Hepburn's Necklace

Prologue-2

“It must have been fun to be there for that.”

Ruby chuckled. “We’d had a long night of filming. I was in the scene as an extra, just one of the people dancing. We were all hot and tired, and after Audrey and the other actors crashed into the water at the end of the final take, we all jumped in for a late-night swim in the Tiber. What fun we had.”

“Sounds more like a magical summer holiday than work,” Matteo said, joining her in laughter.

“Indeed, it was.”

In Rome, Ruby had also left the tour group to find the pensione where she had stayed during filming. Outside, she’d gazed up at the second floor, locating the sunny room that had been hers. The building had been renovated, but the narrow staircase where she and Niccolò had chased each other up the stairs was still there. As she’d rubbed her hand over the worn railing, she could almost hear their peals of youthful laughter.

Matteo’s phone buzzed, and he silenced it. “I wish I could hear more of your stories, but that’s our signal to move on. Maybe you’ll share some over dinner tonight?”

“I’d be happy to,” she said, smiling.

“It will take me a few minutes to gather everyone,” Matteo said.

“I’ll wait here, if that’s okay.” She tapped her cane on the ground. “Don’t worry. I’m on stable ground.”

As much as Ruby loved Rome, the highlight of this trip was Lago di Como—Lake Como—or Lario, as the Latin poet Vergilius or Virgil referred to the magnificent Y-shaped lake. Its beauty had endured through the centuries.

To Ruby, the romance of the region was palpable. Bellagio was perched at the tip of the Larian Triangle. As she recalled, the evening lights glinted like diamonds in the moonlight dusting the surrounding slopes. On either side, the lake’s graceful arms cradled the village while orioles trilled their songs.

Ruby lifted her nose to the breeze as it swept across the lake, carrying the scents of a thousand gardens.

Glancing across the lake, she saw villas from centuries past hugging the shoreline. To one side was the village of Tremezzo with the lovely Villa Carlotta. Farther south on the lake, she recalled the stories of Cernobbio with the exquisite Villa d’Este. Yet the other shore and the sweet comune of Varenna, where a modest bell tower marked the location of a small church, drew her attention.

So many memories.

Ruby rubbed her arms and turned away, unable to look too long.

Surely a goddess had smiled on Lago di Como, long before humans had discovered its stunning beauty. A memory flitted across Ruby’s mind as she recalled Niccolò’s description of Lago di Como.

It’s a culture of beauty. La cultura del bello.

Ruby had left her heart here long ago. Instead, she had devoted her life to acting, theatre, films, television. When talent agent Joseph Applebaum had gambled on her, he’d guided her into a rapid succession of films. Besides movies, Ruby had also lent her image to cosmetic and fashion advertising campaigns and starred in a long-running television series, racking up awards as she went. Even her signature perfume campaign won a Clio award. Now, she still welcomed occasional roles.

“If only Ariana could experience this,” Ruby whispered into the soft breeze. Ariana was her grandniece or great-niece, although Ruby seldom made that distinction because it made her sound ancient. Appearances counted in her industry.

As a child, Ariana had played in Ruby’s closets and developed a superb eye for fashion and costume detail. Ariana’s mother hadn’t condoned her daughter’s education in fashion. To tough-minded Mari, only a degree in science or business or engineering was worthy of investment.

When Mari refused to pay for Ariana’s study in fashion design, Ruby stepped in, despite Mari’s protests. Ruby paid for Ariana’s attendance at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles, where the young woman had blossomed.

Now, Ariana worked long hours at a studio as a costume designer for an ungrateful, emotionally abusive boss. And her boyfriend wasn’t much better.

There was nothing Ruby wouldn’t do for Ariana, the child of her heart whom she loved more than life. If only Ariana knew, or could accept, how truly gifted and loved she was. To Ruby, it was critical that she intervene in Ariana’s off-track life. She wanted her final gift to Ariana to be happiness.

But how?

Ruby was desperate to set things right with those she loved. Her sister Patricia’s death last year—and the instructions she left—made it imperative that Ruby address lingering issues. She owed that to Mari—and sweet Ariana, who loved her for who she really was, not the Technicolor characters she’d played. Patricia had left the most difficult task to Ruby.

Placing a hand at her neck, Ruby recalled the letter she’d read so often that she had memorized it like a script.

My dear Ruby,

By the time you read this, I will be resting peacefully. As I write, I am still grappling with my diagnosis but thought I should take measures while I can. You have my gratitude for whatever decisions you’ve had to make on my behalf. But I have one more private request that I cannot bring myself to face. I have left a letter and personal items in a safety-deposit box for dear Mari. Please understand that these are only for Mari’s eyes. I’ll leave it up to you to decide the details, Ruby, as to when, or even if, you want to share this with her. Be gentle; her will is as fierce as yours and her heart just as soft.

My dear sister, we have lived through the most heartrending times together. My deepest gratitude to you for the gifts you shared—not only with me but our entire family. You have all my love forever. Now, as to my instructions—

Matteo was motioning toward Ruby. Herd-like, the group had shifted toward the van. It was time to leave. Flinging her scarf across her shoulder, she strode toward the van.

“Signora Raines, if I may.” Matteo offered his hand to help her slide into her seat.

“Grazie, Matteo. Such exquisite manners.” Bestowing a radiant smile upon him, she slid her hand into his as she lifted her skirt, extended a long leg, and made her entrance into the touring van.

As Matteo smiled, Ruby lowered her eyes and inclined her head as Mr. Wyler had once suggested she do, making her entrance like a queen. The great director wasn’t known for giving much direction, so that guidance had made an impact. Usually, his instructions had been simple. Again, again. Or, Do better. Still, she adored him, and they’d grown close over the years.

Matteo held her hand and beamed.

Ruby smiled. She still had it.

After Matteo took the wheel, they started off. Ruby gazed from the window, delighting in the scenery. Oleanders, roses, and bougainvillea blossomed in profusion. On a small lane close to the lake, Matteo eased the van to a stop. Outside, a low stone wall covered in a jumble of jasmine and pink climbing roses partly obscured a tile-roofed villa from another era. Chiseled into the stone arch above the gate were the words, Villa Fiori.

Fiori. Flowers.

A villa of flowers. What could be more romantic?

A small, bright yellow sign tacked to the wooden gate caught her eye. Vendesi. Scribbled numbers beckoned to her.

Ruby’s skin tingled foresight, just as when that first spotlight had warmed her face. She leaned forward. “My dear Matteo, would you write down that telephone number for me?”

“That one needs a lot of work, Signora, but I’ll take a photo for you.” He gestured toward the phone in a sleek leopard case she carried. “Posso?”

“Grazie.”

Matteo pulled to the curb, and she handed him her phone. While he took photos, she craned her neck, trying to see more of the property. Stone walls. Tall windows. An overgrown garden. It was intriguing. But at her age, she reminded herself, it was only a dream.

Or was it?

The guide climbed into the van and handed her the phone. “Bellissima,” he said, touching his fingers to his lips. “Now you have beautiful photos to remember it by.”

Through the window, the sun shone warm on Ruby’s face. The van wound along the hillside, with the rhythm of the switchbacks lulling her to sleep.

1952…

Seated on the wide Spanish Steps near pots of purple bougainvillea, Ruby and Niccolò took turns practicing lines in their small scenes. Ruby was intrigued by how many different ways Niccolò could deliver his lines. He used voice inflections, facial expressions, and gestures to alter the tenor of his scene, often making her laugh.

After trying a few different approaches for her part, Ruby stopped and fanned herself with her script. She rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt another notch and loosened the scarf knotted at her neck.

“Hotter today than usual,” Niccolò said. “How about we get some gelato?”

“Sounds perfect.” Ruby pushed off the stone steps. Other people on set were taking a break, too.

Taking her hand, Niccolò led her along a busy cobblestone sidewalk. His grip was sure and confident. Holding hands seemed like the most natural thing to do, and his touch sent thrills through her.

As they passed small restaurants, a flurry of aromas jostled in the air—the scent of fresh bread, Italian herbs, and baked cheese. Ruby inhaled, savoring the intensity.

“How were you hired for Roman Holiday?” Ruby asked while they walked. She’d discovered that many cast members had worked together on other films.

“I answered a casting call,” Niccolò replied. “I acted in school, and my old teacher encouraged me to try out. She told me this was a big opportunity. How about you?”

“It was kind of a lark,” Ruby said. “My aunt lives in Los Angeles, and she knows a talent agent. On a whim, my mother sent some of my photographs. The agent liked them, so I took a train from Texas to meet him. Do you know, he sent me out for an audition the very next day?”

She shook her head, still surprised at her luck. “I don’t think I was any better than others, but the casting director told me I had the right look. My agent arranged a few acting classes for me, and the next thing I knew, I was boarding a ship for Italy. It’s all been so exciting.”

Ruby had been thrilled and amazed—especially that her father let her go to Italy. Her mother had begged him to let Ruby have a little adventure before she married and settled down. If only her mother could have come, but the fare to Italy was too costly. Her mother emptied her secret pin money earned from selling eggs that she kept in a boot in the back of the closet. Mercy Smith bought her daughter a camera and film to capture what she would never experience. Ruby promised to return with pictures.

Niccolò stopped at a narrow shop open to the street with a sign that proclaimed, Gelato fatto in casa.

“It’s as good as homemade,” Niccolò said as they ducked under an awning. “Salve, come va?” Niccolò said to the gelato vendor, an older teenager.

“Bene,” the boy replied.

While the two spoke in rapid Italian that Ruby couldn’t follow, she gazed over bins of the most luscious swirls of a frozen treat she’d ever seen.

Niccolò turned to her. “What would you like? Limone, fragola, cioccolato, pistacchio?”

“What’s fragola?” she asked.

Niccolò grinned and pointed to a rosy pink bin. “Strawberry. And that’s pistachio.”

“I can’t decide,” she said. “I like them all, but I definitely want to try pistachio.”

Niccolò said something to the other boy, who began to scoop out several flavors onto wafer cones. “You can try several,” he said. “We can share if you don’t mind.”