted a kiss on Anya’s cheek. “This is even better extra specialness.”

They giggled like kids as they vanished into the kitchenette. There was a clatter of dishes, the sound of running water, then more giggling.

The living room quieted in the abrupt stillness. Claire watched her father and Lloyd who heaved a deep sigh.

“Here’s to hoping the mother’s wiles skip the next generation.” Lloyd knocked back his coffee like a shot glass of whiskey.

“Lloyd,” George clucked disapprovingly, “you could at least try to be a little more—”

“A little more what, darling?” Lloyd abruptly faced him. “Tolerant?”

Claire sifted the rumbs on her plate with her spoon. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” her father mumbled into his cup. “We’ll talk about this when we get home,” he muttered to Lloyd.

“Why? Do you imagine your daughter isn’t privy to the endless, family drama?” He flitted his hand. “Or should I say trauma?”

“I try to stay out of it as much as I can,” Claire murmured.

She studied the two letter-sized photos that hung above the pullout sofa. One photo was crammed with grinning, blue-eyed redheads who could only be Anya’s family. In the other photo, Matt, a toddler then, stood, shyly smiling, behind Claire. She had been a girl of, maybe, eight. He’d clutched her hand with, what she still recalled as, a throbbing grip.

“It’s to your credit, princess, believe me,” Lloyd said. 

“Lloyd.” Her father narrowed his eyes sharply.

Lloyd turned to Claire. “Your brother’s extra special announce—”

“They’re getting married, I know.” Claire smiled. “It’s great. Anya’s a sweetheart—”

“Yes, it is great,” her father agreed, then widened his eyes at Lloyd. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

CHAPTER 3

“DON’T YOU TWO like Anya?” Claire scratched her head.

“We adore Anya.” Her father nodded.

Lloyd pressed Claire’s shoulder. “She’s nearly as darling as you, love. As if that were humanly possible.”

Claire felt herself blush. “I try,” she quipped feebly.

“You don’t need to try,” Lloyd gently lifted her chin, “it just flows out of you.”

“Thanks, Lloyd.” She squeezed his arm. “You just made what’s left of my day.”

“But I think you should know.” Lloyd clutched his forehead. “I’m . . . we’re fairly certain that your mother won’t stand for your father being at this wedding.”

She gaped at her father. “Dad, that simply isn’t going to happen. Matt . . . and I won’t allow her—”

“Your mother is . . . is,” her father stammered.

“A devious bitch,” Lloyd finished bluntly.

He smirked at Lloyd. “I was about to say difficult.”

“Hah.” Lloyd sucked in his cheeks. “Resort to euphemism if you must.”

Claire gritted her teeth. Wasn’t “difficult” the same played-down euphemism she’d offered poor Rosa?

“Dad, let’s face it, our mother is devious.” Though she hardly doubted Lloyd’s jibe, she couldn’t bring herself to call her mother a bitch. “She treats us,” her head drooped, “well, me like I’m worthless.”

“See that?” Lloyd poked George’s shoulder. “Mother Medea destroying her children to spite the father.”

Leave it to Lloyd, an actor of thirty-odd years, to interject a theatrical reference.

“She’s sure to have a tantrum over this.” George shuddered.

“ ‘Tantrum?’ ” Lloyd arched his fair eyebrows. “Darling, that woman will turn your son’s wedding into an absolute war zone.”

“No.” As though she could block the visage of her scowling mother that rose to mind, Claire shut her eyes. “I don’t know how, but we’ll make sure—”

“Dear heart,” Lloyd patted Claire’s hand, “your strength is an inspiration. You’re an Amazon considering what you put up with from that . . .” He pursed his lips. “Her. Yet hell hath no fury like your mother’s twisted wrath.”

“That’s quite enough.” George’s voice rose to a riled pitch.

“Yes, it is enough.” Lloyd bobbed his head. “You should be at that wedding, George. Dammit, I should be at that wedding. Your penitence is over and done with. While I am still in mourning for disco,” he smiled briefly, “that world is dead and buried.” He swept his hand above the table with an exaggerated flourish. “Andgoodriddance.”

“What world?” Claire asked in the uneasy silence.

“You know, that ancient history of closeted queers apologizing to the world for their existence. Hmph.” Lloyd snorted. “We have families and,” he gave his chest a melodramatic thump, “we have children. We have it all.” He slapped the table so that their cups rattled. “It’s high time we claimed it all.”

Claire flashed to a scene of Isabelle shouting in the café in Rome. “I want to live proud.” Hadn’t she slapped the table, too? She smiled sadly at the memory of the spunky woman she had fallen for.

Her father pinched his forehead. “You are too damnmuch, Lloyd,” he muttered, “You know—”

“Please, you simply don’t know from ‘too much.’ ” Lloyd faced George. “Your ex-wife is still dangling these kids to keep breaking your heart . . . again and fucking again.”

George gasped. “My daughter is sitting right here.” 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Claire mumbled into her coffee. “I’ve heard . . . and used the word be—” She stopped.

Lloyd hunched over, sobbing into his palms. “This is great news.” He shook his head on his lap. “It’s wonderful. But don’t you see how she’ll . . .”

Clearly, he couldn’t utter another word. Claire flung her arms around him.

“He’s overreacting.” George rolled his eyes. “And overacting.”

“Dad,” Claire gazed over Lloyd’s back, “Lloyd is feeling this for you. I mean, what you won’t—” She checked herself. She hoped she wasn’t being hard on her father, but this had to be said. “You won’t allow yourself to feel.”

She felt Lloyd quiver in her arms and squeezed him tightly. 

“We just can’t let Mother get away with this . . . shit anymore.” Maybe she could be a little dramatic.

Claire and her father locked eyes in a fixed, searching gaze. An array of emotions mingled on his crumpled expression—frustration, sorrow, helplessness. Then his head flopped to his chest, and he stared at the table.

Did her father know better than to argue with her? Or was he afraid her mother, who’d tried—and failed—to push him out of Claire’s life, would win over Matt?

As if the unspoken question had summoned him, Matt slouched in the archway.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

Claire and their father quickly looked up.

Lloyd gripped Claire’s arm, sat upright, and flashed her his winning smile. “Thank you, princess,” he whispered.

She did a double take. Lloyd’s eyes were dry! Had he been acting? She smiled to herself. Even so. His stellar performance had been enacted in a worthy cause.

Matt raised a green bottle of champagne in one hand and two long-stemmed glasses in the other. “Where you be with those glasses, woman,” he called over his shoulder with a loud grunt.

Anya scurried in with three more glasses. She poked her head, her hair jutting out in springy tendrils, under Matt’s arm. Big grins lit their faces.

“Anya woman here with good, strong glasses, big cave sir.” She stood in rigid, mock attention.

“Wha?” Claire crinkled her nose at her father who smiled lightly.

“Oh, You haven’t caught their cavemen routine yet.” Lloyd chuckled. “It’s the cutest thing.” The twinkle had returned to his animated gaze.

“We no cavemen,” Matt grunted. “We cave people.”

They laughed.

“Politically correct cave people, I see,” George said.

“We no know this politically correct.” Anya nodded comically. “But I think we like. We think is good.” 

“I should photograph this.” Claire dug her phone out of the inside pocket of her bag.

“We no know this photograph,” Matt grunted, creasing his forehead with a baffled caveman look.

The others laughed.

George thrust up his hand. “Do the cave people have something they want to say?”

Claire fiddled with the menu on her phone. She pressed the cameraicon to snap a photo of her brother and Anya.

Matt shrugged. “They want us to be serious now, honey.” He slung his arm around Anya and drew her close.

“Ah, you call me ‘honey.’ ” She batted her curly lashes up at him. “For this, I must to be serious.”

Claire watched them, brimming with joy. This is love, she smiled tearfully, here with her father, Lloyd, Matt, and, soon, her sister-in-law. This is family. Something she had’t known since before her parents had split up. Something shut out of her memories like a forgotten dream.

“We are to be going to be . . . Oh, I must speak this right.” Anya blushed brightly. “We are . . . We—”

No one let her finish. Claire, Lloyd, and George squeezed around the table and embraced them where they stood.

WHILE FAMILY LIFE had improved, Claire’s social life—or lack of one—was pathetic. Why else would she have dipped into her piddling budget to join a dating site?

On the bright side, she’d finally found a tenant for the upstairs apartment. Shebwas a freckle-faced, yuppiewannabein her mid-twentieswho seemed harmless. Even nice. She had agreed to clear the yard if Claire was willing to share it.

Why the hell not?

Claire and Gary were still on the best of terms. Sam was another story. She had to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at his snide remarks. He was getting snotty about the yard. Again.

“Gary won’t tell you this to your face, but I will.” He trained his piercing, almost wolfish eyes on her.

Gary was at his clinic job in Bedford Stuyvesant on a Wednesday in early September. It was Sam’s day off. With his thumbs hooked in his tool belt like a gun holster, he stood in the hallway.

“If you don’t clean up that mess soon,” he chucked his chin in the direction of the yard, “someone’s going to call the Board of Health.”

“That someone wouldn’t be you?” Claire eyed him sharply. 

“I didn’t say that.” He huffed.

Sam huffed a lot.

“My tenant will help with the yard when she is . . . settled in.” She spoke slowly as she fought to keep her cool. “I am job hunting right now.”

She had scoured newspapers and the Internet, and sent out hundreds of resumes. Like a battle-worn soldier, she had trudged off on interview after interview. For all that, she’d only gotten a trickle of form emails and snail mail replies. Her resume would be kept on file. She’d need to dumb down her experience and take something—anything—soon.

“And I am still dealing with that mess.” She thrust her arm toward the front room.

Though the workers had fixed the drywall, the walls needed to be primed and painted.

“And that concerns us how?” Sam shrugged apathetically.

“My understanding was that you were handy.” Claire mimicked the placid smile on her mother’s mask-like face once her pills kicked in. “I guess my understanding was misunderstood.”

“My responsibility is upstairs.” Sam jerked his thumb at the stairs. “What you do with your place is your business. But that yar—”

“Please.” Claire tossed up her hands. “Can I help it if grease monkeys throw crap over the fence from next door?”

She’d just bought a used car from the auto shop so maybe they’d behave. Another dopey investment, sure, but she wanted to cut down on travel to her mother’s place.

“Did you ever consider cleaning the yard yourself?” Sam asked with a smirk.

“I ‘considered’ it.” She smirked back.

She had started to ripped up weeds when she’d sliced her hand on glass. The co-pay for three stitches in the ER had been a hundred dollars. After that, she had given up on the yard.

Sam rambled on. “Our friends have to look down from the terrace onto that . . . disaster area.”

“Winter’s coming,” she said blandly. “Snow will cover the yard. You can have your parties then.”

“Oh, lovely. A winter party on the roof.” He rolled his eyes. “And Gary said you were so practical. Hmmph.” He huffed again.

She, literally, bit her tongue at him, to stop herself from snapping, Now you just huff your little engine right on out of here!

She regained her composure. “As much as I would like to continue this neighborly chat,” she turned her placid smile into a frown, “I am busy now.”

She all but slammed the door in his face.

She was busy. She even had a date that Friday night. They had talked on the phone for an hour the day before. Kristen seemed friendly and interesting. Hardly as scary as the other women Claire had encountered on the dating site.

One, a comedienne with thirty-thousand dollars in credit card debt, was obsessed with extreme weather. The woman, whose wiry curls seemed to bite the air when she talked, had taken a call from her “agent.” She then rushed off, stiffing Claire for the tab at a tapas bar.

Next, a burly stockbroker had put moves on her in a gay bar. Claire had drunk two margaritas when the woman kissed her open, gaping mouth.

“It’s okay,” she cooed in Claire’s ear, “this is a free atmosphere. We can let loose in here.”

After she “let loose” her fingers to grab Claire’s breast, Claire slid back in her chair.

“You know, my cat is very sick. I’m worried about her.” Claire jumped up.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” the woman said.

She didn’t, of course.

“Oh, yes, she’s really old. I’ve had her for so long,” she giggled nervously, “I sometimes forget she’s there.”

How could she lie? But, then, how could she stay?

The next day, she’d emailed to say how prettyClaire was. Claire returned a polite but short message. I don’t feel we have much in common. The woman then sent a scathing reply about what an uptight, prissy bitchClaire was. She sighed, then blocked the email address.

Why was everyone so hostile?

Kristen’s photo featured an attractive singer with distinctive blue eyes. Claire liked the way her blond curls spilled in silky locks across her shoulders.

And the mere fact that their dialogue hadn’t revolved solely around Kristen was a big—actually, an enormous—plus.

THE DOCTOR FLAT-OUT refused to renew the prescription. Her mother needed to come to his office. Claire mulled it over. Was her mother genuinely depressed? Or just diseased in spirit?

No pill could cure that.

That Thursday morning, Claire took the FDR Drive to the Upper East Side. Then she called for a town car. While the driver waited in the lobby, Claire coaxed her mother into the shower.

Her mother shuffled out and limply dried her hair on the fluffy towel Claire handed her. Blond dye straggled down the tangled, wet ends of her ear-length hair. Her lower lip jutted forward in a sulky pout.

She flopped on the bed, then vanished under the silvery blue of the blanket.

“If you don’t get dressed and go, you won’t get any more pills,” Claire told her plainly. It was like bribing a child with candy.

She hoisted her mother off the bed and sat her before the dressing table. Just then, she spotted her still-wrapped birthday gift in the marble wastebasket. She flushed with rage. The maid would have emptied the trash by now. Clearly, her mother had instructed Rosa to leave the tossed gift for Claire to see.

“Put your face on, Mother.” Claire snapped open the latch of a paisley makeup case. “You look like the living dead.”

“That would suit you, my being dead,” her mother retorted.

Claire lifted her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m leaving now.” She heaved a disgusted sigh.

Striding to the door, she glimpsed herself in the gilt-framed, floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stopped. Did her face, contorted with an angry grimace, foretell a hard-hearted, maternal legacy?

The next day, she called Matt. Still protective of her little brother, she spared the details of her uptown saga.

“I sent Mother off to renew her prescription.”

“Last I heard she and Beth were speaking again. Better her than us, eh?” Matt was sharpening his wry humor about their mother.

“Believe it or not,” Claire quickly changed the subject, “I have a date tonight.”

Their conversations—and lives—didn’t need to revolve around their whacky mother.

“Really?” Matt sounded surprised.

“Don’t you read the papers, brother? It was plastered all over today’s news,” she quipped.

That same evening, he and Anya stood in her hallway. Each toted a can of white paint.

“We wanted to surprise you.” Matt towered over Anya like a tree above a shrub.

“That’s sweet.” Claire was touched. “I should be surprising you.” She had yet to buy their engagement gift. But what?

She spread her arms to hug them together. 

“We’ll paint the front room while you’re out.” Matt raised the can. The earring, a dot on his right earlobe—and the one thing he’d fought with their mother over when he was nineteen—glinted in the hallway light.

“Yes.” Anya widened her eyes. “You will arrive back from your romantic date when this is all but ready to you.”

“Ready for you, honey,” Matt corrected. “Not ‘to.’ ”

Claire thought a moment. “Did I mention I’m dating a woman?” She wanted to be sure they understood.

They appeared taken aback, then they shrugged at once.

“Cool,” Matt said casually.

“I hope she is pretty like to you.” The perky smile lit Anya’s face.

“Thanks.” Claire backed into the cluttered room. “I would love for you to paint what should be the bedroom.”

“We’ll do anything but windows.” Matt winked as they entered and set the cans down.

Anya chuckled. “Yes, but we do not paint windows.”

“Just don’t mind the mess.” Claire frowned at the limbospace of the middle room. Other than her queen-sized mattress, the furniture was crammed into the front room.

Resumes, reference letters, and printouts from online job listings were piled on the floor. Her laptop and printer were stacked on milk crates. Unpacked boxes towered alongside the walls.

“Only I can sort through this . . . chaos,” she grumbled. “I almost wish I didn’t have a date so we could spend more time. Still,” she glanced at the digital clock on the floor, “I’ve got a half hour or so. We could sit out back and marvel at my buggy jungle.”

“And to my new ring.” Anya held up the small diamond ring that encircled her finger.

“Of course.” Claire nodded.

They stepped into the kitchen.

“Here, Matt.” She heard a knock and handed her brother a chair. “Let Anya sit on this.”

“And for me?” He arched a sharp eyebrow.

She slapped his arm playfully. “Is there a problem with sitting on my broken steps?” She ducked under his arm. “Take out three chairs, will you?” she called back.

“Gotcha.”

Matt and Anya carried the chairs outside.

Gary stood in the hallway, his eyes downcast.

Now what? That damn yard? She’d finally stopped sobbing so it couldn’t be their hearing her through the vent. Then it dawned on her. It was September, a rough time since Gary had lost his partner on 9/11.

“Hey.” She squeezed his forearm. “How are you?”

“Okay, I guess.” He smiled thinly. “Our mailman’s checked out though. He keeps mixing your mail in with ours.” He held up a pile of what appeared to be ads and bills.

“Oh, bills. Hang onto those,” she teased.

As Gary handed her the pile, something slipped to the floor. She glanced down at it.

“I know Sam has been a real asshole lately,” he whispered as if Sam, two floors above, could overhear. “But I promise you, Claire, he is going to keep his end of the bargain here.”

She wasn’t listening. Her mind numbed as she gaped at the postcard on the floor.

“We had a long . . . debate about this. I hope you didn’t hear us shouting through the vent.” Gary raised his head. “Claire?”

Her hand trembled as she bent to retrieve the postcard. I. Spera stretched in embossed letters across its front. A painting Claire had glimpsed in her studio filled the rest of the card.

“Now she remembers me,” she murmured wistfully.

Gary gasped. “Is it from her?”

Claire flipped the card. Clara Doral and the Brooklyn address had been printed on a computer label. Nothing more.

Last May, she’d gotten the touristypostcard of an aerial photo of Vatican Square. It was a reminder of the sweet, lingering kiss for which a priest had chased them out of the piazza. On it was written simply, Bella, I think of you, and signed Iz in swirling cursive.

But this postcard, stamped from New York, could only be part of a gallery mailing. There wasn’t so much as a handwritten word.

Claire began to tear the card down the middle.

“Don’t.” Gary thrust out his hand.

CHAPTER 4

SHE DREW A deep, nostril breath to calm herself. Why was she so incensed? There had been no commitment between them. No promises. No lies. Only the spontaneous fun of their six-day fling. What did it matter that the postcard was so impersonal?

With a robotic motion, she handed the card to Gary who studied it. She heard Matt and Anya giggling in the yard. She should introduce Gary, then get ready for her date. But she was frozen on the spot.

“September 12th,” Gary noted the opening date. “Next Friday.”

Would Isabelle even be there?

As if words would magically appear, she gazed intently at the card. “So many things can be said in the blank space,” she mumbled sadly. “Why not fill it in?”

“Go, Claire,” Gary urged. “Go to this opening.”

“Next week?” She flopped her head to her chest. “This card was only an afterthought. She’s forgotten me,” she cried into her open palms.

Gary planted his hands on her sagging shoulders. “Listen, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t go.”

“Do you always have be so right?” she snapped, then felt a hot flush of shame. “I’m so sorry, Gary.” She covered her mouth. How could she snap at him? And so close to the haunting anniversary of 9/11?

“No, I’m sorry.” He lightly patted her shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough for one lifetime of being told what you should do. Go or don’t. Do whatever you feel is right.”

She blinked through damp eyes as he handed back the postcard. Her tear dripped onto the painted image.

SHE PONDERED INVITING Kristen. But, no. It would be too high schoolto bring a date. She’d simply arrive toward the end, wish Isabelle well, then, just as abruptly, leave. There would be no time to rehash the past. Or to ask what the postcard might have said.  

She parked two blocks from the Bowery gallery. With the heels of her glossy, shin-high boots tapping sidewalk, she stepped along Delancey Street. A fall breeze rustled her hair and the hemline of her checked, green and white pants.

She clutched the postcard, noting the cross street. As she turned off Allen Street, her steps flagged. She peered through the storefront window. The small space was packed with a chatty crowd.

Did Isabelle know all these people? Maybe the gallery had brought them in.

Claire stood on the threshold and braced herself. Like she’d felt outside the Roman café, she was tempted to lose herself in the anonymous street. But, just as Isabelle had seemed to command Claire’s feet then, she stepped inside.

She listened to the buzzing chatter. Her mind spiraled back to the opening that had first brought Isabelle to New York. The first time they’d met at the midtown gallery. Hadn’t Claire heard her rich laughter bounce off the walls then? Not this time.

Maybe she wasn’t there. Claire felt a mixture of relief and melancholy at the thought.

She wended her way to the table and poured a paper cupful of white wine. Then she sidled between the crowd and the walls. Gazing at a painted nude in the group show, she began to feel self-conscious about her body. She had put on some weight. That could only be the result of lonely nights of stuffing her face in front of the tube.

Just then, the crowd seemed to miraculously part.

“Clara?” Isabelle appeared in a clearing across the room.

“Isabelle.” Claire’s heart fluttered with her wave. Then she remembered she had asked to be called Iz.

She’d changed, too. Slightly heavier, her neck-length, black hair was unkempt. Her black clothing, slacks, and a loose, linen shirt, covered her like a shroud. Her drawn, wan expression looked pained. Her smile rigid. Had she gone through another breakup? Maybe she’d gone back to her callous ex-lover?

Claire didn’t want to know.

Suspended in the breathless moment, they stood. Then Claire held out her hand. And waited.

“Mi scusi,” Iz said to a man who crossed her path. “Excuse me.” Slowly, she walked the length of a pine plank across the floor.

Was she limping? 

“Clara.” Iz hugged Claire, then kissed her cheeks. “You came.”

“Of course.” Claire smiled tightly.

With limp fingers, Iz squeezed her hand. “I didn’t know . . . if maybe you moved.”

“I sent you my new address.” Claire stared into her drink, then sipped lightly.

“Yes.” Iz’s eyes, once sparkling, were strangely still. Like shiny, black stones.

“How was your flight?” Claire resorted to safe, small talk.

“My . . . ? Yes, fine.”

“And your grandmother? I hope she’s well.”

Iz shuddered convulsively, then glanced at her watch. “This is almost ended. I must . . . forgive me. I must go.”

Claire mustered the strength to speak. “I have to . . . leave myself.”

“No.” Iz clutched the sleeve of Claire’s pale green shirt. “I must speak to you.”

Claire could no longer quell her feelings. “Isabelle . . . Iz,” she shook her head wildly, “you barely called or wrote. I thought—”

“Ah, Clara.” She covered her face with her hand. “Please wait here.”

Claire let her arms flop to her side. “Here?” She smirked at the floor.

“Right here on this very spot,” Iz touched her cheek, “so I don’t lose you again.”

She stepped back into the pressing crowd.

“Still giving me orders,” Claire muttered as she fought her tears.

Did Iz expect her to wait like an obedient child? I won’t, she felt a sharp flash of anger, I’ll leave now and never see her again.

But she only wandered around the gallery. She examined Iz’s paintings along the back wall. She instantly recognized the heavenly, upland view behind Nonna’s garden.

Five landscapes flooded Claire’s vision and the other pieces in the gallery seemed to shrink away. In the vibrant, layered brushwork, stippled grass swirled across undulating, blue-green hills. Cypresses touched feathery clouds. The shimmering azure, golden white, and crimson skies might be dusk or dawn.

It didn’t matter which.

She glanced over her shoulder. Within the cluster of people, Iz clutched a cup of red wine. Sipping frequently, she barely spoke. She nodded in a mechanical, offhand way. How different from the bubbly, talkative girl Claire had known.

She wondered. Had Iz simply come to attend the opening? Would she just up and leave to be immersed in her world across the pond? Again?

Iz turned from a talking man to flash a smile at Claire. However fleeting, it was the same girlish smile Claire recalled.

Within the hour, people filtered out of the gallery. Claire felt a firm squeeze on her shoulder.

“Thank you for waiting.” Iz’s low voice sounded hoarse.

“I didn’t stay in your spot.” Claire arched an eyebrow.

“It’s all right.” She twirled a finger in Claire’s feathered bangs.

She thought back to when Iz had called her hair “red-like.” She hadn’t known the English word for auburn.

“Whatever you do is all right,” Iz murmured.

Perplexed, Claire eyed her. Could she still be flirting like a silly girl? But, no. She seemed much too somber. Almost a stranger.

“My car is on Delancey,” Claire offered. “Would you like me to drive you somewhere?”

“Can we get a drink?” Iz waved to a couple who called, “Ciao, Isabelle,” from the open doorway.

“Sure.” Claire forced a crooked smile.

“Somewhere quiet.” Iz’s shoulders were slumped.

“No dance clubs?” Claire recalled the night she’d gotten so smashed Iz had needed to escort her home.

“Not this time.”

The tall, dark man clearing the refreshment table, nodded at Iz. She stepped over to shake the gallery owner’s hand.

“Grazie per tutto. Thank you, Albert, for everything.”

She helped him clear the table, then met Claire outside. Their conversation was flat. Iz’s eyes sank to the sidewalk. It feels like a funeral, Claire thought as they walked in a stilted, half silence.

They found a bar on the corner.

“Nothing exciting going on here.” Claire held the swinging, inside door.

Iz nearly staggered inside. Had she already drank too much?

“I don’t care.” She walked to a shadowy table and took a slatted, wooden chair.

Claire followed. “Why are we sitting in the dark?”

“I prefer it.” Iz looked down, then, after a pause, said, “I hope it’s all right.” Her slow words mingled with the thumping beat of a juke box.

“It’s fine.” Claire glanced over at the bar. “I’ll get our drinks. Wha—?”

“Niente. Nothing . . . Anything.” She rattled her head as if deciding on a drink were an impossible task.

“I’ll just get a couple of beers.”

Claire ordered beer on tap. A husky man with a drooped, lower lip grinned eerily from his barstool. She plunked a bill on the bar and hurried back with two foaming mugs.

Iz stared mutely at the wall.

“Why are you so . . . solemn?”

“Mi dispiace. I . . . I’m sorry, Clara.” Her large eyes shone in the purple neon of the window sign. “I am so sorry I never contacted you.”

“I did wonder.” Claire shrugged limply. Though she played down her dejection, she felt it like a brewing storm.

Iz gripped her hands across the table.

“What?” Claire was startled by the intensity of her grasp.

“I tried . . . I didn’t want to involve you,” she stammered.

“Involve me in what?” Claire broke the heavy silence. “Isabelle, what’s wrong?”

“After you left Italy,” she choked out, “my whole world crashed apart.” She raised her head with the vulnerable look of a lost child. “Why is that?”

“What do you mean?”

In a halting, raspy voice, Iz told her everything.

Her grandmother had died a hellish week after a sudden heart attack. Iz had had to assuage the doctors Nonna fought with until the end. At eighty-eight, she only wished to be with her dead husband. The man she considered the love of her life.

“And if all that were not enough, my uncle insisted I marry to claim my inheritance.”

“Huh?” Claire gaped.

“Nonna didn’t change her will since I was a girl.” Iz stared at the ceiling and spoke to the tin tiles. “My inheritance was left in trust . . . to Uncle Giorgio.”

Claire clapped her mouth.

“Then I . . . it was my own fault, I know.” She shifted her eyes from the ceiling to the floor. “I got into an accident.”

“On the motorcycle?”

Iz nodded sheepishly.

“Are you all right?” Claire asked.

“My leg.” She pointed to her right thigh and bit her lower lip. “They sewed that. It’s fine now. I can walk. I just . . . I was in hospital a long time.” She tilted, barely lifting, the mug and took a slow sip of beer.

“Where was your uncle?”  

“We don’t speak any more.” Iz fluttered her hand like she were shooing away her memory.

CLAIRE MULLED OVER the story as she drove.

Could Iz have made it up? That she was imaginative, there was no doubt. Why would she lie? Wouldn’t it be psychotic to be that weirdly deceptive? Jumbled questions sped like an unhinged roller coaster through Claire’s brain.

They stopped at a traffic light. Iz stared out of the window with a morose expression. Claire bit her lip guiltily. Why couldn’t she believe the story? Would she always be plagued by nagging doubts? More unanswered questions. Take a number. She rolled her eyes.

The light flashed green, and she pressed her foot to the gas pedal.

“You’re staying here?” Claire squinted at the crumbled building, then at Iz.

Dented garbage cans lined the straggled chain fence. Graffiti, ACE WUZ HERE, drizzled in block, red letters down the gray façade. Iz had directed her to some offbeat hostel.

“You see why I could not speak at that opening.” She pivoted on the seat. “I need to sell my paintings.”

Headlights from a passing car were mirrored in Iz’s soulful eyes.

“Isabelle, did you forget me?” Claire’s “me” echoed like the plaintive call of a solitary bird.

“Clara, please.” She sighed heavily. “I told you that was not possible. Didn’t you believe me?”

“I have . . . trouble believing.” Claire began to weep. “I know you had a lot going on, but—”

“I lost everything and . . . and I was too ashamed.” Iz flopped over and buried her head on Claire’s lap. “Look at me, ah?” she bawled. “I’m destroyed!”

“Nonsense.” Claire wiped her eyes on her shirt cuff, then rubbed Iz’s quivering back. “Get your things. You’re coming home with me.”

“I cannot burden you with this.”

“Don’t be silly.” Claire kissed her bowed head. “I’m not going to tell you twice.”

Iz sat up, her grief-stricken face damp with tears, and smiled faintly. “You are still so . . . feisty.”

“Mmm. And don’t make me come in there and drag you out.” Claire playfully wagged her finger.

“My dear Clara.” She flung her arms around Claire’s neck. “You are too kind.”

Claire longed to kiss her lips, but simply stroked her hair. “Get your luggage.” She nudged Iz toward the door.

She shook her head firmly. “I cannot go with you.”

Claire’s heart sank. “Why?”

CHAPTER 5

WAS IZ AFRAID to be near her? Of course, they had both grown a little older and, sure, less attractive. But she could hardly be repulsive.

“You must forgive me,” Iz’s voice faded, “once more.”

Claire blinked back her stinging tears. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?” Whatever Iz’s feelings, romantic or not, Claire would honor that.

“Certo. Of course.” Iz embraced her weakly. “You cannot know how . . .” She flapped her hands. “Aah, my English has gotten so badly.”

“Well,” Claire stared at her lap, “I can help you as a friend. You don’t need to feel . . . obliged.”

Iz brushed the back of her hand across Claire’s cheek. “But I am obliged to you.”

Claire shut her eyes. She wouldn’t cry again. “So why won’t you come with me? I’ll sleep on the sofa . . . if you like.” She was all but throwing herself at the woman.

Iz cupped Claire’s chin in her hand. “My grandmother was right about one thing. Sei bellissima. You are beautiful. But this,” she swept her arm toward the rundown building, “this is too shameful. I cannot come to you like this.”

“Hey,” Claire murmured, “everyone falls on bad times. Believe me, my life . . .” Should she share her own struggle with unemployment?

Iz shrugged. “This is my . . . cross to bear.”

“So now you’re Jesus Christ?” Claire raised her brows.

Iz chuckled softly. “Yes,” she blew Claire a kiss, then stepped into the street, “and the moment I resurrect, I will come for you.”

Claire studied her silhouette in the halo of the street lamp. She thought back two years. Hadn’t Iz, twenty-two then, stood under a street lamp like a movie star in a spotlight?

She watched Iz trudge the steps. With her heart pounding, Claire swung open the car door and trotted up the stairs. Then she halted and slowly turned. She hadn’t closed the door. The keys dangled in the ignition.

She didn’t care.

“Isabelle.” Her plea spilled into the deserted street.

Iz half turned on the doorstep. Her raven hair glistened in the dim light of a cracked, door lamp.

“What will you do?” Claire opened her bag. “Let me give you something.” She rummaged for her wallet. She instantly thought of her mother doling out cash to keep her children in check.

“Please.” Iz flipped up her hand like a stop sign. “I cannot accept your charity.”

“Think of it as my paying you back for—”

“For?”

“My trip. I stayed in your home.”

“My grandmother’s home.” The intense grief was written all over Iz’s strained expression.

“Well, the gas for your motorcy—”

“Va bene, ah? It’s all right.” Iz rattled her hands. “I have some money. It won’t be easy, but I’m not on the street.”

“Here, then.” Claire scribbled her number on the back of a business card for someone—she’d forgotten who—and thrust it at Iz. “If you need anything . . .” She stopped herself from making another offer.

Iz slipped the card into the breast pocket of her leather jacket.

“Listen,” she leaned toward Iz, “I understand enough Italian to know your name, Spera, means hope.” She made out Iz’s slight smile  on the dusky threshold.

“I will call you.” Iz gripped her shoulder. “I promise.” Then she jerked her chin at the car. “And I understand enough about your city to know. You should not leave your car like that.”

She smiled one last time, then disappeared behind the door.

Who needs charity here? Claire plodded down the steps. Was she hopelessly codependent, trying to solve Iz’s troubles?

So? She shrugged. Hadn’t people sacrificed much more for love?

THE NEXT WEEK of waiting to hear from Iz seemed unbearable. Beyond that, her savings were nearly depleted.

She’d had no luck with want ads and online listings. And she couldn’t bear another grueling, dead end interview. She hadn’t researched jobs outside of arts administration. A field she knew—all too well—to be fiercely competitive.

What else could she do?

She called her father. “I might take you up on that job offer at the bank,” she mumbled in a hedging voice.

“Of course, dear,” her father chirped. “I would say, I’ll speak to the manager but since I am the manager . . .”

“A little nepotism can’t hurt,” Claire teased half-heartedly. “Seriously, thanks, Dad. I’m not too . . . focused these days,” she had to admit.

What she wouldn’t admit was that this would have to suffice as an in-betweenjob.

“I know,” her father said with a sympathetic note. “You’re distracted.”

“Oh, yeah.” She felt the usual tug of her throbbing heartache. And of her misgivings. What if Iz never called? What if she’d left New York without a single word? Even a goodbye? Claire’s spinning doubts never ceased.

“Your Italian friend is in town, isn’t she?”

Had her father read her mind?

From where she lay, sprawled across the bed, Claire nodded at the ceiling. Matt must have told their father about Iz’s opening.

“Grapevine leaks?” she asked.

“And how.” He chuckled. “Are you okay?”

She never discussed her romantic life with her father. What the hell? Maybe she should vent her angst.

“I don’t know, Dad. I may never hear from her again. She comes and goes like the wind. Maybe we’re just friends.”

“You know,” her father said gently, “relationships take time. There’s a process involved.”

“I’ll be in my grave by the time that process takes place.” She sighed glumly.

“Please. You’re still young.”

“Not that young. I’m terrified I’ll wind up old and bitter . . . like Mother,” she bawled into the receiver.

Her father gasped. “Perish the thought.”

She sniffled.

“My grandfather had an odd, but interesting saying.”

Her father’s voice, the same soft, lulling voice with which he’d read her stories as a child, soothed Claire. “ ‘Life doesn’t come in a plastic bottle.’ ”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hmm?”

“Granddad was kind of grumpy. Good-hearted, sure, but I think,” he paused, “modern life distressed him. He was in a supermarket and picked up shampoo—out of maybe ten brands—when he came out with that line. I thought it was a goofy remark as a kid.” He laughed lightly. “Now I see it clearly. We have instant everything, food, money, even romance, at our fingertips.”

Claire took a tissue from the nightstand and dabbed her eyes. What was her father getting at?

“Valuable things are worth waiting for,” he stated. “And you, sweetheart, are a valuable thing.”

Claire gave the ceiling a crooked smile. Where her mother picked apart her every choice, her father’s tender concern was nurturing.

She heard a rustling on the line. “Dad?” She pressed her ear to the cordless phone.

“Give me that phone, you.”

Was Lloyd shouting?

“I am having a private conversation with my dau—”

“Listen up, princess—” Lloyd had wrestled the phone from her father.

“Lloyd,” her father hollered in the background.

There was more rustling. Claire had to laugh. She’d missed Lloyd’s comedic kibitzing.

“I overheard this whole conversation,” he said.

“It’s called eavesdropping,” Her father said in a muffled voice.

“With good reason,” Lloyd called away from the receiver. “I certainly agree with this business about you’re being ‘valuable.’ ”

“Thanks, love.”

“But enough of this ‘relationship process’ bullshit,” Lloyd said. “Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Claire answered in a hushed voice.

His tone softened. “You’re positively nuts about her. Aren’t you, lovey?”

“I am.” She could hardly argue the point.

“Then,” Lloyd’s pitch rose, “get your ass in gear and go after that girl already!”

“YOU’RE LIVING IN a tenement?” She stood in the doorway, gazing around the tiny apartment.

“Yes, but the culture is close.” Iz shrugged. “I mean, they are foreign here. Like me.”

Claire had taken the express subway. She didn’t know Iz’s neighborhood or where she might park her car. She handed Iz the zinnias she’d bought at a Brooklyn deli.

“Grazie tante.” Iz took them and arched a black brow. “I see you are still a gentleman.”

Claire felt herself blush, then she elbowed Iz. “Women buy flowers.”

“Certo. Sure.” Iz beamed at her. “And you defy stereotypes.” She traced her finger around Claire’s upturned mouth.

Claire closed her eyes. Even Iz’s light touch brought up a fierce longing.

Iz went into the narrow kitchen and took a glass from the dish drain. Claire sat on a worn, daisy-patterned chair.

“They’re a housewarming gift.”

“Mmm?” Iz glanced over from the sink.

“For your new place.” Claire nodded at the bouquet.

“Ah, yes.” Iz filled the glass and set it on the card table. She unwrapped the wax paper and stood the flowers in the glass. The stems stuck over its rim.

“Too big for this.” Claire grabbed the glass to keep it from toppling.

“I think I have . . . a knife somewhere.” Iz rummaged through a utensil drawer. “They have all this stores here. I got so much for very little.”

“Dollar stores.” Claire suppressed a laugh.

Observant as ever, Iz turned from the drawer. “You think this is funny?”

“I’m sorry.” Claire bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to embarrass Iz.

“Va bene. It’s all right.” She tilted her head to peer at Claire. “But I want to know what’s funny.”

“It’s nothing.” Claire buried her gaze on the peeling, scuffed linoleum between her loafers.

“Come, come, Clara.”

Iz seemed less burdened than at the gallery. Still, Claire knew, grieving the grandmother that had partly raised her had to be tough.

“Don’t force me to make you tell me.” Iz waved a butter knife.

“You went to a dollar store to decorate your apartment.” Claire started to giggle, then clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, I see.” Iz’s face reddened as she quaked with laughter. “But wait.”

The knife clattered as she dropped it in the scratchy, porcelain sink. She went to the other room, then returned with a white plaster vase. It was covered with glittery, star patterns. “Just look at this.”

Claire hid her face in her palms. She couldn’t speak for laughing.

Iz held up the gaudy vase. “Is this not incredible?”

“No.” Tears of laughter formed in Claire’s eyes. “It’s not.”

“Now you listen to me, Miss Clara.” Iz grinned. “This,” she pointed to the vase, “was no dolla—”

“Plus tax.”

“Oh, I’m going to hit you.” Iz rattled the vase. “This extraordinary piece of—”

“Crap.” Claire doubled over in the chair.

Iz poked Claire’s back. “This one costs two dollars.”

Claire lifted her head. “You got ripped off.”

They broke into a fit of laughter.

“Iz?” Claire widened her eyes at the vase. “Why not put the flowers in that?”

Iz glanced at the flowers. “Ah, yes. It makes sense. You are so practical.”

Claire rolled her eyes as Iz returned to the sink. Was her leg dragging?

“I know it’s all hideous. I had to have somethinghere, mmm?” She sighed. “I mean, here I am.”

“You’re making the best of things.” Claire nodded. “Well, don’t feel too badly. I bought my kitchen set at a thrift store.” She looked at the blank, white wall over the table. “I see you didn’t buy any art at that dollar store.”

“Aye.” Iz slapped her forehead. “Christ forbid.”

Claire giggled.

“I don’t know.” Iz brought the vase to the sink. “When you think of my . . .” She halted.

“What?”

A look of gloomy sadness clouded her eyes. “My home . . .”

Claire stood and enfolded Iz in her arms. “I know, sweetie.” She recalled how affectionate Iz and her doting Nonna had been.

“I mean, I can’t know . . .” The words stuck like glue in her throat.

“It’s the past.” Iz blinked against Claire’s shoulder. “I must move ahead now.”

“You will.” Claire held her at arm’s length. “But what you had with your grandmother will always be a part of who you are.”

Iz sighed again.

Claire sat. “I see you’re getting settled here, but—”

“What else can I do?” Iz poured in tap water, then arranged the flowers inside the vase.

“And your teaching assistant job in Rome?” Claire gazed up.

Iz set the flowers on the table, then slumped onto the other chair. “I lost that. I was in hospital so long. They needed to take another assistant.”

Claire took Iz’s outstretched hand. “You know our economy isn’t so hot here. Lousy, in fact. Especially since 9/11. I’ve been job hunting myself.”

“You have nothing yet?”

“I have something.” Claire frowned to think of the dreary bank job she’d just accepted. “But it’s not what I want. I just have to . . . survive.”

“I understand.” Iz nodded listlessly. “This gallery. They liked my work.”

“That’s something.” Claire half smiled.

“I sold three paintings in that show.” Her voice perked up slightly.

“Really? That’s good.” Claire patted her hand. She wondered how one show in a downtown gallery could have brought Iz to New York. To stay. “Sad to say things are dismal in the arts now. Worse than most fields.”

A number of galleries had folded. Arts teachers had been cut from schools. Grant funding for arts spaces had been whittled down. It wasn’t a pretty picture. 

“Mmm,” Iz mumbled. “But maybe no worse than Italy.”

“Iz,” Claire watched her in the thin light from the frosted window, “are you staying?”

“I don’t know.” Iz flipped her hand. 

“Did you lose everything?” Claire hadn’t broached the subject after the opening. The moment had been too raw.

“Not everything. I paid for my trip and this apartment. A lot though.” Iz clutched her forehead. “My home is gone. My nonna . . . how could she do this to me?” She wept into her palms. “She knew what my uncle’s wife is. She gave that creature my inheritan—”

“Isabelle,” Claire sprang from her seat and stooped to grasp Iz’s knees, “don’t you dare blame your grandmother.” Then she added in a calmer tone, “You know she adored you.”

“But how could she not change her will?” She shook her head with a wild, forlorn gaze.

“You were still a child to her.” Claire rubbed Iz’s arm. “You said so yourself. How could she have imagined they’d cook up such a cruel scheme?”

“Sì, Clara. È vero. You are much too right.” She grasped Claire’s hand, then wiped her eyes on a napkin. “Thank you for helping me see that. Just look at the . . . mad state I’m in.”

I know the feeling, Claire thought of her own anguish over Iz. She shifted her chair, sat, and held Iz’s hand on her lap. “Maybe . . . you need to go back and fight for what’s yours,” she mumbled at the floor.

The last thing she wanted was for Iz to leave. 

“My uncle is a lawyer.” Iz stared, her moist eyes wide, at Claire. “How can I fight that, eh? I would lose this little I have on legal costs. And think of the time. No, I must make a new life for myself,” she squeezed Claire’s hand, “somehow.”

“You can. You will.” Claire remembered Iz’s words the day they’d parted at the hotel in Rome. The day Iz had promised to come back for her. “I can. I will.”

The kitchen grew silent. Claire massaged Iz’s hunched back as she wondered again. Was she too codependent? Maybe she should join a twelve-step program.

“You have a visa?” She didn’t want to pry, but what could Iz be running away from?

“Mmm. Good for six months. After that, I must decide. Do I stay or no?” Iz paused, then drew a deep breath. “Are you hungry?” 

“Sure.” It was after six and it hadn’t occurred to Claire to eat. “We can go out . . . if you want.”

“No, no. I’ll cook us something. Did I not say I would?”

She had.

“Either way.”

“Yes? No?” Iz arched her dark eyebrows.

Claire flashed a grin. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Certo. Of course.”

Iz’s warm, albeit sad, smile seemed to flow over Claire like a refreshing stream. What wouldn’t I do for that smile? she thought dreamily.

“You know, I’m an okay cook.” Iz flipped up her thumb.

“I’m not.” Claire watched her fumble in the cabinet for a box of penne pasta.

Iz took a tin pot from inside the stove. She ran tap water into the pot, then clanked it on the back burner.

“Ah, we need fire.” She snapped her fingers, then went into the other room.

Claire fought an urge to run after her. They had been apart for so long she could barely sit still. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Settle down,” she chided herself.

CHAPTER 6

SHE OPENED HER eyes. Her mouth dropped. A small, dark creature poked its brown head out of the open cabinet. It waved its spindly antennae at her. She clutched her churning stomach. 

Iz returned with a cigarette lighter. “Clara?”

Claire slouched in the chair.

Iz squatted, studying her face. “Are you not well?”

“I . . . I . . .” Claire sprang to her feet. “Let’s eat out.”

“But why?” Iz grabbed her hand. “You are my guest. Look, I already start—”

As if a hideous monster had appeared, Claire pointed mutely at the cabinet.

Iz spun around and grimaced. “Did you just see a bug?”

Claire shuddered. Iz looked away. Was she grinning?

Claire scratched her arms. The very thought of roaches and their creepy limbs filled her with horror. “Can’t you kill it?” She rattled her fists with frustration.

“It’s a problem.” Iz patted Claire’s back like she was burping a baby.

Claire twitched.

“Clara, honestly,” Iz said.

“You won’t kill it?”

“It’s not like . . . killing a dragon.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “Did you just call me aprincess?” Only her father and Lloyd had ever teased her like that.

“I’m sorry.” Iz waved her hands. “But it’s only a little bu—”

“I won’teat near it!” Claire grabbed her bag from under the table.

“You cannot leave me for this.” Iz chuckled into her hand.

Claire crossed her arms sharply. “Are you finished?”

“Sì, sì.” Iz bobbed her head. “It’s just . . . with everything that’s happened, I’ve been rethinking my life.”

“Huh?”

“I am thinking of being a Buddhist.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Claire squinted at the cabinet.

Thankfully, the roach had crawled off.

“But what does that have to do with . . . bugs?” 

“Every creature on this planet has some purpose,” Iz explained.

“Whoever said that never met my mother.”

Iz grinned. “Clara,” she shook her head, “Buddhists don’t kill . . . anything.” 

“Are you a Buddhist yet?”

“No.” Iz laughed out loud.

“Well, then . . .” Claire thrust her hands to her hips.

“Relax, bella, ah?” Iz led her back to the chair.

“All right.” Claire inhaled. Iz’s calling her bella was enough to soothe her frazzled nerves. “I’ll try.”

“I have a good wine.” Iz went to the cabinet, then held up a bottle of Merlot. “See? No dollars store vino for you.”

Claire smiled.

AFTER SUPPER, IZ asked her to spend the night.

“I understand if you’re not . . . interested.” She shrugged sadly. “I am not so attractive . . . now.”

“You’re gorgeous, sweetie,” Claire said.

True, Iz had changed since they’d made love in Rome. But so had Claire. Though Iz was less girlish, her manner was as charming as ever. And hadn’t her magnetic charm attracted Claire from the get-go?

“I’m no kid myself.” Claire lifted a strand of her bangs. “I think I spotted some gray the other day.” She thought of a recent crack her mother had made. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“No, you did not. You’re as perfect as ever.” Iz kissed Claire’s hands in turn. “Stay with me, mmm?”

“Can we go to my place?” Claire wrinkled her nose.

“Please, bella.” Iz walked backwards, leading Claire across the creaky, wooden floor. “It’s dark, and we are here. Stay.” Her voice softened to a tender coo as they stepped toward the mattress.

“All right.” How could Claire resist? 

Then she shot a stern glare around the room. “But if one bug crawls on me I’ll scream bloodymurder.”

Iz’s eyes widened. “Now Iam . . . frightened.”

Claire sat on the mattress. Opposite the bed, was an open suitcase filled with crumpled clothes, mostly jeans. A green canvas backpack hung from the bathroom doorknob. Other than a thin, single mattress and two stacked, kitchen chairs, there was no furniture. Iz’s jacket draped from the top chair. There was no closet.

“Shh.” Iz stooped over Claire, raking her hair behind her ears. “Do not think of anything bad.” She kissed her lips.

Her kiss was as entrancing as Claire recalled. “I could say the same to you.” She met Iz’s penetrating gaze.

“How sweet you are to think of me.” Iz’s mouth curved in a tender smile.

“You thought of me.” Claire spread her arms.

Iz knelt and fell against Claire’s chest. Iz exhaled as if she released a deep heartache.

They stripped to their underwear. Iz chuckled at the MIND THE GAP thong Claire had bought in London. As they clung to each other in the dark, she stroked Claire’s face, neck, and arms. Claire peered into her woeful eyes. Though Iz didn’t cry, clearly, she needed to be held.

Street light filtered through the Venetian blinds. The traffic noise seemed endless. Cars loudly honked and alarms blared unchecked. The nearby elevated subway rattled and emergency vehicles screeched by. It grew quiet for a while. Then a garbage truck rumbled with a deafening roar below the window. Do you live on an interstate highway? Claire wanted to ask, but held her tongue.

Soon, she felt as if there were no sound other than their intermingling breath.

Iz covered them with a white, cotton blanket, and they snuggled in a tight embrace. Finally, Iz’s eyes closed, and Claire let her eyes drift shut.

“I did think of you . . .” Iz’s whisper tickled Claire’s left ear.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO your leg?” Claire shrieked. 

The blanket lay twisted along the mattress seam. Iz had rolled over in her sleep. A jagged scar trailed her right thigh from below the knee to her ankle bone.

“Hmm?” Iz half raised her head from the throw pillow. “That looks bad, ah?”

“Isabelle?” Claire squinted in the stripy light that streamed through the blinds.

“My accident.” Iz flipped onto her back and yawned. “I told you in that pub. Remember?”

“Yes, but . . . you said it was fine.” Claire shifted to Iz’s side.

“It is fine . . . now,” Iz mumbled.

“It’s much worse than you let on. You had surgery,” Claire said.

“Sì. Those doctors in Roma,” she stroked Claire’s dangling fingers, “they operated through the night to save this leg. It’s a miracolo . . .”

“A miracle?”

Iz nodded. “A miracle I can walk.”

“What a nightmare.” Claire gazed at the bulging, red scar.

“They asked if I wished to contact my family.” Iz’s eyes narrowed. “ ‘All my family is dead,’ I told them flat.”

“How did this happen?” Claire recollected Nonna scolding Iz about her driving.“Non guidi veloce.” Claire had only understood “veloce.” Fast. But she wasn’t about to lecture Iz. From the sight of the ugly scar that pinched her skin, she’d paid for her lousy driving.

With her arms crossed under her head, Iz glared at the blinds. “My grandmother’s lifeless body was not cold in the grave. We were in the kitchen. My aunt shouted as my uncle stood like a statue.”

“In Tuscany?” Claire figured Nonna had been buried in her village home.

Iz went on as if he hadn’t heard. “She said I had hidden behind my grandmother’s,” she paused, “something like protection for too long. It was time for me to be . . . responsible. My uncle told me, ‘Until you marry, your inheritance will remain in trust.’ ”

Claire couldn’t picture them shouting in Nonna’s cheery, sunlit kitchen.

 “ ‘Marry a man,’ my aunt screamed into my face. ‘I will never marry a man! That I promise.’ Then that bitch said, ‘You disgrace your family.’ She spat the words at me.” Iz dropped her head on the pillow, then stared at the ceiling. “I just looked at my uncle who stayed quiet. He wouldn’t dare to say a hard thing like that.” She flicked her hand out from under her chin.

“What does that mean?” Claire asked of the gesture.

“Nothing nice. It means, ‘I throw you up.’ ”

“Yikes.” Claire grimaced.

“ ‘How can I disgrace my family?’ I shouted back. ‘My grandmother’s dying words were she knew I loved women. It was all right so long as I am happy.’ ”

“Did she say that?” Like warm fingers, Claire felt the rays of sunlight pinch her cheeks. Hadn’t Nonna pinched her cheeks when she’d said, “Sei bellissima”?

“Ah, mia nonna.” Iz’s frown softened into an affectionate smile. “She said people didn’t see why she loved her cats so well. ‘Never mind people. It’s love just the same.’ ”

“Sure, it is.” Claire chuckled. “Love of women. Or cats.”

“Naturally, they couldn’t spare time to be there when she died,” Iz muttered. “My aunt accused me of lying. ‘Your grandmother was a deeply religious woman. She would never say the way you live is all right.’ ” Iz’s nostrils flared. “I told them, ‘Perhaps Nonna believed that the heart of her religion is love.’ ”

“What did they say to that?”

Iz rolled her eyes wearily. “They had a very confused look. It was too philosophical for them.”

Claire smiled.

“ ‘You don’t think sensibly, Isabella.’ Now my uncle started in shouting. ‘How can you live in this childish way?’ That was enough. Her screaming was one thing. She’s not my blood. But to hear my uncle . . .” Her head flopped like a rag doll’s to her chest.

Claire wiped the tear that rolled down Iz’s cheek.

Iz inhaled. “Then I ran out of the house and jumped onto my bike. It was not raining when I left Toscana. By the time I got outside Roma, it poured hard. But I couldn’t stop.” She faced Claire with a wide-eyed, innocent look. “You saw what a careful driver I am.”

“Huh?” Claire recalled their breakneck drive from Venice and the glove compartment stuffed with speeding tickets.

“All right. Not so careful. I’m Italian, no?” Iz shrugged briefly. “Still, I would never drive at such a speed in a rain like that.” 

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know, Clara, that night I just went crazy in my head.” She nuzzled her cheek on Claire’s shoulder. “I only knew I needed to run . . . to escape.”

Hadn’t she once escaped her abusive father in the driving rain?

“Where did you go?” Claire teased her fingers through the tangled mop of Iz’s hair.

“I never made it to Roma. I spun around and crashed onto the road.” She whirled her finger in the air. “I flew off my bike and slammed against some gate. There was a sharp metal . . . Aye.” She slapped her hands to her ears. “I still hear that ripping in my brain.”

“Ugh.” Claire clenched her teeth as if she heard it, too.

“I didn’t realize that terrible sound came from my own leg. Then, nothing.” Iz clapped loudly. “I woke up in hospital.”

“I had no idea,” Claire mumbled. She flushed to think she’d imagined Iz had carelessly forgotten her. “You were completely alone. If only I had known.”

“No, no, Clara. I was never alone.” Iz’s fair complexion brightened. “I am blessed with amazing friends. Even old Lucia came just to hold my hand and pray for me.”

“Mmm.” Claire trailed her finger around Iz’s mouth. “Guess I’m not the only one who can’t resist you. Am I?”

Iz smiled, then rose from the mattress. “It’s a long story. Believe it or no, there’s more.”

“Tell me whatever you want.” Claire rolled onto her side as Iz climbed over her.

“Va bene. All right.” Iz jerked her thumb toward the kitchen. “But first, coffee.”

Claire heard her rustling in the kitchen. If anything, Iz could weave an intriguing tale. It was certainly plausible. Wasn’t the scar proof enough?

Iz returned with two steaming cups. “Black, all right? I can go for milk and zuc . . . err, sugar if you wish.”

“No. It’s fine.” Claire didn’t take her coffee black. But it was early, and she didn’t want Iz to go. Even to the corner deli.

They sat on the mattress, sipping. Claire crinkled her nose at the strong coffee. Iz set her cup on the floor and rested her head on Claire’s chest.

“So what happened then?” Claire hesitated. “If you want to tell me . . .”

“It’s nothing much to tell.” Iz held the cup to her lips. “My uncle called a friend to say I could get the money from the house. But I had to clean and sell it. Three friends and I went up. We worked for three days.”

“Three friends in three days.” Claire touched Iz’s cheek. Would the solid feel of her skin bolster the reality? She was actually here. “Sounds like a movie.” 

“A very bad one.” Iz snickered. “That mad cow, my aunt, sold everything of value. Even the bed my grandfather was born and died in.” She sucked her teeth with a disapproving expression.

Claire unraveled a matted strand of Iz’s hair.

“The rest was years of junk piled up. We were exhausted and we smelled to heaven.” Iz pinched her nostrils.

Her friends had chased down eighteen strays to bring them to a sanctuary. Finally, they had driven Lucia, Nonna’s cook, to her family in Rome.

“I had no idea there were so many cats, and poor Lucia wept like a baby to leave her village. What could I do?” Iz sighed wistfully. “I stayed with my family ghosts until the buyers came. They seemed most interested in the garden.”

“It is something.” Claire envisioned the blossoming yard that overlooked Florence. Weren’t Iz’s landscapes reminiscent of that lush, idyllic view? A view she’d once told Claire her eyes were filled with? 

Iz nodded slowly. “My aunt burnt every last paper in the fireplace. My address book was no more. No telephone number even. Then, like an angel from paradise, your letter arrived.” She beamed at Claire. “I had your address. I begged that gallery to put me in another show. When I told them about my accident, they said it was all right.”

“That was some good news then.” Claire sipped her coffee.

“I no longer had my bike, of course.” Iz took a long draught of coffee. “That vulture aunt sold even Nonna’s ancient car.”

Claire chuckled to think of Nonna puttering along in her antiquated jalopy.

“Then I crawled to the train to get to hospital for this.” She tapped her leg. “The pain was so bad they gave me too much medicine. I slept and slept and didn’t have sense even to write a letter. But,” she wagged her finger at Claire, “I told that gallery to be sure to send you a postcard.”

Claire looked away. It was an extraordinary tale, for sure. But then, she had to ask herself, was there anything ordinary about Isabelle?

“And so, Miss Clara . . .” Iz wedged her empty cup between the mattress and the wall. She turned over and squeezed Claire snugly. “Here we are.”

Claire kissed her lips. Then she ran her fingers through Iz’s thick, disheveled hair.

“Do you need a haircut?” she asked.

Iz shrugged, then flashed a girlish grin. “I could use one, ah?”

“I’ll talk to Lloyd.” Claire smiled. “He knows a lot of hairdressers.”

CHAPTER 7

“I’M NOT WEARING any underwear.” Kristen leaned across the table and purred in a sultry whisper.

Claire tried to smile. “That’s . . . cute.”

“Saves time, right?” She winked a bright blue, almost turquoise, eye. “What are you wearing? Underneath?”

“I’m sorry.” Claire stared at the salad she hadn’t, other than to nibble on the feta cheese, touched. “I need to tell you . . .”

When she and Iz hadn’t made love, Claire wondered if they might just be friends. Maybe she’d fly off to Italy. Who knew where—if anywhere—she stood with Iz?

Either way, Claire couldn’t string Kristen along.

“We’ve been dating for almost a month.” Kristen watched her with a muddled look. “But, hey, if it’s too soon, that’s okay.” She shrugged casually, then bit into her gyro. “We can wait.”

Claire faced the window. She watched the bustle of Kristen’s Park Slope, or what she’d called “Dyke Slope,” neighborhood.

“I’m sorry,” Claire mumbled again.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. The apology sped through her mind like a careening racecar.

“I like you, Claire.” There was a note of obvious disappointment in Kristen’s fading voice.

“I like you too, Kirs . . . Kristen.” How could she have almost forgotten the woman’s name?

“Is there someone else?”

Where had Claire heard this before? She thought of Iz’s professor. Hadn’t Claire asked her that very question in Rome?

“I think so.” She stared at the cyclical pattern that swum like gray paper clips on the table surface.

Kristen smirked at her half eaten gyro. “Well, that’s . . . vague.”

Please don’t cry.

“For me, too.” Claire simply couldn’t choke out another apology. “Believe me, I’ve been in your shoes.” She hid her face in her palm. Jesus, what a dumb ass thing to say!

She recalled the stockbroker’s nasty email. Would Kristen lash out now? Claire braced herself for a moody scene.

But Kristen only sighed, dropped a ten dollar bill on the table, and stood. “That should cover my tab here.” With her eyes lowered, she chucked her chin at the plate.

“I thought she forgot me and then . . . then she,” Claire stammered feebly, “magically appeared. I just can’t focus on anything. Or anyone else.”

Kristen smiled glumly. “I guess we all need to follow our heart.” She walked alongside the row of tables to the door.

Claire exhaled with relief. Thankfully, Kristen, a genuinely likeable woman, had been gracious. As she watched her whirl through the revolving door of the Greek diner, Claire felt a pang of regret. Maybe she’d made a mistake.

She exhaled again, shoved her plate aside, and flopped her head on her crossed arms. What good was second guessing now?

As usual, Isabelle was much too distracting.

WOULD HER EYES roll up inside her head? Barely noon, and the two cups of coffee she’d gulped back hadn’t taken effect. She clicked seemingly endless numbers onto the adding machine.

Hadn’t she always found banking to be deadly dull? Even at the tender age of eight? Her father had brought Claire and Beth—Matt had been too young—to his uptown bank. He’d wanted to show off his girls to his co-workers.

All Claire could think about was the ice cream he promised to treat them to. Even then, her hopeless sarcasm had emerged. “We’ll need a treat after this,” she griped to her puzzled five-year-old sister.

“Claire.” Her father’s shadow fell across her desk at the back of the open floor. “Line four for you.” He nodded at a blinking, red square on her console phone.

“Who . . . ?” She’d only started the job a week before and hadn’t given out the number.

“Lloyd.” He groaned, tapping the big face of his watch. “Try to get him to keep the personal calls to a minimum.”

“Sure, Dad.” She picked up the phone.

“Lord knows, I can’t.” He threw up his hands as he marched across the flat, gray carpet.

“Hello, lovey,” she greeted Lloyd.

“How’s the princess in the counting tower?” he teased.

“Ready for the cavalry.” She grunted, then quickly added, “Please don’t tell Dad how bored I am.” As much as she hated the job, she wouldn’t offend her father.

“Dearest, do I ever tell tales?”

“Mmm. Never, ever.” She smiled to hear his chipper voice above the droning buzz of office machines. “What’s up?”

“Are you sitting down for this one?”

“What else would I be doing here?” She cupped her fist over her mouth and yawned.

“Well, you know your girlfriend got this nude modeling gig . . .”

Iz had told Claire she’d found work at an art school.

“Oh.” Claire shrugged. “I assumed she’d be teaching.” Since she wasn’t a citizen, Iz must have taken the off-the-booksjob.

“Oopsie. Did I just blurt something I shouldn’t?”

Claire watched her father listen to a whiny customer. His serious frown was mirrored in the glassy barrier above the marble, bank counter.

She gripped the phone between her shoulder and ear. “You’re telling tales now, aren’t you, Lloyd?”

He giggled. “I know, m’dear, but this is too precious.”

“Go on.” She scanned the ledger column for where she’d left off.

“Don’t panic, but I just brought Isabelle home from the emergency room. Gad, her apartment building—”

“What?”

The woman at the desk in front of Claire’s turned. 

“What the hell is going on?” She ducked her head below the desk and whispered anxiously.

“She’s fine, love. Nothing serious.”

“Why didn’t she call me then?”

“Umm,” he hedged, “I think she was embarrassed. I know I was. For both of us.”

Claire sighed. Was the girl in a permanent state of crisis? “What’s so embarrassing about the emergency room?”

“Well, you didn’t hear this from me—”

“Now that we’re all keeping secrets,” Claire muttered.

“She was on her way to this modeling job and had on a . . . I shudder to speak the word . . . tampon.”

“Huh?” Claire gaped at the phone.

“She didn’t want that string to show when she modeled.” He paused, most likely, for dramatic effect. “So she cut it off.”

Claire gripped the edge of her desk, then slumped on her spinning chair. “Don’t tell me it got stuck?”

“Need I go on?” 

“Jesus Christ.” She wagged her head.

The woman looked back again and scowled. Just then, Claire noticed a large, silver cross dangling from her neck.

“Great,” she mumbled. “I just insulted my new co-worker’s savior.” She grinned sheepishly until the woman turned around.

“Is Isabelle okay?” Claire asked.

“She’s fine. They used some kind of clamp to get it out. I begged her to spare me the gory details, but she said it was painless.” Lloyd chuckled. “You’ve got a real character on your hands, all right.”

“Well, you would know from a character.”

“Excuse me, young lady,” he chided with mock sternness. “Is it nice to rag on an old boy?”

“Affectionate teasing, love.”

“Mmm hmm. And here I thought you were pissed off at the new girlfriend and taking it out on me.”

“Lloyd,” she went back to number crunching on the ten key adding machine, “I love that Iz is such a character. But,” she paused, then narrowed her eyes at the ledger, “she is not getting a scooter.”

“Oh, my.” He sucked his teeth. “I’ll stay out of that one, shall I?”

“She has this bizarre inclination for hospitals, and I am not scraping her off Broadway.”

They’d discussed it the Sunday before at a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown. It had been drizzling, and Iz hobbled in to find Claire. A server slid two dishes of pork buns off her cart onto their table. No sooner had they begun to eat when Iz ranted about “that filthy subway.”

“This peoples is too close and there is no air. Even to breathe.” She gestured wildly. “And the ground,” she scrunched her face in a comical look of disgust, “it’s like walking inside a toilet.”

Claire was trying her damnedest not to laugh. “Maybe you can work in the evenings. I’ll drive you.”

 “Ach.” She clasped her hands in a begging gesture. “Prego. No more charity, please.”

Claire took a bamboo dish of shrimp dumplings from the next circling cart. The old woman stamped the check with a red character for their order.

Claire crossed her chopsticks, jabbed, then raised a dumpling to her mouth. Then she turned. “When have you ever taken charity from me?” 

Apparently, Iz hadn’t heard.

“This scooter is a child’s toy compared to my motorcycle.” She bit into her pork bun. “But I can get around the public streets with some dignity. You know I drove always in Italy.”

“Mmm, that’s what worries me.” Claire nibbled the dumpling.

She studied the brocaded, gold dragon writhing across the bright red table. Could Iz even get a license to drive a scooter in the city? Maybe the argument was moot.

Still, she rambled on. “What is there to worry, ah?” She slapped her chopsticks onto the table dragon’s tail. “No, no. I am certain. I am getting this toy.”

“Fine.” Claire leaned over. “Just picture the worry on your grandmother’s face whenever you ride that thing in the public streets.”

Guilting Iz with the image of her dead grandmother had been bad, Claire knew. But she’d wanted to make an impression.

Iz clapped her hands to her eyes. “Ooh. Now I cannot.”

“I know.” Claire smiled slyly. “You’re so visual.”

Iz dropped her hands and gaped at Claire. “That was too devious, Miss Clara.”

Claire finished talking with Lloyd and gazed across the bank. Her father’s graying head was bowed over a stack of printouts near the fax machine. His pin-striped, black and white suit reminded her of prison garb.

How could he bear this bland job of sorting out other people’s money? Maybe having a characterlike Lloyd in his life spiced up that blandness.

She thought of Iz’s tampon emergencyand chuckled to herself. Then she went back to clicking numbers on the adding machine.

At least she had a laugh to get through the otherwise dreary day.

SHOULD SHE DROP by her mother’s on her way uptown? She’d need to transfer off the express subway. She hadn’t visited since Iz’s arrival two weeks before.

Back on the Mother scene, Beth was in Hawaii on a second honeymoon. “I am attempting to save my marriage,” she’d hastily told Claire who had gone to visit her nephew and new niece in the Hamptons. Beth was busy packing.

“Mother should be pleased about your trip,” Claire had casually remarked.

“She’s paying for it,” Beth had answered in a cool voice.

Meanwhile, their brother, a struggling student, lived in a hovel.

Claire clung, bobbing with each jerky motion, to the bar of the packed subway. With her shoulder bag pressed to her side, she cradled a warm, paper bag of takeout food. There was a decent Italian place near the bank where she’d stopped after work.

This would be her second visit to Iz’s place. She had packed her nightgown and toothbrush on the assumption—or fluttering hope—of spending the night.

As the subway neared Grand Central, she decided not to transfer to the local. She’s probably out shopping, Claire told herself. She’d call her mother the following Monday. That’ll work for the deadest day of the week. She smirked.

Were all her interactions with her mother a necessary evil?

The subway pulled, screeching along its rusty tracks, out of the station. Figures, standing or wending their way across the platform, passed slowly. Then, like actors in a fast-forwarding film, they flashed by as the train sped up. Then blackness. The train zoomed through the tunnel.

At Iz’s station, the doors whooshed open. Claire shuffled and jostled along with the work-weary passengers.It had been a tedious week of learning her new job. She was in no mood to battle crowds.

Still, Iz always had some excuse for why she couldn’t come to Brooklyn. Maybe she perceived that as more charity.

Claire rounded the corner, then stepped across the dirty white of a stone courtyard. Three teenage boys in hooded jackets huddled on the curving steps.

As she stood before the steely row of buzzers, Claire heard a hissing sound. She turned to spot a husky boy urinating alongside the steps. She gagged, then covered her nose and mouth.

She slapped the buzzer for 5C. A long buzz resounded. She flung open the glass door and dashed inside.

Iz stood in the open doorway as Claire reached the landing. She pressed her hand to her chest, panting heavily.

“So you are smoking now?” Iz teased.

“I’m . . . I . . .” Claire couldn’t speak.

Screaming curses emanated from the apartment near the stairs. I must really love this woman. Claire tripped across the cracked tiles into Iz’s arms.

“It’s crazy here, no?” Iz took the bag of food.

“You should ask who it is when you answer the door.”

“But I knew you were coming.” Iz kissed her lips and went inside.

Claire stood on the threshold, staring after her.

“Clara? Are you not coming in?”

Claire noticed the pile of bills on the table. Iz swept them up and stuffed them inside a drawer.

Claire averted her gaze to the floor. “How’s the art school job going?”

Iz slumped in the chair beside the humming fridge. “Oh, I got sacked.” She frowned.

“Why?”

“It’s my fault. I should have phoned. I couldn’t go . . .” Her eyes flashed angrily. “One day, I couldn’t go. I got a big lecture. This drawing professor says, ‘There was a whole class waiting for you.’ ” She sunk her fist on her cheek. “What a bitch.”

“Why didn’t you go?” Thanks to Lloyd’s telling tales, Claire knew the reason.

“Err . . .” Iz blushed. “I don’t wish to talk about that.”

Claire decided not to tease her. Instead, she studied the white scar of stitches that branded her own pinkie. The ER co-pay for Iz’s flimsy travel insurance must have been steep.

“Can I have a glass of water?” Claire changed the subject.

“Of course.” Iz got up, then shrugged dramatically. “Ah, I am a bad host. Here you were puffing on the steps.”

“It’s okay.” Claire smiled. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Aye. Molte cose. Many things.” Iz went to the sink. “This apartment? It’s not so good, eh?”

“Do you think the real estate broker ripped you off?”

“Uh.” Iz wagged her head. “I cannot afford to be ripped off.”

“This is New York, sweetie,” Claire joked. “Everyone can afford to be ripped off.”

She shared her idea for a gift basket business.

“Maybe for some extra cash? You can get everything, baskets, products at those dollar stor—”

Iz chuckled. “You have ruined me for that dollars store.”

Claire giggled. “Think about it, Iz. You can sell them to friends.”

“But I only know . . . you.”

They stared at each other, then laughed loudly.

“We can borrow some of Lloyd’s friends.”

Iz grinned. “Oh, this poor Lloyd.”

They laughed again.

They sat on the bed, eating lasagna out of the takeout tin. Someone upstairs blasted salsa music. A man argued, at the top of his lungs, with a cop in the street below. Sirens blared.

Facing the far corner like punished children were two canvases. Claire figured those were the landscapes the gallery hadn’t sold.

Iz set the lasagna she’d barely eaten on the stacked chair. She switched on the small TV propped on a brown box. She jiggled its antennae until the fuzzy reception cleared.

Claire looked seriously at Iz. “I didn’t think they made black-and-white televisions anymore.”

“Ah, Miss Clara . . .” She smiled.

“Hmm?”

CHAPTER 8

“I LIKE YOU.” Iz kissed Claire.

They settled back in each other’s arms. The six o’clock news came on. There was a segment where the mayor talked about stepping up subway security.

“Why does your city leader have no lips?” Iz asked.

Claire shrugged at the TV. “Our last leader had no face. Only a skull.”

They giggled wildly.

Then a female newscaster in a red suit stood before a map with IRAQ was printed across it. “Twenty-eight Iraqi civilians died in a suicide bombing today,” she announced.

“This is too terrible.” Iz clucked. “Only because these poor peoples are born into this desert must they be subjected to this.”

Claire covered her eyes. “I’m so ashamed.”

“But what do you have to be ashamed?” Iz caressed Claire’s bowed head. “What could you do?”

“I don’t know.” She leaned into Iz’s tender fingers. “More. Something.”

“It’s a good thing,” Iz said slowly, seeming to put her thoughts in order, “to care about the world.”

“I hope so.”

“Too many give up caring.” Iz creased her forehead. “But you cannot go to the other side.”

“You mean extreme?”

Iz nodded gently. “And forget to care for you.”

“It’s been a long week.” Claire’s eyelids sagged.

“Go to sleep then.” Iz stared at the television.

“But I wanted . . .”

“What?”

“I wanted us to . . .” She couldn’t utter another word as her heavy eyes shut.

“VA FUNGOOL!”

“Wha?” Claire blinked.

Iz crashed around on the floor.

Claire squinted in the darkness. “What are you doing?”

Iz held up a black boot. “Rejecting my beliefs for you.”

“Huh?”

“I just killed a bug.” Iz gritted her teeth.

Claire smiled drowsily. Even a dreaded roach couldn’t shake the elation she felt being there, close to Iz.

“But you’re not upset, Miss Clara?” She widened her eyes.

“No. Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you are so fine,” Iz whispered in a gentle hush.

“Delicate, you mean.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Her lush lips glowed neon pink in the street light. “Delicate things are precious, no?”

“That’s sweet.” Claire reached for her.

“What’s sweet,” Iz dropped the boot and nuzzled Claire’s cheek with her mouth, “is this.”

“You’re such a charmer.” She felt Iz’s lips tingle along her mouth.

Iz climbed on top of Claire who drew her down. She pinched Claire’s chin, opening her mouth. They kissed, first lightly, then hungrily as if they had waited too long for this moment.

They had.

Iz reached under Claire’s nightgown and rubbed her inner thighs. Claire fluttered her lashes.

Still, she resolved to control herself. She wouldn’t go overboard like she had in Rome. She’d groaned so loudly someone in the next room had banged on the wall.

She inhaled as Iz raised her nightgown to her stomach. She slipped out of the nightgown. Iz removed their underpants and her own sleeveless, gray t-shirt.

Claire instantly recognized the gold necklace. The medallion etched with Iz’s mother’s name, Olivia, hung from her neck.

“Ah, here is my bella Clara,” she purred.

Claire stroked Iz’s hanging breasts. Iz threw back her head and moaned as Claire kneaded her nipples. Then Iz shifted down so her feet dangled off the mattress. Steadily thrusting, she pressed against Claire.

Claire’s head fell back, her hair streaming across the pillow. “Mmm,” she moaned softly as her body rose.

“Hmm?” Iz peered quizzically at her. “Now you come like a married woman.” Her face reddened, and she slapped both hands to her mouth.

Claire gasped.

“Ah, no!” Iz’s eyes went wide. “I cannot believe I said that.”

Claire twisted from under her and faced the wall. “Just how many married women are you basing this comparison on?” she grumbled.

“Clara, please.” Iz flapped her hands like a crazed bird. “Not so many.” She bit her lip. “Aye. My hand is in my mouth again.”

“Your foot is in it. Listen, I realize you’ve been with other women. But do we need to make a competition out of this?” Claire felt like crying.

“Gesù.” Iz rubbed Claire’s hunched back. “It was nothing, bella, please. Just one . . . unhappily married girl.”

“Girl?” Claire didn’t want details.

“What could I do? Her husband was always away on some business.” Iz shrugged sheepishly. “How could I just leave her so . . . lonely?”

“Huh?” Claire turned, her mouth dropped open. “You were on a diplomatic mission?”

“No, no.” Iz shook her head. “Nothing so serious. It was a student program in . . . err . . . You see?” She flipped her hand. “I cannot even remember the country. I was a child then. Nineteen. Maybe twenty.” 

Claire glared at the wall.

“Mi dispiace, eh? I do apologize,” she murmured. “Please don’t be upset with me.” She massaged Claire’s slumped shoulders with her graceful fingers. “Mmm?”

Claire consoled herself. Iz could hardly have become such a good lover without any experience.

“That part of my life is over now,” she whispered in Claire’s ear.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s why I stayed with the insane Antonia, that cruel professor for too long. I hoped to be more . . .” She squinted at the ceiling.

“Monogamous?” Claire sighed.

“Sì. That.”

She didn’t even know the word!

CLAIRE’S FATHER INVITED them all to a French restaurant.

“Time to officially celebrate Matt’s engagement,” he announced, during a coffee break at the bank.

Claire insisted on paying her share of the bill.

“Nonsense,” her father waved his hand. “I won’t hear of it.”

“Dad,” she shrugged at her third cup of coffee that day, “I want to ask Isabelle and—”

“Of course, dear.” He sipped what he called his afternoon spot of tea. “Bring her along.”

That Wednesday evening, Claire buzzed her door. Iz immediately buzzed her in.

“Don’t dream I’m walking up five flights,” she called into the intercom. Her car was double-parked below the courtyard steps.

She leaned heavily on the buzzer. A static voice issued through the dotted speaker.

“Clara, come up then.”

“Isabelle,” she inhaled to reign in her frustration, “we’re going to be late.”

More silence.

This time, she repeatedly pressed the buzzer on and off.

“Basta. Va bene.” Iz laughed into the speaker. “Wait, ah? I’m coming.”

“When?”

She’d been in the country for nearly a month. Was she still on Italia time?

“Adesso. Now. Soon.”

Claire almost sat on the steps when she whiffed urine. She covered her mouth. Her lavender skirt swirled and her boot heels clacked as she sprinted across the courtyard. She dodged a speeding gypsy cab, then tumbled into her car.

A hefty man in a white Cadillac pulled up to her window. The driver, a man in a yellow suit, smoked a thin cigar that dangled from his thick lips. He eyed Claire from over the rim of his silvery sunglasses.

“Wonderful,” she muttered as she clicked on the door locks. Then she pressed the car horn until the man drove off.

Finally, Iz came out, clutching a paper bag. She looked anxiously around, then shuffled, her right leg dragging, toward the car.

“Forgive me, Clara.” Iz kissed her cheek. “But I had to make more baskets today.”

“Another minute and I’d be standing on a street corner in Times Square.”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind.” Claire looked her over.

Iz’s hair was neatly cut in a tapered style below her ears. She wore a smart, royal blue pants suit with gold buttons.

“You approve, no?”

“Your hair is wet.” Claire turned the key in the ignition.

Iz’s musky powder scented the air.

“Yes, there was no time to dry it. I had to make those baskets for two of Lloyd’s friends. I was about to bring them when someone rushed me out.” She smirked at Claire.

“Iz,” she rolled her eyes, “we need to park in the West Village, then walk to the restaurant.” 

Iz simply stared out the window, probably lost in her inner world. Claire shrugged. Iz’s impracticality was a character trait she could never hope to change.

Claire pressed her foot to the gas pedal. “Bring the baskets another time.” She patted Iz’s hand. “They’re lovely.”

Iz’s baskets were lovely. Claire had gotten her a how-to book, Creative Gift Baskets and You. Iz’s were even more creative, with their twirling bows and ornamental touches.

“That box is for you.” Claire jerked her head toward the back seat.

“But what is this?” Iz pulled the box onto her lap. She opened the lid, and glossy, multicolored bows spilled on the floor. Her face lit up.

“It’s Christmas.” Claire smiled.

“Molto grazie.” Iz gathered the bows into the box. “I’m afraid these baskets won’t buy me a mansion.”

Didn’t Claire’s mother once rub her nose in the fact that Walt had a mansion? She pictured the stiff man she’d jilted with his wife and, by now, two kids. The life Claire had fled.

They stopped at a traffic light. She leaned over the shift and kissed Iz. “A mansion couldn’t contain you,” she cooed affectionately.

Iz blushed.

Claire had finally bought an engagement gift. A food processor. Practical, of course.

“I’ll sign the card from both of us . . . if that’s okay,” she told Iz as they drove along the West Side Highway.

Iz drew a dark green bottle out of the paper bag. “I got them a vino,” she said in a listless voice.

“GOOD EVENING, LADIES.” A mustached maitre d’ in a white suit ushered them to the table.

A wide, bow window featured a sweeping stretch of the Hudson River. George, Lloyd, Matt, and Anya passed trays of hors d’oeuvres across the long table.

“Hope we’re not too late.” Claire introduced Iz to Matt and Anya, then handed them the gift.

“Oh, sis, you shouldn’t have.” Matt, who had always hated to dress up, wore a blue sweatshirt and jeans.

“Thanks to you, sis . . . and to your Isabelle.” Anya, who wore a polka dotted dress, smiled sweetly.

Iz nodded politely as she set the bottle beside a twinkling candle. She and Claire sat beside the red, velvety wall.

“Help yourselves, girls.” George passed a tray of stuffed mushrooms.

Claire tasted a mushroom and raised a brow. “Delicious.”

“Swanky grub, huh?” Matt leaned over the table to remark.

“Nothing but the best for my brood,” their father chirped.

“Mmm.” Lloyd handed Claire a menu from behind his chair. “And his brood is starving.”

“Oh, did we keep you waiting?” Iz bit the side of her lip. “I am to blame.”

“Not to worry. Yes?” Anya said in her perky voice. “You come from faraway.”

“That we did.” Claire chuckled.

After the waiter brought their entrees, Matt tried to persuade them to camp.

“. . . before it gets too cold,” he said.

Lloyd crossed his arms and shivered. “It’s too cold now.”

He had a point. Though it had been a warm September, it was nearly October.

“You go, darling.” Lloyd elbowed George with a teasing smile.

George shrugged apologetically. “Thanks, son. We’re not the camping types.”

“Just a couple of city hicks here,” Lloyd quipped.

Claire felt secretly relieved that no one had brought up the wedding. Their mother still didn’t know about it. Clearly, Matt was putting off the inevitable. He’s a big boy now, Claire reflected, let him confront her. Or not.

“We cannot camp either.” Iz sliced her Sole Almondine. She was working her way into vegetarianism for when she became a full-fledged Buddhist.

“Why not?” Claire blinked at her.

Iz simply glanced up, shrugged, then tasted her fish.

“Yeah. Come on you guys.” Matt bobbed his head like an excited kid. “It’d be fun.”

Claire wanted to spend more quality time with Matt and Anya. She, Matt, and their father had been doing lunchat a diner near the bank. But she relished this camaraderie of their being together as couples. 

“But, yes,” Anya chimed. “It is so nice to breathe truly the air out of the city.”

Iz half smiled. “I am afraid this camping is not a good idea.”

“Why not?” Matt peered over his plate of quiche.

All their eyes turned to Iz who stopped cutting her fish.

“Ah, I see I must say why.”

“You must.” Lloyd arched a brow.

Iz looked directly at Matt. “Err . . . I adore your sister.”

“But?” Claire crossed her arms.

“But,” Iz squeezed Claire’s elbow, “she is a true princess. If she sees one bug we will all suffer for it.”

They laughed as Claire pursed her lips.

“Now that we’ve brought up bugs . . .” Lloyd wrinkled his nose at his Chicken Francaise.

“Please, Lloyd.” George pinched his nostrils. “Not now.”

“Mmm, right.” Lloyd poured a glass of white wine from the carafe. “Not proper dinner conversation.”

“Not a bit,” George agreed.

“Oh, what the hell.” Lloyd gazed at Iz. “Love, one of your gift bask—”

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” George creased his forehead.

Lloyd shrugged. “I’ll tell you later, shall I?”

Iz’s face went bright red. Claire covered her mouth.

Iz turned slowly toward Lloyd. “Was there a . . . ?”

“This was entirely my fault, Isabelle.” Claire rubbed her shoulder. “The baskets were my idea.”

“Mi scusi. Excuse me.” Iz jumped up from the table and shuffled toward the ladies room.

“Are you happy now?” George glared at Lloyd.

“Oh, dear.” Lloyd bit his thumb. “Guess I put my foot in it this time.”

“More like your whole leg.” George shook his head.

“Poor kid,” Matt grinned, “all upset. It’s kind of cute though.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “You think this is cute when any woman is to be upset.”

“Our princess certainly thinks she’s cute.” Lloyd winked at Claire.

“Well, then,” her father smiled, “that’s all that matters.”

“She’ll be okay,” Claire said. “She tends toward the melodramatic.”

“Say no more.” Her father pinched Lloyd’s side. “I know the type.” 

“Behave.” Lloyd playfully slapped his hand away.

“I’ll talk to her.” Claire slid back her chair, then turned. “Lloyd, was it only one bug in one basket?”

Lloyd nodded grimly.

“Maybe that’s not so bad then.” Claire shrugged.

“Um,” Lloyd hedged, “it’s not just that it was one bug, love.”

“It’s who got that one bug.” George wiped his mouth on a linen napkin.

“My friend, Harold, you know, the hairdr—”

“Harold the hairdresser.” George smirked. “The biggest mouth this side of the Appalachians.”

Lloyd flicked his napkin at George. “Shush, you.”

“Oh.” Claire sighed. “I guess there goes her market base.”

Lloyd nodded sheepishly.

Claire swung open the door to the ladies room. Iz stood, still red-faced, staring into an ornate mirror. Beside her, a middle-aged woman washed her hands in the green marble sink.

Claire went over and massaged Iz’s bent back. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said gently.

Iz continued to stare blankly ahead. “This is all too humiliating.”

“That Lloyd.” Claire sucked her teeth. “I love him dearly, but sometimes he real—”

“Non.” Iz frowned at her own reflection. “He tried to help me. It’s no one’s fault.” She glared at the mirror. “No one but mine.”

“Iz—” Claire turned.

The woman had finished drying her hands and stood, watching them.

“Do you have a life?” Claire asked flatly. “Somewhere?”

The woman gaped, then scurried out of the door.

They laughed.

“Ah, Clara, you are too funny.”

Claire jerked her head at the stalls behind them. “Maybe she flushed her life.”

Iz smiled at the mirror. “That was not very nice.”

“Well,” Claire slipped her arms around Iz and jiggled her waist, “at least I got you to smile.” She kissed the side of her mouth. “Now about this camp—”

“Ah,” Iz sighed gloomily, “I am not doing well here. Just tell me one thing, please.”

“What’s that?” She nibbled Iz’s neck.

“How much does a gun cost?”

“A gun?” Claire pulled back. “Why?” She knew Iz’s neighborhood wasn’t the safest, especially for a single woman.

“Because,” Iz narrowed her eyes at the mirror, “when I am down to that amount left of my money, I’m going to buy one.”

“For?” Claire crinkled her nose.

“Because, bella,” she moaned in a grave voice, “I will die before I live on the street.”

Claire rapped her arm.

“Yow.” Iz rubbed her arm.

She squeezed Iz’s chin. “That’s crazy talk, no, molto crazy, Isabelle.”

“Forgive my crazy talk, ah?” Tears welled in Iz’s eyes. “But I must have some standard for how low I will sink in this world. And,” she slapped the mirror, “I won’t be on the street!”

Claire gasped. “You’re exasperating, you know. I have a perfectly good . . . well, somewhat structurally sound, apartment in Brooklyn you can come to any time. I told you that . . . umpteen times.”

“Yes, I know, and sleep on your sofa.” Iz smirked.

“Sleep on my sofa. Sleep in my bed.” Claire’s pitch rose. “Sleep in a friggin’ tent in my jungle yard. But you won’t be on the street.”

Iz turned. “You have a yard?”

Claire raised her brows. “And you’re more than welcome to it.”

“Oh, no. I could not—”

“Why not?” The weeds are up to here.” Claire held her hand to eye level. “I’ll have to deploy a search and rescue squad to find you out there. But, sure, sleep there if you want.”

Iz giggled. “I mean to say, I could tend to your yard,” she paused, “if you wish.”

“Knock yourself out.” Claire flexed her hands.

“And maybe cook in return for—”

“Sex?”

“Sì. That, too.” Iz covered her growing smile. “And to share your somewhat structurally sound apartment.”

“Okay.” Claire gripped Iz’s upturned hand and shook it firmly. “It’s a deal. Just,” she grimaced, “don’t bring any of your pets.”

“But I have no pe—” Iz’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I see. You joke about these bugs.”

Iz tickled her sides until Claire keeled over laughing.

“You are just too bad, Miss Clara.”

CHAPTER 9

THE SUITCASE, BACKPACK, one box, and two canvases obstructed the sunken window. The black iron railing had been swung wide. 

“I cannot believe this.” Iz tossed up her arms. “Have I not suffered enough humiliation?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Claire poked through the box Iz had carried from the car. “But if I find one,” she twitched, “roach in my apartment, you really will be sleeping in the yard.” She was trying not to be too prissy. But she simply wasn’t willing to live with bugs.

“Ach!” Iz clutched her face in her hand. “Unbelievable.”

A cluster of chatty art students, toting portfolios, passed the building. They were probably on their way to Pratt.

Claire shut the box flaps and stood upright. “All right.” She pointed to the unlocked, barred door below the two steps.

“Did I pass inspection?” With a canvas tucked under each arm, Iz lugged her suitcase through the door. “Be certain you didn’t forget one,” she called over her shoulder.

“Mmm.” Claire lifted the box and stepped down. “I guess we all have our standards for how low we can sink in this world.”

A big grin formed on Iz’s mouth. Then she kissed Claire in the doorway.

“Ah, Princess Clara.”

They went into the apartment.

CLAIRE’S TENANT TURNED out to be a piece of work.

Three times, Gary had found her keys dangling in the front, street door. And she kept leaving the fire escape ladder down to climb in the yard and blast music. Naturally, she’d never cleared the yard as promised. To top it off, she had yet to pay October’s rent.

While Claire was uptown at Iz’s place, Gary had felt the need to confront the girl. “You’re making the building a target,” he’d said.

“You’re not my landlord!” she had shouted. Still, she continued to leave the ladder down. Finally, Sam got a long padlock and locked up the fire escape.

All this drama was enough for Claire. The week Iz moved in, Claire knocked on the girl’s door. Country music blasted from inside. She waited a moment, then pounded.

The girl cracked open the door and scowled. “I have company now,” she remarked in a snotty tone. “Come back later.”

She was about to slam the door when Claire jammed her boot into the crack.

“I want you to move out,” Claire demanded. She no longer cared about the rent. 

That weekend, the girl left. She’d also left a clutter of broken dishes and had written FUCK YOU ALL!!!! on the walls. Claire and Iz spent that Saturday priming and repainting the rooms. 

Now, Claire needed to find another tenant. Again.

Luckily, Iz found work.

“Only for three days in a week at one school. But it will help with costs, no?”

Claire had shown Iz how to job search on the laptop. She’d found the listing on an arts career site. It had read, Teaching artists needed for elementary school program.

Iz had asked Anya about a work permit. Then she’d taken the subway to the immigration office. Given her art and teaching background, she had gotten a temporary, nonimmigrant work visa. 

“Good for you, sweetie.”

Other than for groceries, Claire wouldn’t ask Iz to chip in for expenses. She was still struggling to get on her feet.

“What will you be teaching?”

“Art, of course. To bambini.” Iz held her hand to her knees.

“That’s sounds . . . fine.” Claire had started to say “wonderful,” but hesitated. She knew Iz had assisted a painting professor of adults in Rome. But did she have any experience with kids?

If nothing else, it was good to see Iz smiling. This honeymoon stage was like a blissful dream from which Claire hoped they’d never wake.

“I think, yes,” Iz nodded pensively, “teaching this childrens will be good. And with your garden—”

“Is that what you call my jungle?” Claire smirked at the open newspaper.

They sprawled, their legs crossing each other’s. After the tiring day of painting the walls, they’d collapsed on the blue-white sofa. Claire had hung Iz’s paintings above the armchair and beside the window. The walls, a sky blue, accented the subtle blue-greens of the abstracted landscapes.

“Just you wait, Miss Clara.” Iz reached over the hefty library bookon perennial plants on her lap. “I will create a garden like you will never believe.” She massaged Claire’s bare foot.

“Then,” Claire peeked from behind the paper, “you really are a creative genius.”

She offered to buy Iz some new clothes for the job.

“These childrens will just get paint onto them.” Iz fluttered her hand in protest.

“Wear a smock.”

“I don’t know this . . . smock.”

Claire giggled. “I have an old shirt.”

“Listen, eh?” She smiled coyly at Claire. “Let’s do some other shopping. Just for us, bella.”

Iz hopped off the sofa and riffled through her papers on the desk. She arched her brows mischievously as she waved a printout. She had researched the address for a sex toy shop.

The next day, they drove to the downtown shop. Iz gaped at a cage-like black strap that twirled from the ceiling.

“This is . . . not for us.”

“No?” A whimsical smile played on Claire’s lips. “Can’t I get you up in that?”

“If you try,” Iz squinted at the dangling strap, “you will be sleeping in that in your jungle yard.”

They bought a vibrator with two Cbatteries and went home.

THAT TUESDAY, CLAIRE’S mother returned her call.

“I’m at work, Mother.” She pursed her lips as if to chide her cell phone. Concerned about her mother’s depression, she’d made the mistake of giving her that number.

“I can only talk a minute.” Claire glanced at the back of her co-worker busily tapping her keyboard.

“Far be it from me to disturb you,” her mother replied in an icy tone. “Wasn’t it you who called me?”

“Sure.” She had left a message with Rosa the night before. “I’ll call you tonight.” Claire typed—what else?—numbers onto a spreadsheet. Her father had recently mentioned some miscalculations in her work.

“Indeed. Since you prefer speaking to the maid, do call tonight. I won’t be in.”

Claire had to ask. “Where are you going?”

“Yvette and I were invited to dine on her brother’s yacht.”

“Good for you.” Claire made an effort to be civil. “At least you’re getting out more.”

“Mmm. If I had to wait by the phone for you and your ungrateful brother to call—”

“We do have lives.” The thought that Matt was loathe to involve their mother in his wedding struck her. It’s truly pathetic.  “Did you get your prescription refilled?”

“You are not my doctor,” her mother snapped.

“No, but I’m concerned tha—”

“Spare me,” her mother growled. “There is only one thing that concerns Claire Roth—”

“My name is Doral, Mother.” Claire glared at the phone. “I go by my father’s surname. Remember?” She’d stopped using her stepfather’s name seven years before.

“Your father’s name is Roth.”

Claire sighed with exasperation. She wasn’t about to become embroiled in a fight about who her father was. Especially with him standing not twenty feet from her desk.

“Have a nice day, Mother,” she said with mock cheeriness, “and don’t forget to smile.” She ended the call, then tossed the phone into her bag. “Though you might need more plastic surgery to fix a permanent smile across that scowl,” she muttered.

The co-worker with the cross necklace looked back.

“Please,” Claire tilted her head with a pleading look, “pray for me.”

The woman frowned and turned back. Would she complain to Claire’s father, their boss, about her personal calls?

At least Iz wasn’t calling there. She might never get off the phone. Still, Claire found herself spending much of the bleak day thinking about her. She’d click off interminable numbers from some prison-green ledger. All the while, she’d replay funny little things Iz had said in her brain.

When the workday ended, she headed, like a homing pigeon, straight to the apartment. Just knowing Iz was there with their supper ready meant more than Claire could put into words.

“WHAT’S WRONG?”

Did she never miss a trick?

“Nothing.” Claire shrugged weakly as she watched her bag slide off her arm to the floor. She had forgotten her umbrella and was soaked through with dripping rain.

They kissed.

“I spoke to my mother today.” Claire cast a sorrowful gaze at her crumpled, wet bag.

“Ah.” Iz’s eyes widened. “You still tolerate that woman.”

“Well, I certainly don’t defend her.” She kicked off her boots and plodded into the bathroom. She splashed water from the small sink onto her face, then stared into the mirror.

Iz came in and gripped her shoulder. She pointed to Claire’s reflection. “But when will you defend her?”

“I do—” She began, then turned into Iz’s embrace.

Iz held her for a long while.

Claire stripped and put on her fluffy blue robe of cloud patterns. They ate a tasty supper of lenticchie e salsiccia. Lentils and sausage.

Iz ran hot water with a capful of bubble bath into the tub. Claire sprinkled in bath salts to ease the ache in Iz’s leg on damp days. Then they got into the foaming bath.

Iz had lit tea candles along the porcelain ledge of the claw foot tub. Frothy, white bubbles glistened in the candlelight. Flitting shadows of their heads, necks, and hands played across the walls and ceiling.

A crack of lightening flashed in the small window. Claire glanced at the menacing, gray veil of the cloudy sky. Was rainwater wasted on her weedy yard?

“Oh, I need this.” She sunk back on Iz’s chest and exhaled deeply.

Iz stroked Claire’s breasts under the water. The tingly warmth seemed to penetrate her pores and spread throughout her body.

Soon, Iz rubbed her arms. “Ha freddo. The water has got cold.”

As Claire twisted the spigot, Iz shifted up from behind.

“Look at our faces.” She rocked Claire between her knees.

Like a hooked, funhouse mirror, their faces grew and receded in the shiny spout. Iz giggled.

“No, I can’t.” Claire turned her head, smiling. “It’s too silly.”

“But it’s fun, no?” Iz tickled Claire’s side. “Come on.”

Claire peered into the spigot. Her wobbly face stretched with a pudgy nose, thick lips, and bulbous, green eyes. They burst into giggles.

Claire looked over her shoulder. “We’re like a couple of kids.”

“Mmm.” Iz smiled against Claire’s moist back. “Maybe, together, we can discover what got lost in our childhood. Sì?”

Claire dropped into Iz’s arms, shut her tired eyes, and the world melted to a warm softness. “Sì.”

HER FATHER AND brother grinned from across the booth.

She looked up from her taco salad. “What?”

“Things are getting serious with this Italian girl.” Their father raised his soft eyebrows.

“She moved in.” Matt winked, then took a hungry bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich.

“Thank God.” Claire rolled her eyes. “If I had to schlep to that scary apartment once more—”

“Maybe we could do a double wedding, sis?” Matt sat on the outer edge of the red-cushioned booth.

Their father smiled.

“What’s with the ‘sis’ crap?” She gaped at her brother. “We’re not that preppy.” Maybe, it dawned on her, he was making up for lost family time. That made sense.

“Now, now children.” Their father joined in Matt’s teasing whimsy.

“Aw, Dad, sis started it.” Matt pouted, his lip curled, like a peevish boy.

They chuckled.

Jill, their favorite waitress, a matronly blonde with a springy step, slapped their check on the table. “Take your time, folks.” She bustled down the aisle between the counter and the booths.

“I don’t know if it’s . . . serious.” Claire fished a stray onion out of the salad with her knife. “We’re having a good time.”

“Well, good times are good.”

She could hear the but her father didn’t add to his comment.

“She’s still struggling with losing her grandmother and her home.”

Claire had no idea if Iz planned to settle in New York. She was terrified to broach the subject.

Their father patted her hand. “That’s wise, dear, giving it time.”

Matt pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his tan chinos. He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. He had only ordered grilled cheese and tap water. Clearly, he was penny pinching.

“Hate to rush, people.” He slipped into his dungaree jacket and stood. “Promised Anya I’d call about those invitations.”

Their father stuffed the five into Matt’s jacket pocket.

“I can pay, Dad,” he protested. “You got me a job. Remember?”

“Your money’s no good here, son.”

Sis? Son? Dad? What is this? Claire spun her head from Matt to their father. A family sitcom? In a fifties diner, no less.

Her father jerked his chin at Matt. “How’re the invitations coming along?”

“Do you need help writing them out?” Claire looked across the table. She was in no hurry to return to the paperwork piled in her inbox.

“What’s to write?” Matt shrugged casually. “It’s just us, a few friends and . . .” He stopped, then buried his gaze on the empty plate.

Their father rose and picked up the check. He plunked a tip on the table. “Hate to rush myself,” he said in a somber voice. “Duty calls.”

Matt moved aside to let him slip out of the booth.

Why had their father suddenly dashed off?

Claire watched him briskly walk, his head bowed, toward the cashier. He paid their check and quickly left the diner. He stepped onto, then disappeared down Chambers Street.

Claire blinked at Matt who slumped on the seat. “I thought you had to go.” She munched a forkful of salad.

His mouth was drawn in a sulky pout. “Guess I can call about the invitations tomorrow.”

“Matt.” She dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “Don’t tell me you’re not inviting Dad?”

He gaped as if she had spoken gibberish. “Of course, I am. You know me better than that.”

“Whew.” She fell back against the seat.

“It’s Mother I don’t want to invite.”

“Oh.” Claire studied his troubled face. “What does Anya think?”

“She says it’s up to me. Pressure, huh?” His sharp smirk pushed up the side of his unshaven cheek. “I dunno. Maybe if we have this wedding in the Bronx, she won’t show. She’ll never go up there.”

“Neither will I,” Claire said.

He chuckled.

“Seriously, brother,” she gazed intently at him, “it’s about time we faced it. Our mother is . . . fucked up.”

There were just no other words.

He nodded with a weary sigh. “Yeah, I know. Can’t joke about that, huh?” Then he brightened. “But Dad,” he shook his head, smiling, “he is so cool. I’m finally getting to know him.”

“He really loves us, doesn’t he?” Claire beamed.

“Yep.” Matt bobbed his head. “And I have you to thank for bringing him back into my life.”

“Do you see how he looks at us?” she said with a note of affection. “We really are his pride and joy.”

“Well,” Matt crossed his broad arms, “we may be his pride and joy, but you’re the apple of his eye.”

“Stop.”

“You are.” He shrugged lightly. “I don’t recall much from before he . . . left. But I remember how you hid his photo in the bottom of your drawer.”

“Mother would have shredded it,” she said glumly. “I dug it out of the trash after she tore it off their wedding picture.”

“That’s so pathetic.” Matt leaned his elbows on the table.

“My thoughts exactly.” Claire shook her head.

Naturally, any photos of them with their father had disappeared.

“But I still remember the adoration in your eyes when you showed me that photo.”

“Our daddy was so handsome then.” She still had the picture in her photo album. Their father had worn a dapper, black tux with a satin, white bow tie.

“Get a load of you gushing.” Matt wagged his finger. “You still adore him.”

“Sure, I do.” She smiled.

“I never had that.” Matt rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “But now that he’s back in my life . . . nothing, earthquakes, floods, Mother—”

“Or other natural disasters.” Claire laughed.

“Is there anything natural about Mother? I mean, just look at all that makeup she glops on.” He stuck out his tongue.

Claire frowned in wonder. “Would you say our mother resembles a drag queen?” Maybe that had attracted their father to her in the first place.

“Honestly, I won’t let her vilify Dad anymore.” Matt nodded firmly.

“Brother,” she grasped his hand, “tell him that.”

“I will. But, Claire, why wasn’t he more in our lives then?”

She met his expectant gaze. “Mother pushed him away.”

“Yeah. But why didn’t he . . . fight for us?”

“I think it’s a generational thing.”

Was she playing the big sister role again, explaining the absurd grownupworld? Why not? There were things she’d learned about their parents that he needed to understand.

CHAPTER 10

“IN THOSE DAYS, Dad had to tolerate intolerance.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked.

“He hadto put up with her hatred. Or she would have fixed it so he’d never see us at all.”

“Really?” Matt scrunched his nose.

“Dad’s a strong guy, but that was one thing even he couldn’t bear. To lose us completely. That was her power over him.”

So what’s her power over you? Was Gary in her head again?

“And isn’t our mother into power?”

“Mmm, petty power.” Claire chewed the last bite of her lunch.

“Listen,” he sifted the crumbs on his plate with his fingertip, “could you tell Mother about it? I mean the wedding? And Dad coming?”

“No, I cannot.” Claire clucked disapprovingly. Her years of protecting him were at an end. It isn’t healthy—for either of us. “You’re not a boy, Matt. You’re getting married for Christ sake.”

“And?” He shrugged lightly.

“And we can’t leave it up to poor Anya to whip you into shape.” She swiped the peak of his tufted bangs.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he admitted in a grudging voice. He glanced at his watch and stood. “Better get back to the bank, huh?”

“Yuck,” she groaned. “Back to the thrill-a-minute world of fun with numbers.” She wiped her mouth on a napkin, then picked up her bag.

“Say, Claire . . .” Matt drew a wrinkled paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. It was a scribbled list of about fifteen names. “What’s Lloyd’s last name?”

“Huh?”

“For the invitation.”

“You’re inviting Lloyd?” This was good—incredible—news.

“Sure.” He shrugged casually. “He and Dad are a couple, right?”

She sprang out of the booth and planted a kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Brother, I am so proud of you.” 

While she’d invited their father to her own wedding, it had never crossed her mind to ask Lloyd. Why? Her mother’s enraged visage flashed to mind. Why else?

Matt squeezed her arm. “Guess you did an okay job of raising me.”

“I sure did.” Claire tousled his thick hair.

Side-by-side, they stepped down the aisle.

“Besides,” he held the door for her, “we’ll need some alternative controversy at this wedding.”

She stopped before the open, glass door.

“Anya’s pregnant.”

“You’re kidding?” She’d had no idea.

“No kidding.” He flashed a smile. “She’s four months along and showing already.”

“So this is why you’re pushing to get those invitations off.” Claire widened her eyes. “I don’t believe it. Lloyd and Dad coming with Anya pregnant.”

He laughed loudly as they stepped outside. “Mother’ll have a hissy fit. Won’t she?”

Claire nodded dramatically as they maneuvered along the crowded sidewalk. “We better stock her up with anti-depressants for this wedding.”

“Yeah,” Matt arched his eyebrows up and down in their father’s vaudevillian gesture, “and plenty of liquor for the rest of us.”

THAT SATURDAY, CLAIRE and Iz took the subway to Williamsburg. Claire had circled their block for alternative side of the street parking that morning. She didn’t feel like scouting out another space in another crowded neighborhood.

“It’s time for you to mingle with some New York artists,” she told Iz.

“Mmm.” Iz shoulders sagged with an offhand shrug. But she didn’t argue.

Maybe she’s ready to get back to painting.

Iz stared mutely ahead in the rattling subway car.

“Tired?” Claire rubbed her hand.

Iz had been engrossed in her new teaching job. She had even made sporadic attempts to clear the yard.

“Un piccolo.” Her voice was flat. “A little.”

“We don’t need to hit every gallery.” Claire yawned, drained herself. While she longed to veg out, that could wait until Sunday.

They stood to get off the train. A tough-looking teen with a dragon tattoo on his neck blocked their path.

Claire smirked sharply. “Isn’t there a law of physics at work here?”

“Huh?” the boy grunted.

“You can’t get on if we can’t get off.”

He moved aside.

Amidst onrushing passengers, they stepped onto the platform. Iz took Claire’s hand and led her to stand against the wall.

“All these . . . upset me.” She nodded at the people spilling out of the subway.

“And I’m delicate?” Claire smiled at the tiled platform at their feet.

“Clara, please. This city is not an easy place.”

That was certainly true. But why was Iz so distraught? She glanced at Iz’s right leg. Was her limp the reason she couldn’t keep pace with the milling crowd?

“Survival of the fittest . . .” Claire murmured as the pressing throng shuffled up the steps.

They mounted the subway exit. Claire studied a gallery map she’d printed off the Internet. She knew the area from her time with her first girlfriend. But some galleries had folded in the past half year.

They visited a few galleries in which Iz seemed mildly interested. Then they headed back to the subway.

“Claire?” came a voice from behind them.

Claire shut her eyes. Should she pretend she hadn’t heard the familiar, droning voice? Too late. Liz had backtracked down the sidewalk to face them. 

“How are you?” Naturally, Liz didn’t smile.

“Fine. And you?” Claire asked curtly.

“I tried to call you.” Liz turned as Iz linked her arm in Claire’s.

“This is Isabelle,” Claire said.

“Yes. I remember from the gallery.” Shielding her eyes with the back of her hand, Liz peered at Iz.

Without a word, Iz draped her arm across Claire’s back.

“Oh, now I see.” Liz flashed a gloating grin.

“See what?” Claire asked dully.

She recollected how Liz hated crowds, too. Funny, Liz’s peevishness was a quirky trait for Iz.

“Why you blew me off. You’re only into foreigners.” Liz sneered, as though she had uncovered Claire’sdirty little secret.

Claire restrained a sudden urge to smack Liz. How could she have dated such a snide woman?

“I am into this foreigner. And I wasn’t into you.” Claire brushed past.

Iz quickened her pace alongside Claire. “Ah. How your eyes flash like green fire.”

Claire smiled.

“I must be near you now.” Iz grasped Claire’s hand and shivered. “It gives me such a chill.”

GARY GRIPPED THE handles of a rusty shovel and a rake. His head was sunk on his chest.

What now? It was a Thursday evening, and Claire hadn’t been home ten minutes. She glared at the tools. Not that friggin’ yard again?She would flatten the whole thing in cement!

She bit her lip, then shot Gary an approving thumbs up. “Love the tan.”

He and Sam had just returned from the Yucatán. Weren’t they supposed to have been gone for longer than a week?

She gestured to the pile of Gary’s mail on the rattan armchair.

“Mmm.” He shrugged.

“So you’re leaving the psychology business to go into farming?” she teased.

He smiled faintly. “No damn way.” He propped the tools against the outer doorframe. “Isabelle asked for these.”

“Then you’ve met. I was going to introduce you tonight.” She’d phoned his hotel to let him know Iz had moved in. 

“Yes.” He nodded slightly. “Thanks for calling about that. You didn’t need to.”

“I just didn’t want you to come home to any more surprises,” she said. “We’ve had our share with the tenant from hell.”

“It’s fine. I trust your choices.” He furrowed his brow. “I’m . . . not so sure I trust my own anymore.” He lifted his head with a blank-eyed gaze.

Claire figured things weren’t going well with Sam. Even from the finished, front bedroom, she and Iz had heard them fighting through the vent.

“Iz could’ve gotten those tools herself.” Claire smiled apologetically.

“How could she in the chaos of that basement Sam never straightened up?”

“Speaking of the basement.” Claire longed to change the subject. “Is that damn hot water heater growling again?”

“I’ll call the plumber.”

“Just let me know what I owe you for that,” she said.

Other than for their own apartments, they’d agreed to split repair costs.

“Sure.” He stared at or, it seemed, through her.

Claire didn’t know what to say in the awkward silence. “Hey, do you want a cup of coffee . . . or something?” It had been a while since they’d chatted. Maybe he simply wanted to talk.

“Got any vodka?” He stepped inside as Claire backed into the living room.

“No.” She shook her head. “But we always have red wine now.”

“Fine.” Gary chuckled softly, then followed her into the kitchen. He flopped on the chair beside the door-less threshold.

Claire poured out a glass brimming with wine, then sat across the wobbly table. She extended her arm along the edge to steady it. “My kitchen furniture’s not too upscale.” She inhaled—Gary’s light cologne, a spicy scent, mingled with the aroma of sage. She had lit the sage to expel what he’d called the “bad energy” of her whacky tenant.

Gary cupped his chin on his fist and let out a melancholy sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry about the fight.”

“Fight?” Claire’s tenant had left over a week ago. Was he still upset about that?

“With Sam and Isabelle this morning.” He peered at her quizzically. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

Iz had gone to substitute teach in the after-school program. They’d briefly kissed before Claire had rushed out that morning.

“Well,” Gary explained, “she came upstairs this morning to ask Sam for the garden tools.”

“She’s too much sometimes.” Claire smirked at the faux wood of the table surface. She had told Iz that Sam was supposed to help with the building. But she’d also forewarned Iz not to bother. “She should have—”

“Nope.” Gary thrust up his hand. “I overheard every word. She was nothing but sweet.”

“She certainly is that,” Claire agreed.

“She merely asked Sam where the tools were.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t need any more trouble with Sam. “I’ll talk to her la—”

“Claire,” Gary bowed his head again, “Sam and I just broke up.”

“Wha?” She stood.

What could Iz have said to have triggered this?

“Your girlfriend, dare I say,” he flexed his hand, “merely asked him to do what he’s supposed to around here.”

“Yes bu—” Claire cut in.

“No buts.” He wagged his head emphatically. “Don’t you dare apologize. He was pretty damn rude.”

She felt a flush of anger. Had Sam insulted Iz?

“And . . .” Gary slapped the table.

She gripped the table to keep his glass from spilling. “And?”

“And I’m not taking any more of his bullshit!” He swigged his wine, then plunked down the glass. “We had a major blowout in Mexico. We’re much, much different than I realized.”

“What happened? If you want to tell me,” she added quickly.

“He treated the natives so snottily, like inferior beings.” 

“Yikes.” Claire winced. “Sounds like my mother.”

“He snapped at this poor waiter, and I called him on it.” Gary narrowed his eyes at the table. “I told him, ‘False superiority doesn’t mask mediocrity.’ ”

Claire grinned at Iz’s star vase on the table. “I’ll bet Sam wasn’t thrilled with that.”

“Then we got into a big hoo-hah in the restaurant over politics.”

“Is he pro-war?” she asked.

“Yes. Jesus.” Gary’s eyes widened with an incredulous look. “He thinks 9/11 justifies this . . . senseless destruction. He said, ‘We gotta show the world we’re not gonna be fucked with.’ ” He mimicked Sam’s gruff, macho voice.

Claire shuddered. “And he expects you to feel that way?” How could someone who claimed to love the earth care so little about the world?

“He said I should be rooting for this war because of what happened to Peter.” He swigged the wine.

Claire gasped. Bringing up Gary’s partner who’d died in the World Trade Center was a low blow.

“There’s no connection between 9/11 and this so-called war in Iraq.” Claire had been following the campaign through an anti-war website.

“Yup.” Gary smacked his lips. “And Peter was a peaceful Buddhist. He would never have agreed with this, or any war.” He fixed his glazy eyes on Claire. “I guess politics don’t always make strange bedfellows, huh?” He smirked. “And to think I considered raising a child with that asshole.”

“You want a child?” She tilted her head to study him. “I had no idea.”

“Well,” he sipped more slowly, “it’s something Peter and I decided before . . .” He slouched like a deflating balloon. “Just a pipedream, I guess,” he mumbled into his glass.

“Why don’t you have one on your own?” she suggested.

“Nah.” He gulped wine again. “I’d need a partner or,” he stopped, then blinked at Claire, “some kind of a co-parent.”

Claire squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry about all this,” was all she could think to say. Secretly, she felt relieved. She no longer needed to deal with the high-and-mighty Sam.

“I’m not sorry,” Gary’s ordinarily calm voice rose. “That fight with Isabelle was the last straw. How dare he insult my friend’s,” he paused, “woman.”

Though hardly to blame, how had Iz managed to be the last straw in this? Claire rolled her eyes at the vase.

“She’s a character all ri—” Claire started, then looked up. Was Gary crying? No.

He raised his head with a broad smile. “I am so glad that’s over. I hate to admit it. I may have been acting out my grief when I got mixed up with that jerk off.”

That made sense.

“Well, even therapists have their issues, hmm?” she said. Was it okay to joke?

Apparently so.

Gary threw back his head with a hearty laugh. “I’ll probably miss Sam’s muscles and his tool belt. But,” he raised his glass and swallowed the last of his wine, “that’s all I’ll miss.”

“Is he gone already?” She nodded at the ceiling.

“He’s upstairs packing now. Do you mind if I hang out down here for a while?” He stared into the empty glass, then lifted it like a begging cup. “And drink more of your wine?”

She grinned. “Consider it a miniscule part of what I owe you.”

“For?”

“For all those extra minutes you went over on my therapy sessions.” She filled his glass.

He smiled.

“They came in handy with Mother the other day.” She had driven uptown after work on Monday. “She traumatized another poor maid.”

Her mother had harangued poor Rosa one too many times. The woman had, understandably, stormed out in a teary huff. Claire had called her mother’s neighbor, Yvette, to ask her maid to clean the apartment.

“I draw the line at playing Mother’s maid.” She barely had time to clean her own place.

“Christ, your mother.” Gary groaned into his palm.

“More like Satan than Christ.” Claire let out a deep sigh.

“Mmm hmm.” Gary bobbed his head. “The relative from hell.”

CHAPTER 11

“ANYA AND I want to invite Isabelle to the wedding.” Matt towered over her desk the next day.

Claire thought for a split second. No more.

“Thanks brother, but it’s not a good idea.” She lowered her voice so that her nosey co-worker wouldn’t pry.

Did the woman never leave her desk? Even to pee?

“We haven’t been together long. Besides, she has a tendency to blurt things.” Claire recalled Iz’s married woman slip and smirked at the spreadsheet on her monitor. “It wouldn’t work with Mother there.”

“What do you mean?” Matt shrugged. “Isabelle seems cool.”

“She’s a sweetheart.” Claire plugged a string of numbers onto the number pad of her keyboard. “But sometimes she speaks too . . . directly.”

“Umm, Claire,” he gritted his wide teeth, “you do that.”

“True.” She could hardly deny it. “But I’m your sister. You have to put up with me.”

“All right. Up to you.” Matt jerked his thumb in the direction of the mailroom behind them. “Better get back to the grind before the boss catches us chitchatting.”

Their father had asked, since they were family, not to give their co-workers a reason to complain.

“Mmm.” Claire looked up from the monitor. “Does Dad know you invited Lloyd?”

Matt pressed a finger to his mischievous smile. “He’ll get that surprise in the mail any day now.”

She patted his arm.

“And listen, sis,” he pressed her shoulder, “they put this nifty blank space on the invitation marked Guest. Think about filling that in on yours.”

He disappeared behind the mailroom door.

The woman glanced back. Claire felt like biting her hand and flitting her fingers at her. It was an Italian gesture Iz had taught her that meant disgust. Claire just squinted her bleary eyes at the monitor.

How long could she endure this mindless job?

“THE LAST TIME your father got invited to one of his children’s weddings,” Lloyd smiled wryly, “somebody didn’t show up.”

Claire had to laugh. “Guess I got caught up in something else.”

“Mmm.” Lloyd winked teasingly. “Or someone else.”

She thought of the week of making wild love with her high school friend, Janet. All the while, she was supposed to have been on her honeymoon with Walt. Given seven years of hindsight, it did seem funny.

They sat outside on the daisy chairs of Iz’s kitchen set. Though she hadn’t planted anything, Iz had cleared the yard. She’d uprooted the weeds and packed the scattered junk into bulky, black bags. She raked and shoveled the glass into boxes. Then she and Gary hauled it all out to the sidewalk for the garbage truck. Gary hurled the tires back over the fence.

It was early October and warm enough. Claire had finally invited her father and Lloyd to the apartment.

“Well,” her father, seated on the outmost chair, sighed heavily, “we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

“Oh, shit.” Lloyd slapped his forehead.

“What now?” George’s downcast face looked graver than Gary’s after his breakup.

“Your son’s wedding isn’t a funeral, my love.” Lloyd patted George’s bowed head. “At least, it shouldn’t be.”

“With their mother there it might turn into one.” George stared unblinking at a crevice that meandered across the patio.

Lloyd fluttered his lashes. “Listen, I’ve told you a hundred times. No, a thousand, but who’s counting. I don’t need to go to this thing.”

“No.” George shook his head stiffly. “Matt wants you there. He had your name printed on the invitation.”

“Can’t you just hear the family skeletons rattling in the closet over that?” Lloyd faced Claire. “And here I thought we were well out of the closet.”

“No pun intended, hmm?” Claire forced a rigid smile.

Anxiously, she peered at the timer she’d set at the top of the steps. A fish stew Iz had prepared the night before was warming in the oven. Claire had burnt a frittata that past weekend. She couldn’t let that happen again.

She wished Iz would hurry home. This whole wedding business was too depressing. And it was only two weeks away. Matt and Anya, whose belly had begun to swell, had pushed the date back to mid-October. “My mother says we should to wed in a harvest month,” Anya had said of her native custom.

Claire avoided Lloyd’s expectant gaze. Did she need to resolve another family crisis? She stared down at a chipped crack that resembled a grotesque grin.

She looked up at them. “I think you should go to this wedding, Lloyd,” she stated. “Iz should go, too.” She gaped, dumbfounded. Had she just said that? Talk about blurting.

“Oh, goodie.” Lloyd’s face brightened as he clapped.

Clearly, he was fond of Iz. Why not? Weren’t they kindred creative spirits?

George sat upright, widening his eyes at Claire. “Do you think that’s wise, dear?”

“Hmph.” Lloyd snorted. “Get a load of the great guru of all wisdom.”

George narrowed his eyes at Lloyd.

Lloyd pivoted in his chair, then thrust up his hand. “I refuse to acknowledge that look.”

“Sure, Dad. Matt and Anya want Iz there,” Claire said, “as my guest.”

“Allow me to translate, lovey.” Lloyd covered the side of his mouth. “What your father is really asking is whether Isabelle will behave herself in the holy mother’s presence.”

“Mmm. Will you behave yourself?” Claire arched a brow.

George pinched the bridge of his nostrils and grunted loudly.

Lloyd snickered. “Dearest girl, don’t I always behave?”

“Hmph.” George snorted.

With her backpack slung halfway down her arm, Iz stood on the steps. “Eh. Ciao.” She smiled wearily.

“Tired, love?” Lloyd asked.

“Ah, sì.” She plodded down the steps and kissed Claire’s lips. Then she kissed Lloyd and George on their cheeks.

She wriggled out of the paint-splotched smock and slumped in the chair beside Lloyd. “Forgive me. I must smoke.”

She dug in her backpack for a cigarette and a lighter. Then she pulled up the overturned bucket with her coffee can ash tray. She lit her cigarette, flung her right leg across the bucket, and dragged deeply.

“How’s the teaching going?” George asked.

“Yes,” Lloyd flexed back his hand, “regale us with tales of the little lovies.” 

“Ach. These little lovies. They never stop talking.” Iz puffed the cigarette so that its head lit in a bright red. “I am not finished helping one when another is in my face.”

“What’s troubling them?” George leaned over.

“Uh. What’s not troubling them?” Iz waved the cigarette. “All day long they talk to me. ‘Miss Spera, she hit me,’ a boy says. ‘A little girl hit you. What can I do?’ ”

They chuckled.

“ ‘Miss Spera, he said ick to my painting.’ ‘I say ick to your painting.’ No, no.” She shook her head, smiling. “I didn’t say that one.”

“But you wanted to.” Lloyd grinned.

“Today, I couldn’t take one more thing. I told them, ‘I have changed my name. I am no longer Miss Spera.’ ‘What is your name?’ they ask.” She widened her eyes. “ ‘I am not telling you!’ ”

Claire looked across the patio at her father. “She’s exaggerating.”

“But how can that be, Clara? There are thirty of them in just one class of six classes each day.” She wagged her index finger.

“And only one of you,” George said.

“Sounds like you’re vastly outnumbered.” Lloyd rubbed Iz’s shoulder.

“You said you liked being around the children.” Claire frowned.

“Mmm.” Iz dragged on her cigarette, then exhaled a stream of smoke through her nostrils.

“Maybe she’s changed her mind,” George put in.

“Iz,” Claire bent forward, “I hope you’re not going to lose this job.”

She didn’t mean to put her on the spot. But Iz hadn’t been too responsible about the modeling or gift basket work.

“Not to worry, Miss Clara.”Iz squashed the cigarette inside the coffee can. “It’s just me complaining. Look, ah?” She rummaged in the backpack. “I have developed a system.”

“A system?” Lloyd smiled. “Sounds serious.”

“Sì, sì.” Iz nodded rhythmically. “È molto serio. Very serious. I made it today in the after-school lesson. Even they are tired of their own talking then.”

She raised a cutout piece of white cardboard taped to a popsicle stick. On one side, she had written in bold, red marker, STOP TALKING!  

Their laughter spilled across the yard.

“Subtle, no?” Iz grinned at the sign. “This is what I will show them now.”

George pointed. “What does the other side say?”

“For when they come up to me . . .” She flipped it over. GO BACK TO YOUR SEAT!

They laughed again.

“You’re unreal.” Claire smiled, then started to rise. “I’ll check the stew.”

“I just checked it.” Iz glanced toward the kitchen. “It’s fine.” She peered at her watch with a light shrug. “Cinque minuti. Five minutes more.”

“Okay.” Claire settled back in her chair.

Maybe Iz could be responsible, after all.

“We were just discussing Matt’s wedding.” Claire stole a sideways glance at Iz.

“I should leave then.” Iz hefted her backpack and stood.

Lloyd tugged her elbow. “Not so fast there, missy. If I have to suffer through this . . . fiasco, why shouldn’t you?”

“So now who’s calling it a funeral?” George shifted uneasily in his chair.

“I said ‘fiasco,’ darling.” Lloyd crossed his arms. “Or were you thinking of another F word?”

Iz slunk toward the steps. Lloyd sprang from his seat, grasped Iz by the shoulders, then sat her in the chair.

“You, stay put.” He wagged a stern finger.

She jumped up, and Lloyd and Claire both cried out, “Sit down!”

Like a frustrated child, Iz rattled her fists. “I absolutely do not wish to go to this wedding.”

Claire pursed her lips.

“Oh, and don’t you give me a bad look, Miss Clara.” She shut one eye. “Just because your two daddies are here.”

“Well, if you really don’t want to go, dear.” George shrugged.

“Dad, please.” Claire turned to Iz. “I would like you to be there, Isabelle . . . for me.”

“Aye. Must I forever explain?” She masked her eyes with the back of her hand. “I have a rule about my life, eh? I don’t go where I am not wanted.”

“Please, sweetie.” Claire squatted and placed her hands on Iz’s knees. “I want you there,” she said in an imploring murmur.

Matt had helped Claire see. His wedding would be a celebration of love and family. Why shouldn’t Iz, along with Lloyd, be included in that?

“I want you there, too.” Lloyd tapped Iz’s hunched back.

“Uh.” Iz flopped her head onto her lap.

“Honestly.” George furrowed his brow. “If the girl doesn’t want to—”

Lloyd snatched the sign from where Iz had set it on the bucket. He held it up to George. STOP TALKING!

“Now, listen to me.” George stood, grasping at the sign. “Just you give me that, Ll—”

Lloyd drew back the sign and flipped it over. Then he shook it in George’s face.

GO BACK TO YOUR SEAT!

“THINK I PICKED up . . . some kind of,” Claire mumbled into her sweaty palms, “virus.”

Her father insisted she go home.

“Yeah, sis, go home with your sick germs,” her brother teased.

“Matt,” their father said seriously, “please drive your sister to Brooklyn.”

“I can drive.” Claire half stood, then collapsed onto her office chair. She clutched her forehead as the chair swiveled. A wave of dizziness swept over her. “Ugh.” She felt as if her entire body were about to explode.

“Claire?” Her father stooped, his brow creased. “Can you stand?”

“Should I take her to the emergency room?” Matt asked.

“No.” She heaved herself up, gripping the black, plastic of the armrest. “I’ll go home.” Her head swam as she struggled to rise.

“I don’t know why you came to work in the first place.” Her father frowned.

“From one workaholic to anoth—” she began.

“What?”

She covered her mouth. “Did I just say that?” She honestly believed she had thought it. “Sorry, Dad. I must be delirious.”

He only sighed. “Go home and get some rest, will you? And see a damndoctor.”

He and Matt escorted her as she hobbled toward the front door. Just then, her father’s secretary called him to the phone. Claire huddled against her brother’s arm.

“I’ll call you later.” Their father stepped away.

“Come on, Claire,” Matt said gently as they shuffled toward the door. “Let’s find your car.”

SHE RAN INTO the bathroom and threw up. Then she brushed her teeth, tugged on her nightgown, and shuffled to flop into bed. Matt stayed by her side until she blanked out in sleep.

She awoke to find Iz sitting beside her. She watched TV with the volume low, almost muted.

Was Iz keeping vigil over her?

“Did this wake you?” Iz’s dark brows were knit with a look of worry.

“No,” Claire blinked groggily, “but where? Better yet, who am I?” She badly needed to go to the bathroom, but felt like she was glued to the mattress.

“My poor Clara.” Iz mopped her forehead with a damp washcloth. “I came home to find you in this state.” She lifted a lined, yellow paper with Matt’s scratchy writing off the bed. “Your brother left me this novel to describe your condition.” She tossed up her hands. “How could he just leave you?”

Claire squeezed her clogged, achy throat. “I told him to go. He needed to get back to the bank.” She stopped to catch her breath. “I’m . . . fine.”

“Well, your upstairs friend was good enough to go to the chemist’s.” Iz picked up a white, digital thermometer from the nightstand. “You didn’t even have this one.” She squinted at the pointed thermometer. “I tried to look at it before.”

“And?” Claire smiled drowsily at Iz’s touching concern.

“I cannot understand this numbering system.” She crinkled her nose.

Claire patted Iz’s arm. As miserable as she felt, Iz could still make her smile. “I’d kiss you, but . . .”

“Oh, my dearest bella.” Iz kissed the top of her head. “Never fear, mmm? I am making a serious soup.”

“Blah.” Claire stuck out her tongue. “I couldn’t stomach a thing.” The mere thought of food nauseated her. “I’ll drag myself over to the walk-in clinic tomorrow.” She switched on the thermometer.

“Yes.” Iz nodded approvingly. “I shall go there with you.”

“Don’t take a day off for that.” Claire slipped the metal tip of the thermometer under her tongue.

“Madonna. But you are obsessed with this work.”

“Iz . . .” Claire mumbled, too woozy to argue.

“Va bene, eh? It’s all right.” Iz’s smile glowed in the evening light. “I am gloriously free tomorrow.”

Claire had forgotten that she had Thursdays and Fridays off.

Iz narrowed her eyes. “I hope these childrens didn’t give you any of their endless sickness.”

Claire laughed so that the thermometer flipped out of her mouth. “How is that possible?” She limply rapped Iz’s back. “You’re not even sick.”

“Who knows?” Iz shrugged, turning out her hand. “Maybe they passed them over me to you.”

“That’s just too silly.” Claire’s stomach churned as she giggled.

“I don’t know that it’s silly.” Iz stuck the thermometer in Claire’s mouth. “These bambini, they come to school with so much sickness. One threw up in the trash to—”

“Stop.” Claire clutched her stomach.

“Mi dispiace.” Iz stroked Claire’s bowed head. “Forgive me. But I cannot believe their mothers don’t keep them home like that.”

Claire remembered getting sick in the fourth grade. It had been right after her parents’ divorce. The school nurse had tried and tried to phone her mother. It was a Wednesday. The maid’s day off.

Claire had told the nurse, “My mother has an appointment at the hairdresser’s.”

“For the whole day?”

Was the nurse angry with Claire? Maybe she should have asked them to call her father. No. Her mother would have viewed that as a blatant betrayal.

Claire waited, slumped over, on a chair outside the principal’s office.

At lunchtime, the smell of cafeteria food sickened her. She threw up all over the floor. The custodian, a brawny, dark man, wielding a large, string mop, hurried over. He cursed bitterly as he swept the mop across the soppy mess.

“I’m . . . sorry,” Claire apologized in a frail voice.

He whirled around. “Oh, no, sweetheart.” He wagged his large, curly head. “I’m mad at them for leaving you alone like this.”

CHAPTER 12

TO THIS DAY, Claire equated being sick with a kind of punishment. But she guessed that parents in the mixed community where Iz taught were poor. They probably weren’t anywhere as frivolous as the hairdresser’s.

“Rents are astronomical,” she mumbled with the thermometer still in her mouth. “The kids’ mothers need to work.”

Iz sighed at the television. “There’s nothing funny in that, eh?”

The thermometer bleeped, and Claire viewed its tiny screen. Her temperature was a hundred even.

“What does it say?” Iz massaged Claire’s shoulder without looking away from the TV.

“Slightly high. But I’ll live.” She nestled against Iz’s side. “What are you watching?”

“This something where the peoples . . . people talk about their many problems.” 

“A talk show.” Claire settled her head on Iz’s lap and stared at the TV.

“Mmm. Everyone talks.” Iz smirked. “No one listens.”

Five grumpy-faced men and women sat along a stage before a black curtain. They took turns hollering at each other. Suddenly, an older woman jumped from her chair to shake a clenched fist at a scowling man.

A caption flashed below the woman. Ex-husband engaged to her granddaughter.

Iz gaped. “Americans are crazy, no?”

“We’re not all like that.” Claire’s eyes opened and shut with fatigue.

“Why waste sacred time on,” Iz thrust her arm toward the screen, “needless problems.”

Claire reflected on her mother’s pill popping, face lifts, and tummy tucks. “Needless problems are big business,” she muttered.

Iz chuckled, then said seriously, “But you have so much. Why are people so . . . vicious to each other?”

“Well, then maybe we don’t have so much,” Claire answered in a fading, lethargic voice.

Iz caressed Claire’s spinning head until she lapsed into deep slumber.

“PRESS YOUR EAR to the phone and listen closely, Beth,” she all but growled into the receiver, “I am not driving Mother to this wedding!”

Iz was in the kitchen, heating the soup.

“Richard and I are visiting friends in Westchester afterwards. We simply can’t drive her back.”

Her sister’s haughty tone was as icy as ever. Icier.

“Have her hire a town car then.” Less dizzy, but still queasy, Claire was in no mood for this inane quibbling.

“Need I remind you, she is your mother, too.”

Just let me try to forget. Claire heaved an exasperated sigh.

“She’s already uncomfortable about this for obvious reasons.”

“Maybe she can take the subway,” Claire grumbled. “If it’s good enough for our millionaire may—”

“You don’t expect our mother to get on the subway?”

“Why not?” Claire drew a tissue from the box on the bed and blew her congested nose. “It might be enlightening for her to encounter some ordinary folks.”

“Ordinary low lifes.”

“Umm, Beth, I take the subway.”

“There’ll be plenty of room in your car,” her sister said.

“No, there won’t,” Claire snapped. “I promised Dad and Lloyd I’d drive them. Plus, I’m bringing my own . . . date.” She imagined the priggish shock on Beth’s and her mother’s faces.

“George’s man is coming?” Beth shrieked.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Better tell Mother to lay out her battle plans now.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Maybe she won’t come then,” Beth remarked coolly.

“Oh, she’ll come all right.” Claire pursed her lips at the phone. “Our mother is too much of a drama queen to forego an opportunity to ruin Matt’s wedding.”

“Hmph,” her sister snorted. “You’ll drive them and not our mother who didn’t abandon us.”

“I won’t allow you to talk about our father like he was vermin.” She gripped the phone.

“Are you so sure he isn’t?” her sister shot back.

Claire inhaled deeply. “You know, Beth, you don’t even try to know Dad. He has got to be the most decent human being I know.” She thought of how his job offer had saved her from spiraling into debt. “You just take Mother’s word for everything.” Dutiful, clone daughter, she fought an urge to snarl the words.

“Have you anything more to add?” Beth sucked her teeth. “Now that you’ve blamed all your troubles on Mother.”

Claire drew another breath, then asked in a calmer note, “Are the kids coming?”

“Please. I wouldn’t dream of subjecting my children to such a disgusting spectacle.”

“But you’re okay with it,” Claire mumbled. “When will I get to see them? You know I’d like to—”

“Maybe at Christmas,” her sister cut in.

Great, Claire sighed, another family charade to mark my calendar by.

“By the way, you seem to forget that Matt is my brother, too,” Beth said curtly. “He’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life. Lord knows, Mother tried to save him from that.”

“Sure.” Claire shook her head so that it spun with dizzying nausea. “Our hallowed mother. I can just see her now, descending in a glorious ray of sunshine to redeem us all.”

Claire looked up.

“Soup, bella, mmm?” Iz stood, cradling a steamy bowl in the bedroom doorway.

She nodded, then told her sister, “Much as I’d love to babble on about Mother, I have—”

She glanced at the Call Ended message on the phone screen. Her sister had hung up.

“You heard?” Claire asked Iz.

“Niente. Nothing. Only ‘Mother’ and ‘glorious ray of sunshine.’ ” Iz shrugged. “I couldn’t see the connection.”

As stuffed up as Claire felt, the rich aroma of Iz’s soup filled her nostrils.

“Don’t tell me your mother was fighting with you sick.” Iz frowned.

“That was my sister . . . fighting about our mother.” Claire blew her runny nose again.

Iz stopped. “You have a sister?” She set the bowl on the nightstand. “I didn’t know.”

“I hardly know myself.” Claire tossed the tissue into the waste basket, filled with tissues. It hadn’t crossed her mind to say she was sick. Beth probably wouldn’t have cared.

Iz tucked a napkin into the neckline of Claire’s nightgown. Then she covered her lap with a stripy dish towel. “Come, Miss Clara. Sit up for your soup.”

Obediently, Claire pulled herself into an upright position.

“This family tragedies, ah?” Iz placed the bowl on Claire’s lap.

Claire stared at the chopped vegetables floating in a red-orange broth. “They simply never end. Do they?”

“Sì. Lo so. Don’t I know it?” Iz sighed gloomily. “Much too well.” She shifted onto the bed alongside Claire and handed her a spoon. “Venga, Clara, mangi la sua zuppa. Eat your soup.”

Slowly, Claire raised the spoon and sipped. She widened her eyes as the flavor of seasoned carrots, tomatoes, and onions mingled on her parched tongue. “This is incredible.” She instantly recalled the delizioso soup Nonna had served them in Tuscany.

Iz pinched Claire’s damp cheek. “Only the best for my Princess Bella.”

Claire flopped her head on Iz’s shoulder. “My family’s going nuts over this wedding,” she sobbed.

“Aye. Basta. Enough with this wedding.” Iz bit the side of her hand and flitted her fingers. “I have a thought.” She pointed at the blank TV screen. “Your brother can have this wedding on a talk show.”

They laughed.

“That way,” Iz swept up her arm with a flourish, “all of this fighting can be televised for everyone’s entertainment.”

Claire started to laugh, but dizziness buzzed through her head. Just then, she farted loudly.

“Ooh.” Iz pinched her nose, then wriggled with laughter.

Claire felt herself flush with embarrassment. “How can you laugh?”

Iz fanned the air. “Err, think of it as . . . detoxifying.”

Claire set the bowl on the nightstand. She flung her legs over the edge of the mattress and slowly rose. Nausea overcame her. She ought to, but simply couldn’t, race to the bathroom.

With leaden legs, she plodded across the hardwood floor. Then she farted in the doorway. Iz laughed again.

“Ooh,” Claire cried into her palms. “This is so unromantic.”

“Not to worry, Miss Clara.” Iz came over and held her snugly. “We will return to romanticsoon enough. Just get well now, mmm?”

Claire nodded sluggishly.

“You know, my princess,” Iz raked her fingers through Claire’s sweaty hair and kissed her clammy forehead, “you don’t need to be perfect.”

THAT FRIDAY WAS the day before the wedding. Between that and crashing off antibiotics, Claire felt crabby.

Her father frowned across the booth. “I have to tell you, dear, Mrs. Lory complained that you make an awful lot of personal calls.”

It was just them eating together. Matt had taken the day off to get fitted for his tux.

“Bitchy cow.” Claire scowled at her untouched bison burger. “She eavesdrops on all my conversations.”

“Now, Claire,” her father tilted his head, “the woman’s desk is right in front of yours. She’s bound to overhear you on the phone.”

“I guess.” Like a guilty schoolgirl, she bit the side of her lip. “I’m just . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his fixed gaze.

“I know, sweetheart.” He cradled his hand over her head. “We’re all teetering on edge over this wedding.” He buried his face behind the large, plastic-coated menu. “I think it’s good . . . very good of your brother to have invited Lloyd and Isabelle, but . . .” His words trailed into a long silence.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Mother too, huh?” Claire massaged her throbbing temples.

What could they do? They’d had to leave that choice up to Matt.

Her father folded the menu on the table. Then he said in a slow, restrained voice, “Your mother should be there.”

“I could beg to differ.” Claire smirked to think of her heated argument with Beth. Something she’d never discuss with her father.

“Do you honestly think . . . she’d ruin Matt’s wedding over this?” He lowered his voice as if Claire’s mother on the Upper East Side might be listening.

“Dad,” Claire widened her eyes, “you—of all people—know how manipulative she is.”

“Damn.” He grimaced. “Better fasten our seatbelts for this one, hmm?”

Claire thought back to when she and her parents watched fifties films together. She’d been just a kid in those brief, golden years. How was it that they had seemed happy or at least contented then?

“Mmm hmm.” She bobbed her head as she bit into her burger. “We’re in for a bumpy ride.”

THAT SAME DAY, Iz had been asked to help with a school arts festival. All Claire had to do was heat up their pre-cooked chicken and risotto supper. She heated the oven and slid the pan inside.

Then she got engrossed in flinging her clothes out of the dresser and closet. She was the only bridesmaid at the simple wedding. When she’d asked Anya what to wear, she had only said, “Whatever you choose is good to us.” Now, the bedroom was strewn with dresses, blouses, and skirts.

She couldn’t choose.

Iz came in, dropped her backpack in the living room with a thump. Then she collapsed face down on the bed. “Ah, questi bambini,” she grumbled into the pillow.

“Iz,” Claire gasped, “you’re lying on my skirt.”

“Aye.” She rolled over and huddled in a fetal position against the wall.

“What’s wrong now?” Claire draped the skirt over the closet door. She plucked a yellow, silk blouse out of the closet and peered at it. “You’re going to have to manage those kids better.”

Iz half turned. “Err, excuse me, Miss Practical Business. This is nothing to do with manage. I am just,” She flopped onto her back, “too sad for them. And . . .”

“And?” Claire lifted her paisley dress from where it hung on the doorknob.

“And I am sad enough for myself.” She sighed. “How can I bear to be sad for them, too?”

“What do you mean?” Claire decided against the paisley and tossed it into the closet. She eyed the lime green dress slung across the bed railing.

Holding the dress before her, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Hadn’t Lloyd once said she’d looked smashing in it? But she hadn’t worn it in a while. She undressed to try it on.

“They had this famous arts festival, you know,” Iz mumbled in a drained voice. “I tell them, ‘All right, I will come for this.’ No one offers to pay me, of course. So I am standing in this auditorium. These parents are endlessly talking. Talking to each other. On their phones. Blah, blah. Now I see why their children never shut up.”

Claire buttoned the dress.

“So I just stand at the back and watch,” Iz went on. “No one even looks at these children’s art. Nothing. I hung this for the whole day. Two older students helped me a little. No one else. All right. I do it.” She clapped her hands over her head. “My job is done.”

“Wasn’t there a concert?” Claire only half listened. Didn’t Iz come home every day with some involved story about “these childrens”?

Claire pushed the buttons, but they bulged at the seams along her chest. “Damnit.” That was the last thing she needed—for the buttons to pop open in the middle of the ceremony.

“Ah, yes. This purgatorio of a concert,” Iz rambled. “And this chorus professoressa whothinks she is God tells me, ‘You have decorated the auditorium.’ I say, ‘I have hung an exhibit. This decorate is for birthday parties.’ ”

“Mmm.” As if a suitable dress would magically appear, Claire gazed fixedly into the closet. “I work with a woman who thinks she’s God, too.”

“God in her many manifestations, eh? So the music teacher conducts his band. They sound like a herd of wounded beasts.” Iz pinched her nostrils. “So what? No one listens. I only try to hear over these yakking parents.”

Claire wrinkled her nose. “The parents talked through their children’s concert?”

“Can you believe it?” Iz pounded the mattress. “Threetimesthe principal told them to shut up. Then these holy chorus students stand in a line to go up on the stage. Of course, they are all leaning onto the art. So I go down the aisle.”

Claire unbuttoned the dress and flung it on the floor. She’d either have to lose weight or donate it to the thrift store.

“Aah, aah. I point my finger to the art and give them an unhappy look. That was all I did. Uh.” Iz slapped her forehead. “You would think I whipped them with chains the way they gasped in horror.”

Apparently oblivious to Claire’s clothing ritual, Iz stared, glazy-eyed, at the ceiling.

“Then Mrs. God comes marching up. ‘Why are you scolding my students, Miss Spe-ara?’ You are a teacher of music and you cannot say an Italian name? I want to tell her, but shut my tongue.” She shook her head across the pillow. “But I must tell her, ‘This art is as precious to my students as this music, mmm? They work hard to—’ ”

“Shit!” An acrid odor stung Claire’s nostrils.

The smoke alarm squealed as she bounded into the kitchen. Thick, gray smoke billowed out of the oven door. She flipped off the dial, grabbed an oven mitt, and flung open the door.

Waving her hands frantically, she peered into the smoky oven. Their supper had burnt to a shriveled, black crisp.

With the alarm still squealing, she rushed to the window and struggled to open it. “Frickin’ thing is stuck again.” Then she remembered she had locked it. She twisted the latch and thrust up the window.

Iz hobbled in and swung the back door wide. She flapped it open and shut to air the room. “But Clara, I’m starving to death,” she moaned like a cranky child. “It was already cooked, ah? Didn’t I say, ‘Just heat it a little’?”

Claire slapped the oven door shut and turned sharply. Iz jumped.

“But I only asked a nothing question?” She gaped. “Now you are angry?”

“I didn’t hear you?” Claire snarled. “Would you like to ask me again?” 

Iz’s face paled as she shrunk back. “Are you shouting at me?”

“Believe me,” Claire’s voice rose as she fanned the alarm with a dish towel, “if I were shouting, you’d know it!”

Iz’s jaw dropped. “No, no. I cannot do this again.” She vanished into the yard.

Claire detached the alarm battery. Then she slumped on a chair and wept. Fighting with her cold sister was one thing. How could she yell at Iz who had been nothing but sweet?

What was this wedding doing to her?

She dried her eyes on the dish towel. Then she trudged, head down, into the yard. Iz hunched over on a rock, facing the back fence. Claire stepped along the winding, slate path Iz had set in the ground.

“I am so, so sorry, Isabelle.” Claire’s hair veiled her face as she gazed at the hard dirt. She couldn’t meet Iz’s wild, unblinking eyes. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I never do that.”

“Sometimes you do.” Iz stared at a gap in the picket fence.

“Not with you.” Claire inhaled deeply. “I don’t know. It’s just,” she slowly raised her head, “having to see my mother tomorrow. I thought I could handle it.”

“That woman,” Iz frowned deeply, “she is a dark shadow on your life.”

Claire stooped, gently rubbing Iz’s forearm. “Forgive me, sweetie . . . please.”

Iz sighed. “Va bene. All right, Clara,” she whispered, then grasped Claire’s hand without looking back. “Perhaps my own experience makes me . . . too sensitive.”

“You’re an artist. You should be sensitive.”

Iz smiled lightly.

“Iz? What did you mean when you said you couldn’t do this again?” Claire turned up her palm in a begging gesture. “You would never compare me to that horrid professor who treated you so badly?” She paused. “Would you?”

“I know just who you mean and, no,” Iz shrugged sadly, “I am certain you are not like her. Believe me, I would not be here if that were so. It’s just . . .” She turned and met Claire’s wide eyes.

“What?”

“My mind went crazy when you shouted like that. I thought, What can you be thinking, Isabella? You will never escape. Abuse is your fate.” She sunk her face onto her open palms.

“Oh, no, sweetie. That’s not true. Never, ever.” Claire rocked her in a snug embrace.

“I know this, Clara, but you must also understand,” she blurted through tears, “I live with shadows, too.”

CHAPTER 13

AFTER THE CEREMONY in Anya’s church, Claire drove them to the banquet hall. She circled until she found a parking spot.

Her father dropped quarters in the meter slot. His ashen face appeared grief stricken, like they were attending a funeral.

“Aren’t we all dressed up to the nines.” Lloyd stepped onto the curb and nodded at Claire and Isabelle.

After their fight, they’d eaten at a Japanese restaurant. The combination of flute music and green tea had calmed Claire’s frazzled nerves. Then they found a boutique near the Atlantic Street clock tower. They tried on so many clothes, a flustered saleslady nearly threw them out.

Finally, they settled on a cream pants suit and a black, silken blouse for Iz. She shot an approving thumbs up when Claire came out of the dressing room. Like a model in a fashion show, she swirled in the ruffled, periwinkle dress.

“Mmm.” Iz rolled her eyes at Lloyd. “We are dressed to go down in style.”

He chuckled, then linked his arm in Iz’s. “Maybe we’ll go down in style and flames.”

“Ah,” Iz arched a sharp brow, “I see you like this ‘flames.’ ”

“Oh, lovey, do I ever.” He flitted his hand.

They giggled.

In his gleaming, black shoes, George pivoted on the sidewalk. “Just you two behave yourselves. Hear?” 

“Just you fix that goddamn tie.” Lloyd adjusted George’s striped tie. “How he expects me to be seen at the most talked aboutevent of the season with that piece of crap dangling from his neck?”

George clenched his teeth. “Maybe a noose would suit me better.”

“I’m teasing, darling.” Lloyd kissed his cheek. “You look smashing.”

He did. He wore a satin, light blue suit with a white carnation in the buttonhole.

Anya’s parents couldn’t afford to fly over so she’d asked George to give her away. He’d also doubled as Matt’s best man. Claire’s mother, sister, and brother-in-law sulked in the shadows of a back pew. After the ceremony, Iz caught the bouquet.

Claire locked the car and clicked on the alarm. She stepped, in her best buckled heels, onto the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”

“Uh oh.” Lloyd, in a pin-striped, brown suit, saluted. “Looks like we have our marching orders.” 

They strode, four abreast, down Fifth Avenue. Matt had booked a small hall in the midtown business district. “Neutral ground,” he’d called it, for their downtown and uptown family. Their father had footed the bill for the space.

A man with a gray terrier on a long leash blocked their path. They stopped.

“We pay taxes,” Claire remarked coolly.

“And?” The man shrugged.

“Your dog doesn’t.”

They marched past as he pulled the dog aside.

Iz widened her eyes at Lloyd. “And her father wants us to behave?”

They laughed.

They approached the red brick building, and Iz halted. She stepped up before them. Then she scrunched her hands into a mock camera and clickedher fingers. “Ah.” She smiled sweetly. “Now this is famiglia, ah?”

“You should be in the picture, sweetie,” Claire murmured. Was it too much to hope Iz might become a part of her family?

No one else would venture to do it, so Claire thrust open the black, metal door. George and Lloyd bowed their heads and, like a pair of convicted felons, plodded into the hall. Claire, then Iz followed. They stood, as if frozen, on the threshold.

The flat, maroon carpet framed a central, parquet floor. Lemon yellow walls were accented by electric candles. A squared chandelier with three tiers of frosty glass hung from the ceiling. Plain white chairs poked their curved backs above six round tables.

Indistinguishable, maybe classical, music wafted from speakers along the far wall.

“And one more thing,” George muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “No same sex dancing.”

Iz tittered.

“Don’t laugh, love.” Lloyd pursed his lips. “He’s deadly serious. And I do mean deadly.”

He faced the scant space of the dance floor, clutched his chest, and gasped. Claire’s mother, her scarlet lips taut, her made-up eyes red and glazy, sauntered toward them.

“Doesn’t waste a second of precious battle time, does she?” Lloyd grumbled.

“Claire,” her father touched her arm, “Lloyd and I will be at the front table.” He pointed to a table with a peach tablecloth that presidedover the room.

In two-part harmony, their shoes tapped the floor as they stepped briskly away. Matt and Anya, standing before the table, embraced them.

Beth and her husband, Richard, sat stiffly at the far end of the table. With her straight, brown hair parted down the middle, Beth wore a funereal, black dress. Richard’s angular face seemed to have been stamped with an indelible look of boredom.

George cast a mournful gaze in Beth’s direction. She abruptly turned with a toss of her head.

Claire did a double-take as they stepped out the doorway. Was her sister glaring at her from across the room?

“Looks like a talk show up there all right.” Claire smirked at the table.

Iz giggled nervously, then gripped Claire’s arm with distinct pressure. “Put on your armor now, Miss Clara.” She began to slink off as Claire’s mother drew near. “Err . . . I’ll be at the talk show table, too.”

“Don’t make any sudden moves.” Claire’s stomach clenched as she watched her mother warily.

Her mother was dressed in a silvery suit with a pointy brooch that resembled a small weapon. Claire smirked again. Iz’s armor analogy wasn’t so far fetched.

“Aye.” Iz gritted her teeth. “I’m afraid.”

Claire flung out her arm as if to shield Iz. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’re here as my guest. If she utters one vicious word to you, I’ll wipe this floor up with her.”

Iz gaped with a look of stupefied horror.

Claire’s mother wavered, skirting a table of chatty guests. Was she tipsy? Should Claire remind her of the doctor’s order not to drink on top of her medication?

“Hello, Mother.” Claire lightly pecked her rouged cheek. “This is Isabelle, my girlfriend.”

Her mother arched her penciled eyebrows. “Indeed.” Just as when she’d first met Anya, she eyed Iz like a microscopic bug.

Claire felt Iz cringe.

“Lovely dress, Mother.” Claire choked out the compliment. It was her brother’s wedding. She should try to make nice.

Her mother lifted a strand of Claire’s hair. “Are we getting more gray, dear?”

“Huh?” Iz clapped her mouth.

Claire narrowed her eyes. I’ve earned those grays dealing with you.

“No more gray than your natural blonde,” Claire shot back. She recalled her great grandfather’s words. He could be wrong in one case. My mother’s life does come out of a plastic bottle.

Her mother opened her mouth, but Claire wasn’t about to give her a second chance. She thrust her nose in the air and took Iz’s hand.

“Have a nice day, Mother.” She thought of the smiley face logos on the deli bags.

They walked toward the table.

“Whew.” Claire exhaled with relief. “At least she didn’t bark at you.” 

“But she bit you,” Iz sputtered.

“Believe me, I’m . . .” Claire was about to add used to it, then sighed drearily. “Her insults are nothing new.”

Iz turned to her. “Oh, my dearest Clara.” Her wide gaze was intense, almost blazing in the dimly lit hallway. “Why ever do you tolerate that woman?”

Claire saw the pain her mother had inflicted on her life in Iz’s searching eyes. Like a clear vision of the past in two black, crystal balls.

She blinked at Iz. “It’s all right, sweetie.” But, no. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was hardly all right.

Claire surveyed the length of the table. It had all been prearranged. Their mother, sister, and Richard would sit to Matt’s and Anya’s right. Their camp was to the left. Nearest the EXIT sign.

Claire and her brother-in-law exchanged their usual smirk-smile. Beth glared.

Claire and Iz went over to Anya who stood before the table. Nearby, Matt chatted with some college buddies about a football game.

He waved at Claire and Iz. “Hey, you guys.” 

“You look stunning, Anya.” Claire hugged her tightly.

“Certo. You surely do.” Iz nodded, then kissed her cheeks.

Anya, whose hair was styled in a partly-braided bun, blushed brightly. “All thanks to you, sis, for this my stunning dress.”

The custom-fitted dress hadn’t been cheap, but Claire wanted to give them something special. 

“Anything for my new sister.” Claire patted Anya’s hand. “Notice I didn’t say in-law,” she said loudly for Beth’s benefit. Anya’s already a better sister than you, she longed to shout.

“Yes, we are like to sisters now.” Anya beamed with a look of childlike delight. “But shh.” She pressed a petite finger to her lips. “Sisters must keep secrets, yes?” She drew Claire near and whispered, “I am to be pregnant.” Anya rubbed the noticeable bulge of her belly, then glanced furtively at the table.

“I know, Anya,” Claire whispered back, “That’s more wonderful news.”

“Not to say yet anything, please.” She shuddered anxiously.

Iz smiled whimsically. “Does your husband know this secret?”

“Of course, yes.” Anya’s jaw dropped. “He is only the father.”

“We hope so,” Claire teased.

Matt came over and pulled Claire and Iz into a gripping embrace.

“Getta loadayou, fancy man.” Claire stepped back to admire her brother.

He looked sharp in his black tux and pleated, white shirt. Their father had pinned the tea rose to his lapel. Claire hadn’t seen Matt so dressed up since he was a kid. Since the days when their mother decided what they wore.

Matt nodded askance at the table. “At least we don’t have Anya’s nutty family to contend with.” He flashed a grin as Anya thumped his back.

“Do you have no family here, Anya?” Iz asked.

“Mmm, just one some kind of cousin there.” She squinted at a redhead in a stripy dress across the room.

“The rest are safely back in the Ukraine.” Matt chuckled.

“Oh, didn’t I tell to you, husband?” Anya winked at Claire and Iz. “Now that we are made legal, my family are all to come to live with us.”

Claire pictured the crush of smiling redheads crammed into their apartment.

“Actually,” Matt said seriously, “we’ll fly over this spring.”

“Yes. Yes.” Anya nodded. “For a tradition wedding of my country.”

Claire studied Anya who glowed with the same perky face in her family photo.

“Yeah.” Matt snatched a roll from a basket on the table and munched. “Anya’s mother gives me a loaf of bread and I give her a loaf of bread and . . .” He creased his brow with a puzzled look at Anya.

“You give my mother a bottle of horilka,” Anya said.

“So all’s I get is a loaf of bread.” He flexed his hand.

“Then you get to carry me out the church,” Anya added.

“She won’t be so fat then.” Matt chucked his broad chin at her belly.

“Shh, you.” Anya elbowed him, then peered back at Beth.

Iz glanced at Beth who smugly thrust up her head. Claire shrugged apologetically. Maybe she shouldn’t have subjected Iz to this. Hadn’t she suffered enough of her own family saga?

Other than their family, the small crowd was comprised of Matt’s and Anya’s friends. Claire scanned the room of chatty, young couples. A few children darted around and under the round tables.

“Well, they look like a harmless enough bunch,” Claire remarked.

They chuckled.

“Glad you’re here, sis.” Matt kissed her cheek.

“Where else would I be?” She felt tears fill her eyes. “My little brother is a grownup groom.”

“And not to forget our Italian friend, Isabelle.” Anya patted Iz’s hand. “We are most happy to have you to share in our good cheer.”

“Congratulazioni alla sposa e sposo,” Iz declared with a sweeping bow. “Your Italian friendis most happy to share in your good cheer.”

Claire squeezed her hand.

Three late arrivals engulfed Matt and Anya. Claire and Iz stepped toward the opposite end of the table.

“Did you ever?” Lloyd flattened his hand against his cheek. “Couldn’t we at least sit at a fun table?”

“Some of us are fun.” Claire sat beside him.

Just then, her mother marched out of the ladies room across the hall.

“Mmm.” As if a foul odor had arisen, Lloyd fanned the air. “And some of us are no fun at all.”

Yvette, a bleached blonde in a brocade dress that looked like curtains, trailed Claire’s mother. Claire imagined the bathroom scene with Yvette advising her mother to make the best of it.

The women shuffled over to their end of the table.

Iz, seated alongside the aisle, grinned at Claire. “I see your mother brought her girlfriend, too.”

“Stop.” Claire suppressed a giggle.

Lloyd slapped the table. “Isn’t that the French neighbor? Ooh la la.” He snickered. “Can you just picture those steamy uptown nights?”

“Ah, no.” Iz covered her eyes. “I don’t wish to picture that.”

Claire bit her lip as Iz and Lloyd chortled.

“Ahem.” George kicked the table leg. “Didn’t I ask you to behave?”

Like a schoolboy who’d just been scolded, Lloyd sat upright. The moment George turned, he whispered from behind his hand, “Enough naughtiness, girls.” He playfully wagged his finger. “Or no dysfunctional wedding cake for you.”

After they’d eaten their entrees and cake, six waiters in white coats bustled to clear the tables. Then they toted silver trays of fluted, champagne glasses.

George raised his glass and stood. Chairs scraped across the floor as guests got to their feet.

Claire peered behind Lloyd’s back. Would her mother, sister, and brother-in-law stand? But, no. They just sat, staring glumly ahead. Her mother’s arms were crossed. Her lips pursed tightly.

“Jesus,” Claire muttered. “Why did they bother to come? Only Yvette is standing, and she’s not related to us.”

“Ach.” Anger glinted in Iz’s narrowed eyes. “They will not even toast to your straight brother?”

“Just goes to prove,” Lloyd stated in a loud voice, “you can’t get your social graces out of a bubble gum machine.”

Claire inhaled, poised for a fight. Would her family start hurling cake across the table?

Guests clanked their glasses with spoons. The room quieted as George opened his mouth.

“Here’s to my wonderful son, Matthew, and my wonderful daughter-in-law, Anya.” He raised his glass as everyone cheered. “And to their wonderful future together,” he declared with distinct pride.

Matt and Anya sidestepped their chairs to embrace him.

“And to you, Dad.” Matt lifted his glass, then wavered slightly.

Was he drunk? Claire caught him glowering back at their mother.

“Here’s to having my wonderful father in my wonderful future!” He swigged his champagne.

Lloyd squeezed Matt and Anya. “Oh, you two.” He smiled.

“Ah, bella,” Iz murmured in Claire’s ear. “This talk show may be improving.” She draped her jacket over the back of her chair.

“So long as my mother doesn’t talk.” Claire slumped to her seat.

She stared at her watch. Nearly two hours had passed. She had killedtwenty minutes by meandering back to the car to feed the meter. She’d even organized the cluttered glove compartment.

She pressed her fist to her mouth and sighed uneasily. If only this would end—relatively drama free—soon.

As if Lloyd had read her mind, he lifted George’s wrist. “Ugh.” He groaned at George’s watch, then let his hand flop to the table.

Only Matt remained standing. He flung his jacket over his chair, then waved at the unshaven DJ, another buddy, across the room. “Maestro, strike up the band.” 

Couples and children filed onto the dance floor. Claire’s mother and Yvette rose and walked back to the ladies room.

“Oh, your mother.” Iz laughed out loud. “I’m going to piss myself.”

“Exactly what are those two doing in there?” Lloyd thrust his fists to his hips.

“Now we must know.” Iz bobbed her head comically.

George rose and sidled behind their chairs. “I need to go to the men’s room. Claire,” he smirked at Lloyd and Iz, “I’m leaving you in charge of the peanut gallery here.” 

Lloyd tugged his sleeve. “Just you fill us in on what your ex-wife is up to in that ladies room.”

“I’m not going in there.” George gaped.

“No, but the gents toilet is next to it.” Iz grinned slyly. “You can listen at the wall.”

She and Lloyd hooted with laughter.

“Behave.” Claire smiled, then lightly rapped Iz’s shoulder. 

“Claire.” Her father frowned.

“Okay, Dad.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll try to rein them in.”

Next, Anya exited the ladies room, escorting Claire’s mother’s by the arm. Was Anya begging her to return to the table?

Claire groaned into her fist. “This is too pathetic.” 

Iz flipped up her palm. “But what became of this girlfriend?” 

“She must have been overwhelmed in . . .” Lloyd started to joke, then fell silent. “I cannot begin to describe the torment that woman put your father through.”

His lighthearted tone had grown oddly bitter. Claire felt as if a complete stranger had spoken.

She gently touched his cheek. “Believe me, I can relate to torment where my mother is concerned.”

With a blank gaze, he slung his arm across Claire’s back. She leaned against his chest.

“Well, it’s not like there’s any love lost between you two. Is there, princess?” he asked.

“Can’t lose what you never had,” Claire mumbled.

She picked up a favor and twiddled it. Sachets tied with silky ribbons, she and Iz had created the favors from dollar store materials.

Lloyd groaned. “Your mother simply tore your father up over you kids.”

“And she is still doing this, mmm?” Iz asked seriously.

“Hmph.” Lloyd snorted. “She’s been milking that hell hath no furyshtick for eons.” His crisp eyes shrank in the shadow of his furrowed brow. “But it was much worse when you were children. Whenever he had his partial custody . . . that unreasonable access, he’d scrape together some cash to take you all somewhere fun. But the wicked witch of the East Side was forever cooking up excuses for why he couldn’t see his own kids. ‘They have doctors’ appointments.’ ” He mimicked her mother’s haughty tone. “ ‘Their stepfather and I are taking our children to the amusement park.’ ”

Claire jogged her memory. “When did she ever take us to an amusement park?”

An up-tempo pop tune filtered from the DJ’s speakers. Matt and Anya shimmied on the dance floor. Yvette returned to her seat beside Claire’s sulky mother.

“I’d say, ‘Time to call the lawyer again, darling.’ And those friggin’ legal fees.” Lloyd clapped his cheek. “The hard-earned money he pissed away on that . . . How could he afford to compete with her swanky lawyer?”

“Uh,” Iz grunted. “Don’t I know this kind of swanky lawyer?”

Of course, she was referring to her uncle.

“And all that after she destroyed his career.” Lloyd scowled. “Outing him to his supervisor at that uptown bank.”

“Huh?” Iz clucked disapprovingly. “This is just too foul.”

“Foul is a compliment in her case, love.” Lloyd raised the carafe of white wine and filled his glass. “Evil might be getting warm.” He took a long draft, then smacked his lips.

Claire gazed mutely ahead. She spotted her father at the back of the room. He was caught up in conversation with a friend of Matt’s.

What could she say? Other than details, Lloyd hadn’t recounted anything new. What felt weird—she turned—was knowing Iz had heard the family skeletons rattle.

“For all that, things had to be better in New York City.” Lloyd’s light lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked. “I mean, Stonewall happened here.”

Claire smiled knowingly. Her father had once told her Lloyd had gotten busted during those raids. Hadn’t his chutzpah, and that of a lot of gutsy folks, bought their hard-won freedom?

“But what if she’d up and whisked you kids off to some less progressive place? No matter how you slice it,” Lloyd shot a sharp smirk down the table, “that . . . creature crucified your father.”

Claire nodded at her lap. “Matt sees it. Beth, on the other hand . . .” She glanced at her sister who patted their mother’s bowed head.

“Let’s take two out of three and cut our losses, shall we?” Lloyd muttered.

Iz massaged Claire’s slumped shoulder. “This is hard to hear, bella, no?”

How sweet could she be? For all the abuse she had endured, here, Iz comforted Claire.

“It is hard, Isabelle.” Lloyd kissed Claire’s head. “But don’t be fooled by this girl’s prissy princess act.”

Iz chuckled lightly.

“Your girlfriend here is a veritable tower of strength.” He tousled Claire’s hair affectionately.

“Thanks, love.” Claire planted a kiss on Lloyd’s cheek. “I’m not so sure about that. But I am sure glad you’re here.”

“I’m not so glad, angel.” He shrugged listlessly. “But I had to be, didn’t I? For your father’s sake . . . and,” he half smiled, “being here with you two has made this whole thing more,” he exhaled as if a gargantuan weight had tumbled off his back, “breathable.”

Iz hopped up from her chair. She cleared her throat and turned to Lloyd. “Are we same sex?”

“No, love.” He sucked in his cheeks. “And never the twain shall meet.”

She extended her hand. “We can dance then.”

“Iz.” Claire frowned. “I don’t—”

“Hear me, Clara.” Iz fluttered her hands dramatically. “I must upset this mother.”

“Oh, you, Izzy girl.” Lloyd laughed heartily. “You are too precious.”

Claire gaped at her. “Sweetie, please. We can’t have a scene. Today of all days.”

CHAPTER 14

LLOYD PRESSED CLAIRE’S clenched hand. “Can’t you see, princess?” A warm smile spread on his lips. “We both must upset this mother.”

“But I gave Dad my word.” Claire flopped her head into her crossed her arms on the table. “I’d keep you two out of troub—”

“Mmm hmm.” Lloyd grasped Iz’s hand, stood, then kicked back his chair. “That gives us a limited window of opportunity.” He stepped into the aisle, escorting Iz by the crook of his arm.

“It’s almost over, Mother,” Claire heard Beth whine.

“Is this a funeral?” Claire said under her breath.

She spread her fingers over her eyes and peered out. With his loosened shirttails flapping, Matt swung Anya in his arms. Lloyd skipped over to the DJ. The music stopped.

“Put a spin on that, willya?” Lloyd instructed. 

The DJ set a vinyl record on the turntable and raised the volume. Then, pressing headphones to his ears, he bobbed his head.

Lloyd and Iz clasped hands and sprang onto the dance floor. Side-by-side, they twirled and swayed to the lively beat of a disco tune. Despite the lag in her right leg, Iz kept up with Lloyd’s brisk pace.

Their steps nimble, they spun across the floor. Some of the guests formed a circle to clap in time. Claire uncovered her eyes to see Matt and Anya clapping, too.

Then Claire forced herself to gaze down the table.

“This is simply too much,” her mother fumed. She whirled toward Claire.

“Having a nice day, Mother?” Claire clenched her teeth in a tense smile. Would her face break from the pinching strain of it?

“I see you are,” her mother snapped ferociously.

Claire watched Lloyd and Iz move freely across the open floor. She poured a glass from the carafe of red wine. Then she knocked it back and stood. “I wasn’t, until now.”

She went to clap in the circle.

“Claire?” Her father came up behind her. “What’s going on?”

“They’re just dancing, Dad.” She didn’t turn.

“But your mother? Your brother?” He spun his head frantically. “Is she going to take this out on him?”

“He’ll be fine.” Claire shrugged. If anything, Iz had taught her to savor each fleeting life moment. What else mattered?

The song ended, and a slower one began. The chandelier dimmed, its light crisscrossed on the walls. Shadows of dancing couples flitted, mingling across the glossy, wooden floor. Matt wound his arms around Anya who rested her head on his chest.

“Matt’s happy, Dad. Delirious, in fact.” She gazed directly at her father. “He doesn’t care about anything now. Except having Anya in his arms.”

“Well, then,” her father half shrugged, “I suppose you and I can dance, too.”

Lloyd was showing Iz how to slow dance.

“Oh, I can never dance like this . . . slow,” Iz said.

“Come on, lovey.” Lloyd draped his arm around Iz’s waist. “I’ll lead, shall I?”

They danced over to Claire and her father. 

“Get a load of us, George.” Lloyd winked. “Aren’t we the gay heterosexuals?”

“That’s quite enough, Lloyd.” George smiled at Claire.

“I like that, Dad.”

“That what?” he asked.

“That upward, semi-circle thing you sometimes do with your mouth.” She touched her father’s cheek.

He broke into a grin. “Of course, I’m smiling. I’ve got my princess in my arms.”

Always a fine dancer, her father moved smoothly. She propped her chin on his shoulder as they swayed to the music. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her glaring mother and sister.

Then Claire dropped her arms.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Her father studied her with a puzzled squint.

“The world’s evolved since we were kids.” She shook her head gravely. “And it won’t stop evolving for Mother—or anyone else—who attempts to stand in its way.”

“What are you saying, Claire?” He creased his forehead.

“Dad,” she squeezed his hand, “dance with Lloyd.”

“But your bro—” he started.

“I . . . and Matt know without a doubt,” she stated, “Lloyd is our family, too.”

Her father nodded slightly at the floor. “Of course he is.” Then he circled with a motion that made Claire think of a forward-moving clock.

“Isabelle,” he stood alongside them, “may I cut in?”

“Don’t dream of prying this girl from my arms.” Lloyd gripped Iz’s waist.

Iz stepped aside and swept her arm toward Lloyd. “Prego, signore. Please,” she murmured.

“I’ll lead, shall I?” George smiled.

Lloyd’s jaw dropped as George reached around his waist and lifted his hand. As they swayed on the floor, Lloyd grinned at Claire and Iz.

They stood watching.

“Questo è buono, bella, sì?” Iz said.

“Yes, sweetie.” Claire beamed at her father and Lloyd. “This is very good.”

Suddenly, Iz had her arm around Claire’s waist.

“Iz?” 

“Come, Miss Clara.” She gazed tenderly at Claire. “I can try this slow dancing . . . for you.”

Claire placed her hands on Iz’s shoulders. George and Lloyd moved in beside them.

“How’s your brother holding up over there?” George gritted his teeth.

“I’m afraid to look.” Claire bit her lip.

“Lucky he’s crocked.” A boyish smile lit Lloyd’s face.

“Mmm.” George rolled his eyes. “We’ll all need a stiff drink after this.”

Claire peered over Iz’s shoulder.

Her mother stood at the table, her eyes wild with rage. “Do you honestly expect me to put up with this disgrace?” she bellowed.

Matt stood before the table, his shoulders sagged. Claire instantly recognized the lost little boy stance. She felt an deep-seated urge to rush across the room to defend her brother.

She kept dancing. Just as she had learned to stand her ground, Matt needed to stand his.

“Aye.” Iz shivered in Claire’s arms. “Where have I heard this disgrace before?”

Matt wavered, and reached across the table for his glass. The bottle beside it tipped, its contents bubbling onto the floor. He filled his glass with spilling champagne, then raised it toward the four of them.

“To the happy couples.” Matt’s voice, a mature grownup, albeit sloshed voice, boomed across the hall.

Claire nodded at her father. “We did all right with that kid.”

Their mother picked up her purse and rushed from behind the table. “I won’t stand for another second of this!”

Claire’s mother marched directly across the dance floor. She shot them all a furious glare and flung open the door. It slammed shut behind her.

“Matt,” Beth shouted from the table now, “how could you treat Mother in this shoddy way?”

Iz grinned at Claire. “Now is a good time to fart.”

Claire quickly turned her head. She knew. If she so much as looked at Iz, they’d burst into a fit of giggles.

Iz drew her close. Claire watched her sister stomp across the room. Then she nestled her cheek on Iz’s shoulder and shut her eyes. She was enjoying their snug dance too much to care.

She listened to the lilting song. A ballad. A lover had set out on an arduous journey to be with his sweetheart. The lyrics, Across an ocean, far and wide, I’ll find you on a distant shore, rang for Claire, like the bells of Giotto’s campanile. The tower she and Iz had climbed to revel in the radiant view of Tuscany.

Suddenly, they stopped dancing. They gaped at each other, as if they’d made the connection to the song and their story at once.

Then they laughed out loud.

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, they walked home from the subway. They’d just seen a film at the indie theatre on Houston Street. Claire hadn’t been into it, but Iz had enjoyed the special effects.

“Do we need some friends?”

She glanced at Iz’s right leg. It dragged so that Claire slowed her pace. A lively weekend crowd gushed out of the subway behind them. They stepped aside to let them pass.

Iz hooked her arm through Claire’s. “You’re my friend.”

They had stopped at the Italian deli, and each toted a white, plastic bag. The bags bulged with oven-baked bread, Cerignola olives, and homemade mozzarella. Prosciutto and sopressata were the cured meats Iz simply couldn’t renounce.

“Same here, sweetie,” Claire answered. “But we can’t have everything in common.”

“We have the best things in common, mmm?” Iz playfully bumped Claire’s side with her hip.

How could she argue with that?

Gary stood beside the vertical row of mailboxes.

“Look at this, will you?” He shook a stack of envelopes at the mailman. “I went to the post office like you said and filed one of those no-such-person forms. So why am I still getting his mail?”

The mailman, a hunched man with a nervous twitch, shrugged apathetically. “Just write that on the envelopes.”

“I do.” Gary waved at Claire and Iz as they approached the gate. “Every damn day. They keep coming back.”

“I only deliver the mail.” The man wheeled his blue canvas cart onto the sidewalk. “Call the 800 number.”

“What’s that?” Gary called.

“It’s on the post office website.” He scurried away.

“Asshole,” Gary muttered under his breath as he sifted through the pile. “Great.” He handed Claire two envelopes. “He mixed up your mail with mine . . . again.”

“Is calling the mailman an asshole a federal offense?” Claire arched her brows.

“No, but strangling him might be,” he grumbled. “You’d think literacy would be a job requirement for that guy.” He smirked. “I’m still getting Sam’s mail. He expects me to bring it to him like a frickin’delivery boy.”

Claire read the name on the envelopes Gary had handed her. “Oh, her again.” She rolled her eyes.

“Who is ‘her’?” Iz asked.

“The psycho tenant who lived upstairs,” Claire said.

Naturally, the girl’s mail appeared to be unpaid bills.

“All these fun peoples left when I came,” Iz remarked.

Gary chuckled. “We owe you big time for that.”

“Say, I have a clever strategy for dealing with this.” Claire took Sam’s envelopes from Gary. Then she tossed them with her former tenant’s mail into the green, recycle can. “Sam was into saving the earth, right?”

“Okay.” Gary smiled. “That isa federal offense.” 

“We won’t tell if you don’t.” Claire winked.

“So how was the movie?” he asked.

“Ah, incredible.” Iz flitted her hands like an excited kid. “This spaceship was under attack and this aliens tried to stop them. Then they all had this wild . . . err, you know, like some laser fight.”

“Such an intriguing plot,” Claire studied her mail, “for a cartoon.”

“Huh? I already told you, Miss Clara.” Iz gaped. “It’s called animated film and this was nothing to do with plot.”

“That much I got.” Claire shrugged at Gary. “By the way, Gar—” she started.

Iz took the bag from Claire. “I’ll cook supper now. Ciao.” She waved to Gary and went down the steps.

“I’m taking that upstairs apartment for me and Iz,” Claire finished.

“Good idea.” Gary nodded. “Will you rent your garden apartment?”

She shook her head. “That’ll be Iz’s studio.”

Iz had had twenty paintings, stored at a friend’s in Rome, shipped over. If those pieces sold, she’d need to paint again.

“I see.” He studied Claire. “Getting pretty serious with you two, huh?”

Claire stared at a zigzag crack in the concrete between her shoes. “Just how are we defining ‘serious’?”

“Umm, commitment, monogamous, long term . . . Need I go on?”

“So far we’ve got everything but ‘long term’ down.”

“That could be key. But time’s on your side. Speaking of time.” Gary rubbed his light beard. “I’ve been looking for something . . . or someone.”

“Dating again?”

A dusty wind whisked up and dried leaves whirled down the sidewalk.

“Perish the thought.” He shivered. “I suppose I’ll get back to dating one day. But at the moment, I’m considering having a kid.”

“Really? Wow, that’s something.” She gazed quizzically at him. 

He flashed a grin. “I think so, too.”

“On your own?” she asked.

“Well, like I told you, it’d help to have a co-parent.”

“I can imagine.” She cradled the pile of bills and ads in her arm. 

“Can you think of anyone,” Gary watched Claire with an intense, almost piercing gaze, “who might want to be the mother of my child?”

Why was he asking her?

“Just how do you plan on going about this?” Maybe Claire could turn the tableson his therapy tactic. Answer a question with a question.

“I considered adopting. But it looks complicated for a single guy. So I researched artificial insemination and thought about,” he paused briefly, “asking if you might want—”

As if the earth had shifted under her feet, she stumbled against the brick wall. “A mother, me?”

Gary grasped her shoulders. “I think you’d make an excellent mother.”

“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered. “I can barely speak the word mother without feeling a sudden need for shock therapy.”

He laughed. “How is the old battle-ax these days?”

“Now there’s a highly professional term.” She tilted her head. 

“From what you told me about that whacky wedding, it’s open season on your mother.” Gary shrugged. “Besides, I’m not your therapist anymore. But,” he flattened his hand against the wall beside her, “I would like to be the father of your child.”

“Gary, it’s a lot . . .” She dropped her eyes toward the concrete. Maybe its solidity would keep her addled brain from spinning.

“Think it over.” He stepped back. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m willing to do everything . . . except have it, of course. My private practice is picking up. I can take care of most, even all of the financials.”

He thumped her shoulder, swung open the creaky gate, and went up the stoop.

She couldn’t budge from the spot.

Gary leaned over the railing. “Just give it some thought,” he called down.

“Did he say ‘your child’?” she mumbled in a gaping stupor. Jesus. There’s never a dull moment around here.

“Oh, and,” he unlocked the security gate, then called down again, “I’m around tomorrow to help move your stuff upstairs. Therapists do labor too, you know.”

He winked.

CHAPTER 15

CLAIRE OPENED HER eyes and shivered. “What the hell?”

It was barely mid-October. She gathered the white folds of the quilt to fling it over her head. Then she rolled over.

Iz wasn’t there.

She rubbed her eyes. Faint street light filtered through the blinds. She squinted at the glowing red numbers on the digital clock. Three-ten in the morning.

“Where is she?”

Groggily, she slid off the mattress. She pulled on her cloud robe and slippers, yawned, and shuffled into the kitchen. The window was wide open. She leaned over the ledge.

“Iz?”

Iz huddled in her pajamas on the fire escape. A cigarette shook between her trembling fingers. She turned with a slow, almost mechanical motion. Her pale complexion appeared ghostly under the bright moon.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I didn’t wish to wake you.” Iz’s hoarse voice sounded strained and distant. Purplish circles ringed her lower eyelids. She seemed to look through Claire.

Claire recalled her smoking in the bathroom in Florence. She’d had this same dazed, faraway look then.

“You had a nightmare?” Claire thought of how she’d comforted her siblings when they woke from nightmares as kids.

Iz nodded slightly. Then, as if she were caged in, she stared deadpan at the railing.

Claire climbed over the ledge and draped her arm around Iz’s back.

She peered through the bars. Moonlight spread in a wide circle that gradated from light to dark across the yard. Silhouettes of the silent, row houses beyond the fence were swathed in soft, blue-gray shadow.

“Ah, Clara.” Iz sighed gravely. “I am haunted.”

Claire stroked Iz’s bowed head. “Tell me about your nightmares, sweetie.” She wasn’t about to play amateur shrink, but, clearly, Iz needed to talk.

“No. I cannot.” She tipped an empty coffee can and squashed her cigarette inside it. Then she dropped her head on Claire’s shoulder.

“Just tell me.” Claire kissed her limp hand. “It can’t be healthy to bottle this stuff up.” For all the years Claire had fought her mother’s stifling control, that much she knew.

Iz groaned. “All right then. But only . . . vaguely, ah? I cannot give details.” She gazed like a big-eyed orphan. “My nightmares are mostly about torture,” she said, then grew silent again.

“My poor Isabelle.” Claire squeezed her hand.

“The settings are always different. Sometimes it’s the Middle Ages. I’m a heretic.”

“Well, you are anyway,” Claire gently teased.

“Yes.” Iz half smiled. “But then it was more frightening, no? The torture is mostly physical. They spit and throw stones until my body is bruised all over. But sometimes I dream about,” she stared, her eyes glassy, into the yard, “humiliation. I’m naked and tied to a post in the public streets. A great crowd are laughing and cursing at me.”

Claire frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” She clutched her head frantically. “It feels like they hate me for something even they don’t understand.” She shook her fist. “I shout at them, ‘How can you hate me so much?’ ”

Claire studied her anguished eyes. “It’s unimaginable. Anyone hating you.”

“I’m sorry.” Iz buried her face in her palms. “I cannot speak.”

Claire kissed her cheek, then said softly, “It’s going to be all right.”

How could she say that? Was it hopeless codependency to simply wish Iz’s crushing memories away?

“I’m glad you told me.” She teased her fingers through Iz’s gleaming black hair, damp with sweat. “Thank you for trusting me with that . . . secret.”

“Mmm.” Iz nestled her head on Claire’s lap, then looked up. “But you have a secret, too?” She nodded at Claire. “You must tell me this now.”

Claire quickly looked away. “Hopefully, one day I can.”

Were they talking about the same thing?

“I know what this is.” Iz brushed her fingers across Claire’s cheek and down her neck.

“You do?”

“I understand that you get . . . depressed.”

Claire’s eyes went wide as she sat upright. “Isabelle,” echoed in the dark stillness. “I am not depressed.” She lowered her voice to an earnest hush.

Was Iz confusing Claire with her mother?

“It’s okay.” Iz waved her hand lightly. “Antonia, the professor, she was depressed, too.” Her voice faded. “She didn’t tell me about that for months after we met. By then it was too late. I was hopeless in love.” She sighed again.

Claire pressed a tight fist to her mouth. The last thing she wanted to hear about was Iz’s ex-lover.

A look of bitter sadness shone in Iz’s eyes as she stared at the moon. “She forced her hatred on me as if . . . I were to blame for her illness.”

Though Claire wished she’d forget Antonia, Iz had more to say.

“I thought of La Divina Commedia. All Italians must read this in school. I was Dante sinking into her hell. But he had Virgil to guide him home. I was alone,” she smiled thoughtfully at Claire, “until you came.”

“I’m glad I could be there for you. But,” Claire jerked her thumb at the window behind them, “do you see any anti-depressants around here?”

Iz shrugged. “Maybe you hide them from me.”

Claire squinted at the stripy light that streamed through the black bars. “Sometimes, I get a little depressed . . . whenever I have to deal with my mother.” As though the moon had joined the conversation, she raised her chin. “Guess that’s why I freaked out before Matt’s wedding.” The thought of having to see her mother had thrown her into a tailspin of despair.

“So you only get a little depressed?” Iz smirked. “That’s nothing. Look at me shaking on your house?”

Claire propped her arm on the window ledge. Iz snuggled against her side.

“Is your mother the only reason you get depressed?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Now Claire was faraway. “Even she doesn’t bother me so much anymore. Something . . . changed or shifted, I guess.” She shrugged at the moon.

Nearly full, its shadowy end appeared to have been sliced off. Why was it so large? And orange? It must be closer to the earth. Hadn’t Gary mentioned a Harvest Moon phase?

Claire never thought about astronomical stuff. It seemed almost silly compared to practical matters like earning a living. But weren’t ocean tides, even people’s moods swayed by lunar power?

Sure, she nodded at the glowing sky, the moon is important, too.

“What is this great secret then?” Iz sat partly up.

Claire smiled briefly. “I can’t tell you . . . not yet. Maybe one day.”

Iz’s face brightened as she dangled her fingers. “Ah, I see I must tickle you, Miss Clara.” The mischievous girl look returned to her face. “And you will laugh so loudly you will wake all of this sleeping Brookly—”

“Iz, don’t.” Claire crossed her arms and hunched over. “I’m . . . just not ready to tell you.”

Iz twirled her fingers, then pried Claire’s elbow from her side. “But you will be quite the terrorist to wake this neighbors from their peaceful beds.”

Iz tickled her underarm. Claire flattened herself against the wall and giggled. She knew. Iz wouldn’t stop her nonsense until she confessed.

“Come, bella. Now you must tell me,” she cooed in her ear. “I just told you something secret, hmm?”

Claire inhaled, then blurted, “I love you, okay? I’ve loved you ever since we made love in Rome.”

She braced herself against the hard bricks. Would Iz hedge? Maybe she’d say she liked Claire very much or, worse, I’m fond of you.

“Ugh.” Claire shuddered at the dismal thought.

“Oh.” Iz dropped her hands. “Why is it so impossible to tell me this?”

“Because,” Claire felt tears sting her downcast eyes, “maybe you don’t feel the same.”

“How can you say what I feel?”

“Well, I . . .” Claire raised her eyes. “What do you feel?”

“I love you, too.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I don’t know.” Iz flipped her hand casually. “I think you should just know this.”

Claire gaped. “How can I just know that?”

“I am very visual, mmm? You understand this about me. Can’t you just look at my eyes,” she gazed tenderly at Claire, “looking at you?”

Claire touched Iz’s smiling mouth. “I think I’m becoming more visual myself.”

“Oh?”

Claire shut her eyes. “When I left Italy, I closed my eyes on the plane and saw a kind of . . . mental picture of you. You looked so happy painting those pretty, rolling hills of Tuscany.”

Iz paled again. Her brow furrowed and her body slumped. “That’s another . . . world. Like a dream now,” she said in a hollow voice.

“But it wasn’t a dream, sweetie. I was there, remember?” Claire flung her arms around Iz’s neck.

“Ah, Clara.” She wept in Claire’s arms. “How can I bear this loss of my beautiful home?”

Claire wrapped Iz in her arms. “Maybe,” she ventured in a low murmur, “you can bear it for love.”

Iz blinked, her lashes moist with tears. Then she playfully jiggled Claire’s breasts. “True.” Her smile warmed. “And I have all these rolling hills I need right here.”

“Iz.” Claire threw her head back, laughing. “We’re on the fire escape.”

She remembered what Iz had said in the bathtub. “Maybe, together, we can discover what got lost in our childhood.”

Iz leaned over Claire. “And I know another secret about you, Princess Clara. You like lots of little kisses.”

Claire giggled wildly as Iz kissed her all over.

“SO WHAT’S THE verdict?” The familiar worry darkened her father’s face. “Is your brother still speaking to us after that . . . wedding?” 

They hadn’t heard from Matt, still on his honeymoon in Niagara Falls.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” Claire yawned at the gurgling coffeemaker. “Matt’s much less complex than you think. If I know my little brother, he’s probably still nursing his hangover.”

His face brightened as he jerked his head sideways at Lloyd. “I suppose this family could use a few less complex people, hmm?”

“Speaking of complex people, where is that Isabelle?” Lloyd glanced anxiously at George’s watch.

Claire knew he had an audition that afternoon for Waffles in Uncle Vanya.

They sat around the larger, upstairs kitchen. It was a crisp, late October Sunday. They planned to stroll through Prospect Park, then visit the botanical gardens. Iz wanted to buy bulbs from the gift shop there. Maybe something would blossom in the barren yard come spring.

“She’s still waking up.” Claire poured their coffee. Then she set a pint of half-and-half, the sugar bowl, and spoons on the new oak table. “She went to Chelsea last night.”

During a group show Claire had helped her enter, Iz had hooked up with an artist. Thea Melendez was part of an informal band of painters. Iz had gone to Thea’s for a studio visit that had transformed into a late night party. Iz, who’d gotten a cab home, had stumbled in at one a.m.

“And you were?” George, in his favorite orange-brown, plaid jacket, looked up from his coffee.

“Home.” Claire, who wore jeans and a dungaree shirt, shrugged at the wedding bouquet on the table. Its dried tea roses and baby’s breath jutted over the lip of Iz’s starry vase.

“Home, knitting beside the hearth?” Lloyd sucked in his cheeks.

George elbowed him.

“What’ve I said now?” Lloyd, dressed in gray chinos and a black turtleneck, gaped. “I only meant that Claire might have gone to Chelsea and had some fun, too.”

“Iz asked me, but I just don’t . . . fit in. It’s fine.” She shrugged again.

“Oh, darling.” Lloyd squeezed George’s wrist. “Remember the days when—”

“When you were out gallivanting all night with your actor friends?” George rolled his eyes. “How can I forget.”

“Your father would get so jealous.” Lloyd winked. “And you know I didn’t mind teasing him about it.”

George smiled. “Finally, he said, ‘Ah, come on out for Christ sake.’ I figured, what the hell.”

“And we had a blast.” Lloyd playfully tousled George’s hair.

“We just needed to find a way to be in each other’s worlds.” George kissed Lloyd’s puckered lips.

Claire smiled. Ever since Matt’s wedding, they seemed to have grown closer, more tender with each other.

Lloyd arched a brow over his steaming coffee. “Trouble in paradise, love?” he whispered to Claire.

“Nothing like that.” She slouched, then stared at the wall.

Above the table, Iz had hung a bamboo scroll that depicted an anonymous, multi-armed goddess. The scroll was a trash find Iz had given “a new life in this world.”

“That kind of . . . party just isn’t for me,” Claire mumbled to the goddess. “I don’t mind.”

“Hmm?” Her father, whose arm was slung across Lloyd’s shoulders, watched her keenly. “Your body language says maybe you do mind.”

“Oh, George, leave her be.” Lloyd shook his hand. “The girl doesn’t want to go.”

“What? My princess looks sad.” He pressed his hand over Claire’s. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice that?”

“It’s okay, Dad, really.” She smirked dryly at the sudden thought of her mother. She was too self-absorbed to notice anything as subtleas Claire’sbody language. 

Iz gripped the doorframe. She staggered in wearing Claire’s cloud robe. A velvety, blue sleep mask was halfway up her forehead. Shocks of tangled, black hair stuck over the slits of her glassy eyes.

“Uh,” she grunted loudly. “American artists are too crazy.” With a low whistle, she whirled her finger alongside her temple. 

“A little hung over, are we, love?” Lloyd snickered.

“Mmm.” Iz hobbled, feeling with her fumbling hands, toward the bathroom. “This is what those immigrants felt when they came on ships, ah?”

“Well,” George quipped, “if you’d like to relive the immigration experience, our Claire could bring you to the Staten Island ferry.”

He and Lloyd chuckled.

“Sure.” Claire nodded seriously. “They have a fine example of Chinese architecture over there.”

They all stared at her.

“What?” She sipped her coffee. “I saw it on a public television documentary.”

“And we’re all very impressed, dear,” Lloyd teased.

Everyone but Claire laughed.

“Love the eyewear.” Lloyd chucked his chin at Iz’s sleep mask.

Claire had picked it up along with lavender oil at the health food store. Maybe Iz would sleep better. She’d also gotten St. John’s Wort for when she got depressed. And Black Cohosh for PMS.

Iz shifted behind Claire’s chair and kissed her cheek. “Your daughter’s beauty blinds me in my sleep.”

Claire beamed in the sparkling light, like they’d never had downstairs. Sunlight warmed the room they had painted a terra cotta with sap green trim—earthy reminders of Nonna’s homey kitchen.

“Oh.” Lloyd poked George’s shoulder. “Say no more about blinding beauty.”

“Runs in the family, huh?” Her father winked at Claire.

“On your side anyway,” Lloyd was quick to add.

AGAINST HER BETTER judgment, Claire accepted the invitation. That Friday night, five artists, Iz, and Claire gathered at Thea’s studio.

A sunken sofa enveloped in a Native American blanket was centered on the open floor. A frayed, wicker chaise and two worn armchairs flanked the sofa. A workbench with a window-turned-palette, a large easel, and a hand-built rack filled the rest of the loft.

The catty-cornered rack bulged with braced, mixed-media canvases. The black, pine floor was splattered with flecks and drips of multi-colored paint. The floor glimmered with a halo that spread from the cone of the ceiling lamp.

The milling artists, who seemed to drink a lot of wine and beer, chitchatted. Even Claire had had too much—she’d lost count after three glasses—Chablis.

CHAPTER 16

FROM WHERE SHE sprawled on the chaise, Claire stole sideways glances at Iz. She chatted freely with two men beside the workbench, which doubled as a bar.

Seated alone, Claire’s brain spun with muddled doubts. Were she and Iz right for each other? Maybe Iz should be with someone exotic. Or more cultured. As if to banish her gloomy thoughts, she tossed her head.

Iz and Thea sat on the sofa beside the chaise. Claire stared into her almost-emptied glass.

Thea, an olive-skinned woman, discussed an exhibit. She’d organized the show, which would include Iz’s painting, at a public art space.

“It’s a decent-sized gallery.” Thea, whose lush, red lips curved on her high cheekbones, smiled at Iz.

“Ah.” Iz smiled back. “Decent is all right by me.”

“And the lighting is fantastic.” Thea widened her striking hazel, almost golden, eyes.

“I am happy with that.” Iz nodded. “But what about this,” she glanced at Claire, “commission?”

Claire bobbed her head approvingly. She’d advised Iz to ask more businesslike questions.

“Fifty percent,” Thea answered. “Pretty good.”

“Used to be more,” Claire slurred.

“Sure.” Thea shrugged casually. “But with the rents galleries foot nowadays, that’s all ancient history.”

Claire felt a flush of embarrassment. Here, she was gabbing about the golden days of yesteryear. The art world was bound to have suffered since the onset of this shite economy. She, of all people, understood that.

She bit her lip to restrain a snotty wisecrack, then slurped her wine instead.

Iz studied Claire with a squinty, perplexed look. She continued chatting with Thea.

Claire blinked, rubbing her temples with her balled fists. The wine had made her fuzzy-headed. She was about to set her glass on the floor and leave it. Unfinished. But she knocked it back and poured another from the bottle at her feet.

As if Claire didn’t exist, Thea rambled on to Iz. She described a series of paintings she’d just begun. Iz asked questions about her mixed media process. All the while, Claire watched them converse like a back-and-forth ping pong game.

“I’m entering this new phase,” Thea said in a pensive voice.

Claire thought of the cyclical phases of the moon.

“What’s new?” Iz asked.

“It’s more textural.” Thea nodded with the same faraway look Iz had when she was mired in her thoughts.

Like a penitent sinner, Iz bowed her head. “I am not painting at all . . . now,” she confessed in a small, almost frightened voice.

“You’ll get back to it.” Thea patted Iz’s back.

Claire was about to agree but did a double take. Was Thea making eyes at Iz? Clutching the armrest of the chaise, she heaved herself into an upright position. She scrutinized the woman’s face.

Sure enough, Thea batted her eyes at Iz.

Iz went to the bathroom, and Claire shifted down the chaise.

She glared at Thea. “In case you haven’t noticed Iz and I are together,” she said coolly. “I doubt she makes a secret of it.”

“Umm, I know that, Claire.” Thea inched toward the other end of the sofa.

Claire swayed drunkenly. “So long as you remember it.”

Thea’s jaw dropped. “I don’t . . . don’t,” she stammered. “There’s nothing between us. We’re just friends. Besides,” she shrugged, “I’m straight.”

“Hmph.” Claire snorted. “Thought I was straight once . . .” Until I met Isabelle, she started to add.

Iz was deadly silent during the subway ride home. Thea must have recounted what Claire had said while she’d waited on the sidewalk. She badly needed some air.

Claire staggered into the apartment, and Iz slammed the door. She turned sharply to face Claire who slouched against the wall. She desperately wished the living room would stop swaying.

“How could you do this to me?” Iz, red faced, bristled.

“I saw her making eyes at you.” Claire couldn’t look at Iz who stood by the door. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?” She wobbled forward, then clapped her hand to her whirling head.

“She doesn’t see well.” Iz rattled her hands. “She looks at everyone this way. Aye.”

“A blind artist?” Claire smirked. “Come on.”

“Well, princess, that is a truly lovely thing to say.” Iz gaped. “An artist can be blind and still be an artist. But she has these . . . come dice.” She spread two fingers and pointed at her eyes.

“Contact lenses.” Claire felt like her own eyes were rolling backward inside her head.

“Clara, please.” Iz drew a deep breath and said in a slow, controlled voice, “We are only friends and,” she flung up her hands, “Mother of Christ, the woman is straight.” Her pitch rose again. “You frightened her.”

“I won’t . . .” Claire stomped her foot as tears stung her eyes. “I can’t have you flirting with other women. And right in front of me.” She wept into her trembling hands. “I love you too much.” 

Iz cradled her hand on Claire’s bowed head. “Because I love you so much, it hurts that you distrust me, mmm?” Her voice quivered with the intensity of her words. “And I cannot bear to be hurt anymore.”

Claire’s arms flopped to her side.

Iz lifted her chin. “And I cannot have anyone . . . yes, even you that I love so well, control my life. You know what I came from, eh? That mad professor would scream holy hell if I breathed near another woman.”

“Huh?” Claire thumped her chest. “How can you compare me to that bitch?” she cried, then stumbled toward the door.

“No one is comparing you.” Iz blocked her path as Claire reached for the doorknob. “But it’s dark. Where can you go at this hour? In this drunk state?”

“Wherever I like.” Claire thrust up her head. “We’re not in Italy, and you’re not my—” She stopped short of saying mother.

Iz sighed. “You were about to say something hurtful. I appreciate that you did not.” She paused. “Once more, Clara, I love you. But I cannot be,” she paused again, “contained.”

She stared off with the same wild-eyed gaze she had after a nightmare.

Claire felt a flush of shame. Here, she believed she had defended their relationship. She’d only pushed Iz further away.

“Jesus.” Claire crumpled into a fetal position on the rug. “I’m turning into my control-freaky mother.” She sobbed into her knees.

Iz stooped and rubbed Claire’s back. “Uh, please,” she whispered, her voice raspy, “that is just not tr—”

“Yes. Yes,” Claire cried. “It is true. I’m just like her. I’m . . . incapable of love.”

And, just like her mother, wouldn’t she always create obstacles to love?

“Stop.” Iz rolled her eyes.

“I can’t.” Claire wiped her dripping eyes on the rough sleeve of her corduroy jacket. “I just did to you what she does. Manipulates everyone in her life.”

“Clara, bella.” Iz enfolded Claire in her arms. “It’s not possible. You are not her. This is just . . . her inside your thoughts, ah?” She tapped Claire’s forehead. “Telling you that you are not capable of anything.”

Claire raised her eyes.

With a soothing, circular motion, Iz massaged Claire’s slumped shoulders. “I know the truth,” she purred gently in Claire’s ear. Then she rocked her for a long while.

Finally, Claire looked up. “Is Thea really straight?”

“Like the ruler I’m going to hit you with.” Iz flashed a grin. “Besides, I don’t like her nose.”

Claire sat up and crossed her legs. “What’s wrong with her nose?” She sniffled.

“Err . . . too short and thick.” Iz ran her finger down Claire’s nose. “Not long and fine like yours.”

Claire smiled crookedly at the rug. Its geometric patterns shifted and crisscrossed before her eyes. “And if you did like her nose?”

Iz sighed melodramatically. “Then I would find something else wrong with her.” She kissed Claire’s lips. “Because she is just not you.”

Claire grinned stupidly.

“Beyond all that,” Iz flipped up her palm, “can you imagine I am crazy enough to date an artist?”

They laughed.

Iz sat on the rug and raked back Claire’s messy bangs. “You think it doesn’t bother me how men always look at you?”

“Please.” Claire flitted her hand drunkenly. “I don’t even notice that.”

“But I notice.” Iz eyes widened. “And, believe me, I want to slap them. But I check myself . . . because I know the world cannot help but see your beauty.”

Claire flung her arms around Iz, and they toppled over. Iz laughed, then, lying alongside Claire, stroked the length of her arm.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go out with your friends anymore,” Claire mumbled as Iz dried her cheeks with her palm.

“Mmm. It may be best.” Iz nodded. “But I must insist you apologize to this friend . . . if she is still a friend.”

“All right,” Claire said grudgingly. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Mmm, no calling.” Iz wagged her finger. “This you must do in the face.”

“Face to face? Jesus, Iz.” She pouted. “You’re strict.”

“You like this strictness, no?” Iz smiled playfully. “Seriously, this once I must be strict with you my princess. It’s only right. Besides, you had no problem speaking to her face tonight.”

“Yeah.” Claire gritted her teeth. “But I’ll be sober then.”

Iz chuckled. “That will be painful, ah?”

She propped Claire up as they showered together. Then they got into bed.

Tiles floated like swimming puzzle pieces across the ceiling. Claire gripped the mattress. “Ooh.” She stuck out her tongue. “Where’s the off button on this thing?”

Iz stared up, her arms crossed under her head. “Listen . . . I know you don’t have so many friends.”

She could hardly deny it. “It’s just . . . all those so-o . . . phisticated people.”

She recollected a college Christmas break. At nineteen, she’d returned to find her mother’s apartment full of chatty guests. Drained after a week of exams, Claire had turned on her heels and checked into a hotel.

“I’m just not that so-o . . . ciable.” Claire squinted at the clock, trying to make out the time as the flicking, red numbers bobbed up and down.

“Yet you have your good family.” Iz squeezed her side. “And two fine fathers. I have not even one.”

“We can share my good family,” Claire said.

“Ah, tante grazie.” Iz smiled. “And remember, I have created famiglia of my friends.”

“Sure.” Claire ran her tongue inside her dry mouth. “Guess I created friends of my family.”

Iz rolled over and kissed the tip of Claire’s nose. “But so long as you call my name in your sleep, my first place is with you.”

“And if you ever dare to call anyone else’s name in your sleep . . . .” Claire rapped her shoulder.

“Ow.” Iz rubbed her shoulder. “Has my crazy grandmother possessed you now?”

“Yes,” Claire narrowed her blurred eyes, “and we’re both keeping an eye on you.”

“Look,” Iz said, “people just happen to like me. I can’t help that.”

“Why should you? You enjoy being with your artist friends. I understand,” Claire said half-heartedly.

Why did she feel so left out? Like she lived on the edge of Iz’s increasingly glamorous life?

“Mmm,” Iz went on. “Like you, my friends are good people. I learned from a young age to be drawn to that.”

Claire nodded emphatically. Hadn’t she been drawn to the better half of her family? And to Iz?

“Good people are drawn to you . . . like,” she smacked her lips, “like fireflies to light.”

Iz arched a brow. “Err, I am no science expert, but don’t these fireflies make their own light?”

“Oh, sure.” Claire pinched her throbbing head. “But fireflies sound nicer than moths, don’t they?” She flopped over to face Iz. “You might know more about bugs than me.” She giggled.

“Basta.” Iz thrust up her hand, then dropped it on the pillow. “Clara, my friends are not bugs.”

“I meant good bugs.” She planted a sloppy kiss on Iz’s cheek. “Umm . . . maybe butterflies.”

“Stop.” Iz laughed out loud.

“GUESS WE’RE BOTH out of the will, huh?” Matt had just returned from his two-week honeymoon.

Their father had stepped up what he called the “year-end crunch” of organizing accounts. More often than not, he worked through lunch.

Matt and Claire had taken their usual diner booth. Jill was out and a curt, gum-snapping waitress kept them waiting.

Claire’s cheek was pressed on her fist. “Did Mother call you?”

“Nope.” Matt twiddled his thumb to answer a text message. “Nothing since the wedding.” He nodded at Claire. “You?”

“Nary a word.”

“Sweet,” he said.

They high-fived each other above the table. Then they exchanged wearied, battle-worn smiles.

“Can we—?” Claire flung up her hand as the waitress, a young brunette, scurried past. She smirked at Matt. “Can you text our waitress.”

“Huh?” Matt scrunched his nose. “We went outside the hall after Mother’s hissy fit. You missed that epilogue. Anya told Mother and Beth off.”

“Really?” She’d had no idea.

“Yeah.” He slurped his soda through a straw. “Anya’s English is great when she’s pissed off.”

Claire chuckled.

“So how are Dad and Lloyd holding up?” He grimaced.

The waitress slapped their plates on the table, then bustled off. Matt slipped the phone into his shirt pocket.

“Fine. Dad’s more worried about you.” She patted her brother’s forearm. “I told him not to be.”

“Yeah.” The boyish smile formed on his mouth. “I’m pretty progressive for a straight, white guy.”

Claire laughed.

“You know,” Matt suspended his bacon burger before his open mouth, “after Mother and Beth screamed like that,” he took a bite, “everyone stopped dancing. Everyone except you and Isabelle.”

She gazed up, surprised. “Guess we were oblivious.”

Matt raised and lowered his eyebrows. “Guess you’re in love.”

She smiled dreamily. The realization struck her with lightning-like clarity. She and Iz were in love!

He started to push the camping again.

“It’s not a good time.” She poked through her pasta salad with a fork, then sucked her teeth. Jill would never forget to “hold the onions” out of her order.

“Ah, come on, sis. There’ll still be some foliage. It’s colder, sure, but there won’t be any bugs.” He winked. “Anya really likes you, and I’m kind of nuts about ya myself.”

“Or just kind of nuts. I’m sorry, Matt.” She shrugged sheepishly. “Iz has two shows coming up. Plus, she got asked to paint a theatre set. There’s a lot going on.”

“Umm, not to be nosey or anything.” He smirked at his burger. “Isabelle’s a sweet kid, but does everything need to revolve around her art? I mean, you can have a life, too.”

Claire wasn’t listening. She was picturing Iz in the art store, pronouncing paint colors—alizarin crimson, cerulean blue, titanium white—in her melodic accent. Or deliriouslyencircled by her paintings after they’d unpacked the crate like a gift from Rome.

“I watch her sometimes, you know. She’s lost in thought. Just walking down the street or looking at city lights is an artistic experience for her.” Claire looked up. “Her art is important.” If nothing else, she’d help Iz manage the business of selling her work. “Besides I can’t ever face her friends again.” She rolled her eyes at the table.

The day after her faux pas, Claire had driven to Chelsea. Hoping she’d be out, Claire had tapped gingerly on Thea’s door. When she opened it, Claire stammered an apology. Then she handed Thea an expensive bottle of Chablis, “to make up for all I drank.” 

“Sure, but is Isabelle’s career everything?” Matt asked as he chomped an onion ring.

“It’s . . . it’s something we can share.”

“And camping isn’t, huh?” He watched her expectantly.

“Forget the friggin’camping, will you?” She scowled, then felt a pang of regret. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to choke out another apology. She was over her quota for the week.

“Hey, you never know.” As though he were blocking a football pass, Matt thrust up his large hand. “Maybe you guys’ll be into it.”

“Oy vey.” She groaned into her palm.

“Umm, Claire, we’re not Jewish.”

“I know but . . . oy vey.”

“MY BROTHER IS driving me nuts with this camping jag,” she told Iz at supper that night.

Iz nodded seriously. “I think maybe this camping will be all right.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go camping,” she dropped her head, “with me?” 

“Of course, bella,” Iz kissed her outstretched hand, “if you want to. It will be good to do something for us. No?”

Claire slowly chewed a bite of spinach frittata. It seemed that as Iz’s confidence grew, hers shrank.

“And not to worry about this bugs.” Iz whipped her fork in the air. “Should one of those hideous creatures dare to enter your presence, I shall defend you to the death.”

Claire leaned on her elbows and gazed wide-eyed at Iz. “You’re too much, you know.”

Iz stuffed a forkful of frittata into her smiling mouth. “We’ll camp this next weekend, mmm?”

The next day, Claire came home to a pointed, green tent flopped over the sofa. White, nylon twine curled in scattered loops across the rug.

“What the—?”

“Just look at this, bella.” With a dish towel slung across her shoulder, Iz emerged from the kitchen. A childlike grin lit her face.

“I am looking.” Claire gaped at the tent. “Like I said, ‘What the’?”

“Your upstairs psychology friend said we could use this one.” She lifted a corner of the tent. “We will be rolling on the hills soon, eh?” She slipped her arms around Claire’s waist.

“Iz.” Claire crinkled her nose in bewilderment. “It’s taking up the whole living room.”

“Yes, it’s a big one, all right.” Iz bobbed her head excitedly. “Ah.” She raised a finger. “I have a clever thought.”

Wearily, Claire tugged off her jacket and flung it on the closet floor.

“I . . . no, we, because you really should learn this thing,” Iz hung the jacket on a hanger, “will set this one up in the garden.”

“Sweetie,” Claire pinched her nostrils, “we cannot sleep in a tent in the yard.” Did she need to explain?

“But why?” Iz creased her forehead. “It will be a good practice for this camping.”

“Listen, I know you mean well with,” she smirked at the tent that had swallowed the plush sofa she longed to flop onto, “this idea, but how can we camp? You have a lot of important shows coming up and your set de—”

“How can we not go?” She trailed Claire into the kitchen.

The table was already set. A savory aroma of basil and olive oil scented the air.

“I mean, we cannot . . . go out with my friends.”

Claire turned.

“So then we can have this camping.” Iz pointed toward the living room.

Claire felt too drained to argue. She went into the bathroom and stared glumly in the mirror. Her face appeared wan and drawn, her eyes sunken. The bank job grew more colorless with each passing day.

She splashed water on her cheeks. A full day of number crunching—plus overtime—had given her a dull, throbbing headache.

Iz watched her from the threshold.

“All right.” Claire shrugged listlessly at the mirror. “Maybe this one will be good.”

Iz squeezed Claire who smiled feebly. Still, she wanted to cry. Was she depressed? Why did she feel as if Iz was gradually slipping away?

After supper, Claire took two pain relievers, St. John’s Wort, then sprawled on the bed. She stared at a quiz show.

Iz appeared in the doorway. “I’ll close this now,” she said softly. “You rest quiet from your PMT, mmm?”

“PMS?” Claire mumbled faintly. “It’s just a headache. Could you be cuter?”

Iz’s affectionate smile vanished as she shut the door.

Why did the room seem so solemn, like an airless tomb, after Iz had left it? Is this how I’ll feel when she leaves me? Claire fretted. Alone in a silent apartment? As if to banish the weepy thought, she tossed her head across the pillow.

She was feeling much too sorry for herself.

She heard clanking in the living room, then closed her eyes. Hopefully, Iz was packing up the tent. Would she set it up in the yard, after all? Claire draped her arm over her pinching eyes.

“Whatever she’s doing out there,” she sighed wearily, “I just don’t want to know.”

CHAPTER 17

SHE SLEPT FITFULLY, her dreams like torn pages from the ancienthistory of her childhood.

“It’s my birthday and he’s my father.”She had insisted that he be at her sixteenth birthday party. Her mother’s piercing shriek of “How dare you betray me like this!” mingled with the shrill buzz of the alarm clock.

She slapped the clock to the floor.

“Caffè, bella,” Iz lifted the clock and set it beside a steaming cup on the nightstand. “I cannot be late for those little ones in the school yard.” She flipped her backpack across her shoulder. “Or the principal will give me a bad look.”

Claire fluttered her lashes in the stream of sunlight. Then, like a hibernating animal, she burrowed under the quilt.

“Ora venga, Miss Clara.” Iz gently shook her. “Drink your coffee now. And get to that work of yours. Or your boss daddy will give you a bad look, too.”

Claire groaned to hear “that work of yours,” then thrust off the quilt. “Brr.” She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “Don’t forget we’re eating out with Gary tonight,” she said drowsily.

“Ah, yes. I already did forget that.” Iz tapped the side of her head. “Of course, we must go.”

Her bangs tickled Claire’s nose as Iz kissed her. “Ciao.” She stuffed a half-eaten biscotti into her mouth and waved.

Iz dashed out, slamming the apartment door shut. Claire inhaled her lingering, musky scent on the pillow. The deep silence was shattered by a growling rumble that shook the walls. The upstairs tenant had turned on his shower.

“Damn.” She’d have to hurry to save some hot water for her own shower.

She flung her legs off the bed. Too groggy to put on her slippers and robe, she trudged, barefooted, across the chilly floor. Then she halted in the doorway.

The tent still stared her in the face.

“She’s unreal.” She flung up her hands.

THAT DAY, A Tuesday, her father offered her overtime. Some statistics needed updating and no one else could stay. Claire agreed. There was extra pay involved, and she wanted to help him out. With his loose tie and unkempt hair, he looked so frazzled.

She left a message on the machine. She was running late and would meet Iz and Gary at the restaurant. “And, please, take down that tent,” she pleaded in as calm a tone as she could manage.

“Now you know what I go through with Lloyd.” 

Her father’s face was mirrored in the transparent blue of the water cooler. Claire leaned toward him. Like one person, their blue visages mingled in a superimposed reflection.

“Dad,” she widened her eyes, “did Lloyd ever build a tent in your living room?”

“No, but it sounds like something he’d do.” He paused. “In fact, let’s not mention this tent business, shall we? No sense giving him any ideas.”

“She’s a character, all right. Just like Lloyd.” Claire had to smile.

“Say no more.” Her father held the white cone of his paper cup under the water button. “I like Isabelle.”

Claire shrugged. “What’s not to like?” She studied her father’s frown.

“True. But, I feel I ought to say . . .” He rubbed his chin as though he were pondering a philosophical question. “I have a decent life insurance policy so that’ll be someth—”

“Dad,” she pursed her lips in mock sternness, “you already promised me you’d never die.”

He smiled briefly. “And I’ll try my best to keep that promise, dear. In the meantime, I suggest you consider your own needs. No doubt Isabelle’s a sweet and talented girl, but,” he tilted his head with a steady gaze, “can you afford to support her?”

As he sipped water, Claire grew vexed. Was he second guessing her converting the garden apartment to Iz’s studio? She reminded herself of how practical he was. And how genuinely concerned.

She ran down a list in her mind. At the top of the list, she simply enjoyed helping Iz invest in her art. Unlike banking, it was work she felt a passion for. Not to mention her passion for Iz. But she decided, for once, to forego reason. Her father, after all, was nothing like her mother with whom she sparred over every choice.

She met his waiting gaze. “Umm, Dad, Isabelle is more than just talented. She’s a creative spirit. Even her perception of the world is unique.”

“I’m sure.” He swallowed another sip of water. “But she still needs to pull her weight along with the rest of the world.”

“She’s hardly practical, I know, and, sometimes, that drives me nuts.” As if to pace her words with the flow of her thoughts, Claire nodded rhythmically. “But I have to tell myself, she’s no ordinary person. She lives and breathes her art. And,” she paused, “I need to honor that, if I love her—”

“I know you do, sweetheart.” He gently patted her cheek.

While she had struggled to speak those words to Iz, she freely expressed them to her father.

“I need to help her be who she is in a world that simply doesn’t honor that enough.” She gulped her water, then crumpled and tossed the cup into the wastebasket.

“I understand all that. I’m just saying as someone who cares about y—”

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s Lloyd’s salary?”

“Umm . . .” He bit the side of his lip. “Not much.”

“What about his part time job as a makeup artist in the theatre district? And those acting gigs he picks up from time to time?” She propped her elbows atop the water color and watched him. “Do you think he should be pulling his weight more?”

“Well,” a whimsical smile formed in the corners of his mouth, “Lloyd’s hardly practical and, sometimes, that drives me nuts.” His smile grew into a broad grin.

She chuckled.

“But,” her father lifted his index finger, “I have to tell myself, he’s no ordinary person. And,” he flipped out his hands, a dramatic gesture for him, “I need to help him be who he is in a world that simply doesn’t honor that enough.”

THEY STROLLED HOME from the new Cuban restaurant. Gary had been raving about it for a month. Rightly so.

The pork sandwich and bread pudding had been as tasty as he’d described. Upbeat cha-cha-chá music of a three-man band had enlivened the atmosphere. Afterwards, they strolled along Clinton Avenue.

Gary told a joke about a man whose brothers were gay. 

“So the bartender asks, ‘Does anyone in your family like women?’ ” He widened his eyes. “ ‘Sure,’ the guy says, ‘my sister.’ ”

Their laughter rose in the street of leisurely, slow-moving pedestrians.

Iz brought up the set design. The theatre director had called to say they needed it the next day.

Claire stopped. “Why so soon?”

“Ach.” Iz flicked out her hand in disgust. “It’s some long, involved story I cannot go into.”

Claire covered her smile.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought you liked long involved stories?”

Claire and Gary chuckled.

Iz halted under a street lamp and shut one eye. Her raven hair and the black leather of her jacket glistened in the fixed beam.

“It’s all right for you, Miss Business, mmm? I have to deal with these theatre people.” She twirled her finger alongside her head. “You cannot imagine how crazy they are.”

“No crazier than artists,” Claire whispered from behind her hand to Gary.

They mounted the stoop. Gary drew a paper from his pocket and slipped it into Claire’s hand. She peered at it under the door lamp. It was a torn out magazine article. Artificial Insemination: Is it Right for You?

No damn way, Claire longed to shout. She simply folded it with a languid sigh. She hadn’t given Gary’s proposal another thought since he’d first mentioned it.

He turned his key in the lock. As they stepped into the hallway, the overhead, motion light clicked on.

“What is this?” Iz nodded at the paper Claire clutched behind her back.

Her head bowed, Claire shrugged. She waved to Gary as he climbed the steps. “Something he wants me to consider.”

Gary stood on the second floor landing and pointed. “Don’t forget your mail there.” He turned around the stairwell.

Iz took their mail from the bottom step. She sifted through it as Claire unlocked the apartment door.

“Hah. Look at this.” Iz held up a postcard with a glossy photo of four women in skimpy, black clothing.

Pointed fangs jutted from the edges of their pouty mouths. They knelt so that their bosoms draped. With sultry upward gazes, they touched their tongues to their bright red lips. 

Bite Me! All Women Halloween Dance Show.

Claire read the headline and rolled her eyes. “How did we get that?”

“I wrote our address at that sex shop,” Iz said, not looking up.

“You did not?” Claire opened the door and stepped inside. The tent still stared her in the face. She clapped her forehead. “Goddammit, Iz.”

She wasn’t listening.

“Eh, they are vampires.” Iz grinned at the card. “That’s cute, no? Let’s go to this, Cla—”

Claire whirled around, her fists on her hips. “What did I say about this goddamn tent? And, no,” she snatched the card from Iz’s hand, “we are not going to that.”

Iz gaped. “But what’s wrong?”

Claire glared at her.

“Why am I getting a bad look?” Iz snatched the card. “I like women. I think you know this about me.”

Claire glared at the card.

“What?” Iz shrugged dramatically. “Just to look, ah?”

“And you’re so visual, hmm?” Claire sidestepped the tent, slapping it as she went.

Was she getting her period? Why was she seething with rage?

“Oh, oh.” Iz trailed her into the bedroom. “Don’t tell me you’re going to have a princess sulk about this,” she fluttered the card, “this nothing?”

Claire stopped in the middle of the room, her arms crossed. “I’m not going to that.” She thrust up her chin.

“Fine.” Iz crossed her arms, thrusting up her chin, too. “I’m not going without you.”

“And why haven’t you taken down that fucking tent like I asked you. Three times already?”

“Look, here,” Iz said. “I don’t appreciate being scolded like a child. I have to teach too many kids for the whole day tomorrow. Then they want me to bring my painting to this gallery.” She flung up her arms. “I’m exhausted. My eyes are ready to bleed. Yet, as I told you just now in the street, I must work through the night on this theatre set. So, tell me, Clara, how can I possibly take it down now?” 

“Why don’t I kick it down then?” Claire marched toward the bedroom door.

“Listen,” Iz caught her up around her waist, “this has to be folded properly, eh? You can’t just kick it. Do you want to ruin your friend’s tent?”

Claire inhaled and exhaled in deep breaths to calm herself.

“So now you are breathing fire at me?” Iz grasped Claire’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I will take down this tent when I have more time. And,” she shook the postcard, “as I said this very moment, I would not go to this without you. All right?”

Claire’s eyes flashed angrily. “You better believe you’re not going to that,” she hollered.

As if Claire had just slapped her, a look of grievous hurt crossed Iz’s red face. She stumbled back against the door.

“But what is this I hear?” she yelled. “Do I hear a certain mad mother shouting again? Ordering me like a helpless child?”

Claire gasped.

“I can talk to you, Clara.” Though Iz had lowered her pitch, her voice quivered with anger. “Niente.” She pinched her thumb and index finger. “But this is all I have to say to this mother. Nothing.” She flicked out her hand.

Then she scrambled, her leg dragging, into the living room and out the door. Claire heard the clatter of her boot step down the stoop.

She rushed to the window, parted the curtains. Then she watched Iz disappear into the night.

SHE WOKE, SNIFFING smoke, and squinted in the street light.

Iz sat on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed. “Forgive me. I am smoking in your house.”

Claire wanted to reach for her but couldn’t. “Isabella, don’t leave me,” was all she could murmur.

“Something told me to . . . run away.”

Claire made out the profile of Iz’s trembling face. She blew a stream of smoke that billowed across the ceiling.

“I even thought to . . . take my things.”

Claire covered her face and sobbed.

“Then I found you with tears wet on your face, calling my name in your sleep.” She puffed her cigarette and sniffled. “What could I do, ah?” She faced Claire, her troubled eyes moist. “This hurts us both, no?”

Claire couldn’t bring herself to apologize. Saying I’m sorry now, she saw, would be like offering a Band-Aid after a heart attack.

“I’m going to talk to Gary . . . about all this.” She sat up and touched Iz’s hunched back.

“Yes, please.” A solitary tear streaked down Iz’s pale cheek. “Because I . . . cannot bear to leave you. But we must do something about this . . . senseless jealousy.”

“It’s m . . . me. It’s my problem.” Claire squeezed Iz’s outstretched fingers. “I just hope I can overcome this.”

Claire buried her face on the quilt. She had gotten her period that morning. Still, this burning rage had stemmed from something much deeper than PMS.

What?

Iz extinguished her cigarette in a cup on the floor. “My dearest Clara, you are such a strong woman. Just look what you endured from that monstrous mother. You can do this.” She shifted down on the bed and brushed her fingers through Claire’s tangled hair. “I can help you, of course, but—”

“No. No.” Claire wagged her head. “This is up to me. I’ll try . . .” A choking sob gurgled in her hoarse throat. She fell silent.

“Well,” Iz sighed, then smirked, “it’s good your psychology friend lives in this same house with us.”

Claire nodded tearfully. “We can’t ever move.”

Iz smiled softly, then took a tissue from the nightstand. She loudly blew her nose.

“Oh, Isabelle.” Claire fell against her chest. “I just had the most awful dream.”

“Tell me your dream.” Iz kissed Claire’s upturned palm.

“I can’t.” She clamped her eyes shut. “It’s too awful.”

“Didn’t I tell you my awful nightmares on the fire escape? And you were so understanding,” Iz murmured in a tender hush. “Tell me now. I can be understanding, too.”

Claire inhaled. “I stood outside the tent in the living room. I heard you inside . . . making love to another woman.” Her fingers gnarled as she clutched her forehead. “I thought I’d lose my mind.”

Iz frowned. After a pause, she drew Claire’s hands from her face. “Did you look inside that tent?”

“No, Iz. I couldn’t bear to.”

“Then,” she squeezed Claire’s tear-stained cheeks, “how did you know it was another woman? And not you?”

“I told you, sweetie, I was outside,” Claire said in a childlike voice.

“Mmm.” Iz shrugged slightly. “Maybe you should ask your psychology friend. But I think this dream means you should go inside this tent—”

“Why?”

“To be where I already am,” Iz gazed lovingly into her eyes, “with you.”

Claire smiled.

“Do you feel better now?” Iz wrapped Claire in her arms.

She nodded against Iz’s shoulder.

“Buono. Good.”

Her fingers spread, Iz brushed back Claire’s streaming hair. Iz drew her to her feet and led her into the living room. Then Iz lifted the tent and nudged her inside. Claire stooped under the flap and stretched across the sleeping bag.

Iz knelt beside her. “And now, Miss Clara, prepare to guard your pretty neck.”

“Huh?” Claire blinked in the dim light that filtered through the gauzy tent.

Iz stuck out her teeth. “Because looking at those women on that card caused me to become a vampire.”

Claire giggled, then craned her neck.

“Ah.” Iz bobbed her head, her eyes wide. “I see you wish to join in the wickedness of our dark sisterhood.”

She sucked Claire’s neck until she screamed.

CHAPTER 18

SHE CHARGED UPSTAIRS and pounded on the door. Gary poked one eye into the crack of the opened door.

“I need therapy.” Claire brushed past him into the kitchen. She slapped a stack of twenty dollar bills on the table. “Is this your going rate?”

Gary, in a sleeveless t-shirt and polka-dot pajama bottoms, scratched his unkempt head. “Cla—”

“I have more.” She quickly thrust up her hand. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll hit the corner ATM.”

The three dollar fee to use the machine was the steepest in the neighborhood. But it was payday and—bills be damned—she’d fork over her entire check if need be.

“Hello?” Gary cupped his hand around his mouth. “I am not your therapist anymore.”

She stared unblinking at him, then opened her wallet. “I’ll double it.” She counted more twenties.

“Jesus, Claire.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “It’s six-frickin-thirty in the morning.”

“I work in a bank, remember? I have to leave soon.”

He gaped at her. “And this means what to me?”

“Ple-e-ease,” she pleaded in a plaintive whine.

“Absolutely no way.” Gary shook his head firmly. “It’s too awkward. We share the same building for Christ sake. Besides,” he yawned loudly, then slouched in a lacquered, yellow chair, “it’s my day off.”

“Do you want to hear me sobbing through the vents again?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Is it a choice between that and you two giggling on the fire escape at three a.m.?”

“Oops.” She covered her mouth.

“My tenant complained.” He rolled his eyes.

“Sorry.” She gritted her teeth.

“Screw him.” Gary blinked in the early light from the back, fire escape window. “He needs a life. Seriously, about this, I’ll refer you to another therapist.”

“No, no, Gary, I can only talk to you.Please.” Should she drop to her knees and beg? “I can’t lose Isabelle . . . again.”

He sighed. “You know there’s a good Yiddish word for this.”

She smiled. “You’re not a schmuck.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He shoved the wad of cash across the table. “All right, I’ll talk to you. But only as a friend.”

She clapped like a gleeful girl. 

He rose from his chair. “Can I at least make some goddamn coffee first?”

“I’ll make your coffee.” She jumped up and motioned for him to sit.

“Umm, Claire, you burn water.”

“Coffee I can do.” She went to the coffeemaker beside the microwave. She found filters and coffee grounds in the cabinet below.

“What’s going on?” He slumped against the chair and yawned again. “And this better not have to do with your mother. A year-and-a-half of listening to her soap operas nearly drove me into therapy.” He groaned into his palm.

“Finally, this doesn’t revolve around Mother.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“I love Iz.” This time, the admission quickly rolled off her tongue. “But I simply can’t fathom why I keep pushing her away with this insane jealousy.” She flipped open the coffeemaker lid and scooped grinds into the filter basket. “Because I love her, I’m terrified of losing her.”

“Does she threaten you with that?”

“Who? Iz?” She turned abruptly. “Never. In fact, she nearly left last night, but couldn’t. It’s me. I don’t know, Gary.” She flopped her head. “I’m just too . . . screwed up.”

“So this does have to do with your mother?”

She shrugged at the terra cotta floor.

“Why do you think your mother put you down so much?” he asked.

“She detests me. She detests herself,” she blurted tearfully.

“Well, she must detest herself to treat her own daughter so shabbily. But there’s something more.” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “Coffee, please?”

She went to the sink and filled the glass pitcher.

“Okay, so here it is in a nutshell. Your mother pushes everyone away. That may be her M.O., but it’s not her intention. You need to think about what’s really making her tick.”

“Is it a bomb?” She wagged her finger at him. “And don’t answer my question with another question. I’m onto that therapy trick.”

“Relax.” He rolled his eyes. “I was about to say that as warped as it sounds, she believes that by putting you down she’ll keep you in her life.”

“Huh?” She stood with the pitcher. “Not quite registering on that one, Doctor Freud.”

He crossed his arms and frowned. “Do you want me to finish or not?”

“Sorry.” She grimaced.

“If she can undermine your confidence, you’ll feel trapped enough to stay by her side. She’s a desperate woman.”

Claire poured in water, then set the pitcher on the brown, metal plate. “I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother since the wedding.” She switched on the coffee. “How much freer of her do I need to be?”

“You tell me.” Gary shrugged.

She sat, then rubbed her chin. “Even Iz said I sounded like her when I lost my temper last night,” she mumbled guiltily.

Her gaze fell on the Virgin of Guadalupe, propped on her pedestal shelf near the hutch. The chiseled wood of the foot-high statue was as boldly painted as the rest of Gary’s folk art collection.

“That’s something to work on, hmm?” he offered.

She knotted her fingers in her lap. “Iz thinks I’m strong, but I just don’t see it. Maybe it’s only a . . . mask I wear. Like Mother’s phony, makeup mask.”

“Hey,” he squeezed her hand with distinct pressure, “you are strong, Claire. You bore the brunt of her manipulation your entire childhood. Not to mention how you turned around and protected your siblings from it.”

Suddenly, the truth of Gary’s statement hit home. She was strong. Despite her mother’s vicious control tactics, she’d never been a shrinking violet. Even as a child.

“So why did she take her bitterness out on me?” She caught his gaze.

“Maybe you’re the one who reminds her of your father.” He shrugged. “ ‘The Man that Got Away.’ You were the oldest and knew him better than the other kids.”

“And I missed him more,” she whispered. With her green eyes and auburn hair, she most resembled her father.

“Exactly. But you’re not superwoman and you’ve got your own life to live now.”

“Are you saying I should just cut my mother out of my life . . . completely?”

Her question—another dangling, rhetorical question—lingered in the pause.

“I can’t make a decision like that for you, can I?” Gary leaned forward. “I will say, we need to pick our battles. And learn to realize what’s not a battle. You fought so long and so hard.” His eyes penetrated in their sudden intensity. “Take off your armor now, Claire.”

Hadn’t Iz told her to put her armor on? It was at Matt’s wedding, not surprisingly, when Claire’s mother had approached them.

“Isabelle is worth fighting for.” She slapped the table.

“Sure. Fight for.” A friendly smile rose on Gary’s lips. “Not with her. Do you see the difference one little word can make?”

“Semantics, huh?” Claire shrugged sheepishly.

She felt an eerie silence in the lengthy pause. Was it the silence of aloneness? Of a life without love? Without Isabelle? More dangling, unanswered questions. 

“Funny,” she smiled slightly, “I used to imagine I’d fall in love with a dashing young man.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that.” He chuckled. “Wasn’t the dashing young man French?”

“Yes.” She covered a spreading grin.

“So? You exchanged a dashing French man for a dashing Italian woman.”

Claire giggled into her hand. “He did have feminine features.”

“Don’t you think you’ve always wanted to be with a woman?”

“Well, I once fantasized about kissing my best friend’s vagina in the sixth grade.” She felt herself blush.

“Okay-doke.” Gary thrust up his hand. “There’s supposed to be this blaring alarm that goes off in your brain for things you don’t ever tell a gay male. That’s one of them.”

“Even for a therapist?” She bit her lip.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I am not your therapist.” He pinched his nostrils, then looked up at the circular, wooden clock. “Now I have an important game of tennis to get to. Our session is over.” He stood and gaped at the coffeemaker. “And I still haven’t had my damncoffee.”

She laughed, then went to the corner hutch for a mug. “Oh, and Gary,” she opened the hutch, then turned, “could you talk to Iz sometime?”

He stared at her.

“Is it asking too much?” She grabbed her bag from under the chair and rummaged for her wallet.

Gary narrowed his eyes. “Put that frickin’ wallet away, willya? Now you really are acting like your uptown mother.” He poured coffee into the mug she’d set on the counter.

“Please,” she begged again. “She had such a horrible childhood. It breaks my heart how she suffers with those nightmares.”

“Sure, sure.” He threw up his arms. “Anything to get a little peace around here. Besides, I like Isabelle.” He patted Claire’s shoulder, then said softly, “And I want her to be okay for you.”

“Dear, sweet Gary.” She flung her arms around him, then planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll pay you back someday . . . somehow.”

What could she possibly give this man who had brought so much healing to her life?

“I don’t know how, but—” She clapped her hand to her dropped mouth and slowly backed away.

As if he had deciphered Claire’s thought, Gary asked, “Did you read that article on artificial insemination?”

“No.” She gulped, taking another step toward the door. “But I will.”

Still in her fluffy blue slippers and cloud robe, she trotted downstairs. She marched into the kitchen and dug the cell phone out of her bag.

Iz lay asleep in the tent where they’d made love well into the night.

“In a tent in the living room,” Claire murmured in delight. “That’s one for the record books.”

She squinted as she scrolled the contact numbers on her phone. Did she need reading glasses? Suddenly her mother’s number appeared so tiny.

She heard rustling against the tent. Iz came in and leaned over her shoulder. Claire tossed back her head to meet Iz’s lips. 

“What’s all this, bella?” She nuzzled Claire’s neck.

Claire giggled. Her neck still tingled from the night before.

“My mother might never call me again.” She clicked through a sequence of Settings, Phone calls, General, Auto, and Rejecton her phone. “But I’m blocking her number anyway.”

“Molto buono.” Iz squeezed her tightly. “I approve of this blocking. And,” she stretched with a loud yawn, “why not block that snotty sister?”

“Maybe not, sweetie.” She gazed into the soft slits of Iz’s sleepy eyes. “She’s the mother of my nephew and niece.” Though she barely saw the kids, she couldn’t bring herself to cut them off.

Iz wanted them to stay home.

Claire was unsure. “It’s a busy time at the bank, and my father—” she began. Then, as if time slowed to a screeching halt, she turned slowly. “What would we do all day?”

Iz shrugged. “Anything we want. We can take this one down.” She tilted her head toward the living room.

Claire flashed a coy grin. “Or we can spend the day in there.”

“Or we can practice more of this camping, yes.” Iz straddled Claire’s lap, running her long, graceful fingers through her hair. “And I want you to help me with this theatre proj—”

“Oh, no, Iz, I couldn’t.” Claire gaped. “I’m not at all creative . . . like you.”

Iz pressed a finger to Claire’s lips. “But you are gifted, bella. Don’t you think I see this? You know I am hopeless for business.”

“Well, you’re the artist.”

“And we must combine our creativeness, mmm?”

A BLANK, HAND-STRETCHED canvas, its ends frayed, was propped on the windowsill. It had yet to be primed. A rectangular, off white void, it faced the outside world.

What had Iz done since they’d set up her studio? Claire examined five sketchy drawings scattered across the floor. That Iz was homesick was written in the charcoal hills of what could only be her native Tuscany.  

Claire slipped on a shirt-smock and took the wobbly stool near the easel. The natural light bulb inside the orange lamp cast a circle across the floor. A section of black scrim covered the round worktable. The rest of the fabric Iz had promised to paint was piled, untouched in the corner.

Claire sighed. The set had to be painted and delivered that day. Could Iz get it finished on time?

Would she ever paint again?

Iz shifted the secondhand easel. The light clipped to its crossed H frame shone over the scrim. From behind, she slipped her arms underneath Claire’s and dangled her fingers.

“Look, we have four hands now,” she joked.

“Gets the job done,” Claire answered in a distant voice. How could she help with a set design that would bear Iz’s artistic name?

“Mmm hmm.” Wispy strands of Iz’s hair tickled Claire’s nape. “And we must get this job done, ah?” 

Iz wheeled over a three-tiered, wire cart she’d found on the sidewalk. It had been left by what she called the “goddess of trash.” After twisting the lid off a jar of paint, she took a palette knife from the cart. She scooped a dollop of yellow and smeared it across a scrap wood palette. Then she folded back the scrim and plunked the palette on the table.

“Put your hands into that,” she instructed.

“My hands?” Claire frowned in disbelief. “In paint?”

“Yes, Miss Clara.” She pointed at the palette. “Right into this paint.”

“Iz, you’re . . . ?” Claire scrunched her nose. “We’re not finger painting this whole thing. Are we?”

“This part is . . . come dice? How do you say?” She paused for the word. “Abstract.” She lifted Claire’s right hand and suspended it above the vivid yellow. “Come now, bella.”

Gingerly, Claire dipped a finger in paint then, quickly, withdrew it.

Iz chuckled. “It’s only acrylics. We’ll wash later.” She nuzzled her cheek. “My dear princess, did you never paint? Even as a child?”

Claire reflected a moment, then shook her head firmly. “Never.”

Was it true? Had she never painted? She honestly couldn’t recall.

With a baffled look, Iz scratched her head. “How can that be?”

“Once. Twice maybe, in school. My fifth grade art teacher kept a bottle of scotch in her desk.” Claire rolled her eyes. “No one believed it when she called it cream soda. She took us outside to paint . . . once.”

“Ah, well, that was something,” Iz said with a note of pity as if Claire had been deprived of a bare necessity.

Maybe she had been.

“I was so excited.” Claire thought back. “She promised to let us paint landscape in the park near school. She kept repeating, ‘En plein air, just like Claude Monet.’ ” She mimicked a squeaky voice. “So the whole class lugged these huge easels to the park. Finally, we got the damn things set up when a bee chased the teacher.”

Iz smiled.

“She wore this loose dress that flapped as she whirled around the grass.” Claire fluttered her hands. “She swatted at the bee in her flowing dress.”

“So you had a dance lesson then.” Iz arched an eyebrow.

They laughed.

“By the time the bee flew off, art class was over.” Claire smirked. “We lugged the easels back, then went to math class.” 

“So now you have all those years of waiting to create something, hmm?” Iz massaged Claire’s shoulders.

“Mmm.” Claire dropped her finger in the mound of cool paint.

As Iz pressed her palm into the yellow, Claire giggled at its squishiness. 

“Andiamo.”Iz jerked her chin at the scrim. “Let’s go now.”

Claire turned. “Aren’t you painting?”

Still in her black t-shirt and jeans, Iz hadn’t put on a smock. “Later.” She nodded with a pensive smile. “I want to watch you first.”

Claire drew a breath, then flattened her wet hand on the sheer fabric. She leaned back in Iz’s arms to study the single, bold handprint. It seemed to wave up at them.

“Come on, you.” Iz nudged her forward. “Get on with this work.”

“You’re strict, maestro.” Claire kissed the side of Iz’s upturned mouth.

“Do I have any choice here? And use those fingers, ah?”

Claire pressed both hands in paint, then slapped them on the scrim. Iz shifted the palette to the other side of the table. Claire followed with the stool.

She covered the black with yellow handprints. Eventually, she freely finger painted into the bare, black spaces. Thickly-stippled dots glowed against the dark fabric.

Iz smeared more yellow onto the palette. With her arms crossed, she continued to watch in silence.

Claire stopped. The feel of paint had stirred a vague sense of play. “This reminds me of something.” Then she realized. She had painted. At nine.

Her parents were about to split up. Her mother had been too depressed to get out of bed. Claire’s grandparents had taken her brother and sister upstate for the week. Claire and her father had gone to the pharmacy to get her mother’s prescription filled. He also bought a paint set with a see-through cover and a pad of paper.

Claire filled a plastic cupful of tap water from their deep, kitchen sink. Side by side, they sat at the table of their Westside apartment. She could still picture the table, its curving, ridged sides and legs a shiny chrome.

She and her daddy had spent a blissful morning, filling paper after paper with washy color.

Iz’s voice broke the spell of Claire’s reverie.

CHAPTER 19

“PAINTING IS . . . PRIMORDIALE.” Iz sprayed the palette with a plastic water bottle. “Why do paintings exist on caves walls? Humanity needs this.”

“Makes sense.” Claire daubed more paint onto the scrim. “I just remembered painting as a kid. But that was so long ago . . .”

Talk about primordial. The memory seemed to have been unearthed from some prehistoric place in Claire’s mind.

“Yes, I did this kid painting, too,” Iz mumbled. “I stood before the easel in school. They put a fat brush into my hand. There were all these colors . . . speaking to me. So I painted. I’m not sure I knew the word artist then. But I understood,” she nodded, “standing at that easel was where I belonged.” A wistful smile formed on her lips. “My mother once told Nonna, ‘Our Isabella will be a great artist.’ ”

“Sounds like your mother encouraged your art,” Claire said without turning from the scrim.

“Ah, mia mamma.” Iz flopped her head to her chest.

Claire sheepishly bit her lip. How could she bring up Iz’s mother? The one story she never told? She opened her mouth to apologize.

Too late.

“My mother was often ill, you know. Some days all she did was to stay in bed . . . bruised.” The halting words, like Iz’s limp, seemed to drag across her tongue. “There was always some excuse. She fell on steps or slipped, washing the floor.”

The silence grew heavy.

“My first memory was to see her crash across our kitchen. I thought, A monster hit her. But, in my heart, I knew, my father slapped her hard. How could I not know?” As if she were still a helpless child, Iz lifted her big, mournful eyes. “What could I do?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” Claire murmured to the scrim. “There was nothing you could do.”

“Whenever he beat her, she would spend that day, crying in bed. She didn’t tell my nonna, her own mother, I think out of shame.” Iz’s words were faint, barely audible. “I would climb onto her bed and play the clown. I thought, if I can make her laugh she will get better.”

Claire’s sticky hands fell to her sides. She watched Iz, whose expression had clouded with a drawn, hollow look. Her nightmare look.

“Sometimes she would cheer up but, most times, she wanted to be alone. So I was left to myself. No problem for me.” She shrugged slightly. “I could sit and draw forever.”

“I’m sorry, Isabelle,” Claire whispered.

She was aghast. She’d known Iz’s childhood had been tough. But Claire had never heard her describe it in such agonizing detail.

“I am sorry, too.” Iz’s voice cracked with a sobbing gurgle. “It hurts, you know, that my mother didn’t leave that monster to take care of herself . . . and me .” She stared deadpan at a drawing between her loafers. “I am certain she would not have died so young of cancer.”

A loud car honk cut through the pause.

As if to block the painful images, Iz squeezed shut her eyes. “Not long before her death, my mad father screamed as usual. I was furious.” Her face bristled as she clenched her fists. “I charged like an angry tiger to shout, ‘Let my mother alone.’ ”

“And you call me feisty?” Claire smiled gently.

Standing up to her surly mother as a teen had been no small feat for Claire. But to have faced down a drunken man as a child must’ve takensheer guts.

“What did he do?” Claire asked.

“Ah, the bloody fool just laughed. I was only ten, yet I was deadly serious. My mother scolded me and sent me to bed.”

“Why?” Claire shrugged, puzzled. “You tried to defend her.”

“I suppose to protect me from his violence.” Iz shook her head. “But what could she do? The moment she died he turned his hatred to me.”

Claire knew the rest of the story. Iz had told her father, “If you hit me, you are going to have to kill me because I will fight you to the death.” He’d beaten her so badly she wound up in the hospital. Wearing a dying man’s sweater, she walked in a rainstorm to her grandmother’s house. Hadn’t her nonna then “fought like Satan” keep Iz’s father away? When he’d come, stinking drunk to her doorstep, Nonna had dumped cat litter on his head.

Iz rubbed her damp eyes on her sleeve. Claire slid off the stool, and held Iz tightly. Iz pressed her head to Claire’s chest. Like a thumping drum roll, their hearts beat in time against their breasts. In the deep hush, street noise—more honking, rattling trucks, footsteps of passersby—faded to background.

As she rocked Iz in her arms, Claire thought of her own doting father. Like a message in a bottle floating across the years of her mother’s putdowns, fond memories had resurfaced.

“Sweetie, didn’t you have some happy times with your mother?” Claire ventured.

“Sì, bella.” Iz lifted her head and, with her forehead touching Claire’s, smiled crookedly. “When my mamma was well, she was truly amazing.”

“Tell me a story.” She lifted Iz’s chin.

“Well, we spent summers on the Amalfi Coast. Nonna and my uncle, a fun bachelor then, and,” she hesitated, “more a father to me than my own, joined us. We played on the beach and swam the whole day long. They took me to beautiful places. My father never came. Even as a child I thought, what do we need him for?”

“I guess you didn’t,” Claire said.

“Like turisti, we wandered the Pompeii ruins and up to what Nonna called ‘that old culprit,’ Mount Vesuvio.” Her voice grew more animated. “We went to Capri where Mamma filled my head with stories of fantastic creatures said to live in grottoes.”

Iz’s eyes shone in the rising window light.

“Once, we saw a pyrotechnic display in our village piazza. There was all this color,” she swept her arm with an exaggerated flourish, “flying over the earth.”

“Fireworks?” Claire asked.

“I stopped looking at those fireworks to watch my mother.” The girlish smile played on her lips. “As much as I love color, it was more pleasure to see her joy.”

“So there were some good things about your childhood.” Claire rested her chin on Iz’s shoulder.

“Certo.” Iz kissed Claire’s still-tender neck. “My mother was a good thing.” She faced the blank canvas as if it beckoned her.

Claire longed to stroke Iz’s head, but her fingers were coated with paint. She raised her hand, cracked with drying yellow. “Sweetie, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Clara. Just listen, mmm? That helps more than I can say and,” the warmth returned to Iz’s expression as she nodded at the scrim, “keep painting.”

Claire examined her painting. It didn’t look like much more than what it was, her grown-upplay. Maybe they’d need to buy more scrim. She was having too much fun to dwell on their skimpy budget.

Fingerprint dots overlapped her handprints in a swirling, haphazard symmetry. She hadn’t intended that. Or anything. She scratched a splotch of paint on her elbow and shrugged at the scrim. Somehow, this chaotic mess seemed connected.

The memory of painting with her father had boosted her spirits. No wonder Iz had found such solace making art during her troubled, early childhood. As if Claire flew “over the earth,” she lost herself in painting. 

“Isabelle,” she stared at her yellow hands, “you need to paint again. I never understood . . . until now, just how healing this is.”

HER FATHER AND Lloyd met them at the black box theatre. Lloyd and an actor friend, silhouetted in the dark space, chatted onstage. The audience filtered into five rows of vinyl-backed chairs. Iz and Claire sat along the middle row with George. Claire relished feeling sandwiched between the people she loved best.

Her father wore what Lloyd called his old fogy, polka dot bow tie. He bowed his graying head to study the program on his lap. With a sideways glance, Claire glimpsed the etched wrinkles that winged his eyelids.

She inhaled his light cologne like another fond memory. Like them painting or when he’d showed her off, his “princess” to colleagues. Or the stormy night he had towel-dried her hair after she’d escaped her party. The sixteenth birthday party her mother had refused to invite him to.

Funny, the sudden thought of her mother didn’t vex Claire. Had her nagging doubts—the strings her mother so often jerked—shifted to align themselves with better memories?

She gazed at the set, hung from an up-down line of jagged, black pipes. With sweeping folds, Claire’s yellow hand- and fingerprints draped above the stage floor. But, she peered at the scrim, something had changed. With careful brushwork, Iz had interwoven crisp black, white, and yellow lines. Even in the dimmed lighting, their set illuminated the stage.

Without turning, she pressed her shoulder to Iz’s. “Only a great artist could create something so impressive from my playing with paint.”

Iz tapped the program on Claire’s lap. “Look on the back of that.”

Claire flipped the ivory paper. Set Design by Claire Doral and Isabelle Spera. Her name had been printed on the program!

“What is this? And why is my name first? I only finger painted . . . like a kid.”

Iz chucked her chin at the stage. “Those are your hands up there, Miss Clara.”

“Yes, but you,” Claire stared at her, incredulous, “brought them to life.”

“That set is stunning, girls.” George leaned over, his eyes crinkling with his soft smile. “Lloyd said the director was very pleased.”

Stunning was high praise from her reserved father.

“We had to do something.” A whimsical smile spread on Iz’s face. “They paid us money, no?”

Their lighthearted laughter bounced off the black walls.

Claire leafed through the program. The performance was a festival of seven short works by up and coming playwrights and choreographers. Five one-act plays and two dances. First up was a dance.

“Oh, it’s featuring two women.” Claire recalled the All Women Halloween Dance Show and playfully nudged Iz. “You should like that.”

Iz squeezed her elbow.

Lloyd dashed up the aisle to sit beside George. As light flooded the stage, the painted scrim shimmered.

A woman in front of them lifted her head. “Isn’t that something?” she remarked to the man seated next to her.

The house quieted, and two women in ruffled, white dresses pranced onstage. They stood like glowing cloud women against the backdrop of black. Frozen in the spotlight, they waited until the music, a lilting piano tune, began.

Mesmerized, Claire leaned to watch the graceful dancers. She was struck by the way they sometimes moved apart, then united again. They danced alongside, in front, and behind each other. Then, abruptly, they flitted to either end of the stage.

One halted, motionless in the shadowy corner. Meanwhile, the other, trailed by the spotlight, danced alone. Suddenly, she crumpled to the floor, and the other raced to fall to her side. Rising together, they stepped into a wide beam of light. Like stems of an inextricable vine, they entwined their arms. Then, with their hands clasped, they twirled in a joyous spin.

When the hearty applause died down, the women bowed, ducked under the set, and disappeared offstage.

Squinting in the glare of the theatre lights, Claire turned to Iz. “This was about us.”

THAT DECEMBER WAS the happiest Claire had ever known.

Iz got offered a solo show in February. Six months’ pregnant, Anya was, as Matt hadeloquently put it, “ready to pop.” Claire would be an auntiesoon!

The worst of it was the toilet backing up. Mopping the bathroom got interspersed with dealing with the grouchy plumber. And she kept finding Iz’s gloves all over the house. In the hallway, on the stoop, between the sofa cushions. Even in the snowy yard.

Its stiff, brown fingers waved from where it had blown onto a rock. Claire crunched in her boots across the frosty ground to retrieve it.

“Mmm.” Iz shrugged at the frozen glove. “My mother would pin them to my coat.”

Claire rattled the glove. “I’m going to pin them to your coat.”

Their Christmas celebrations got spread over the week before. They ate out with Gary, Thea, and her boyfriend. Claire splurged to treat her family and Iz to a performance of The Nutcracker.  

But Claire secretly dreaded Christmas day. The one time a year she visited the Hamptons. The day she would see her surly mother again. She left a message on her sister’s voicemail to say she’d arrive at one. The usual time they ate.

On Christmas morning, Iz surprised her with a golden box.

“What’s this?”

Iz squatted beside her in bed. “This is something meant just for you.” She smiled sweetly.

Claire unknotted the glossy bow and lifted the lid. She gasped at the pendant with its pearly oval framed in filigree silver.

“This was my mother’s.” Iz nodded at the necklace. “She and Nonna wore it for their wedding day. It was in my family a long time and one thing,” she smirked briefly, “that vulture aunt did not steal.”

“Isabelle,” Claire studied the intricate, leafy design, “I can’t take this.”

“But why, bella?” Iz draped the necklace around Claire’s neck. “See how it glows on your fine skin?”

“It’s . . . yours.”

“Mmm, no.” Iz folded Claire’s fingers over the pendant. “It’s not my taste. Too . . . err, feminine.” 

Claire had to agree. The ornate necklace was too girlie for Iz.

“Besides,” she drew the gold necklace from under her red blouse, “I have my madonna.” She kissed her mother’s name engraved on the medallion.

True to what she had told Claire in Rome, she never took it off.

Claire beamed with delight as she twirled the pendant. It spun, casting flecks of sparkly light across the quilt. The gift card for art supplies she’d gotten Iz seemed paltry now.

“I’ll just have to get you something incredible for your birthday.” She gazed over the pillow at Iz lying alongside her. “When is your birthday anyway?”

Why didn’t she know?

Iz’s shoulders sagged. “Twelve March.”

“Pisces.” Claire arched her brows. “Your horoscope says you make great friends and lovers.”

“Even with a stubborn Taurus bull.” She gathered a lock of Claire’s hair and tickled her nose with it.

As Claire folded the chain, she spotted a note in the box. “What’s this?” She opened the marbled paper.

“Thea helped me with this English. But,” Iz bobbed her head on the pillow, “mostly, it is originally mine.”

Claire read the poem.

Sweet coffee sugar mingles

Between our lips

As your lashes flutter

In early flight above my cheek.

Morning crosses your face

In glowing shadow

As digital numbers flash

Dangerously close

To clocked taboos

Of losing our jobs.

She laughed, clutching the paper to her chest. “It’s hard to leave you in the mornings too, sweetie.”

Iz grinned into their kiss. “Nearly impossible, eh?”

Later, a messenger in a brown uniform stood on the stoop. Claire signed for the letter-sized package and took it inside.

Iz had just left for the West Village. She’d been invited to spend the day with George, Lloyd, Matt, and Anya. Claire longed to join her fun family. But she sorely missed the niece and nephew she hadn’t seen in months.

She tore the red strip off the white cardboard and rattled the package. A single, handwritten page slipped out. She read, then crumpled and tossed the letter onto the rug.

CHAPTER 20

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, SISTER,” she muttered, then slumped on the sofa and stared at the far, blank wall. She dropped her crestfallen gaze and watched a deepening shadow.

It inched its way, mingling with zigzag patterns, across the rug.

Gary was visiting his parents in Queens. She heard his tenant clatter down the stoop. Even the growling hot water heater she had dubbed “The Terminator” was quiet in the basement.

She remembered being forgotten when she’d waited, sick outside the principal’s office. Then she felt, more than heard, the eerie stillness and shuddered.

Finally, Iz came home and draped her backpack on the closet hook. Claire, who’d gotten up once to use the bathroom, continued to stare glumly ahead.

Iz peered into her eyes. “What’s wrong here?” She glanced at the wrapped gifts stacked on the armchair. “Did you not leave yet?”

Claire nodded mutely at the letter.

Iz squinted at it. “Shall I read this?”

“What’s to read?” Claire shrugged limply. “Our mother told my sister I blocked her number. Beth wrote that my treatment of our mother is appalling.” She slapped the armrest. “Howcould I have walked into this?”

She might have guessed something was up when Beth hadn’t returned her call. Her sister and mother had surely cooked up the backbiting scheme.

Iz rubbed Claire’s scalp. “Would you like a hot, princess bath?” she offered in a soft coo.

Claire narrowed her eyes at the letter. “She wrote, ‘You are living a degenerate lifestyle and will never see me or my children again.’ ”

Claire mused on how she had never been keen on toys as a girl. She’d take the chubby-cheeked, baby brother who adored her over a dollie any day. Now, Beth held up her kids like dolls Claire was forbidden to play with.

To Claire, they’d grow up estranged to an aunt who cared for them.

Iz sat on the sofa and massaged her hunched back. “But did you wish to see this sister? She was unbelievable at that wedding. And this,” she flicked her hand at the wadded paper, “degenerate lifestyle? What utter nonsense. You won’t even go to look at a sex show.”

Claire smiled faintly. “She means our being a lesbian couple.”

“Ach.” Iz snorted. “This family disgrace shit. I know it too well.” She kicked the paper so that it ricocheted off the molding. “When will this world grow up?”

“It wasn’t Beth I wanted to see. I just,” Claire bit her thumb to keep from bawling, “didn’t realize how much it’d hurt to never see those kids again.” She flopped over and buried her face on Iz’s lap.

“Ah, of course, my bella.” Iz stroked the back of Claire’s head. “This loss of childrens can cause a great suffering, mmm?”

“Oh, yeah.” Claire sat half up, and pinched her nostrils. “We were the instruments of torture my mother used against my father all those years.”

“Uh.” Iz groaned loudly. “I cannot imagine what this poor man endured. And he and his beloved were so kind to welcome me to their home . . . this first Natale without my nonna.”

“They are both beloved.” Claire nodded tearfully, then twisted on Iz’s lap. “But how is it you understand ‘this loss of childrens’? There aren’t any kids in your family. Are there?”

“No.” Iz lightly shrugged. “But I have my students, my own bambini, don’t I? Those endlessly talking ones I am forced to teach.”

They chuckled.

“You’ve really gotten attached to those kids.”

“È vero.” Iz tossed up her hands as if to admit defeat. “I must confess this.” Then she added seriously, “I don’t know, Clara. They just somehow always make me laugh.”

Ready to be regaled with Iz’s “childrens” story, Claire stretched across the sofa.

“They follow me into the hallways, you know.” Iz gazed tenderly at Claire lying face up on her lap. “Then they shout my name. ‘Miss Spera. Miss Spera.’ They jump up and down to see me.”

“I know the feeling.” Claire touched her cheek.

Iz kissed Claire’s fingers. “Then I must say, ‘Shh, please. You childrens cannot be shouting, ah?’ ”She pressed a finger to her lips. “ ‘The principal will give us all a bad look.’ ”

Claire giggled.

“Then they whisper, ‘When will you come to teach us art, Miss Spera?’ ” She mimicked a wide-eyed, innocent expression. “They have no idea that I must teach three hundred more of them. I say, ‘As soon as I can, all right?’ They jump like little frogs and beg me to let them carry my art supplies.”

They giggled.

“ ‘All right then.’I give them each some small thing. Then they follow me in a long parade down the hallways.” She extended her arm. “Their little faces are so excited just to help me.”

Iz’s eyes shone in the radiant dusk that streamed through the frosty window. 

“What does Mrs. Godhave to say?” Claire asked.

“Uh. Her. What can she say?” Iz smirked. “Her snotty chorus students never follow her like that.”

“She must be jealous.” Claire twirled a finger in Iz’s dangling bangs.

“Mmm. It must be so.” Iz nodded. “One day she stuck her head out of the music room and announced to the world, ‘Here comes Miss Spe-ara with her entourage.’ ”

They laughed.

“I just put my nose into the air.” Iz thrust up her chin. “Then I say, ‘Come childrens. It is a beautiful thing, how well you love your art teacher.’ ”

They wriggled with laughter.

“It’s something.” Claire shook her head, smiling.

“Hmm?” Iz raked her fingers through Claire’s messy hair.

“How you always manage to cheer me up.”

THAT NIGHT SHE dreamt she stood on top of the earth. The earth was a blue, crayoned circle like her nephew had drawn on his fourth birthday.

Her mother stood before her. Her sister behind. Together, they ripped open her chest and stabbed their pointy, polished fingernails into Claire’s heart. She gazed at the still-beating organ, trapped and bleeding between their claw-like nails. Pain surged through her body, and her tortured cry shook the earth.

Suddenly, her wounded heart bulged until it thrust out their fingernails. As Claire’s heart swelled, her mother and sister shrieked with wild rage. Her heart grew so large it pushed them, spiraling off the earth. Their shrieks faded to silence.

Claire’s gigantic heart now encircled the blue earth. She reached to tenderly stroke each wound until they vanished.

“HERE’S SOMETHING WE can all do together.”

She shook the yellow flyer she had picked up in Union Square. There was a march in D.C. that weekend, just after the New Year.

She unfolded the creased paper on the diner table. It was just her and Matt eating lunch again. Their father was swamped with paperwork.

Matt arched his bushy brows. “Instead of camping, you mean.”

“It’s January, bro.” She shivered dramatically. “Besides, Iz and I have already been . . . camping.”

She felt herself blush at the thought of the living room tent. They had made love in it three times before taking it down.

“Huh?” Matt squinted.

“Just look that over, will you?” Claire chucked her chin at the flyer. “I’d really like to go.” She nodded firmly. “This is something we need to shout in the streets about.”

“Mmm hmm.” Matt flashed his boyish smile. “Do I ever argue with you, sis?”

“You try.” She winked.

She drove them, Iz, Matt, Gary, and Anya, to D.C. Gary split the driving and gas. Even better, her clunky car, well past its expected mileage, didn’t die along the way.

Caught up in the swelling throng, they marched down the Mall to the Capitol. Knobby branches of the bare cherry trees seemed to claw the air. Then they strode along the wide, jam-packed streets. Anya, seven months pregnant, stopped three times to use porta potties. Iz stopped once to smoke.

A pasty-faced man on the balcony of the Republican headquarters held up a sign. HIPPIES GO HOME!

Someone among their ranks answered, “This is our home,” through a megaphone.

Among the myriad protest signs, their decided favorite was a 3-D Martian with big, googly eyes. Its green, pipe cleaner middle finger poked above the caption, Even Intelligent Life on Mars Says: FUCK THIS WAR!!

After supper, Gary met up with friends at a gay nightclub. Prismatic color from rainbow strobe lights flickered across the dance floor.

Anya, who clutched her bulging belly, swayed in Matt’s arms. “See,” she called to Claire and Iz over the booming music, “we are all of us gay!”

On Sunday, Anya and Matt rested in the hotel. Gary visited an old school chum. Claire and Iz traipsed through the massive museums. Finally, the five of them collapsed into the car.

With a jumbo-sized, takeout coffee in the caddy, Claire drove. They chatted about the march and unanimously agreed. It had been the most people they’d ever seen in any one place. Like an unstoppable tidal wave, a thundering shout had surged, then swept through the crowd.

It was a powerful moment of the voice of the people Claire would never forget.

They parked at a rest stop to use the bathrooms. Then they wolfed down burgers, pizza, and fries and gassed up the car. As Gary drove, the silence thickened with their fatigue. Anya slumped over Matt’s lap in the back seat. Matt began to snore lightly. Iz curled, her knees drawn, against the back door.

Claire’s eyelids drooped as she fought to stay alert. She had promised to keep an eye out for their exit. White, solid and broken lines zoomed past. Headlights from passing cars flashed by as signs for New York multiplied.

Gary yawned loudly. “That was something, Claire. I’m glad we did it.”

“Mmm.” She squinted drowsily at the windshield. “We should do more marches.”

“Absolutely.” He patted her shoulder.

“There’s our exit!” Claire thrust out her arm as she spotted a green and white sign.

Gary dodged a honking car in their blind spot to quickly merge into the right lane. They lurched with the jarring motion.

“Sorry.” Claire gritted her teeth.

She longed to get home, take a hot shower, and crawl into bed. She slouched forward, staring blankly at the highway.

“I’m glad we marched too, but it’s a damn shame,” she frowned at the dashboard, “we had to. Real horror exists in the world. Why else would people need to shout in the streets?” She paused, then turned abruptly. “I just don’t know, Gary. How could I bring a child onto this . . . fucked upplanet?”

Iz and Matt bolted upright in the back seat.

“Clara?” Iz gasped.

“Are you serious?” Matt piped up.

Like a pair of life-sized puppets, they propped their heads on the seat.

Claire shrugged sheepishly. “I thought you guys were asleep back there.”

Gary drove along the winding exit ramp. “Umm, your timing could’ve been better on that one, Claire,” he muttered.

“Clara?” Iz’s wide eyes were earnest. “What can you be thinking?” She stopped, gaped at Gary, then at Claire. “A baby with this . . . man?”

“Relax, Isabelle.” Gary smiled briefly. “We wouldn’t be having sex. It’s called artificial insemination. I would be the donor.”

“Oh.” Iz exhaled, then rested her chin on the seat. “This could be all right then.” She studied Claire. “No?”

Matt looked over Iz at Claire. “Do you really want a baby, sis?”

Anya popped up between Matt and Iz. “What is all this going on?” she asked in a groggy voice.

Iz turned to Anya. “This is what I wish to know.”

Claire stole an uneasy glance at Gary, then, quickly, looked away. “Maybe I should’ve made sure the kids were asleep first.”

“Mmm.” Gary smirked at the windshield.

Matt turned to Anya. “Claire wants to have Gary’s baby.”

“Matt.” Claire tossed up her hands, then slapped her knees. “Sweetie. Please.” She patted Iz’s cheek. “It’s just something we’re . . . considering.”

Her eyes downcast, Iz appeared hurt. “I see I was not considered in this considering.” She pouted.

Claire stared out of the window and sighed. Iz’s “visitor” visa would expire in two short months. How could Claire have considered her in such a long-term decision?

“Look,” Claire mumbled out of the corner of her mouth, “I doubt I can go through with something like . . . that.”

“Why the hell not, sis?” Matt slapped the seat. “I think you’d make an incredible mother. Having had such a fine example of what a mother shouldn’t be in ours.” He groaned.

Anya kissed his cheek. “Aw, poorest boy,” she cooed. “This bad mother of yours is hated to the world.”

Everyone but Gary laughed.

Anya tapped Claire’s back. “You will make an excellent mother, yes, Cla-ire. I would give you this, our one, but him,” she jerked her head sideways at Matt, “your brother might say no.”

“We can share our one.” Matt shrugged.

Claire smiled limply. “You will make an excellent mother, Anya.” She noticed Gary tighten his grip on the steering wheel. “Me, I’m not so sure.”

Gary’s expression seemed to crumple. She squeezed his shoulder. Without a word, he kept his deadpan eyes fixed on the road.

“Are we coming up on that next turn?” was all he said.

Claire studied the scribbled directions in her hand. She felt awful about disappointing Gary. But she was just too muddled to think about a baby.

Could she ever decide?

The silence that followed was intensely awkward. Matt and Anya sat back. Iz, huddled against the car door, looked blankly out of the window. Claire stared gloomily ahead.

Thankfully, Matt changed the subject.

“You know, Isabelle, your English is pretty damn good. Maybe you can give Anya lessons.”

“Yes,” Anya chimed. “My husband would be too happy to pay you to do this.”

Matt laughed. “I would actually.”

“Mmm. I am sorry,” Iz mumbled, without turning. “But that idea would not work.”

“Why not?” Matt asked.

“Because,” Iz said flatly, “that would be the deaf leading the deaf.”

“Don’t you mean the blind?” Matt asked.

“No. I do definitely mean the deaf,” Iz replied.

“Oh, but your English is so much good next to mine,” Anya added.

Claire faced the back seat. “It’s good but not perfect,” she teased.

The car grew silent once more. Had she blurted something stupid? Again?

Gary, who wouldn’t look over, seemed understandably upset. She sensed too, that Iz was angry. If only she could ease the tension.

“Ah, Miss English Corrections speaks.” Iz nodded at Claire. “And your Italian is so perfect?”

“Err . . . nothing near perfect.” Claire bit her lip.

“No? Perhaps you can translate this for us?” She rattled off a sentence in fluent Italian.

“Bella” was all Claire had understood.

“What did Isabelle say?” Matt leaned over the seat.

“I have no idea.” Claire slumped down.

Iz did seem angry.

“Oh,” Anya chirped. “I think that this, your brother, can translate for us now, yes?” She uttered something in what had to be Ukrainian.

“What did your wife just say?” Iz asked Matt.

“Err . . . no idea,” Matt mumbled. 

“Ah ha.” Iz nodded at Anya. “Our two beloveds have had a dose of our cultural shock, no?”

Anya chortled with laughter. “Most definitely.”

“Certo,” Iz declared.

Iz and Anya leaned over Matt to shake hands.

“You must be patient with yourself, mmm? The structure of my language is closer to English than yours,” Iz told Anya. “You only need time.”

Claire turned to see Iz smile encouragingly at Anya.

Was there no end to her sensitivity?

“I THINK THIS baby might be a good idea.” Iz stared over Claire at the blank, white wall.

They had taken a hot shower, then nestled under the quilt.

“Why did you not tell me, Clara?”

Claire hoped they wouldn’t have another fight. “I’m sorry. I haven’t given it much thought. Like Gary said, my timing in the car was dopey.”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “But this is big, no?”

Claire fluffed the pillow under her head, then curled into a fetal position. How could she broach this without unleashing her jealous tongue? She’d have to express her feelings better. Why not now? She exhaled, then opened her mouth.

“I don’t want you to have to commit to anything here.” Deepening shadow, like the doubts that tugged at her mind, crept up the wall. “Your visa will run out soon and your career is taking off.”

“So?” Iz blinked at the wall. “Career is not everything.”

“True.” She twirled a strand of Iz’s hair around her finger. “You helped me see that. But . . .”

“But?” Iz rested her cheek on Claire’s back.

Claire felt like sobbing, but braced herself. “A baby is a lifetime commitment and you may not want . . . something like that. I,” the words seemed to stumble out of her mouth, “I would need to understand.”

Iz sighed deeply. “Do you imagine I’m incapable of commitment?”

“I didn’t say that.” She longed to face Iz, but couldn’t budge. “I just meant . . . like you said, this is big. And you have other things to do.”

“Other things? Ach.” Iz flicked her hand out from under her chin. “That bloody career again.”

“It’s important. Your mother was right. You are a great artist. You can’t just throw that away.”

“Mmm. Whatever.” Iz nuzzled her face on Claire’s shoulder. “Ah, bella, can’t I have both? A career and you?”

Claire thought a moment. “You love your country. And I suppose I sound like a damn tourist t-shirt, but I love New York. Besides . . .”

Iz sat up. “What now besides?”

Claire bit the side of her lip. What if she blurted something stupid again? She was well over her quota for the day.

“Eh?” Iz shook her side.

“You don’t . . . you’re not . . .” How could she speak without offending her? “You may not want something monogamous . . . with me anyway.” She shrugged sadly.

“With you?” Iz squeezed Claire’s cheeks. “I love you. But how many times must I tell you this?” She started to cry.

Claire turned to embrace her. “I love you too, sweetie, but maybe—”

Iz kissed her for a long while. Gasping for air, Claire fell back on the headboard. She rattled her head, buzzing from the passionate kiss.

“I do apologize for my abruptness there, Miss Clara.” Iz fluttered her long lashes. “But you needed to stop talking just then.”

Claire smiled wistfully. “Maybe I’m old fashioned . . . but if you ever cheated on me, I simply couldn’t handle it.” She rolled her eyes at the thought of poor Thea and her tent dream. “I would have to . . . end this.”

“Then I must never cheat on you,” Iz said solemnly. “Listen, I love you.” She flung up her hands. “Again, you force me to say it.” She shook a stern finger at Claire. “But you need to start thinking more with your heart, ah? I was wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I thought you were too obsessed with your work. But, no. You are most obsessed with these imaginings that I am going to leave you.” Iz crossed her arms tightly. “I found you again, didn’t I?” Her voice softened to a gentle murmur. “How could I just leave you now?”

Claire covered her eyes to block her angelic face, aglow in the light of the moon. “Listen, I’m just trying to be practic—”

“Uh. What, again, with this practical? If this . . .” She wrenched the pillow out from under them. “If this was this practical, I would . . .” She tossed the pillow, which skidded across the floor. “There.” She nodded melodramatically. “That is what I think of your practical.”

Claire brushed a wispy lock that had fallen over Iz’s eyes. “You know, your grandmother wasn’t the crazy one.”

Iz smiled. “Adesso. Now is the time.” She hopped on top of Claire and pinned down her arms.

Claire chuckled. “What now?”

“Now I have something big,” Iz widened her eyes, “to tell you. And you may not move from this spot until I do.”

“Big?”

CHAPTER 21

“MMM, MOLTO GRANDE. Very big about why I left my beloved Italia.”

“Can I ask you something?” Claire whispered. “Did you run away . . . like when you escaped from your father at twelve?”

“Please, I cannot think of that now. I have something else to say. I admit,” Iz said after a pause, “I have this tragic history of . . . running away. But I only came here to know you better.”

“What?” Claire squinted.

“I told you my grandmother’s dying words. How she knew I love women?”

“Yes.”

“She also mentioned you.”

“Me?” Claire squinted in the moonlight that illuminated the quilt like a neon cloud.

“There was a time, not so long ago, when family chose the one you married.”

Claire nodded. “An arranged marriage.”

“Mmm. Nonna said she chose you for me.”

Claire’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Yes. I couldn’t believe it either. She is truly crazy, I thought.”

“Thanks.” Claire smirked.

“No, no.” Iz’s teeth flashed with a quick grin. “I mean to say, My grandmother only met you one time. How can she know such a thing? Then, after weeks in that hospital, I knew. I had to see you. But a beautiful woman like you? It would be insanity to think you would be here . . . just waiting for me.”

“It wasn’t insanity.”

“Hmm?”

“I was waiting for you.” Claire felt a warm blush. “I was crying for you.” She thought of how Gary had heard her sobbing through the vent.

“Sweet bella, forgive me.” She kissed her forehead.

“It wasn’t your fault. How could you know how much I missed you?” Claire watched her pensive smile. “But I don’t get it. Are you saying you didn’t need to leave Italy?”

“Err, probably no. I was welcome to live in a friend’s apartment for nothing.” She shrugged lightly. “Edmondo, my painting professor, wanted me . . . still wants me to return to my position. So, yes, I could have stayed in Italia.”

Claire gaped. “So you manufactured a crisis to test me?”

“Hmm?” Iz shook her head, laughing. “Of course not. You saw my scar. I told you about that crazy family fighting after Nonna’s death. Oh,” she raised her eyebrows, “you still have trouble believing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Claire wrinkled her nose.

“I just . . . we only met twice, for a short time. And my mad ex-lover, she frightened me.”

“With good reason.”

“Exactly. Love is serious, no? I had to see for myself.” She ran her lips over Claire’s cheek, nose, and forehead. “I had to know you better.”

Claire recalled her great grandfather’s quote. “I guess life doesn’t come in a plastic bottle.”

“Mmm? That sounds clever. But I had to listen to my nonna.” She flipped her palm. “What can you do when someone so beloved tells you such a thing?”

Claire instantly thought of Lloyd’s urging her to, “Get your ass in gear and go after that girl already!”

“When I told my friends Nonna’s words, they said, ‘Now you must find this woman.’ ‘But it’s madness,’ I told them. ‘I barely know her and she lives across the world. Besides, I couldn’t bear to make another mistake.’ ”

“What did they say?” Claire smiled dreamily.

“ ‘Then go and know her.’ ”

“So you did come to test me?”

“Test sounds so . . . academic.” Iz creased her forehead. “But, yes, I had a whole list for what to look for. I told my friends, ‘She has to have humor. I can never be with a woman who doesn’t laugh. She must care about me, of course, and she must care about the world.’ ”

“It’s a good list.” Claire nodded.

“It describes you.”

“So I passed your test?”

“With, come dice . . . How do you say? Floating colors.”

“Flying colors.” Claire started to rise, but Iz kept her pinned to the mattress. “So you’ve been homesick for Italy all this time, and you could’ve been there all along?”

Claire bit her lip again. Her nagging doubts resurfaced, this time, from her thoughts to spoken words.

“Is there no end of your craziness? Aye.” Iz sucked her teeth. “But, yes,” she grinned, “I am the new world explorer. And I made this journey to discover you for myself.”

She turned and stretched across the mattress. Claire uncurled her body and, side by side, they stared up.

“Iz?”

“Mmm?”

“What did you say in the car . . . in Italian?”

“I said, ‘Bella, you are the love of my life.’ ”

Claire smiled at the ceiling, bathed in glistening moonlight. “You said more than that.”

She kissed Claire’s fingertips. “ ‘ . . . and, without you, I cannot bear my life.’ ”

Over the top as usual, Claire thought. Sweet as usual, too.

“I should have mentioned the baby.”

“I have to agree,” Iz mumbled drowsily.

“But look at us. You’re a free, creative spirit. And . . . I’m just not. It breaks my heart, but your visa is about to expire and—”

“And what?” Like soft, black feathers, Iz’s lashes unfurled as her eyes shut. “Do you think I’m just going to abandon you?”

THEY STARED AT the towering Woolworth Building.

As if he tumbled backwards in time, their father’s cheerless words were dragged out. “Your mother was a waitress there . . . when we first met.”

It was mid-February and, despite the nippy air, unseasonably warm. They’d even left their coats at the bank. Claire and Matt had picked up deli sandwiches and met their father in City Hall Park. Facing Broadway, Claire, their father in the middle, and Matt sat along a slatted bench.

“Dad,” Matt shut one eye in his squinty, baffled look, “you and Mother? I never got the connection.”

Their father snickered. “Mmm, I don’t get it myself anymore. But, the past . . .” he intoned in a trailing voice. “Sometimes it’s like a foggy window you keep wiping. After a while, you get used to the fog and don’t bother to wipe it clear.”

Matt and Claire shrugged at each other.

“Wow.” Matt grimaced. “I hope that window isn’t a windshield. If you were driving, you’d crash.”

Claire chuckled.

Their father took a slow bite of his liverwurst sandwich. One thing he and Claire didn’t have in common. Even as a kid she’d called it, “liver at its worst.”

“I never had any doubts that I wanted to be a father.” He shrugged at the building. “Your mother, if anything, gave me beautiful children.” He extended his arms across their backs on either side.

Claire rested her head against his shoulder pad. Her gaze fell on the alcoves that flanked the entrance to the famous building. She craned her neck to view the pointed, green pinnacle of its neo-gothic crown.

“But then I met and fell head over heels for Lloyd.” He gritted his teeth. “Who expected that?”

Claire smiled affectionately. “Well, Lloyd is irresistible, isn’t he?”

“True.” Their father nodded. “And how could I go on? Coming home to a sham life of the loving husband? I did for a while.”

“Then you left.” Matt stared at a straight crack that divided the pavement at their feet.

Their father rubbed Matt’s bowed head. “What could I do, son? It tore me up, but I couldn’t keep living a lie. I hoped your mother would be more understanding. She felt scorned and grew . . . bitter. I cheated and only had myself to blame, sure. But I had to wonder.” He paused, seeming to mull it over. “If your mother had caught me with a woman would she’ve been so . . . distraught?”

Like a dried leaf that had whipped up, his question dangled in midair. The leaf spiraled, then fluttered down the pavement.

“The fog is clearing a little for me now,” Matt mumbled through chews on his ham and cheese sandwich.

Claire recollected Gary’s words. To her mother, her father was the man that got away. She gazed tenderly at him. He was handsome, good-natured, and charming. What was there not to love?

Sure. She’d never tolerate her abusive mother again. Still, she felt a wave of pity for the embittered soul her mother had become. As if her memories were puzzle pieces that had snapped into place, Claire understood. It wasn’t her father’s leaving for Lloyd that had destroyed her mother.

It was his leaving.

“She went to my boss and caused me to lose my job.” Her father stared glumly at his sandwich. “I couldn’t afford a better lawyer to demand more custodial rights.”

“Pardon my cussin’, Dad,” Matt’s eyes narrowed to deep brown slits, “but that was a truly fucked upthing our mother did.”

“Amen.” Claire nodded. Of course, her brother was preaching to the choir.

Their father’s face sagged with a heavy frown. “Would you two mind if we sat on another bench . . . facing another building?”

They gathered their sandwiches and sodas. Then they took a bench facing City Hall and munched in silence. Claire stared at the dry fountain full of crumpled leaves. Her eyes wandered to its granite base, over the rounded bulge of its tiers, to its twirling top.

Their father cradled a hand on their shoulders and squeezed. “Lloyd says now that you’re adults you should hear all this. Believe me, the last thing I want is to dwell on your mother’s vendetta.” His voice cracked. “But I wanted you both to know that I have always . . . and will always want you in my life.”

Knowing she spoke for Matt too, Claire said, “And we will always want you in ours.” She pecked her father’s cheek.

Matt thumped their father’s back, and he nearly gagged on his sandwich. “Jesus, Dad, you must get that by now?”

Their father sprang from the bench and planted a kiss on their heads. Matt and Claire shrugged at each other again. Then, with a lingering smile, he sat.

“And now,” he exhaled a lengthy breath, “I have another tidbit to share.”

“Oh? Mother is a tidbit.” Claire winked from behind the bench at Matt. “I can live with that philosophy.”

They chuckled.

“Seriously,” their father said, “they’re downsizing my position at the bank.”

“Downsizing?” Matt asked.

“Dad?” Claire grasped her father’s forearm. “You’re being let go?”

“Of course, they didn’t say so, but they want young blood.” He nodded slowly. “I’m an old timer and my pension is going to cost them plenty. There’s this new hatchet guy in upper manage—”

“Shit, Dad,” Matt swore. “You’re being pushed out of your job?”

“Ageism in a bleak economy, huh?” Their father sipped his root beer. “Everyone’s buying, no pun intended, into it.”

“What will you do?” Claire would do anything to help. What?

“I don’t know yet.” He tossed a crumb to a pigeon, which blinked its yellow eyes and scuttled after it. “I guess I could go into semi-retirement. Maybe work part time. I’ve saved a little, and our apartment’s still rent stabilized.” 

“Hate to say it,” Matt flexed his hand, “but that job really stresses you out.”

It was true. He seemed much less stoic, even fun, outside of the bank.

“Maybe you should find something more laid back,” Claire put in. Hadn’t losing her gallery job the year before worked in her favor? She’d flown off on the whirlwind trip where she had hooked up with Iz.

“I’m more worried about you kids. I want to be able to leave you some—”

“Uh.” Claire slapped the side of her head. “Enough with that inheritance crap, already,” she blurted. She had meant to say “jag.”

“Excuse me, young lady,” their father wagged his finger, “your future is hardly crap.”

“Golly gee, Dad.” Claire teased with a pout. “Matt said ‘shit’ and ‘fucked up’ and that’s okay.”

Only Matt laughed.

“You both need to think in more practical terms,” he stated in a firm voice.

Claire rolled her eyes. She wished she had a pillow to toss and shout like Iz had done. “That is what I think of your practical.” She brightened at the comical memory.

Now their father wagged his finger at Matt. “Especially you, young man, you have a child on the way.”

Good thing Claire hadn’t mentioned this baby business with Gary.

“So is this what a father lecture feels like?” Matt asked Claire.

She smirked from behind the bench. “Mmm, better get used to it now that Dad is back in our lives.” She dropped her jaw and slowly turned. Would their father be insulted by her joke?

But he just flopped onto his knees, crossed his arms, and shook his head in his lap. Matt and Claire chuckled.

“Listen,” their father raised his hand, “your jobs are secure. I was, at least, able to ensure that. I thought you might want to know . . . since neither of you bothered to ask.” He sighed. “That impracticality is your mother’s doing, I suppose. Frittering away your stepfather’s money . . .”

“Ooh, watch that blaming Mother,” Matt teased.

“I’m sure your rebel sister here is out of her will.” Their father jerked his thumb at Claire. “Has your mother disinherited you too, since that wedding . . . scenario?” He tilted his head toward Matt.

Matt chomped the last of his sandwich. “How do you know I didn’t disinherit her?” He smacked his fingers.

“Oy.” Their father flopped back onto his knees.

“Are we Jewish?” Matt widened his eyes at Claire who giggled. “What else don’t I know?”

“Lloyd is, so maybe, in a way, we are,” Claire said. Well, hadn’t they laid claim to Lloyd as family?

“Listen, Dad.” She patted his bent back. “We’ll be okay. I know our pay at the bank . . . well, sucks, but we’re managing. Anya and Iz have jobs and—”

“Anya and Iz?” Their father groaned loudly. “Great. One works in a factory. The other makes bug baskets. I can’t decide which has the more lucrative career.”

“Actually,” Matt lifted his index finger, “thanks to Claire’s networking, I just got a gig as a youth counselor.”

Gary had helped Matt land a part time job in the clinic where he worked in Bed-Stuy. He’d juggle courses for his masters around the after-school program.

“So I’ll be leaving the bank, too,” he announced.

“That’s something anyway,” their father said. “Claire?” He turned on his knees. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you hate working in the bank.”

Damn body language. She thought of how she worked, hunched like Quasimodo, over her desk.

“It’s a living.” She shrugged feebly at the slush beyond the loopy, black railings. At least, Matt and her father were getting out of their straitjacket jobs.

Only she was floundering.

“He gets pretty freaked out about us, doesn’t he?” Matt asked from over their father’s back.

“Honestly.” She nibbled a dill pickle. “You’d think he had no idea what incredibly responsible adults we are.”

Matt leaned his elbows on their father’s back. “I agree, sis, and I really and truly feel . . .” He scratched the stubble on his chin.

“What’s that, bro?” Claire smiled at her brother’s playfulness.

This was the same playful whimsy she’d had with her father as a girl. Matt had only glimpsed it in their limited custodial visits. Clearly, he longed, as Claire had done, to salvage their lost time.

Matt raised his cola can and sipped through the straw. “I think we should just treat this lecture like background music and enjoy our lunch.” With his elbows still propped on their father’s back, Matt munched a cookie.

Their father grunted loudly.

“Mmm.” Claire leaned on the other side of his back and slurped her seltzer. “We really should. It’s such a nice day and all.”

“Spot on.” Matt handed her a chocolate chip cookie. “Birds are singing.”

“Or is that the sound of someone getting mugged?” She peered at a stand of bare trees. Their backlit branches, like curled, glowing fingers, seemed to tickle the sky.

“Point taken, sis.” Matt grinned. “Not much in the way of birds this time of year.”

Their father quaked with laughter. “Just don’t get crumbs all over my jacket.”

“Hey, Dad?” Claire traced an orange line along his plaid jacket.

“Mmm?”

“You’re still the manager, right?”

He grunted again.

“Can I leave early today? I have an emergency situation I need to take care of.”

He sighed into his lap.

She planned to stop by a lingerie boutique in the Village. Valentine’s Day was that Friday, and she wanted to surprise Iz.

SOMEONE POUNDED ON the apartment door.

The frilly, red and black lingerie draped from the rattling headboard. Her dance showhad gone over well.

She’d surprised Iz, who had been watching a soccer game, by dancing into the bedroom. Wearing nothing but the skimpy bra and panties, she bent, her bosom draping. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie,” she purred in a sultry murmur. 

Now she lay naked, her legs flung over Iz’s shoulders, and panting. She wasn’t about to answer the door.

The pounding continued.

Iz looked across Claire’s stomach. “Err . . . shall we see to that?”

“No-o-o,” Claire moaned loudly, knotting her fingers to grip the bed post.

“Mmm.” Iz went back down.

“Claire,” Gary’s voice rang out in the hallway, “I know you’re in there.” 

Claire stuffed the pillow between her teeth and screamed into it.

“Open this frickin’door!” The demand was slurred.

He had gotten an invitation to a singles mixer. Claire had warned him not to go—of all nights—on Valentine’s Day. He must’ve left the party alone. And smashed.

He pounded again.

Iz gazed up, her bangs straggled on her forehead. “Your psychology friend is not going away.”

Claire sucked in a deep, frustrated breath.

“Cla-a-ire,” Gary hollered drunkenly.

Iz moved up onto Claire’s chest. “It must be important, hmm?” She kissed Claire’s nipple.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded as Iz lifted the robe.

“I’m not going far,” Iz whispered. “How can I bear to leave my sweet bella like this?”

“I don’t know.” Claire tossed her head back and forth on the mattress. “I couldn’t bear it if I were you.”

Iz laughed, wiped her mouth with a tissue, then left the room.

“Good evening, sir. Miss Clara is, err . . . indisposed. Shall I help you?”

“Indisposed, huh?” Gary grumbled.

Claire overheard them in the living room.

“She wasn’t too indisposed to wake me on my day off,” he shouted toward the bedroom door.

“Shit.” Claire clapped her forehead. She reached for her robe, but Iz had it on. She wrapped herself in the padded, white quilt, then poked her head out of the door.

“Gary?” She squinted. Maybe she could pretend she had been asleep.

He stood in the doorway, bobbing his head. “Did I disturb you?” He hiccupped loudly.

“Not to worry.” Iz winked at Claire. “I disturbed her more.” She went through the kitchen, then shut the bathroom door.

Claire felt the hot blush on her cheeks.

Gary swung his arm in a wide circle toward the sofa. “May I . . . sit on your sofa?” He stumbled over and collapsed across the sofa.

“Please do.” Claire shook her head.

“Good. Because if I don’t sit on your sofa, I’m gonna flop on your floor.” He thrust up a finger. “But I promise . . . and feel free to quote me on this . . . not to upchuck all over your rug.”

“I appreciate that.” Claire grimaced.

Gary grunted.

“Any cute guys at the party?” she ventured to ask. “You know,” she recalled the night she’d imagined Thea had flirted with Iz, “gaydar doesn’t work when you’re crocked.”

Iz nodded from the kitchen doorway. “I should make him a strong coffee, no?”

“Strong, mmm.” Claire bobbed her head.

Gary tried to steady himself in an upright position. “A woman who can make a frickin’ cup of coffee. What’ll they think of next?”

Claire had to laugh. “Listen, you seem to want to talk about something here.” With the quilt trailing, she shuffled to perch on the sofa armrest.

“I do. I want to talk about something right here. Right now.” He slapped the space between the cushions. “I always knew that one day I would get you on the couch.”

“Actually,” she brushed the tousled hair out of his glassy eyes, “it’s you on the couch.”

“I think you know why I’m here.” He belched. “’scuse me.” Claire gulped. “Give me a sec. Okay?” She pointed toward the kitchen doorway. “I need to run to the bathroom.”

“I’ll allow for that, but don’t you dare interfere with my coffee in there,” he slurred, then thumped his fist on the rug.

She darted past Iz and into the bathroom. She tossed the quilt in the tub, washed, then got into her nightgown. When she came out, Iz hovered over the coffee machine.

Claire rushed over. “Help me, sweetie. I’m terrified,” she pleaded in a frantic whisper.

“But why?”

CHAPTER 22

“HE WANTS TO talk about,” she gulped again, “the . . . baby.”

“I thought you wanted this baby.” Iz filled the glass pitcher with water.

“Whatever gave you that . . . ?” She stared, dumbfounded, at Iz. Then her eyes went wide.

Why shouldn’t she have a baby? Hadn’t she parented her siblings? She’d turn thirty-one that May. Couldn’t she be a mother? Just because her own mother had been the matriarch from hell?

Claire shivered.

“What?” Iz asked.

“I just thought about my mother and got a chill.” She clenched her teeth. “Creepy, huh?”

Iz chuckled, then pinched her cheek. “How many thousands of times must you be told? You are nothing like her.”

Claire smiled. For once, she actually believed it.

“In fact, I think you would make an amazing bella mama.” Iz slapped her back side.

Claire gaped. “Really?”

“Most definitely really.” Iz nibbled her earlobe. “How can you not be amazing when you taste so delizioso.”

They giggled.

Gary wavered on the threshold. “Is this why I’m not straight? Huh?” He gripped the doorframe. “I can’t get a woman to make me a goddamn cup of coffee.” He smacked his lips.

Claire thought of her own dry mouth the night she’d flopped over drunk.

She thrust her fists to her hips. “Can you believe these men? They don’t do foreplay, but they know when they want their coffee handed to them on a silver platter.”

They laughed as Gary slid along the doorframe to the floor.

“Mmm?” Iz scooped grinds into the coffeemaker. “I wouldn’t know about this men and their foreplay.”

“Have you never slept with a man?” Claire asked.

Iz crinkled her nose. “Once, maybe in high school. Believe me, we both of us suffered through that experience.” 

“Oh. That’s why you’re so specialized,” Claire cooed softly in her ear, “in female anatomy.”

“And I have a specialized interest in your anatomy.” She tickled Claire’s side.

“Hey.”

They looked down.

“I do foreplay.” Gary grinned stupidly. 

Claire slipped her arms around Iz’s waist and drew her close. “Isn’t he adorable?”

“Certo. Sure.” Iz poured water into the coffeemaker. “And he seems to have a good genetics.”

Claire eyed Gary thoughtfully. “He earns a decent living.”

“No thanks to all your free therapy,” he whined as he slumped over on the floor.

“All right, Gary.” Claire beamed at Iz. “I’ll have your baby.”

Gary gazed up, his eyes wide with an incredulous look.

“But only on one condition.” Claire shook her finger at him.

He clapped his hands and raised them in a begging gesture. “Anything.”

“I have no desire to be a full time mother. You’ll need to agree to at least half custody.”

“Agreed.” He reached to shake her hand, then flopped forward.

“Oh, and one more thing.” She brushed her fingers through Iz’s tangled hair.

“Huh?” Gary moaned.

“Don’t forget Isabelle’s therapy.”

“Basta.” Iz spun around. “Enough, Clara. Leave this poor man be.”

“Sweetie,” Claire grasped her upturned hand, “you need to start talking about . . . your past. You’ve been through too much not to.”

Iz nodded gravely at the floor.

Claire stroked her bowed head, then turned to Gary. “And not that quickie chitchat like you had with me last time, buster.”

“Uh huh.” Gary bobbed his head clumsily.

“My girl needs some quality time.” She jiggled Iz’s waist. “Just look at him, Iz?” She gazed affectionately at Gary. “Isn’t he something? I know he’ll help you,” she whispered.

Iz blinked at Gary huddled on the floor. “Something, ah?”

“And one more thing,” Claire said.

Gary gaped like a big-mouthed fish out of water.

“I want to name this baby after my father.”

Iz arched a sharp eyebrow. “A girl, too?”

“Georgina is nice.” She smiled.

LATE FEBRUARY WAS a whirlwind of preparation for Iz’s show. Thea recommended a postcard place in Chelsea. She also shared her mailing list of potential buyers. The Williamsburg gallery sent a listing to the gallery guide. Claire arranged for Iz’s headshot and helped her write the press release.

Claire went to the bank, then rushed out at four on the dot. She turned down any offers of overtime. Needless to say, Iz’s career was far more exciting. And, as Claire had foreseen, about to rise like a phoenix.

The daddieswere visiting friends in Chicago that weekend. Claire invited Matt and Anya to the opening. She had only to tell Matt about the free wine and cheese and he was game. This way, she’d have someone to talk to while Iz schmoozed.

“You don’t mind if I . . . spend more time with them?” Claire asked as they dressed.

“What should I mind?” Iz buckled the silver, knotted clasp on her new leather belt.

Her pants were a satiny black. Her ruffled, white blouse with its bell-shaped sleeves looked stylish. Her raven bangs, swept back on her forehead, reminded Claire of their first date—two-and-a-half years before.

Hadn’t Claire fallen like a rock for her then?

CLAIRE, MATT, AND Anya circled the small gallery of Iz’s paintings. The varnished, birch wood frames gleamed beneath the track lighting. Iz’s twirling signature, I. Spera, marked the lower edges of the twelve canvases. Still, Iz’s viscous, shimmering color was the true signature of her work.

“Hey, sis,” Matt gaped at the largest, twenty-four by thirty-two inch canvas, “Dad was wrong about Isabelle. She makes a lot more than bug baskets.”

Claire nodded emphatically.

They held up a quiet corner away from the chatty, laughing crowd. Claire gazed across the room. As usual, Iz was surrounded by a crush of admirers. As usual, a cluster of hearty laughter followed something amusing she said.

The room quieted as her lilting accent picked up. Iz told a story about the painting professor she had assisted in Rome.

“We hung a student show and some stranger walked off the street huffing and puffing.” Iz breathed heavily to illustrate. “ ‘I detest this modern art,’ the man shouted into the gallery. So Edmondo says, ‘That’s because you’re ignorant.’ ”

The crowd burst into laughter.

“He was never one to mince words.” Lois, the gallery owner and a painter herself, knew Edmondo.

The chitchat trickled, then gushed in a noisy crescendo. Suddenly, Iz turned to flash a bright smile at Claire. Then, just as quickly, she rejoined the conversation. Claire instantly recalled their visit to the Boboli Gardens. A wounded cat had turned from a group of tourists to bound up to Claire.

Anya pressed her hands against her lower back. She slowly backed into a wiry chair Matt steadied from behind. Claire watched Anya squirm with obvious discomfort and clenched her teeth. How can Gary expect me go through nine months of that? she wondered anxiously.

Too late. She and Gary had already been tested for ART—assisted reproductive therapy.

Iz’s show was a success. The wall below eight paintings had been stamped with a red sold sticker. Brochures Claire had stacked beside the filled guest book had been snatched up.

After the opening, Iz got invited to a café with her artist friends. Anya was tired, and Claire needed to drive her and Matt home.

Claire nodded at Iz who was chatting outside the storefront gallery. “I’ll see you at home.”

“I am going with my family now.” Iz pointed to Claire, Matt, and Anya on the sidewalk.

Claire smiled. Had Iz just called them “family”? Why not? Still, she had to protest. “Isabelle.” She frowned. “It’s your opening. Go with them.”

“Mmm, no.”

Iz and Claire returned Thea’s wave as she strode off with the others.

“This is our time now.” Iz linked her arm with Claire’s.

“Looks like someone sold some paintings tonight.” Claire playfully bumped her hip against Iz’s.

“Sì. And more good news, bella. This gallery wants to include me in this . . .” She dragged her foot and whinnied like a horse.

“Stable?” Claire widened her eyes with excitement. “Oh, Isabelle.” She kissed her lips.

Matt squinted. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Claire grabbed Iz’s hand, then faced Matt and Anya, “Iz will show regularly with this gallery.”

“Sì.” Iz patted her coat pocket. “And I have this one for you to see.”

Claire reached inside Iz’s pocket and drew out a folded contract. “Oh, you.” She shook her head. “It’s all wrinkled.” She flattened the paper between her gloved fingers.

“Way to go there, kiddo.” Matt slapped Iz’s back so hard she lurched on the sidewalk. “People should buy your paintings. They’re pretty damn good.”

Speechless, Iz beamed.

They stood alongside the car. Claire clicked off the alarm and swung open the door for Anya.

“But yes, Isabelle,” Anya clutched Matt’s hand as she stepped over a mound of gray snow, “your art is much too good. Even for us.”

Their frosty breath mingled as they laughed out loud.

“ISABELLE, THE YARD is . . . beautiful.”

There was just no other word. 

Claire squinted, then shut, then opened her eyes again to be sure. She hadn’t imagined the transformation. Nearly six months had passed since Iz had arrived in New York. This was hardly the same jumbled mess of weeds and junk.

Barely March and crocuses had begun to sprout. Plants of varied greens poked their tips out of the dark soil. Terracotta pots hung in a step-like pattern around the fence. Claire noticed seed packet labels for peppermint, parsley, and, of course, basil, and oregano.

She stepped from stone to stone along the winding path. Between each slate, Iz had pressed bright green, curly moss. She went up to Iz who stood before an altar-like mound of whitish stones.

Iz grasped Claire’s hand, then shrugged dramatically. “So, Miss Clara? Where is your jungle now?”

“It’s a garden . . . thanks to you.” Claire nodded approvingly at handmade chimes strung with fish wire from the tree. The tree seemed to have grown the dangling medley of shells, pebbles, and ocean-soft glass they’d found on Coney Island beach.

“Thank you.” She softly touched Claire’s cheek. “This was a gift to me.”

Claire gazed into Iz’s keen, smiling eyes. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm. This . . .” Iz swept up her arm. “All this connected me to my grandmother.” She faced the building and turned her gaze toward the topmost apartment. “Your friend reminded me of that.”

Over the past month, Claire had spotted Iz and Gary in the yard. Sometimes, Claire sat on the window ledge to watch them kneeling in the dirt. They had shoveled off the last, clinging layer of snow. Then they’d raked the hard ground and scattered multi-toned pebbles.

“You two shared more than the yard, hmm?” Claire asked.

“We talked.” Iz shifted the rounded stones of the knee-high mound in a staggered alignment. “At first, I said nothing. He asked me only to teach him to garden. He believed gardening, like you said about painting, is a healing thing.”

Claire nodded.

“But how could I tell a strange man my horrific past, ah? Yet I sensed how gentle he was.” Iz pushed in a jutting, middle stone.

They sat on the mound, facing the back fence.

“I spoke of my nonna’s garden. Then he told me of this loss of his great love. He needed to honor what he calls a mourning process. Then suddenly,” she snapped her fingers, “I began to talk. I told him how I ran from my father and how, for years after, Nonna and I tended her garden.”

With the tip of her boot, she pressed a straggle of moss into the dirt at their feet.

“Then, at seventeen,” she creased her forehead, “I went to art school in Roma. My life became too busy to help with the Toscana garden. ‘The house is falling to ruins,’ I would attempt to argue with Nonna. ‘The garden is not important here.’ ”

“As if anyone could argue with Nonna.” Claire smiled to think of Iz’s warmhearted, but headstrong grandmother.

“Certo.” Iz chuckled. “She would only say, ‘No, Isabella, the garden is the most important thing.’ ”

Iz grew silent. Claire wouldn’t pry into details about her sessions with Gary. But there was something she wanted to know.

“Do you think the nightmares will stop now?” she asked seriously.

“Mmm, no, Clara.” She inhaled, then exhaled deeply. “I feel certain I will have these nightmares for all of my life. But,” she shrugged lightly, “your friend told me, and I have to agree, to think of my hurtful memories as a kind of . . . err, disability. He said people can have a disability, yet still live their lives.” She turned with a big gaze. “I can do this, too.”

“You can . . . you have.”

“Sì, sì, venga e guardi. Come, look.” Iz bobbed her head with childlike enthusiasm. Clutching Claire’s hand, she led her down the path, up the steps, and into the studio. She wheeled the easel sharply around.

“Isabelle.” Claire instantly recognized the flowing, blue-green hills. As if the square space couldn’t contain them, painterly brushstrokes leapt across the canvas.

“It’s not yet finish—” Iz began.

“Iz, you’re painting again.” Claire spun her around.

Iz kissed her own fingers and pressed them to Claire’s lips. “Sì, bella, I am painting again,” she answered in a hushed voice.

“How does it feel?” Claire squeezed Iz’s uplifted hand.

“Molto buono.” She nodded. “Very, very good. This paint is my blood, you know?”

“It just flows through you, doesn’t it?”

They gazed at the painting. Vivid as ever, Iz’s color scheme had softened into more subtle shading. The canvas was awash with light that appeared to stream from the golden, feathery clouds.

Claire studied the splotchy palette on the stool below the easel. Clearly, Iz had been experimenting with a new phase.

“Where’s this?” Claire peered at the abstracted landscape. “Tuscany?”

“Toscana in my mind,” Iz murmured in her faraway voice.

Before a background of hills and trees, Claire made out the red tiles of slanted rooftops; their crisp color rang out like the pealing bells of Firenze.

“Nonna’s house,” Claire whispered. 

Iz gazed sullenly at the floor.

Claire made out a bulky, painted tree. The one in the Tuscan garden? Like twisty, reaching fingers, its branches curled into an azure sky.

“Why did you stop painting for so long?” Claire broke the spell of their silence.

“Your friend asked me this same question.” Iz’s shoulders sagged. “Nonna and . . . my uncle are my blood too, mmm? I lost them both. My painting is like any relationship and,” she gazed tenderly at Claire, “you brought this back to my life. That could only be a gift of love.”

They kissed.

“Say! Speaking of gift . . .” Claire skipped into the hallway. “It’s a little early for your birthday. But now’s as good a time as any.”

She dragged a two foot, gray stone statue out of the closet. She lugged it into the studio and propped it on the table. The female icon perched crossed-legged on a spread, lotus petal. Her carved hands were folded above her knees. Her incised, oval eyes were half closed in a serene, meditative look.

“Meet Kuan Yin. Buddhist Goddess of love and compassion.” Claire flexed her arm. She felt like a bubbly game show host, introducing the winning contestant. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Like you.” Iz smiled.

“She’s said to watch over the home of wherever she’s honored.” Claire had discovered her on the back shelf of a dusty shop off Canal Street. The shopkeeper, an old Chinese man, had filled her in on the figure’s background.

Iz hefted the statue, and Claire followed into the yard. They walked down the path and Iz set the Kuan Yin atop the mound.

“A worthy altar.” Claire slung her arm across Iz’s back. “So are you a Buddhist yet?”

“Err.” Iz shrugged sheepishly. “I am working my way up to this general direction.”

“Maybe you’ll work up to it in your next life,” Claire teased.

“Listen, you.” She tickled Claire’s side. “You know my painting is a meditation.”

Claire giggled.

They raised their heads as a voice hailed them.

“Hey Claire. Iz.” Gary, on the top fire escape, raised his coffee mug. He cupped his hand over his mouth. “Can you believe the change in this yard?”

“We should send an enlarged photo to Sam,” Claire called back.

Their laughter echoed across the yard.

“Say.” Claire turned. “He called you Iz.”

“Mmm. Your psychology friend is now my psychology friend, too.” She waved to Gary. “He is good, hmm?”

“He sure helped me,” Claire dropped her eyes, “with my . . . stuff.”

Maybe she would always battle her nagging doubts. Doubts that she was unworthy of love. Doubts that had been planted, like invasive weeds, by her monster-mother.

And maybe Claire’s hurtful past, like Iz’s disability, was something she’d simply learn to live with.

“Our two tragic childhoods, eh?”

Even Iz’s sigh sounded lighter, somehow eased.

“We needed both this healing, mmm, bella?” 

“We did.”

“And now, Miss Clara, I think, yes.” Iz nodded up at Gary whose arms were crossed on the fire escape railing. “You must bear this man’s child.”

CHAPTER 23

THAT SAME WEEK, Claire ran into Gary at the corner laundromat.

“Maybe we should get a washer and dryer at our place,” she suggested.

“Ugh.” Gary stuck his tongue at a washing machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re still nursing your hangover.” She flashed a mischievous grin.

“Cut me some slack, willya?” He smiled lightly. “All I’m hungover from now is the idea of more household upkeep.” He dropped his nylon laundry bag with a thump. “Just picture this chain of events. A washer and dryer at our place break down. We call some jerk off who never shows up.” He dug a handful of quarters out his jeans.

“Then we wind up back here doing our laundry anyway,” Claire put in.

“Yup. Why not just kick back from the get-go,” he chucked his beard at the bald owner tinkering inside an open washing machine, “and let these people deal?”

“Point taken.” Claire shrugged at the row of whirling dryers. “We’ve had our share of jerk offs with that building, huh?”

They chuckled.

Gary pushed his clothes into a washer basket and fed quarters in the slot. He sprinkled detergent, twisted the dial, and shut the washer lid with a clank. Then he slumped on the stiff, plastic chair beside Claire.

She stared at the dryer. She liked watching her and Iz’s delicates flip over and under through the bubbled glass. She glimpsed a red-black flash of lingerie and thought of her Valentine dance show. Then she remembered her vagina kissingfantasy.

“The alarm just went off,” she said.

“Huh?” Gary turned.

“For something I should never tell a gay male.” She smiled slyly.

“Well, my work is done then.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’d never ask outright. It wouldn’t be professional, I know . . .” She stared at the scuff marks on the vinyl floor that formed random, zigzag designs.

“You’re wondering about Isabelle.”

She nodded at the floor.

“She’ll be okay, Claire.”

“Really?” She gazed, incredulous, at him. “Those nightmares, her childhood . . . It was wretched.”

He patted her shoulder. “Believe me, I don’t mean to play it down, but I’ve heard worse.” He faced the spinning laundry. “I could tell you horror stories from my clinic job that would shock the hell out of you. Hell, they shock me.” He wrinkled his soft brow. “Child prostitution, gang rape, ritual abu—”

“Gary.” She sat upright, gripping his arm. “How can you stand to hear that?”

“It’s a living.” He smirked. “Seriously, real horror does exist in the world. I just hope I can help in some way.” He lifted his head. “But people like Isabelle are an inspiration. I mean, for all she’s been through she still gives back to those students of hers.”

Claire laughed to think of Iz’s childrens stories. “She really dotes on those kids.”

“And just look at how lovingly she recreated that yard.”

“She has a real gift for being able to give.” Where had she heard that before? She turned quickly. Hadn’t Gary once quoted his deceased partner?

“And she brought that out in you. I’m glad you found each other.” Gary bowed his head. “Peter was like that,” he mumbled sadly, “genuinely giving.”

“You know,” maybe she could comfort him, “inspiring people found us both. One day,” she rested her head on his shoulder, “someone inspiring will find you . . . again.”

She smiled. While Iz had was with many friends, Claire had one in Gary.

“I honestly believe that and, it means the world to me to know,” Gary pressed her head on his shoulder, “I’ll be a father soon.”

She could hardly argue the point.

THEY TOOK UP a row of blue chairs outside the maternity ward. As if he could speed up time, George rattled his watch.

“Enough.” Lloyd lightly slapped George’s wrist. “It’s not like putting a turkey in the oven.”

“Sure it is,” George mumbled. “I’ve been through this three times.”

Lloyd pinched his nostrils. “Basting an embryo for nine months, mmm? Oh, the glory that is childbirth.”

Claire and Iz chuckled.

It had been over an hour since Matt had last raced in with an update. Frantically, he raked his fingers through his peaked bangs. Then, his trembling face pale, he rushed back to the delivery room.

George sighed heavily.

“Another coffee?” Claire rose and took a step toward the machine down the corridor. “Dad? Lloyd?” She wouldn’t bother to ask Iz who couldn’t bear anything—beverage or otherwise—that got “thrown up out of the mouth of a machine.”

Iz reached across Claire’s empty seat to pat George’s limp hand. “You shall be a grandfather soon, hmm?” She smiled warmly. “This child is certain to truly love you.”

George slowly turned his head to meet Iz’s keen eyes. “Thank you, dear,” he murmured in a hoarse, groggy voice.

“Iz is right, Dad,” Claire said. “This kid’s gonna be as nuts about you as the rest of us. And I’ll have a new niece,” Anya had mentioned the baby’s gender, “in my life, too.”

Other than Iz, Claire hadn’t told anyone about Beth’s cruel letter. Did Matt, she wondered, no longer speak to their mother and sister? Maybe they didn’t even know about his baby.

Claire returned with a Styrofoam cupful of coffee. She crossed her leg over Iz’s left knee and slouched on the chair. The second hand on the big, white clock above the nurse’s station flicked forward. Two-twelve a.m. It didn’t matter. They’d camp out all night if need be.

Eventually, Matt burst in, his eyes ablaze. “Dad! Lloyd!” he hollered excitedly. “Come on in now.”

They all sprang to their feet.

“Sorry, Claire. Iz.” Matt spun his head. “Can you guys wait?” He thrust his hand between the swinging, double doors. “Only two visitors allowed in the room.”

“But Ma—” Claire gaped.

“Looks like we’re on now, Grandpa,” Lloyd chimed as he and George ran inside behind Matt.

 Claire stared as the doors clapped shut. “He’s only my brother.”

“What?” Iz rubbed her forearm. “You are princess pouting because your father’s beloved has gone instead?”

Claire narrowed her eyes at the door, then flopped on the chair. Of course, Iz was right. Lloyd should be in there. But she was exhausted and irked at feeling left out.

She’d found a secondhand crib, stroller, and high chair through an online ad. She and her father had driven to Queens the week before to pick up the like-new things. Then she’d visited a bulk store and jammed four boxes of diapers into her car. She had lugged the boxes up to the third floor apartment. “This kid’ll be set for diapers till potty training,” she told Anya.

“They might’ve asked me in to see the baby, too.” Claire sulked. It was hurtful enough being cut off from her sister’s kids.

“Now, now, Miss Clara.” Iz pursed her lips. “We are all of us tired, but this won’t be so long, mmm?” She nuzzled, then rested her cheek on Claire’s shoulder.

She dropped her head on Iz’s and nodded off. Within the hour, Lloyd and George stepped through the swinging doors.

“Chop. Chop.” Lloyd clapped so loudly they abruptly sat up.

“Better get in there, girls,” George grinned widely, “before this baby graduates college already.”

They hopped up, swung past the doors, and bounded down the green-tiled corridor.

Anya cradled the sleeping infant in her arms. Beside the bed, the long window glimpsed a twilight scene of silhouetted buildings. Ready to spring into day, a diffused half light crouched between the buildings.

Claire kissed her niece’s supple brow. “Well, hello gorgeous,” she murmured.

The baby’s dimpled cheeks were flush with a florid pink.

“She looks pretty healthy,” Claire noted.

“This she is for sure,” Anya proudly declared. “And,” she looked at Iz, who was leaning quietly against the wall, “we have chosen to name this gorgeous for your good woman here.”

Anya and Matt grinned across the room.

“Hope you don’t mind.” Matt, sporting a new heart-encircled A tattoo on his forearm, shrugged. “We borrowed your name.”

Iz stood speechless. Even Claire was taken aback. She knew Iz and Anya got along, especially since they’d both hailed from other countries. It just seemed so out of left field.

Matt kissed Anya’s lips. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it, honey?”

“For a pretty baby.” Her red curls jiggled as Anya bobbed her uncombed head. “So she will have a great talent, too.”

“Huh?” Iz clapped her hand to her chest. “For me? My name?”

“Come on.” Matt nudged Iz toward the bed. “Meet your namesake.”

Iz shuffled toward Anya and the baby.

“Will you wish to hold her?” Anya held the baby up to Iz who fluttered her hands nervously.

“Err. No, thanks.” Iz glanced back as if looking for an escape route.

Anya placed the baby in Iz’s arms. She instructed Iz, who sank, still gaping, on the chair, to support the baby’s head.

Tears glistened in Iz’s eyes as she gazed at the chubby-cheeked newborn. “Ah, look.” She beamed, her smile wide. “This is sleeping life, no?”

“Just wait.” Matt smirked. “She’ll be awake and screaming for some damn thing soon enough.”

Claire tousled Matt’s messy hair, thinking back to when he was a toddler. “As if you never screamed for some damn thing.”

“You have been named for me.” Iz touched the baby’s tiny, curled thumb. “And so you are a gift to show me my own new life.”

Claire leaned on the armrest alongside Iz. Gingerly, she patted her niece’s dark head. She peered down. Were those wisps of auburn entangled in her fuzzy hair?

“Two Isabelles?” Claire winked at Matt. “Is the world ready for that?”

They laughed.

“The world better be ready,” Iz gently rocked the baby, “because here we are.”

CLAIRE STARED AT the papers strewn like inked confetti on the kitchen floor. She squatted to peer at the pieces covered with flowing, blue writing. Though she couldn’t decipher their meaning, she recognized the Italian words in one fragment. Isabella, mia cara nipote.

She slapped her hand to her open mouth. “Her professor lover.” 

On her knees, Claire pieced the torn letter like a shredded puzzle. Along the bottom portion was a date, 12 marzo, and a telephone number preceded by 212. A Manhattan area code. She gasped.

Was the woman coming to New York for Iz’s birthday? That same week?

As her frenzied doubts churned, Claire bit her thumb. This was a letter for Iz. Wouldn’t reading it be something her scheming mother—who’d opened every letter her children had ever gotten—would stoop to?

Still, she cupped her hand over her chin and pondered. Had Iz left the pieces on the floor for a reason? Maybe she wanted Claire to see the letter.

She drew a deep breath, scrambled the papers, and stood. “This time,” she thought aloud, “I better trust her.” While she felt enraged over that woman contacting Iz, she wouldn’t stir another jealous fight.

The kitchen window was half open. She checked the warm oven, its dial set to 350 degrees. Though she had promised to let Iz handle the cooking, she peeked inside. The pyrex dish sizzling with red sauce looked nearly done.

Weirdly, it had no spices.

She plucked oregano from a sprig, hung upside down to dry above the stove. Then she sprinkled a crumbled handful onto the gnocchi.

She pushed up the window and leaned over the fire escape. Iz faced the yard, dragging heavily on a cigarette, from the patio below.

Claire went into the bedroom and flicked on the TV. She undressed and pulled on a loose t-shirt. Then she sprawled in her underwear across the mattress.

As the five o’clock news came on, the apartment door opened. She heard the squeak of the oven door. Well,Claire noted, she had the presence of mind to check on supper. Just then, a cabinet door banged shut. Claire jumped slightly. Iz must have thrown the letter pieces in the trash can under the sink.

Next, she overheard Iz rant in Italian on the phone. Claire grasped only a sharp, “Hai capito?” Do you understand?

Iz trudged into the room and flopped on the bed.

“You’ve been teaching all day, hmm?” Claire asked in a quiet voice.

With her arms crossed under her neck, Iz nodded mutely at the ceiling.

“You must be wiped out.”

Iz continued to stare.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Claire asked point blank. There was a time—not too long ago—when she would bottle up her vexing questions.

Iz turned slowly. Claire braced herself for the dreaded news. Her ex-lover had tracked Iz down.

“My Uncle Giorgio.” Iz frowned deeply. “He wrote to me. One of my Roman friends gave this address. I just now called that friend to say I want no more to do with my uncle.” 

Claire smiled into the pillow to hide her secret joy. The letter wasn’t from Antonia!

“Can I hold you?” Claire murmured.

Iz sighed against Claire’s shoulder. “Queste famiglie, eh?” was all she said.

Iz took her sleep mask and lavender oil out of the nightstand drawer. She strapped the mask across her eyes, then untwisted the cap off the dark brown bottle. She dabbed oil under each nostril and inhaled.

Claire lifted Iz’s flannel shirt to massage her bare back. Then she tucked Iz under the quilt and kissed her softly. “I love you,” she whispered as Iz shut her teary eyes.

She wouldn’t disturb Iz by watching TV. So she put on her jeans and tiptoed into the kitchen. The baked gnocchi was cooling on the stove. Claire ate some, then wrapped the dish in foil and slid it into the fridge. They could have the rest tomorrow.

She decided to make a salad for their lunches the next day. That wouldn’t involve anything she might burn. She got a head of romaine from the crisper. She peeled off the wilted, outer leaves. Then she opened the cabinet to throw them away.

She stopped.

The letter pieces were scattered on top of the garbage. She cast a furtive, sideways glance, then carefully removed each piece. She piled them on the counter, took the wilted lettuce, and spread it over the garbage. Maybe Iz wouldn’t notice the missing pieces.

She stuffed them in her pocket and went into the dark bedroom. Iz breathed heavily. Claire stepped gingerly toward the dresser and slowly opened her jewelry box. She slipped the papers inside the compartment under the antique necklace.

Iz, who kept only one tin for her few, small earrings, would never look there.

CLAIRE FOUND A bookstore off Chambers. Then, pretending to work, she taped the letter from behind her monitor. She flipped through the English-Italian dictionary to make out the gist of the words.

Iz’s uncle was now divorced. His wife had left him for another man. He understood that he had wronged Iz and begged her forgiveness. He only wanted his beloved niece back in his life.

Would she meet him near the East Side hotel for her birthday supper? A boldly printed exclamation point followed the request. He had signed, Con affeto—much love—Zio Giorgio. 

She came home to find Iz digging near the back fence. She stepped down the stone path and sidestepped the Kuan Yin altar. Though Iz smiled and kissed her lightly, Claire noticed her red, puffy eyes.

She examined the staggered holes Iz had dug below the fence. “Are we burying something? Or someone?”

“No one you know.” Iz smirked at the dirt. “This will be a rock garden here.” She pointed limply.

“Oh.” Claire nodded. “That’d work with the altar . . . thematically.”

Iz shrugged listlessly at a rutted groove. “Yes,” she replied in a mechanical voice, “it will be thematic.” 

Claire inhaled deeply. Was she on a roll with this direct communicationthing? What the hell?

“Sweetie,” she blurted, “he just wants to see you for your birthd—”

Iz dropped the shovel with a clatter and whirled around. “Clara, have you read my personal letter?”

“Umm.” She decided to tell a half truth. “I saw the date on the pieces you left on the floor.”

Iz shook her hands angrily. “We cannot discuss this, ah?” She plunged the shovel into the rocky soil. “And,” she added with a sharp note, “never read my letters.”

Claire wanted to cry. “I . . . I,” she stammered tearfully, “I was only trying to . . .”

She ran upstairs.

She lay on her side, staring at the wall. Iz came in and sat on the mattress edge.

“I apologize.” Iz’s raspy voice broke. “I shouldn’t have been so . . . hard with you just now. I am sure you meant to help. But, please,” she shifted onto the bed, “try to understand, mmm? This man caused me no small distress.” Her pitch rose. “He is as dead to me as my father.”

Claire wiped her eyes on her robe sleeve. “But is he a brute . . . like your father? I mean, didn’t your uncle help you? He paid for your education and,” she hesitated to bring up, “that motorcycle you loved.”

Iz was silent.

“Didn’t your friend give him our address for your sake?” Claire murmured.

Iz fumbled in the nightstand drawer, then veiled her eyes with the sleep mask. “We are not going to fight, I promise. But,” her breath quickened with short, in-out spurts, “I cannot about this talk anymore.”

CHAPTER 24

IT WAS SNEAKY, she knew, to leave her cell number with the hotel clerk. But she couldn’t bear to see Iz so anguished. In the week since the letter had arrived, she had stopped painting and working in the garden.

If only she’d speak to him, Claire mulled it over. She might find some peace from her haunting memories.

She tried to coax Iz to eat out for her birthday. The daddieshad offered to treat them to an Italian restaurant with Northern cuisine. Iz had simply asked Claire to thank them. She wasn’t celebrating her birthday this year.

On Iz’s birthday, a Wednesday, Claire brought her biscotti and espresso to the bed. She handed her a card with a cartoon of two cuddling cats in heart-patterned pajamas. The caption read, You’re the Cat’s Pajamas!

Iz, who had never heard the expression, smiled sadly. “It’s cute,” she mumbled flatly.

She opened the card and the cutout picture of a large Greenwich easel fell out. Claire had arranged to have it delivered. Iz kissed her so half-heartedly, Claire wanted to sob.

Then Iz trudged off to teach.

THE NUMBER CAME up on her voicemail. Moving with her brisk stride, Claire cupped the phone against her ear.

Iz’s uncle, in whose halting voice Claire detected a weary sorrow, would be in Manhattan for two days. Would Claire “Please ask Isabella” to contact him. She listened for the room number.

When she got to the bank, she peered askance over her desk. The new manager, a squat man who reminded Claire of her crusty boss at the gallery, was at a meeting. The nosey co-worker was buried, her cross dangling, over a mound of paperwork.

Crouching under her desk, Claire hit send to retrieve the number. The hotel clerk put her through. She glanced at her watch as she waited out the rings. Just past eight-thirty. 

“Pronto . . . err, hello?” a groggy voice came through the line.

He sounded exhausted, probably jet lagged.

“Hello, Signore Spera,” she said, “I’m Claire. I live with Isabelle.” She wasn’t about to attempt any Italian.

It wasn’t necessary. Though his accent was thick, his English was smooth and clear.

She hadn’t intended to lecture him. But that was what gushed from her mouth. What could she do? Wasn’t it characteristic of her star sign to be fiercely devoted to the people she loved?

“Signore,” she chided, “Isabelle has already been through so much. You know what a nightmare her childhood was.”

The line went silent. Had he hung up?

“And she adored her grandmother. I can’t imagine how awful it must’ve felt to be called a disgraceafter a loss like that.”

She slapped her mouth. She was really chewing the guy out. And huddled on the bank floor at that.

She shut up.

After a lengthy pause, he said, “Yes, her friend has told me the same. I didn’t realize Isabella had been in hospital. I allowed my ex-wife to convince me my niece was too . . . immature to handle her inheritance.”

Claire shrugged at the flat, gray carpet. Hadn’t she once perceived Iz as immature?

“I have behaved,” he sighed, “abominably.” He paused, then his somber pitch heightened to an imploring note. “I beg you, Claire, please tell Isabella I want nothing more than her forgiveness.” He grew silent again, then added, “This is the only reason I am here.”

She reflected a moment. Iz would never agree to meet him near the hotel. Claire needed to arrange something—she stole a side glance around the desk—and quick. She instantly thought of the Cuban restaurant. It was only two short blocks from the apartment.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked him. “And can you get a cab to Brooklyn?”

She jogged her memory for the cross streets. He agreed to meet them at six. Now, she clenched her teeth, I just have to tell Iz.

But she couldn’t. It was all Claire could do to persuade her to go to the restaurant.

“Ah, come on. I already made a reservation. Besides,” Claire cooed in her sultry voice, “you love that sexy Latino music they play.”

“All right,” Iz grudgingly agreed. “But I don’t wish to stay long.”

“Sure, sweetie.”

As Iz dressed in jeans and a plain, black sweater, Claire began to feel guilty. And to fret. Iz might be furious. There would probably be a fiery scene. Maybe, Claire hoped as they crossed Clinton Avenue, seeing her uncle in the flesh will calm her down.

With a languid stare, Iz trailed Claire into the restaurant. A waitress with a puffy, beehive hairdo seated them. Claire studied the mural of a tranquil ocean with rippling waves.

“Your brushwork puts this to shame.” She rubbed Iz’s arm.

Iz, who had tossed fitfully through the night, yawned from behind an open menu. “Eat what you wish,” she mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”

Other than two men chatting in Spanish at the bar, the restaurant was empty.

Soon, a distinguished, fortyish man in a tan jacket stepped out of a cab. It had to be him. Claire nodded at the window.

“I am just having an appeti—” Iz’s menu fluttered to the floor.

He entered, his head of silver-streaked, black hair bowed, and stood by their table. His light, musky cologne scented the still air.

Iz jumped up, then gaped at Claire.

“Iz,” Claire asked sheepishly, “is this your uncle?”

Iz flapped her hands, her eyes wild. “Clara,” she called so loudly the men at the bar turned, “how could you?”

“Prego, Isabell—” Her uncle reached for her stretched hand.

“Non!” She thrust his hand away, then glared at Claire. “Tell this man I don’t wish to speak to him.”

Claire pinched her forehead and stood. “Sweetie,” she leaned over, “he only wants your forgiveness.” She looked at Iz’s uncle who stood with a slumped, hangdog posture. “Please, signore, tell her.”

His trim, dark moustache glinted under the ceiling lamp as he raised his head. “This is all I am asking, Isabella. Per fav—”

“Aye.” Iz clapped her hands to her ears. “Clara, do you see what you have done?”

Gingerly, she touched Iz’s slumped shoulder. Iz brushed off Claire’s hand. Claire cringed as a flush of hurt shot through her.

“Isabelle, please,” she bit her lip to stave off a choking sob, “I’ve been wounded, too.” She was finally able to call her mother’s shoddy treatment for what it was.

“Yes,” Iz bobbed her head, “and if I tried to connect you with your beloved mother, would you appreciate that? Hmm?”

“My mother never apologized to me, not oncein my whole damn life.” Claire sniffled.

Was Iz doing what she had done? Reading the ghosts of her troubled past into every hurtful experience?

“I have already told you . . .” Iz wagged her finger accusingly at her uncle. “This man—” She stopped and glowered at her uncle, then at her boots.

There was a forlorn look in his intense eyes, black and deep set like Iz’s.

“I’m going.” Iz slapped her chair to the wall and stepped around the table.

“Don’t, Iz,” Claire pleaded. “Don’t run away this time.”

She wondered. Why was she defending a man she didn’t even know? Well, hadn’t Iz referred to her uncle as, “more a father to me than my own”?

With outspread arms, he stepped toward Iz. “Isabella, mia cara nipote,” he said in a tender voice.

Claire knew from the letter she’d translated that he had said, “my dear niece.”

With a slow, halting turn, Iz faced him.

Just then, Claire’s jaw dropped. What had she done? Iz’s uncle could only be here for one thing. To bring her back to Italy. How could Claire have paved the way for that?

Iz sighed, then flopped on the chair. “Aye.” She shook her head in her crossed arms on the table. “Ask this man to sit,” she muttered to Claire.

He sat on the other side of the round table. Claire wasn’t sure if she should stay. She simply stood, her shoulders dropped.

Iz pulled her into a chair. “I am not happy with this . . . scheme of yours.” She sliced the air with her hand. “But for your sake only, I will endure it.”

“Thank you,” Claire murmured softly.

Iz was riled enough to either fly off the handle or run out. Possibly both.

Iz lifted her fierce gaze. “This is Clara,” she told her uncle curtly.

He nodded at Claire who half shrugged. A formal introduction seemed ludicrous now.

“We are together.” Iz narrowed her eyes. “Hai capito? Understand? This is something you can never hope to change about me.”

“Sì, Isabella. Lo so.” He nodded seriously. “I understand . . . and accept this now.” He stood, and, with a firm grasp, shook Claire’s hand. “È un piacere per incontrarta,Clara.” He had a gentile, warm smile. “I am pleased to meet you.”

Of course, Claire thought, he’s her uncle. As with Nonna, Iz’s charm seemed to run on the maternal side of her family.

“Grazie, signore,” Claire answered with a flat accent.

Iz looked directly at Claire. Though she seemed calmer, anger still bristled in her large eyes. “You will excuse us.” She blinked as if Claire were a stranger, then glared at her uncle again. “I must speak to this man . . . alone.”

Claire stood and glanced around the restaurant. Where could she go? Should she wait outside or just go home? She lifted her bag off the floor. 

“I’ll be in the ladies room,” she mumbled, then hurried off. Time for a quick getaway.

Through the door, she overheard Iz’s irate voice in high-pitched Italian. She went to the transparent, pink sink and sifted through her bag.

At least, she reflected, Iz had told her uncle they were together. That meant Claire’s fear that Iz would leave was unfounded. Still, she had never seen Iz so incensed.

She took out her lip gloss and removed its cap. Then, like a creeping shadow, a dreadful thought arose. Would Iz simply leave the restaurant without another word? Would the relationship they had forged over the past half year end in a public bathroom?

She recalled her mother going in and out of the ladies room at Matt’s wedding. “Ugh.” Claire stuck her tongue at the mirror. Alone, bitter, and surrounded by toilets!

She applied gloss to her lips, then brushed her hair. She listened for sounds outside the door. The restaurant must have filled. Instead of Iz, she heard bubbly chatter mingled with lively music.

The door creaked opened. Claire spun around. A short, older woman in a paisley dress entered the bathroom. She smiled meekly at Claire who nodded as the woman turned into a stall.

Claire decided to pass the time by cleaning out her cluttered bag. She propped it between the sink and the sand-textured wall. She rummaged, then lined each item—her brush, checkbook, cell phone—along a thin, bubbled shelf above the spigots.

As she tossed a mint wrapper in the trash, the door squeaked.

Iz leaned against the tiled doorframe and crossed her arms. She chucked her chin at the shelf. “Are you quite finished there?”

Claire swept the things into her bag and nodded at the mirror.

“Are you sure?” Iz arched a brow. “Do you wish to search for any ripped letters, hmm?”

Claire wagged her head silently as she zippered the bag.

“No?” Iz asked in a sarcastic voice.

Claire watched her in the mirror. “Did you . . . ? Were you two able to,” she asked slowly, “sort things out?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to sort out.” She shook her hand. “You know, Miss Clara,” she came up behind Claire, “you really deserve a good spanking for all this meddling. But then,” she said into her ear, “you would probably enjoy this too much. And what would be the punishment in that?”

Claire backed against the wall. Just then, the woman exited the stall. 

“Umm, Iz, we’re not alone in here.” She felt the blush warm her cheeks.

“Oh?” Iz turned. “Perhaps you can stand a public humiliation like I was forced to endure.”

Iz waved at the woman who backed away. “Excuse me, madam, but do you have any idea how truly bad this girl is?” She jerked her thumb at Claire. “You cannot imagine.”

The woman gaped as if they’d escaped from a maximum security prison. With Iz’s back to her, Claire grabbed her bag and darted out the door.

She halted at their table. Iz’s uncle had gone. Apparently, he had been given his marching orders. Poor guy, I hope this wasn’t his first visit to New York. For all the tourist sites, his trip had consisted of first Claire, then Iz chewing him out.

There were two half-filled glasses and a blue check on the table.

Iz came over, lifted a wine glass, and gulped it back. “Andiamo.” She plunked down the glass. “Let’s go.”

“Should I pay the tab?” Claire asked.

“It’s paid.” Iz sighed impatiently. “We had only these two glasses. Believe me,” her face bristled again, “if there had been any food on this table, you would see it all over that floor.” She glanced down, then marched along the red runner.

Claire grabbed the check and ran after Iz, waving it. “Sweetie, you forgot this.”

Iz stopped. “Yes, Miss Meddling Business. That was my intention. In fact,” she grasped for it, “let me rip it now and be done.”

Claire held the check behind her back as she sidled toward the door.

“Clara.” Iz narrowed her eyes sternly.

“Iz, this looks like a lot of mon—”

“Oh, no, no.” Iz wagged her head. “Just you give me that this instant.” She reached around Claire’s back.

“But,” Claire shifted quickly away, “you might need this.” She stepped sideways. “Why don’t you just think ab—”

“No. I absolutely do not want that . . . emotional bribery!” Iz stomped her left foot. “Now just you give me tha—”

Claire slid alongside the wall, flung open the door, and ran outside.

“Cla-a-ara.” Iz chased her all the way home.

She locked herself in the bedroom.

“Open this door, you.” Iz banged, then shook the door until its glass knob rattled. “And give me that check.”

“Sleep on the sofa,” Claire called through the keyhole. “You’ll feel better . . . tomorrow.”

She heard Iz’s shuffling gait as she paced the rug. Finally, the living room quieted. Had she run out into the night again? She squinted through the keyhole to make out Iz’s legs on the sofa.

Claire sighed with relief.

SHE SLAPPED THE snooze button, then stumbled off the bed. They had to leave for work soon. Would Iz even go?

Claire dressed and took the check off the dresser. She folded, then slipped it inside her bra. She opened the door and tiptoed to the sofa. She stooped to cradle her hand on Iz’s head. Iz twisted sharply, her back to Claire.

“Sweetie,” she said softly, “I had a dream last night.”

“Aye, Madonna,” Iz groaned into the cushion. “Those dreams of yours will be the death of me.”

Claire smiled. “I dreamt you were glad you met your uncle . . . that I did the right thing.”

Like the letter pieces, her dream had been fragmented. One fragment had stood out. She and Iz, surrounded by glowing color, had knelt side-by-side to tend Nonna’s garden.

“Ha. Unbelievable.” Iz flipped over and gaped at Claire. “You are even meddling in your sleep.”

“Please, Iz, he just wants to—” 

“Ah, Clara.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What am I to do with you?”

“Just,” she whirled her finger around Iz’s ear, “don’t stop loving me.”

“As if that were possible?” Iz flung her arm over her eyes. “But then you see this, eh?”

Claire drew Iz’s arm off her face. “What did he say . . . last night?”

Iz eyed her sharply. “Well, Miss Nosey Meddling, if you must know . . .” She rolled her eyes. “But what am I saying? Of course, you must.”

Claire shrugged sheepishly.

“He told me the buyers abandoned my nonna’s house. It was too much for them to fix.” Iz sighed. “ ‘Who’s to blame for that?’ I asked. He didn’t deny it. It broke his heart to see his childhood home so ruined.”

“And then?” Claire murmured.

“After his darling, dear spouse devoured all of his money, she tried to get her claws on my inheritance.” Iz balled her hands into fists and stretched back. “He refused. ‘I swore to my dying mother to keep that money in trust for my niece.’ That foul creature told him, ‘Your niece is a heretic.’ ”

Claire crinkled her nose. “That’s a little . . . medieval.”

“Believe me,” she blinked at the ceiling, “there are enough modern ways to torture a heretic.” 

“So he’s paying her alimony?” Claire tilted her head. “I thought she ran off with—” She bit her lip. How could she bring up what she’d read in the letter now?

Iz smirked. “May I finish?”

Claire nodded at the floor.

“ ‘What can I do?’ I told him. ‘I barely survive here. Clara has to support me.’ ”

“That’s not true.”  

“I have done what I can, but all this,” Iz swept up her arm, “is your home.”

“It’s our home, Iz.” Claire grasped her hand. “Do you think I’d have it any other way?”

Iz half smiled. “So he wrote that check you zoomed off with last night.”

“Isabelle,” Claire drew back with a loud gasp, “was that your inheritance?”

“Hmph.” She snorted.

“That you almost shredded?” Claire rapped her arm.

“Ow.” Iz sat upright. “Now you listen to me, Miss—”

“Oh, no.” Claire rattled her head. “This time, you listen to me, Miss . . . Artistic Impracticality.”

Iz started to smirk, but smiled instead.

“Your grandmother meant for you to have this money. If you blame that man for anything . . . And, yes,” Claire widened her eyes, “he made an ass of himself over that woman. People do that sort of thing.”

Iz gaped. “Clara, don’t you dare to bring up—”

“I’m not finished.” Claire flipped her hands dramatically. “You were living in a tenement surrounded by dollar store décor with roaches for roommates.”

“All right, crazy woman.” Iz chuckled into her palm. “You made your point.”

Claire slipped the check out of her bra. Iz didn’t snatch it away.

“You need this money, sweetie. If only to get some physical therapy for your injury.” She rubbed Iz’s leg. Though she never complained, Claire knew she hadn’t fully recovered.

Claire unfolded the check. “I know a certain banker we can see about getting this cashed.”

“Mmm.” Iz shrugged wearily. “Would that be a certain daddy banker?”

“None other,” Claire said.

“Listen, bella.” Iz spread her fingers and raked them through Claire’s unkempt hair. “I was emotional last night, eh? I didn’t wish to celebrate my birthday. I made this clear.” She frowned. “And I was absolutely not prepared to be ambushed, ah?”

Claire pursed her lips and looked away. “Well, I’m sorry about that but—”

“Nothing but.” Iz wagged her finger. “I was thinking to forgive my uncle.”

“Oh. So I did the right thing.”

“No, Princess Dreamland.” Iz laughed out loud. “I decided this for myself.”

“Well . . . that’s okay, too,” Claire hedged.

“Can’t you see the difference?”

Claire stared at the rug to avoid Iz’s fixed eyes. “I suppose, I may have,” she choked out the words, “meddled a little.”

“You meddled a lot.” Iz gripped Claire’s bowed head. “As did my friend. Basta. Enough of that now.” She flitted her hand. “I’m sure you two meant to help me. But, you must know . . .” She dropped her eyes and fell silent.

“Know what?”

“If my grandmother’s house is left to ruin, it will be torn down.” She glanced at the check. “My uncle begs me to restore our family home with this money.”

“Oh.” Claire buried her gaze on the rug. For once, her misgivings had proved right. Iz’s uncle had come to take her out of Claire’s life.

“So you’re going back then.” A rush of sadness swept over Claire. She thought of the eerie stillness of her lonely Christmas day and shuddered.

“Uh.” Iz flung up her arms. “Why—I simply cannot see—must we have this forever questioning? When we have already revealed this greatsecretthat we love each other? Do you honestly believe I would throw that away? Do you think,” she cupped Claire’s face in her hands, “I would just throw you away?”

Claire was silent.

“You know, my princess,” her voice softened, “just because your daddy had to leave you once doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

Claire smiled faintly. “You’re getting good at this psychology thing.”

“Listen,” Iz kissed her lips, “I know you love your crazy city and your good family.”

Claire watched Iz. “Would you give up your beloved home for me?”

Iz squeezed Claire’s cheeks so tightly her lips puckered. “But didn’t I just now, in this very moment, say that I cannot leave you?” Her eyes widened. “Ah, I see.”

“See what?” Claire frowned, puzzled.

“Only you are permitted to sacrifice for love.”

“That’s not tr—”

“Certo. But of course, it’s true.” Iz hopped off the sofa, knelt, and clasped her hands in a praying gesture. “Santa Clara.”

“Stop.” Claire waved her hand.

Iz clutched Claire’s legs. “Oh, most holy martyr for love.”

“Get up, you nut.” Claire lightly slapped her head.

“No, but wait.” Iz raised her index finger. “Let me gather those impractical, little candles for your princess bath, mmm? Then,” she circled her arm above the rug, “I can light them all around in your honor.”

Claire fell, laughing, into Iz’s outstretched arms.

CHAPTER 25

LLOYD FLICKED ON the power switch, and the coffeemaker gurgled. He quickly buttoned his maroon, corduroy jacket. He was the understudy for a sick actor in an Off Off Broadway play.

“We should come to this, no?” Iz offered as he planted kisses on their heads.

“Sorry, girls.” He fluttered his hand. “Much too late for comp tickets.”

“We’d pay to see you,” Claire put in.

“Oh, angels.” He bent to whisper in Claire’s ear, “I think your father is in the throes of another family saga. For once, he’s sparing me the gory details.”

“Huh?” Claire looked across the table.

In a light blue t-shirt and sweatpants, George was dressed more casually than she had ever seen. But his taut expression appeared stricken. His drooping eyes were glazed over. Maybe the graveyard shift had taken a toll on him.

“So how’s the new job going, Dad?”

He shrugged at the table. A chrome fifties table, yellow, almost golden, crosshatched patterns covered its surface. Claire instantly thought of the table where they’d painted when she was a kid. Could it be the same?

“Fess up, Georgie,” Lloyd chirped. “You love that so-called work.” 

George nodded slowly. “Not half bad actually.”

“Hey, that’s great.” Claire hoped to cheer him up. The loss of his job had been a rough blow.

“Hardly great.” Her father raised his head slightly. “I make my rounds, put my feet up on an empty desk. Then I stare at empty offices on monitors. I figure, what the hell, I’ll kick back and read a novel. Maybe two.”

“I told you, darling. Write your memoirs.” Lloyd clapped his forehead dramatically. “The Trials and Tribulations of a Security Guard.”

Claire and Iz laughed.

“Well, I must dash.” Lloyd pecked George’s cheek.

“We shall see your play the next time, mmm?” Iz nodded.

“Next time up, love. Believe me, this one’s a deadly sleeper.” Lloyd yawned in the open doorway. “I play the bored guy in a standing coma. How could I subject the people I love best to that?”

He skipped out of the door.

George peeked inside the fridge behind his chair. “I can’t offer you girls much. We were on our way to the supermarket when Lloyd got called in.”

“That’s okay.” Claire waved her hand. “We can only eat Italian deli anyway.”

Iz shrugged. “You expect me to eat plastic food?”

George half smiled as he slipped on his reading glasses. He clicked on the solar calculator. “Shall we, ladies?” He peered over the square rim of his glasses at Iz’s check. Then he studied the yellow-lined paper on which he had scrawled some notes.

“Isabelle, Claire tells me your uncle is a lawyer?”

“He wants Iz to buy back their family home,” Claire explained.

Her father gazed at Iz. “Did your uncle stipulate that, dear? I mean, did you sign anything to that effect?”

“No, no.” Iz shook her hand. “He was lucky to leave my presence with a shred of his dignity. I would never have signed a thing.”

“Then all this is free and clear.” George nodded at the check. “It looks as though he is genuinely trying to work things out with you.” He turned up his palm. “He might have buried this money in all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo.”

“Mmm,” Iz said grudgingly.

Claire was gaping at her. “A shred of his dignity?”

Iz pursed her lips at Claire. “You have something to add to a now-closed discussion about that restaurant night?”

“Err . . . no.”

“What restaurant night?” George wrinkled his brow.

“Umm.” Claire looked at Iz, then her father. “Our family has its wedding fiasco. Iz’s has a restaurant.”

“Hmm?” Her father squinted at the check. “Other than Anya, I don’t recall anything as fortunate as money coming out of that wedding.”

They laughed.

However gloomy he appeared, his dry wit was still intact.

He scanned the yellow paper with his finger. “I’ve worked out the exchange rate on this and . . .” He tapped the calculator keys, then blinked at Iz. “This is an awful lot of money.”

Iz shifted her eyes toward the check. “I suppose,” she mumbled.

“You didn’t even notice, did you?” Claire asked.

“We all knew my grandfather left Nonna something. I had no idea she gave me . . . so much.” Iz stared at her lap. “Especially when she lived like a pauper.”

Claire squeezed her hand under the table. “Didn’t I say Nonna adored you?”

Iz nodded tearfully. “And I wish only to have her back,” she whispered in a trembling voice.

George arched his brows. “Your grandmother must’ve doted on you to have bequeathed all this.” He took off his glasses and gazed directly at Iz. “Isabelle, I’d advise you to have this cashed as soon as possible in case . . .”

“In case that lawyer uncle changes his mind.” Iz narrowed her eyes.

“Claire,” her father slid the paper across the table, “our . . . well, your bank now, will cash a foreign check. Put this into an account until it clears. It may take a week. Maybe more. Since you work there, they’ll probably waive any fees.”

“Okay, Iz?” Claire faced her.

“Why not?” Iz heaved a disinterested sigh. “But I have nothing planned for that money.”

“Nothing?” George asked.

“Ah?” Iz gazed at them. “You are shocked by my impractical deviance, mmm? Perhaps I should have gone to that deadly play.”

Claire smirked.

Her father frowned. “You might want to give this some serious thought.”

“Mmm. Well, there is something I might wish to do with this,” she glared at the check, “bribery money.”

“Your inheritance,” Claire and her father cried.

“Sì. Sì. That.” Iz crossed her arms. “I must send some for my uncle to fix Nonna’s home. Then,” she smiled dreamily at the ceiling, “I am going to buy a really fantastic car.”

Claire gasped.

“What, Clara?” Iz flipped her palm. “Did I say motorcycle?”

“Isabelle,” George waved the check, “I’d say you could buy a lot more with this.”

Iz merely shrugged. Claire rolled her eyes.

George set down his pen, then pushed the check across the table. “So, dear, do you plan on becoming a citizen?”

“Yes.” Iz grinned at Claire. “I will try for that . . . green one.”

“A green card?” Her father studied Claire.

“And,” Claire added, hoping to allay his concerns, “even that backward bank has domestic partnership insurance.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he nodded, “Lloyd has been on my plan for years. I would have given you more details, but I didn’t know if . . . Isabelle was staying.”

Iz extended her arm across Claire’s back. “It looks like, yes, I will be a yank now.”

“I’m happy for you both.” He smiled warmly. “I’m sure it can’t be easy to leave your homeland.” Then his even voice cracked and grew suddenly weepy. “Sometimes, we all need to make . . . painful sacrifices for love.” His head flopped to his chest. “Don’t we?”

“Dad?” Claire watched his face furrow with creased wrinkles.

“I’m sorry, Claire. Isabelle.” He propped his head in his hands and shook it. “Last week, I got this . . . harsh letter from Beth saying I should never contact her . . . or her children.”

Claire and Iz gaped at each other.

“I sent her a birthday gift . . . like I do every year.” His strained words faded. “Not that I’d impose, but—”

“Aye.” Iz sprang from her seat and slapped the table. “That monstrous sister again.”

Claire rushed over to embrace her father. “Oh, mydaddy.”

He wept in her arms.

SHE WOULD NOT spend the night in jail!

Unlike the movies, they had allowed her to make three calls. But her cell phone was with her confiscated property. She had to use the red phone mounted on the wall of the holding cell.

Iz wasn’t a citizen yet, and Claire could hardly let her father know about this. Matt and Anya had too much going on with the baby.

She called Gary.

“What the hell is going on?” he shrieked so loudly she turned away from the receiver.

She grimaced at the gray ovals that ringed her fingertips. They had snapped three mug shots, face forward and profiles. Then they’d stamped her fingerprints, pressing each finger and thumb to scan into the system.

“Err, it’s a long, involved story.”

She’d tried to leave work early to make it to the fertility clinic. With no luck the first time, she and Gary had stepped up the second cycle of treatment. But her nosey co-worker had cornered Claire in the ladies room. The woman rambled in a sermon about the personal significance of her beliefs.

Why? Claire examined her own blank face in the mirror above the sink. Am I a heretic, too?

Her father and Matt would surely have a good laugh over this. Claire wasn’t amused. She had promised Gary, antsy over this baby thing, she’d be on time.

She gaped at her watch and, with her co-worker still yakking, raced out of the bathroom. She skidded past her new boss and flung open the glass door. Then she sprinted, panting all the way, to Chambers Street.

With zigzag steps, she dodged people trudging up the subway stairs. The instant she swiped her metrocard through the turnstile, the cross town train pulled up to the platform.

“One moment, ma’am.” A brawny policeman blocked her path.

“But . . .” She gestured mutely at the opening subway doors. “I’m late.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he replied in a gruff voice. “This is for security purposes only. May I look inside your bag?”

Her jaw dropped as she clutched her bag to her chest in horror. “No. You may not!”

Gary was none too happy about having to come down with her bail. She asked him to have Iz get her checkbook.

“Not my green checkbook.” She pressed one ear to her shoulder to muffle the cursing shouts of a stoned prostitute. “I need the blue one for my money market account.”

There wasn’t enough in the regular account to cover the bail. I should bounce a damn check on these bastards. She cast a sideways smirk at the rigid policewoman who held the phone to her ear.

“Tell Iz it’s in the top desk drawer in the living room.”

“Can’t you tell her yourself?” Gary groaned.

“She’s painting in the studio. She doesn’t have a phone.”

Claire had attached a second phone to her plan. Iz had griped, “I just want these peoples to let me in peace.” Still, Claire nagged her to hang onto it. Finally, it slipped out of Iz’s back pocket and into the toilet.

That was the end of that.

“Just bang on the studio window,” she told Gary.

Claire slouched on a stiff, gray plastic chair. She was handcuffed with her hands crossed over her lap. Her wrists itched and the dismal, beige room felt chilly. An unframed announcement of Absolutely NO spitting on the floor! was hardly decorative.

She shivered at the policewoman who stood like a frozen sentry. The woman, whose ashen hair was drawn in a gnarled bun, stared deadpan ahead.

She held the door as Iz and Gary rushed in.

“I cannot believe you.” Iz tossed up her hands. “And I’m the crazyone?”

Gary gaped. “Did you actually refuse to leave the subway after telling a cop, ‘It’s unconstitutional to search my bag’?”

“Isn’t it?” Claire thrust up her chin. “He had some nerve. Poking inside my bag when there are murderers loose on the streets.”

Iz and Gary gasped.

“Just don’t tell my father about this.” She clenched her teeth. “Okay?”

“Oh, no, no.” Iz bobbed her head. “Because her practical daddy will give her such a scolding.”

Just then, a hefty woman with a skull tattoo on her bulging arm, entered. The policewoman motioned for her to sit. She slumped, handcuffed, into a chair and glared across the room.

Iz gasped again. “Listen, Miss Clara,” she crouched to whisper, “pull yourself together here, mmm? Because if you must sleep in this prison, I may be forced to defend your honor against this,” she glanced back at the woman and gulped, “person.”

“Yeah.” Gary wagged his finger. “Do you want,” he peered over his shoulder, then lowered his voice, “Iz to get killed?”

“I won’t be intimidated by anyone.” Claire shot the woman a ferocious stare.

She shifted her glare toward the ceiling.

“I’ve had it.” Claire stomped her foot. “I refuse to live in a dictato-”

Gary clapped his hand over Claire’s open mouth. “You realize you have the right to remain silent?”

Iz rapped her arm. “Clara, are you mad?” She turned and smiled sweetly at the policewoman. “These police, they will hear you.”

“I’m mad as hell.” She was incensed by the question that burned like a fiery brand in her brain. What was happening to the freethinking city she loved?

“Claire,” Gary shut one eye, “I just came up with a new criteria for the mother of my child. She can’t be an anarchist.”

Claire blinked. Why was Gary so riled? Wasn’t she picking her battles?

She paid her bail and signed the release form. They told her that since she had no priors, she wouldn’t be facing criminal charges. “This time.”

Grudgingly, she drew the wrinkled voucher from her pants pocket. She dropped it on the clerk’s desk, and he returned her bag.

As they descended the long, granite steps, Gary lectured her. “Lots of people are unhappy with this government. We still need to live here.”

Claire, rubbing her wrists, only half listened. She was struck by the crisply interwoven blue-gold streaks of the glowing dusk. The sunset glimmered behind distinctly finger-like shapes of a puffy cloud. Its feathery wisps reminded her of the wrinkles etched on Iz’s grandmother’s hand. The cloud fingers curled inward.

Was Nonna beckoning?

Claire halted on the bottom step and mulled it over. Naturally, she had no qualms about quitting her dismal job. Matt and Anya should have the upstairs place. That way, there’d be more room for the baby. Her father and Lloyd could take the garden apartment. Her parting gift would be not to ask rent of her family.

For what it was worth, they could share her clunky car.

She turned. “Let’s do some online research when we get home.”

Iz shrugged. “For?”

“For a good deal on plane tickets . . . one way.”

“But where?” Iz squinted in the dazzling sun.

“Sweetie,” Claire squeezed her shoulder, “you love your country.”

Iz creased her forehead. “You know this, Clara.”

Gary came down the steps behind them.

“Maybe,” Claire paused, then nodded, “I can learn to love it, too.”

As if the gist of Claire’s words hadn’t sunk in, Iz raised her head slowly. “My bella in my Italia? That’s quite a dream.”

Claire laughed. “Let’s head for those hills.”

Iz’s eyes widened with childlike delight. She gazed up, clasped her hands, and loudly declared, “Grazie per tutto.”

Was she thanking the sky or Nonna?

She flung herself into Claire’s arms. Then she quickly drew back. “But I must tell you, Miss Clara,” she arched a sharp brow, “you cannot fight with police in the public streets of Italy.”

“Fine.” Claire pursed her lips as she stepped onto the sidewalk. “So long as they don’t give me any reason to.”

CHAPTER 26

THE CRADLE AND high chair were wedged into the corner. The folded, canvas stroller, its white wheels upside down, was propped beside the door. The apartment had been painted a crisp blue that gave the snug room an open, outdoorsy feel.

They squeezed around the round table. Iz had just treated them all to supper at the French restaurant. Then they’d crammed into Claire’s car and driven to Matt’s and Anya’s place.

A milky, baby smell lingered in the air. Claire and Lloyd hovered over George who cradled his granddaughter.

Lloyd studied the baby, George, then Claire. “Oh, those elfish, green eyes.” He sucked in his cheeks. “They’re quite the family legacy.”

“Look. Look.” George bobbed his head dramatically. “She’s smiling at me.” 

Claire squinted. Was the baby smiling? Or did her dimples, pronounced like Anya’s, push her mouth into that smile-look?

“You know your grandpa, don’t you, Isabelle?” George cooed in a singsong voice.

“Jesus, George.” Lloyd massaged his temples. “Enough with the grandpa shtick already.”

“We don’t mind Grandpa, do we, sweetheart?” George wagged his head with a bubbly smile at the baby.

“Hmph.” Lloyd snorted, then fanned the air. “Keep those old man cooties to yourself over there.”

They laughed.

“Is it so terrible?” Iz grinned at Lloyd. “This old man shtick?”

“Listen, prime of life.” Lloyd blinked at Iz. “Just you put in a few good years—”

“And a few more pounds.” George nodded at Lloyd’s slightly rotund belly.

Matt and Anya, across the table, bickered over who would serve dessert.

“I’m tired you, Mr. Man.” Anya rapped Matt’s broad shoulder. “You go to our kitchen now and get to serving this. Yes? We are guestedtoday.”

The brown-white lines of Matt’s flannel shirt crossed with his arms. He didn’t budge.

“I’ll get it.” Claire rose.

“Nope. Nope.” Anya thrust up her petite hand. “This you cannot do for him, your brother. This is the tragic result of his child years of your mother’s too many maids.”

Claire sat. She could hardly debate the point. After their mother’s second marriage, maids had handled their household chores. Wasn’t it the same reason Claire was such a lousy cook?

“The second the baby was born, she turned me into her personal slave.” Matt smirked at Anya. “ ‘Matt, you go to the deli and to get this our milk.’ ”He mimicked Anya’s high-pitched voice.

Anya glared at him. “He tells me then, ‘I thought you made your own milk now.’ ”

Matt jerked his thumb at the wicker hamper bulging from the closet. “ ‘Now you go to do this, our laundry.’ ”

“Aw.” Lloyd pouted with mock sympathy. “How this boy suffers.”

“Uh. He doesn’t know what of how to suffer.” Anya rubbed her belly. “You see this from when I am being pregnant?” 

“That’s over now.” Matt shrugged casually. “Deal.”

“And you see that?” Anya pointed at the baby. “Your only one child. Yes? Do you think this got from this to that for nothing?”

“Ah, domestic bliss.” Lloyd playfully elbowed George. “All the lovely quibbles. Hmm, darling?”

“I see you two are storing up some fond memories.” George winked at Lloyd.

“Mmm.” Anya shook her small fist at Matt. “I like to store this fond memory of the lovely quibbles.”

Matt broke into a wide grin, then grabbed Anya’s fist and kissed it.

“Ah, yes,” Iz chimed in. “There is a certain fondness for lovely quibbles at our house.”

“I’ll bet.” Lloyd smiled wryly. “You did choose life with a princess.”

“Please.” Claire sucked her teeth. “Don’t get me started on our lovely quibbles.”

“Aye.” Iz clapped her forehead. “This princess.” She gazed directly at Matt. “The next time your wife asks you to do some little thing, remember this story I am about to—”

“Uh oh.” Claire arched her brows up and down in the vaudevillian gesture. “Another Izzy story.”

Iz pinched Claire’s side. “. . . of your beloved sister and her post-up notes.”

“Post-it notes,” Claire corrected.

Iz waved her hand dismissively. “She leaves these all over the house.”

George crinkled his nose. “Claire, you don’t?” 

“I have to, don’t I?” She rolled her eyes at Iz. “Life with the Creative Type. I should write a book.”

“Oh,” Iz shook her finger, “and they must be colored-coded, these notes, by each room.”

“No?” Anya giggled.

“Unbelievable, ah?” Iz widened her eyes. “I just wake up. No coffee yet.” She squinted. “I see this square with a big arrow on the door. It’s blue for color in the living room, you know.”

They laughed.

“But what can this be?” Iz said. “I go up to read, Lock this door!”

“She forgets to lock the inside door when she’s home alone,” Claire explained.

“So?” Iz shrugged. “We live in a house of allgay men. What do they care?”

Lloyd chuckled. “Take my word for it, lovey, they don’t.”

“Then I go to the kitchen. First thing I see,” Iz flipped her hand, “on the window, orange square. Hot color for kitchen.”

“Shouldn’t hot colors be for the bedroom?” Matt smiled.

“No, no.” Iz widened her eyes. “She knows better than to post a note in the bedroom.”

Even Claire laughed.

“So I read, Shut this window.” Iz gaped. “But I haven’t opened it.”

“Well . . . you do.” Claire rubbed her arms. “Sometimes.”

“Only when you burn our supper.” Iz tapped Claire’s head.

They all gaped at Claire who shrugged at the ceiling.

“I’ll take down the notes when I see you got the message.”

Iz wriggled with laughter. “I’m going to give you a message.”

Matt watched Claire, then Iz. “Looks like you two are a real item now, huh?

Claire felt herself blush as Iz squeezed her knee.

“Yes.” Anya smiled warmly. “You have grown your relationship into post-up notes.”

Matt raised his coffee cup. “Here’s to my,” he slung his arm across Anya’s shoulders, “our sisters, Claire and Iz.”

“Za vashe zdorovya,” Anya added, then swigged back her coffee.

“To your health,” Matt said.

“Ah, mille grazie.” Claire was boning up on her Italian.

“A thousand thanks,” Iz translated.

Matt and Anya went into the kitchenette. Lloyd chatted with Iz about his upcoming role in an Off Broadway play. George played a two-fingered version of patty cake with the gurgling baby.

Claire studied the photographs over the sofa. Surrounding the original two were four new photos. Images of Matt, Anya, the baby, along with George, Lloyd, Claire, Iz—the family they had created—beamed in the glow of the frosted lamp.

The baby smell mingled with the aroma of coffee. Matt and Anya doled out slices of Yabluchnyk, Ukrainian apple cake. Claire watched them.

“Can I ask why you named the baby after Isabelle?”

“Actually, we were going to name her Claire,” Matt explained while munching.

“Huh?” Claire wrinkled her brow.

Anya nodded. “Because you are such a fine sister to your brother the whole of his life.”

“Yeah, sis.” Matt pouted. “Mother was never there for us. Was she?”

Claire shrugged sadly. “There’s no denying that.”

George patted Matt’s back.

“But, you,” Matt’s eyes lit up, “you read me stories every night. When I was sick, you looked after me. You took me to museums and sleigh riding or to the zoo in Central Park.”

Claire faced her father. Hadn’t he done those things with her before their mother tore him from their lives? She had simply passed their quality time onto Matt.

“And,” Matt shoveled a forkful of cake, “heaven help anyone who dared to pick on me.”

“Oh, ho.” Iz grinned. “I pity the soul who faced the wrath of your sister.”

“I remember how miserable I felt when Mother shipped you off to that boarding school,” Matt said in a glum voice.

“Somebody should have shipped your mother off,” Lloyd muttered into his coffee.

“We did.” Claire grasped Matt’s hand across the table.

Though he had never brought it up, Claire understood. Their cold mother and sister were no longer in Matt’s life either.

“I missed you too, brother.” Claire shrugged tearfully. “I spoke up too much, you know. Mother couldn’t handle me.”

They burst into laughter.

Claire leaned back, nestling her head on her father’s shoulder. “Matt used to jump up and down,” she looked affectionately at Iz, “like a little frog when I came home.”

Anya pinched Matt’s cheek. “How cute he must have been, a froggie little boy. Yes?”

“He was adorable.” Claire’s smile widened. “I was thinking . . .” She stopped short of bringing up Beth’s nasty letter. What was the point? Leave the past in the past had become an unspoken family mantra. “How much cuter Matt was than all of my dollies.”

“You were both a couple of cuties,” their father put in.

“Not past tense if you please, Dad,” Matt quipped.

“No. No.” Anya grinned. “This cuteness can never be a thing of the past.” She turned to Claire. “So now you must be wondering still why we did name this, our child, for your beloved?”

Claire nodded.

“We were too amazed, Cla-ire, to see in that gallery how loving was your look,” Anya explained.

“Yes, I must admit,” Iz said, “sometimes, I get a good look.”

“When you looked at Iz like that,” Matt went on, “I said to Anya, ‘My sister is nuts about that girl.’ ”

Claire flashed a grin. “I must admit this, too.”

“Then I told your brother,” Anya looked over at the baby, “ ‘Let us name our child for this good woman your sister loves so well.’ ”

“ ‘That way,’ ” Matt grinned, his playful, boyish grin, “ ‘Claire will always look at our daughter and think of her own love.’ ”

Claire fell back on her chair, her jaw dropped. “I . . . I’m . . .” she stammered, dumbfounded. What could she say to such a touching gesture?

Lloyd reached behind George’s chair and patted Claire’s head. “Would you like a post-it note to express your feelings, love?”

The baby rattled her tiny fists as they roared with laughter.

Claire gazed tenderly at her niece. “And you couldn’t have been named for a sweeter soul,” she murmured.

“Bella.” Iz kissed Claire’s upturned palm, then looked around the table. “So now we can leave you with something of our Clar—” She slapped her hand to her mouth, then slowly turned. “Did you not yet tell them?”

“It’s all right, sweetie,” Claire said calmly. “Now’s as good a time as any.” She’d intended to break the news that night.

“Mmm.” Iz nodded. “And I think I am entitled to some mutual family meddling.”

At least she hadn’t blurted Claire’s jail story.

“Tell us what, dear?” Her father carefully placed the baby in the cradle. He tucked her under the fluffy blanket patterned with rainbow balloons.

Claire inhaled deeply. “Since we’re all gathered here . . .”

She gazed around the circle of their faces and choked up. It hadn’t occurred to her just how heart rending leaving her family would be. Until that moment.

“We’re going to Italy . . . to live.” She watched their startled expressions. “I’ll miss you all . . .” She nodded at Iz, who stroked her forearm. “Isabelle needs to restore her home and—”

“Italy?” Matt spun his head from Claire to Iz, then slumped in his chair. “Wow.”

“Claire,” her father whirled around from the cradle, “what will you do there? You don’t speak Italian.”

“I’ll have to learn, won’t I?” Claire shrugged at Anya who nodded encouragingly.

“Sì.” Iz raised her brow. “Our Clara will be more than a turista.”

“Claire, I don’t know. Their economy’s not much better than ours. How are you going to . . . ?” George frowned at Iz.

Claire grimaced. Could her father be angry with Iz for taking her away? “Dad, please.” She took his outstretched hand. “Iz’s career is taking off. She just got a call from a gallery in Milan that wants to give her a sho—”

“Well, that’s wonderful for . . . Iz.” He buried his gaze in his lap.

Claire examined his bowed, downcast face. He wasn’t angry. Just broken up.

“Dad,” she said in a gentle murmur, “I’m going to manage Iz’s career. How else will she have time to paint if . . . ?” She fought back a welling sob. 

Reaching behind her chair, Iz pressed George’s shoulder. “Not to worry, dearest daddy, mmm? Believe me, your princess is my princess, too.”

“Who’ll be taking care of who here?” Claire smirked.

“Clara, please,” Iz mumbled out of the side of her mouth. “Can’t you see how unbearable it will be for your father to lose you . . . again. Perhaps,” she gaped at George, then Claire, “we should not leave.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “But I . . . we . . .” She faced her father, hunched over his lap.

Was Iz right? He was probably still reeling from this latest saga with Beth. How could he bear another separation from one of his children?

“Dad?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Her father clutched his forehead and sighed woefully. “I lost you once.”

Claire opened her mouth when Lloyd thrust up his hand.

“Love, let me handle this.” He stooped before George’s chair. “Darling, please. Claire is going to live in a gorgeous place with this charming woman who adores her.” He kissed George’s bowed head. “Could we possibly wish for a better happily-ever-afterfor your,” Lloyd flashed Claire his winning smile, “our daughter?” 

Staring over Lloyd’s back, George’s eyes locked in a fixed gaze with Claire’s. She bit her lip. How could she leave the father she’d fought like a demon to keep in her life?

Then, as if her eyes had spoken to his, a loving smile formed on her father’s face. Softly, almost imperceptibly, he chucked his chin at Iz.

Claire tilted her head in wonder. Had he just gestured with his body language what Lloyd had once urged?

Go after that girl already!

IN HER PAINT-SMEARED smock, Iz stood in the doorway. Her backpack dropped from her shoulder with a thud.

“Aye.” She gripped her face in one hand.

Claire rushed over. “What’s wrong?”

She rested her head on Claire’s chest and sighed heavily. “Ah, Clara, you were much too right.”

“About what?” Claire’s mind raced as she studied Iz’s troubled expression. Maybe her uncle had changed his mind about reconciling. She sighed. Were they in for another family saga? On another continent?

“I bid farewell to my students today.” Iz sniffled. “It was just too awful. First, they cried. Then I cried. Three hundred and one of us crying all the day long.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Claire rubbed Iz’s slumped shoulders. “You really fell in love with those kids, hmm?”

“Sì. Sì.” Iz wiped her damp eyes on her smock sleeve. “I am going to miss their sweet, little talking faces.”

She wrapped Iz in her arms.

“Sure you will,” Claire murmured. “But,” she touched her own belly, “we might have a sweet, little face of our own.”

Iz drew back, her eyes wide. “You know something?”

“I’m not positive,” Claire shrugged, “but I felt pretty nauseous this morning. And my period is over two weeks late. That never happens.”

Iz gasped.

“I’d take the test now. I’m just so,” Claire yawned loudly, “sleepy.”

The past two weeks had been a whirlwind of arrangements. Like the dragging end of a prison term, she’d done her timeof notice at the bank. She had spent that last day, packing two bulging suitcases and their carryon bags. Along with a pregnancy kit, she’d bought a hefty book about Italy to read on the plane. Maybe all that had worn her out.

Or maybe she was pregnant.

If not, she’d try again. Iz would be teaching and finishing her master’s in Rome. But Claire would visit that fall. They’d all agreed. Their child would spend the school year with Gary and summers with them.

They ate supper, took a hot bubble bath, then got into bed. Iz stroked Claire’s belly as they lay naked, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Ah, sweet bella,” Iz purred. “You are leaving your beloved home for me.”

“You left yours for me,” Claire whispered against the side of Iz’s upturned mouth.

Luckily, the subway incident had been cleared. Claire had gotten approved for an “open-term long visit” visa. She also had Iz’s statement that she’d be employed as her agent. Within eight days, Claire needed to apply for a Permesso di Soggiorno. A Residency Permit.

For all the sobering legalities, the whole venture seemed like an airy fairytale.

“You’ll miss some things other than your students. Won’t you, Iz?”

“Mmm.” She nodded against the pillow. “Maybe this garden and these new friends. Your family, of course. But we have Nonna’s garden now and,” she shrugged lightly, “it’s only an ocean between us. We shall see these good people again.”

“Certo,” Claire agreed.

Sure they would.

“I must say, I prefer the . . . less modern life of my country.” Iz’s eyes half closed in her faraway look. “I like to feel abbracciato . . . embraced by history.”

Claire traced the curve of her beatific smile.

Iz wove her arms to squeeze Claire snugly. “It’s funny, you know, how technology changes how people see themselves. It can be good, yes. But then time can speed too fast.”

“Oh, you.” Claire chuckled lightly.

“What?”

“How you get into a philosophical state.”

“But this is important, no? This . . . shift of world thought.” She nuzzled her face against Claire’s cheek. “Think of the Renaissance. It didn’t just happen like that.” She snapped her fingers. “How could it? Hundreds of years of thought in people’s little, everyday lives built up to create that. It didn’t explode onto history.”

“True.”

“And look at this Galileo, hmm? Why is he so important? His beliefs were heretical then. Yet it seems so simple now.” She flipped her hand under the quilt. “The earth revolves around the sun.”

“Makes sense.”

As if she could heal Iz’s leg, Claire brushed her hand along the scar.

“Yes, now. It’s understood. But,” Iz shut one eye, “like I tell these childrens. ‘Do you know there was a time when the people really did believe the earth was flat? And if you go off the edge you fall into a pit of monsters?’ ”

She laughed into Iz’s open mouth. “Must you harass those poor kids?”

Claire reflected on the dream of her mother and sister falling off the earth. Maybe monsters existed, after all.

“What ‘harass’?” Iz rolled her eyes. “They giggled into fits over that.”

“Oh, they must’ve gone wild.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Iz chuckled. “Then the assistant principal came in to give me a bad look.” She mimicked a disapproving scowl. “ ‘Is something wrong here, Miss Spera?’ I say, ‘I am only teaching these childrens about the earth. They are just too silly.’ ”

“These children.” Claire widened her eyes. “I thought you taught art. Not science.”

“Ah, art, science . . .” She yawned. “It’s all life. And it’s all true. This Galileo, he was told to reject his heretic views or die.”

Claire gaped. “You didn’t tell the kids that?”

“Err, maybe not that one.” She shrugged. “But I did say how this Galileo changed his great truth only because they forced him. I told them, ‘But it is said, he uttered between his breath, E pur si move.’ I look very seriously at them.” She squinted. “Then I say, ‘Do you know what this means?’ Of course, they don’t. They must stop their endless talking for me to translate.” She nodded thoughtfully. “ ‘And yet it moves.’ ”

“Mmm.” Claire smiled drowsily.

“In other words, you may force me to reject my truth. But my truth remains what it was always,” she paused, “a truth.”

Claire kissed her lips. “You’re something.”

“As are you,” Iz murmured into their kiss. “And I do know it’s ‘these children,’ Miss English Corrections.”

Claire peered at her. “So why do you keeping saying ‘childrens’?”

“Because I like to make you laugh.” She pinched Claire’s back side.

“Iz!”

“Get used to that.” She grinned mischievously. “You are going to Italy.”

Claire giggled. “Behave.” She nestled her head in the crook of Iz’s arm.

She lifted Claire’s hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Ora dorma. Sleep now, bella.” Iz strapped the sleep mask over her eyes and dropped her head on the pillow.

“Tomorrow is a new adventure.”

CHAPTER 27

WAS SHE DREAMING the future? Or was this the child Claire had rebirthed in herself?

No more than six, the girl had striking, auburn hair and pretty, green eyes. She gazed intently out of the airplane window. Then she turned.

“Claire?”

She didn’t want to be called Mom. Definitely not Mother. Though that was who she was. A mother. Somehow, that felt okay. Even good. There was something sacred about her integral role in this child’s life.

“Yes, sweetheart?” She stroked the girl’s hair, aglow in a fiery halo of the vivid sunrise.

“Why do the clouds look like beautiful people . . . floating up?”

Isabelle had taught their daughter to see, not simply look at, the world around her.

Claire shrugged, unsure of the answer. “Let’s look it up when we land.” Though she had her laptop, an overhead sign had flashed. All electronic devices must now be powered off.

Where were they going? In this dream world, she couldn’t tell. Maybe the future didn’t want them to know whether they were headed for New York or Rome.

Claire fingered the raised lines of the antique necklace. A talisman she wore to guide their flight. “This journey,” she smiled tenderly at the girl, “is about the in-between spaces of our lives. Those matter, too.”

She gazed over the girl’s glowing head. The penetrating warmth of the dazzling sun seeped into Claire’s pores. It coursed into her veins, then spread throughout her body.

Together, they looked up, then down at the window view. Below the horizon stretched a flat, misty void. Suddenly, the plane rocked with turbulence and the void split to expose an underworld of writhing monsters. Their angry eyes spun as they gnashed their sharp fangs and clawed the whirling air.

Just then, the thrust of a sweeping wind lifted the plane. As they soared alongside the golden dawn, the monsters spiraled down. A wave surged, and they vanished into the glistening blue of the ocean.

Claire, the girl, and all the beautiful cloud people laughed. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Doreen Perrine has been published in various anthologies and literary ezines including The Copperfield Review, Lacuna, Freya’s Bower, Raving Dove, Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly, Sinister Wisdom, Lesbian Connection, Queer and Catholic, Gay Flash Fiction, Lesbian Memoirs, Read These Lips, and Queer Collection.Doreen’s plays have been performed throughout New York City and she is also an artist and art teacher who resides in the Hudson Valley region of upstate New York. Her website address is http://doreenperrine.tripod.com/