Everyone seemed to be talking loudly, mostly in American-accented Italian, though she thought she detected some other native inflections like Spanish and French.
Then she saw a face that she recognized. Julie Antonelli, Katarina’s old childhood friend whom she’d seen only the day before yesterday at Babi
Maybe she was worried about her language skills? Good, thought Zora, ever the competitor. Julie—and the entire Antonelli family, for that matter—might know more about her daughter’s secrets, but Zora was sure she could surpass her in the classroom. Zora’s Italian might be a little rusty, but she doubted the good doctor had spent a sabbatical stay in Italy like she had. And she marched to the back of the room, no need of anyone’s guidance at all, thank you very much.
JULIE SLUMPED IN the seat at the back of the class. Rubbing her forehead with her index finger, she glanced without much interest around the room. A dusty-looking piñata hung from the ceiling in one corner.
Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket and she instantly liberated it, hoping against hope that some emergency needed her attention desperately. She glanced at the message. It was from Katarina, wondering who in her family was bugging her now.
Julie texted back.
The family’s at bay, but I’m at an Adult School class. Iris Phox’s idea. Could you have guessed?
She grinned and wished she’d felt happy instead of irritated at being railroaded into being there—all because of some stupid vase, and…all right…her impetuous behavior. Still, if Sebastiano Fonterra had been a more reasonable person instead of…instead of…frustratingly…ooh! She wanted to scream. How could someone be so pigheaded and so attractive at the same time?
It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Why else had she been forced to go back to Grantham High School of all places? Unless you’re the prom queen, who really wanted to go back to high school. She growled, and this time didn’t bother to keep it inside.
“I’m sorry. Is this seat taken?” a woman asked.
Julie looked up. Speak of the devil. No, not Sebastiano Fonterra, but Katarina’s mother, of all people. Julie straightened. “Zora, right?” She held her hand out to the empty seat, trying to be friendly, or at least her best imitation of friendliness.
“That’s right. We saw each other at my mother’s house.” Zora took a stack of three-by-five cards and a pen out of little pockets in her knapsack. She looked ready to attack any and all subjects.
“Well, it’s nice to recognize a face,” Julie said. “Everyone else seems to know each other, not to mention belong to another world. Take the woman over there.” She nodded toward an older woman dressed in pressed designer jeans. Her frosted hair was set off by mega-carat diamond stud earrings. “She’s been going on about how sad she was to find out that George Clooney sold the villa next to hers on Lake Como. Apparently, I quote, ‘He’s so down-to-earth.’”
Zora laughed. “I can believe it. Only in Grantham.” She held out a note card. “Can I lend you something to write on?”
“That’s okay. I’m here under duress. If I really need to make any notes, I’ll enter them into my phone.” She waggled her iPhone in its black case, in keeping with her black crinkly jacket, black tank top and black pants.
The class door started to open, then stopped.
“At last, our teacher,” Julie whispered without much enthusiasm. “I gather from all the conversation that they all lo-ove her. Gabriella this. Gabriella that. They even know that she went back to see her family in Modena over the summer.”
The door opened wide.
“Unless our teacher’s had a sex change operation, I don’t think that’s Gabriella,” Julie observed. “On the other hand, if it is, it could really liven up the discussion.” She looked over at Zora, who seemed for all the world like she’d just seen a ghost.
The “regulars” started chattering away again, and Julie figured it was a false alarm. Just a late student. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d seen at the dry cleaners or the supermarket—not that she had the chance to frequent the supermarket all that much.
So she stared at him, not quite placing the face and certainly not knowing the name. He was middle-aged, thin, like someone who kept himself in shape. His head was shaved, and an outline of stubble showed his red hair was starting to recede. His face was lined, not so much from laughter as from too much time in the sun, too many worries or too dissolute a lifestyle. Still, he looked pretty good for a middle-aged guy, and in his expensive leather bomber jacket—Julie pegged it for Façonnable—and faded designer jeans, he clearly had more than a passing acquaintance with high-end boutiques.
She turned to say something under her breath to Zora, but Katarina’s mother continued to appear as if she’d gone into anaphylactic shock. “Zora?” she asked, concerned.
“Zora?” Mr. Bomber Jacket asked a beat later. He stopped in the aisle and stared at Zora.
“Paul?” Zora shook her head. “I never expected to see you here.”
“I could say the same,” he said, still standing.
For an awkward moment the two just studied each other. The only movement was a whole lot of rapid blinking. Finally, Julie spoke up. “There’s a free seat over there if you want it.” She pointed to the empty desk next to Zora.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” He swallowed and slipped into the vacant seat.
Julie stared at Zora, and when she finally looked up from straightening out her index cards and uncapping her pen, Zora acknowledged Julie’s wide-eyed inquiring expression.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know each other. Julie Antonelli, Paul Bedecker. Paul and I went to Grantham High School together.” She held up a hand in his direction.
Paul waved a discreet hello. “That’s right. Zora and I also went to Cornell together for a while.”
“Before I transferred to Rutgers after my freshman year,” she said, setting the record straight.
Another tense beat of silence followed.
“If you’re Paul Bedecker, is that like Bedecker’s Garden Center?” Julie asked, narrowing her eyes as she dredged up distant memories. “My dad always bought his tomato plants there, and I think you used to help out at the nursery a long time ago.”
“That’s right. I remember you now. Tall, skinny kid. Your father used to call you Giuli—”
The door opened with a start, catching Paul mid-word.
“Buona sera, tutti. Scusatemi per essere in ritardo. Sono il vostro supplente.”
There was a barely stifled collective groan from the in-crowd at the news. A substitute teacher!
Julie slumped as low as possible in her chair and covered her face with her hand.
It was Sebastiano Fonterra.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT THE SOUND OF the muffled groans, Sebastiano doubted yet again the wisdom of his agreeing to teach the class. Perhaps agreeing was not really the appropriate word. Railroaded. Yes, railroaded. He liked the sound of that. The image was almost—not quite—as painful as what he was experiencing