Backlight, page 27
A week earlier, she’d gone shopping with Giulietta.
“If you’re going to be in Vogue, you should be wearing something in Vogue,” Francesca had said to her sister-in-law.
“It’s going to be expensive,” Giulietta protested.
Francesca shrugged. “You could borrow something.”
“I could never. I sweat too much.”
Giulietta was stunning in a neon georgette Valentino dress, high-necked and billowy, but never concealing her delicate frame.
“You have to have it,” Francesca said, whipping out her credit card. “You are absolutely perfect. I have literally never seen anything as sexy as you in that dress.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I’ve still got a few things in my closet.”
“You’re not getting anything new?”
“It’s not about me, G. You’re the one who’s going to be speaking on behalf of the fondazione. I’m just there to help.”
“You could still wear a new outfit,” Giulietta said, emerging from the fitting room and gesturing for a sales associate. “Something for my sister-in-law, size 38, show off her legs.”
Francesca took the dress from her bathroom, where she’d had it hanging to steam while Bruno showered. She loved it. Giulietta had gasped when she tried on the embroidered, flouncy mini-dress, and Francesca understood why. It felt playful and pretty, but still sophisticated, a dress for a woman who knew who she was. Not hiding from anything or anyone.
She slipped it over her head, pulling the zipper and spinning to admire herself. It was perfect. The length, the vibrant colors, even the portrait neckline.
Because she had a new necklace, too. Her birthday gift from Bruno, a gleaming gold medallion with an antique intaglio. The carved stone read “AMOR OMNIA VINCET”, and though she hadn’t studied Latin, she knew what it meant. Love conquers all.
She fastened the clasp around her neck, then layered on her coral bead, the one her father had given her from Capri so many years ago, its smooth surface familiar to her fingertips. She was ready to go.
THE ARTICLE IN Vogue about the gala inaugurating Fondazione Ricci in Milan spread across two pages of the magazine, though Anais had only planned for one. Photos of the colorful crowd, kids laughing in delight at acrobats, grown men with their faces buried in cotton candy, and the Garancini family, with Giulietta resplendent in the center of the photo, posed like a Goya portrait. The chair beside her was empty.
They could not avoid sadness—the empty chair, Bruno’s brief remarks about the phone call that came too late, the words he didn’t have. But they were resolute in their optimism. The whole Garancini family had gone through training sessions with the fondazione’s coaches, and all the words they hadn’t had for Ricci they would have for someone else in need.
Francesca would remember her happiness rather than the grief. She would remember Timo on stage with a cadre of mimes, acting out theme songs to Disney movies. She would remember Uncle Marco goading his well-heeled friends and driving up the auction prices, bidding on everything from crocodile handbags to yacht charters, ensuring that the fondazione would profit handsomely.
She would remember her mother showing Leo all the different plants, and her little nephew helping guests choose their plant at the end of the night, explaining the features and benefits of each in his miniature, adorable, technical manner. She would remember Regina smiling broadly in selfies with celebrities, Val and Giorgio posing in the photo booth with a top hat and tiger mask, Bruno’s parents in a conga line.
Ale brought her a champagne flute and clinked.
“You pulled it off, Francie.”
“We pulled it off.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You brought the high bidders. I’ve never seen anyone spend €50,000 for a case of wine before. And I don’t know how they’re going to get the car back to Hong Kong—it’s left-hand drive.”
“They’ll probably keep the car at their villa here. I’ll keep it warmed up for them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m moving back. Min got a job here, and I’m going to transfer. We want to be closer to everyone.”
“Does this mean—” Francesca punched her brother’s arm and scanned the big top for Min, trying to find a glimmer of diamond on her hand.
“I hope so. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask.”
“Alessandro Garancini, since when have you not had the nerve to ask a woman to marry you?”
“You say that like I’ve done it before.”
They laughed and touched their glasses together again. “Don’t wait, Ale. Don’t wait to do anything anymore.”
“What about you? Old Bruno here doesn’t seem like the type to live in sin.”
Francesca caught her breath a moment, the champagne hitting the back of her throat. “I love him,” she squeaked out. “Can’t that be enough?”
“You tell me,” her brother said. They stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching the party thrum with the DJ’s bassline, punctuated with laughter. Francesca saw a tall man, recognized the cut of his suit, the line of his jaw, the quiet scent she knew she’d smell when she was close enough to graze his ear with her lips. She had memorized him, she had always known him, she had come home to him.
“How about you go set a good example, and I’ll follow you when I’m ready. Just like old times.” She smiled and kissed her brother’s cheek. “I’ve got a dance partner to meet.”
Across the floor, she met Bruno’s eyes, and the crowds parted as she strode toward him. He danced like he fought, she imagined, fast and smooth with total control, an innate rhythm. She began dancing, too, shimmying and laughing as they moved closer.
And then the music changed, and it was slow and soft and sultry, a song that burned into her and forced her body to quiet. Bruno came to her, and he took her in his strong arms and spun them slowly, a languid spiral that allowed her to see the whole space over his shoulder. He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb.
“I love you,” she whispered into his lapel.
“I know.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’s just what I always wanted.”
A photographer had captured them, too, at that exact moment; Francesca knew because she knew the way she smiled, as if she couldn’t contain the joy beaming from her soul, and she knew the way Bruno looked at her, all the love in the world in his warm brown eyes. The photo ran in the Vogue spread: Francesca Garancini and Bruno Pallavicini savor a dance before announcing their gift of €200 million to endow Fondazione Ricci, ensuring the organization’s expansion throughout Europe. The couple both serve on the board and are to be married next year.
Also by Christina Dennison
The Francesca Trilogy
Paparazzi
Soft Focus
Backlight (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Christina Dennison’s site.
About the Author
Christina Dennison lives in New York City. She discovered a copy of Judith Krantz’s novel Scruples on a high bookshelf when she was young and has been writing ever since. She does her best writing on planes, eats pasta unrepentantly, and loves a stiff Negroni in a dark cocktail bar.
Read more at Christina Dennison’s site.
Christina Dennison, Backlight
