We went up the stairs to the second floor arm in arm, then down the hall to my room. I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. As I did so, I caught sight, out of the corner of my eye, of a flash of bub-blegum pink blanket.
"Oh, my," Lola said. "What is that?"
SEVEN. CORTONA
LONG AGO, I HAD A GROUP OF FRIENDS who enjoyed a running gag. One of us had received, as a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, one of the ugliest platters ever produced. That Christmas, the original recipient of the monstrosity wrapped it up in an elaborate fashion and gave it to another member of the group. Soon the platter was being passed from one friend to another in more and more ingenious ways. It arrived in pizza boxes, was slipped into kitchen cupboards when no one was looking, hidden in garden sheds, or taped to the back of a box of laundry detergent when no one was looking. It was even placed in a toilet tank. You just never knew when that unpleasant object was going to turn up in your home. Contemplating the chimera hydria, swaddled in its pink blanket on my bed, I thought of that platter. The only difference was that one was a gift from a relative with no taste. The other was a priceless, stolen, twenty-five-hundred-year-old antiquity.
"It's gorgeous," Lola said. "Can I have a closer look?"
"Ah, sure," I said.
"It almost looks real," she said. "I mean, it looks authentic. Except it's so perfect. If it were old, it would have some flaws, cracks and things like that, wouldn't it? Wherever did you find it?"
"A student made it," I said. "An art student in Rome. I ordered a few more. We'll put them out and see how they do, and if they sell well, I'll reorder. I co-own an antique shop in Toronto, you see. Did I mention that?" Amazing how the lies were just tripping off my tongue these days.
"An antique shop! How lovely!" she said. "I've always wanted to do something like that."
"It would look good with the antique furniture we sell," I said. "If someone was looking for accessories and such."
"Yes, I can see that," she said. "Good idea. But he— is it a he or a she?"
"Who?" I said.
"The art student."
"It's a he." One has to be vigilant when telling tales.
"He hasn't signed it."
"Hasn't he?" I said. "You're quite right, he hasn't."
"He should. You wouldn't want to be stopped by customs," she said. "Someone who doesn't know anything about it, thinking it's an antiquity."
"That's good advice," I said. "I'll make sure he signs the others I've ordered."
"This one, too, if you can send it back to him. Isn't it illegal to even possess certain antiquities in Italy? I'm sure I read that somewhere. Or maybe it was India. In any event, you can't be too careful."
"Point taken," I said. I really wanted to scream at her to shut up, but then the phone rang.
"Hello," the familiar voice said. Lake was almost whispering. "Is that—"
"Lara McClintoch speaking," I said rather formally for both Lake and Lola's benefit.
"Look, it wasn't supposed to go this way," he said.
"No, it wasn't," I agreed. "Would you like to set a time and place for us to meet, Signore Marchese?" I said.
"Who? I see: You're not alone, are you?" he said.
"No, I'm not," I said, smiling at Lola and gesturing at the bottle, while digging a corkscrew out of my purse with my free hand.
"Have you got the chimera vase?" he asked.
"Yes, I do."
"Good. I think it's our only chance."
"I agree," I said. I'd have to tell him about Plan A.
"Where and when should we meet?" I repeated.
"Do you know Cortona?" he said.
"I know where it is, if that's what you mean. Not intimately, though."
"Do you know the Tanella di Pitagora?"
"No."
"Someone's coming. I've got to go. Meet me at the Tanella di Pitagora at seven A.M. tomorrow morning. There won't be anyone there, then. Bring it with you."
"But Signore—" The phone clicked in my ear. I had found the conversation more than a little annoying. I was going to have to get up awfully early the next morning to head out to find something called a tanella, in a town I'd never been to before, with absolutely no instructions on how to find it, or even what it was. I thought the word meant den, but that left me no wiser.
"How's the wine?" I asked, trying to sound normal.
"Really lovely," she said. "You are so kind."
"This looks nice," I said, admiring the way she'd arranged the food on paper plates on the tiny table by the window.
"Not much of a view, is it?" she said, pulling the curtain against the dull grayness outside. "My room's across the hall, but the view is much the same. No fire escape, perhaps, but another blank stone wall on the building next door. Shouldn't complain, though. The price is right. So tell me about your antique shop," she said, as we clinked glasses and sipped the wine.
I told her all about it, how I'd started the business, married Clive and then divorced him, losing the shop when I had to sell it to give him half as part of the divorce settlement. Then, how I'd bought back in, and now Clive and I were back in business together. I told her that my best friend, Moira, and Clive were now partners, a confession that made her raise her eyebrows theatrically. I told her just about everything, chattering away nervously, while I kept glancing at the chimera hydria, despite every effort not to, and starting whenever she looked at it.
"Your turn," I said finally, as I poured more wine. "What have you been doing for the last several years?" We both laughed.
"I was a secretary for many years, over twenty, actually. I suppose now one says something fancy like admin assistant, but still, I was secretary to the president of a manufacturing company. We made auto parts. I started as the receptionist and worked my way up from the typing pool."
"Good for you," I said.
"I suppose," she said. "I married very young, you see, and when it didn't work out the way it was supposed to, and I was on my own, I had to get a decent job. But it didn't turn out very well."
"How so?" My mind was racing, trying to figure out how to first of all put the chimera hydria away somewhere so neither she nor I could see it, and then to turn the conversation around to some subject that would permit me to ask directions to the Tanella in Cortona.
"Here I am, broke, and relying on the kindness of strangers. Not that you feel like a stranger, but you know what I mean. I wouldn't be drinking Rosso de Montalcino and eating prosciutto if it weren't for you."
"So what happened? Did the company go bankrupt or something?"
"No. In fact it was very, very successful. I got fired when the president died suddenly. Heart attack. His son took over, and poof, I was gone."
"That's not fair," I said.
"I suppose it sounds that way, but I got what I deserved," she said.
"Why on earth would you think you deserved that?"
She was silent for a minute. "Because," she said, "I behaved very badly. For several years that I worked for him, we were lovers. His wife was a good friend, too. Oh, I can't believe I'm telling you this," she said, putting her hand up to her mouth. "It must be the wine. You are going to think so badly of me."
"You're hardly the first secretary to find herself in that position," I shrugged. "And who's to say, anyway? Why would I judge you for that?"
"You're very generous," she said. "In more ways than one. I think my behavior was reprehensible, even if I was wildly in love with him. I feel terribly guilty about it still. Getting fired was a relief. His son called me in the first day, said he needed someone more in tune with the times to assist him, and handed me a check. I suppose his mother must have known all along. How awful for her."