“Why only till Rome?” I asked.
“Because in Rome you’ll have something else to... well, you’ll just have something else.”
“What do you mean? What does he mean, Mom?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Ask him.”
“What, Mr. Stenner?”
“Well, your birthday’s coming,” he said.
“Did you buy me a hat like yours for my birthday?”
“Nope.”
“What did you buy me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what do you mean, I’ll have something else in Rome?”
“I’m going to buy it when we get to Rome. If I can find it there.”
“But it’s not a hat?”
“Nope.”
“What is it then?”
“A secret.”
“What does it start with?”
“F,” he said.
“F? Nothing starts with F,” I said, and giggled. “Mommy, make him tell me what it is.”
“Then it won’t be a secret anymore,” Mom said.
“If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you mine,” I said.
“Nope,” he said.
“Don’t you want to know my secret?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Then let’s swap secrets.”
“No, I don’t want to spoil your birthday surprise.”
“Tell me what it is, Mr. Stenner. Please?”
“Nope.”
“Pretty please?”
“Nope.”
“Does it start with F in Italian, or in English?”
“In English.”
“Are you sure? Because if it’s an Italian word, then that’s cheating.”
“It’s an English word.”
“Because I can’t talk Italian very well. Are you sure it’s English?”
“Yes, it’s English.”
“F,” I said.
“F,” he repeated.
“Is it a feather?”
“A feather? Why would I want to buy you a feather?”
“So I can tickle myself,” I said, and giggled. “Is it a feather?”
“No,” he said.
“Thank God!” I said. “Is it flowers? Are you going to get me a bouquet of flowers?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Is it a frying pan?”
“A frying pan!” he said, and we both burst out laughing.
“Come on, Mr. Stenner, please tell me.”
“You’ll have to wait till the sixteenth,” he said. “That’s forever,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, and winked at Mom.
I would not let up. I think he was beginning to feel sorry he’d even mentioned the gift, while at the same time dreading the possibility that he might not be able to find it in Rome. Meanwhile, I would not part with the hat. I loved that hat! In the rented car on the way to Rimini, I wore the hat. And in the restaurant where we stopped for lunch, I wore the hat. And at the Rimini hotel, I was still wearing the hat as he and I sat together in the garden, waiting for Mom, who was upstairs dressing for dinner. I asked him to please order me an Italian Shirley Temple, and then we sat sipping our separate drinks in the gathering dusk. The floor of the terrace was paved with white tile, and there were royal blue tablecloths on the round metal tables. Mr. Stenner was never without one or another of his cameras hanging around his neck, and I said to him now, “This would make a good shot from upstairs. From one of our rooms. Looking down at all the blue circles against the white.”
“Yes,” he said, and nodded. “It would.”
“Like the picture you took from the roof of the church in Milan,” I said. “Of the automobiles down below. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“That was the day you wouldn’t take my picture,” I said.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Just because I asked you to have some copies made for Daddy.”
“Mm,” he said.
“You don’t have to be so jealous all the time, you know.”
“What?” he said.
“You,” I said. “Of Daddy.”
“What makes you think I’m jealous?”
“Because you are. But you don’t have to be. I know you’re my stepfather.”
“I’m certainly happy to hear that,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “What do people call their stepfathers, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Because I feel sort of dumb calling you ‘Mr. Stenner.’ ”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged. “In the lobby and all. And when we were in the restaurant. Do you remember when we stopped for lunch on the way here?”
“Yes?”
“Well, the waiter understood English, and he heard me calling you ‘Mr. Stenner,’ and I could tell he was puzzled. You see, he knew you and Mommy were married because he could see you were both wearing the same wedding bands, so if you were married and here’s a girl traveling with you, then the girl ought to be your daughter, right? So why was I calling you ‘Mr. Stenner’? That’s what the waiter must’ve been wondering.”
“Probably.”
“What are you going to buy me in Rome?” I said. “A fencing thing?”
“What’s a fencing thing?” he asked.
“What you fence with,” I said. “What the kids on the fencing team at school fence with.”
“A foil, do you mean?”
“Right! That begins with an F, doesn’t it? Is it a foil?”
“Nope. And it’s not a fedora, either.”
“What’s a fedora?”
“A hat.”
“Well, you already told me you weren’t going to buy a hat. What is it, I’m dying to know. Is it a fig?”
“You had a fig at lunch today.”
“I know, but are you buying me another fig? As a joke?”
“Would I joke about your twelfth birthday?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged again. “I love the sound of the ocean, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Let’s have a drink every night, okay? While we’re waiting for Mommy to get dressed.”
“Only if we’re ready before she is,” he said.
“Yes, only if we’re ready, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Is it a fiddle?” I asked. “Are you going to buy me a fiddle?”
“No,” he said.
“Then what? A fire engine?”
It was nice there on the terrace.
12.
The hotel in Florence was about five minutes outside the city itself, perched on the edge of the Arno River. It had windows overlooking gardens and a pool on one side, and on the other an awninged outdoor restaurant and the river below. In the lobby of the hotel, Mr. Stenner translated for me an Italian sign that indicated how high the water had risen during the flood several years back. I looked at the mark on the sign and said, “You mean right here in the lobby?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Stenner said.
“Wow!” I said. “Aren’t you glad we weren’t here then?”
“I was here just the year before that,” he said.
“This same place?”
“Yes.”
“With the boys?”
“Yes.”
“And with Mrs. Stenner?”
“Right,” he said.
“Wrong!” I said, and grinned. “Mommy’s Mrs. Stenner. The other Mrs. Stenner isn’t Mrs. Stenner anymore.” I paused. “Is she?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” I said.
I found it difficult to make friends.
I don’t think it had anything to do with the divorce. I think I was just kind of shy. Not so much with grown-ups, but definitely with kids. We would come back from the city of Florence, and I’d mope around the pool, listening to the kids splashing at the other end of it, and wishing I could join them. The pool was about fifteen feet long — it was almost impossible to avoid making friends with any other kids who were in the pool, but I sure managed. Until Mr. Stenner popped into the water one day. Popped in? He jumped right into the middle of a game a girl and her brother were playing.