22
On Friday afternoon, Mickey’s plane went wheels up at Reggio Calabria, bound for Genoa. On board were Mickey, Marcus, Celeste, and Colonel Carter. Tim Wheelock from Canterbury Securities had offered to send one of his men, but Mickey didn’t want to deplete a shift.
In the days following their tryst, Marcus stayed away from Celeste and now, shoehorned together into the jet, he chose a seat as far away as he could. In the years since Alice died, he’d never regretted drunken one-nighters, but this time was different. When he met a woman at a bar and decided in the cold light of day that he had made a colossal error, he walked away and filed the encounter in a part of his brain where it got lost. He couldn’t do the same with Celeste, at least not yet. Until Mickey was satisfied her usefulness had come to an end, he had to keep her in the frame. Hopefully, after a fruitless night atop a mountain, Mickey would send her packing.
He wanted a drink, but he supposed he was technically on duty. He got out of his seat and went to the galley where Mickey watched him pour himself a soda water.
“Surprising choice of beverage,” Mickey said, snidely.
When he backtracked, Celeste was sitting on the unoccupied cross-aisle bench from him. She was wearing a red leather jacket over jeans; it was the first time he’d seen her in anything other than a skin-tight dress.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, back.”
“Are you angry with me?” she whispered.
He told her he wasn’t. Even to his own ear, it sounded like a lie.
“I think you are.”
“You’re free to think what you like.”
She said, “What happened the other night—you may regret it, but I don’t.”
“I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“Busy not thinking about it,” he said. “And—”
“And what?”
“Drinking.”
“Yes, you do like your drink,” she said with a tiny laugh. “I find non-drinkers to be very dull. You are not dull. But, listen, Marcus, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I loved being with you. I would like to be with you again. I like you very much. If you knock on my door, I will open it.”
“Yours, mine, everyone’s focus has to be on Elizabeth and Victoria,” he said. “Nothing else matters.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I promise to keep my wickedness under control. The girls deserve our full attention. So, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For persuading Mickey to agree to come to Torriglia.”
“I thought it was a bullshit idea,” he said. “Mickey didn’t need any persuading.”
She got up and leaned over him. “You’ll see, Marcus. In a few hours, you’ll see.”
“Just curious,” he said. “That stuff about your father. Was it true?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s all true.”
*
When they arrived at the private aviation terminal at the Genoa airport, a van from an alpine excursion company was waiting. Mickey had hired a guide to lead them to the summit of Monte Prelà.
The guide was an extremely fit-looking fellow with a heavy black beard and a winning smile.
“I am here,” he called out, waving his M. Andreason cardboard sign.
Mickey identified himself and shook the man’s hand.
“Giancarlo Zanardi, at your service,” the guide said. “You are perfectly on time. What a beautiful airplane, if I might say.”
Mickey waved off the compliment. “Shall we go?”
The other three passengers disembarked and Zanardi looked everyone over. “You have bags to unload?” he asked.
“No, why?” Mickey asked.
“These are your clothes and shoes?”
“I don’t understand your question,” Mickey snapped.
“Did you not receive my email?”
Mickey sighed. “I get too many damned emails. What did it say?”
“It suggested the proper attire for hiking Monte Prelà. The trail is not at all difficult, as I told you on the phone, but your shoes are not ideal. Also, I think it will be a little cold for you, particularly the lady, at the summit late at night. Your jacket is quite thin, signora. It’s a nice September evening at sea level, but in several hours, we can expect a temperature of ten degrees Centigrade at the summit.”
“My jacket’s nice and warm,” Carter boasted.
Mickey grunted, “Well, we’ll just have to make do.”
Zanardi said, “My cousin owns an alpine outfitter store in Genoa. Let’s go.”
“We don’t have time for that, do we?” Mickey complained.
“No, no, we have time. I assure you. Come, come. I am a fast driver.”
*
Leonora Cutrì adjusted the temperature of the bath water until it was perfect, then called the girls. As usual, they wanted to bathe together. During their years in their white room they had used the same white tub, always under the watchful gaze of the Gray Woman, and their habit of washing together was not something their grandmother could easily break.
“You’re big girls now,” she told them. “Big girls don’t share tubs.”
“But we always share tubs!” Victoria cried.
“What about you, Elizabeth?” Leonora said. “Wouldn’t you prefer to bathe on your own?”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “We can get in together.”
“Very well,” Leonora said. “In you go. Do you want me to scrub your backs?”
“We can do it,” Victoria said. “I do her back and then she does mine. Then I wash her hair and she washes mine.”
“All right. I’ll leave you to it.”
Leonora hovered just outside the door, listening to their chatter. It was childish and charming. They weighed their options of things they might do before bedtime. Board games, video games, coloring, and reading were all discussed before they settled on a repeat viewing of a Disney video. They huddled on Elizabeth’s bed where their grandmother dried Victoria’s hair with a towel.
“What’s that?” Leonora asked.
Victoria pulled down the sleeve of her fluffy robe.
“Let me see,” Leonora said. She slid the sleeve up the little girl’s arm and looked at the dots of ink. “Who did this?” she asked.
“I did,” Victoria said. “With a marker.”
“What is it?”
“Gray Lady had it,” Victoria said. “I liked it.”
“She had marks there?” Leonora asked tremulously.
Elizabeth said, “Yes, but it didn’t look at all like that.
