“Stand by the fountain,” I said. “Let me take your picture.”
Denis smiled at the camera, looking adorably dorky in his Italian tourista tracksuit.
“Say grazie,” I said, snapping the picture.
Suddenly, the gate swung open. A bald grandfather, all stooped over, wearing a heavy black suit, his arm around the shoulders of a younger man, appeared in the doorway.
My stomach dropped like a bungee jumper. “John,” I said. “We’ve been looking for you.”
I Got a Right to Sing the Blues
JOHN GRINNED WHEN HE spotted me. “Ciao, Miss Ross,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He escorted the old man to a wrought-iron bench by the side of the fountain and helped him sit down. “Look how ripe your skin is,” he said, taking us in. “You must put vinegar on your burns.”
The gate opened again and a tiny, gray-haired woman in black orthopedic shoes, wooly tights, and a dark kerchief ambled through carrying a white cake box tied with red-and-white string. Behind her came a procession of men, women, and children all dressed in their Sunday best, many holding covered dishes of food or fresh baguettes from the panetteria. John spoke to them in Italian, pointing to Denis and me. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah pedophilo blah blah blah blah blah” was all I heard him say. People gasped and shook their heads. He gestured toward the house. Two gangly teenage boys helped the old man go inside.
“Did you just tell them my pedophile boyfriend dumped me?” I asked, my voice higher by an octave.
“Oh, yes, do you mind?” John said. “I was explaining who you were.”
“How did you even know?” Denis asked.
“There are no secrets on the ship. I know that the woman you are to marry has taken a lover.”
Denis’ face grew redder than it already was and his jaw flapped open.
“That’s right,” John said gently, “the caregiver for your daughter. I saw them together with my own eyes. And I know that your father has taken a lover.”
“What!” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “Miss Carl—”
“That’s okay, I can guess,” I said, sticking my fingers in my ears.
“A luxury cruise ship is like a small village,” John said. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business. So what brings you to my neck of the forest?” John said.
“The woods,” I said. “My neck of the woods.”
“Is your mother home?” Denis asked. “We’d like to speak to her.” If John was going to shock Denis with his revelations, Denis would return the favor.
The butler’s face fell. “She has passed away. We’ve just come from her funeral. That is why I left the ship.”
Denis and I looked at each other.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We didn’t realize.”
John’s eyes filled. “It was too soon. She was young.”
“My condolences,” Denis said. “But why did you take Holly’s trunk with you?”
John cocked his head and appeared puzzled. “I promised Miss Ross that I would deliver it to the Istituto di Moda.”
“So you were still planning to do that?” I asked.
“Of course,” John said.
“Can we see it?” Denis asked.
John hesitated and bit his lip. “There is one small matter I must confess.” He sat on the iron bench and looked at his feet. “Please forgive me. I borrowed one of the dresses for my mother to wear at her viewing. It was the beautiful white shiny gown with the red sash and tiara. You see, we are descendants of Italian royalty and I wanted her to look regal in her casket.”
My heart was racing. “What?” I said. “You borrowed the Roman Holiday gown? But the trunk was locked.”
“I broke the lock,” he said. “But I never intended to steal the dress. Just like you.”
“How small was your mother? That dress is tiny.”
“It was too little. We had to cut it, I fear,” John said.
“WHAT? You cut the dress? How could you? It’s irreplaceable!”
“Not the material. The seams,” John said in a pleading voice. “My sister let them out.”
“You didn’t cremate her in it, did you?” Denis asked.
I gasped. That thought had not occurred to me.
Think Pink
CREMATE?” JOHN’S FACE FLUSHED with indignation. “No, we are good Catholics. We bury our people whole. We bought Mama an extrawide coffin to fit all the skirt inside the box.”
“Tell me you didn’t bury her wearing it,” I said, on my knees before John, my hands clasped in front of my heart.
The front door opened. A young woman with a black net veil over her hair stuck out her head. She spoke urgently in Italian.
“Caroline, no!” John leaped up and bolted into the house. We followed.
The bald old man had fainted and was lying on the floor. “Papa,” John said. “Papa.” He tapped his father’s cheek firmly until the man’s eyes fluttered open. John and two other guests helped him to his feet and made him comfortable on a flowery sofa. The girl with the veil brought him a glass of water.
When things calmed down, John approached me, head bowed. “I am sorry, Miss Ross. My meaning was to ask Mr. Delani—he is the mortician—to take her out of the dress before they sealed the mausoleum, but in my grief I forgot.”
Now I was going to faint and I don’t mean that metaphorically. I became dizzy and Denis had to help me into a chair. “John, please,” I said. “You have to change her clothes.”
His eyes widened as though horrified. “No, that is impossible. How could I do that to my mother, who has only but for a few hours been planted in her resting place?”
“But she’s not underground. She’s in a mausoleum, right?” I said.
“Yes, a vault.”
“We’re not asking you to dig her up, just to do a quick aboveground costume change,” I pleaded.
Denis intervened. “John, you took something that didn’t belong to you. Even though you meant to give it back, you could go to jail for not returning it, just like Holly
