The Italian Autumn of Stella Hartley

As I stepped out of the terminus at JFK to join the long line of people waiting for taxi cabs, I felt weightless and untethered. London was eight hours away across the Atlantic, my job and life on hold until I returned. But what if I didn’t return? What if I just drifted into the sky like a child’s balloon and went wherever the breeze blew me?

I wasn’t usually so fanciful but the first day of my long-awaited holiday was having a strange effect: I was tired and full of energy, uncertain of what came next and yet certain my path was already determined; alone at last but not lonely—my life was full of contradictions. I was 39, child-free, and happily divorced. I had a beautiful garden flat in Notting Hill, a tiny postage stamp of greenery with a fig tree in a terracotta pot, and a very grown up job in the high pressured world of merchant banking, commuting across London to Fenchurch Street every day.

This holiday, this vacation, would be three weeks of freedom. Vacation—I chewed the word over in my mind: to vacate, to leave, and yet, I felt like I’d arrived.

My hotel was no more than a couple of minutes to Central Park and, more importantly, close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I planned to gallery-hop my way around Manhattan, soaking up the culture, gazing at incredible artworks by long-dead artists—a world and a lifetime away from my day job, which was the appeal, of course.

I spent my first evening in my room, ordered room service, and planned the itinerary for the next three weeks.

Despite expectations of jet lag, I slept surprisingly well in the vast and comfortable bed with its ten billion thread-count sheets, woven by virgins on the banks of the Nile or whatever nonsense I’d read on the hotel’s website when I’d booked this trip.

Feeling energised, I powered around Central Park for some fresh air, then reminded myself this holiday was about winding down, taking time, going slow. So I found a coffee cart selling lattes and strolled in the autumn sunshine, enjoying the blaze of yellow and orange leaves, the curious people, the street artists, the dog walkers, the unending, thriving cycle of city life.

Fully refreshed and caffeinated, I headed to the Met, climbing those iconic stone steps that gleamed like marble, already intoxicated by the expectation of treasures inside. The soaring ceilings drew my eyes upwards as I soaked, bathed and saturated myself in the quiet atmosphere.

But even holidays can be hard work, and after two hours of wandering the galleries, I sat on a bench, tired and overwhelmed by the masterpieces I’d seen. So much colour, so much artistry, so much talent. So much money.

Lorenzo Lotto’s vast canvas of Cupid and Venus sprawled in front of me, naughty Venus peeing through a laurel wreath onto his mother; Venus pale and comely with red knees and pink toes.

“Not a very pleasant symbol of fertility, is it?” said an elegantly dressed older lady as she sat next to me, placing her walking stick carefully.

“No, although I suppose the artist wouldn’t have been paid if he’d painted an ejaculating Cupid,” I answered without thinking.

I’d spoken without thinking and then hoped I hadn’t offended her but she just laughed.

“Indeed! I can hear an accent: are you British?”

“Yes, visiting from London. I arrived last night.”

“And you spend your first morning at the Met. Very wise of you. Although to see the whole collection, you’ll need more than a vacation—you’ll need a whole lifetime.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but I have three weeks to see as much as I can.”

She smiled. “I hope you enjoy your vacation, dear.”

“Thank you! I shall.”

She started to stand but the cane slipped from her hand, and she fell sideways, crashing to the floor with a pained cry.

“Oh no! Are you…? Hold on, I’ll get help.”

“No, no,” she gasped. “No fuss, please. I just … I’ve just gotten the wind knocked out of me.”

I hovered beside her as a small crowd started to gather.

“Help me up, dear,” she said, her breathing a little steadier.

“I’m not sure I should move you. I think we should wait for an ambulance in case you’ve broken…”

“I’m fine!” she snapped, struggling to her feet.

I had no option but to help her. She winced a little as she perched on the bench but waved away all help—all except mine.

“Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“Would you call my son, please?” she said, handing me her phone. “His name is Guiseppe Rossi—Joe. He’ll be at work now, but he’ll come.”

I found his name in her contacts’ list and waited. The phone was answered in a rapid burst of Italian.

“Ciao mamma! Posso chiamarvi più tardi?”

“Uh, hello. My name is Stella Hartley. I’m with your mother at the Met. She’s had a little fall and is a bit shaken.” I heard a sharp intake of breath. “She didn’t want an ambulance but asked me to call you.”

“I’d like to speak to my mother, please!”

I’d worked with enough high powered men to recognise an order when I heard one.

“He wants to speak to you,” I said, holding out the phone.

She shook her head, waving an impatient hand in my face.

I raised my eyebrows—like mother like son.

“She’s feeling a little faint,” I lied.

I was pretty sure he was swearing although I could have been wrong.

“Where are you?” he asked, his tone brusque.

“In the European paintings section, in front of Lorenzo Lotto’s Venus and Cupid.”

“Stay with her,” he ordered.“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

And he hung up.

“He’s on his way,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

She nodded and closed her eyes. I hoped I’d done the right thing by calling her son instead of an ambulance.

“Can I get you some water, or perhaps a hot tea, for the shock?”

“No, grazie,” she said, her eyes still closed, but she reached for my hand.

I held it carefully, feeling the frailty of old bones beneath the thin casing of skin; cool but not cold.

We sat in silence, colour returning to her powdered cheeks, her breathing even.

“Stella—that’s your name, yes?” she said at last. “Tell me about yourself. To pass the time. Do you have children?”

I paused before replying.

“No, my husband didn’t want them and I was focussed on my career. It never seemed like the right time.”

“And now?”

I smiled at her persistence. Old people seemed to think that age conferred the right to ignore social norms. I didn’t mind; I was often that way myself. When a man is blunt in business he’s a hard hitter, a go-getter; when it’s a woman, she’s called a bitch.

“And now I have my career,” I laughed.

She opened one eye. “And the husband?”

“I’m happily divorced.”

She shook her head. “You young women! And does your career warm your bed at night?”

“No, but my Hungarian goose-feather duvet does and I don’t have to share it.”

Her laugh was a little reluctant. “Well then, I hope you have a good career. What do you do?”

“I’m CEO of a merchant bank,” I said proudly, not adding that I was one of the youngest, and part of a small but growing number of female CEOs in banking.

Suddenly her eyes lit up and her smile widened. “He’s here.”

I turned to see an attractive man of about my age striding towards us, a frown of concern on his face. His light brown hair was ruffled by the wind but he still looked immaculate with his polished shoes, black trousers, turtleneck sweater and expensive camel hair coat.

He didn’t even glance at me.

“Mamma!”

He knelt at her feet, taking her hands in his, questioning her in rapid Italian; arguing, maybe. I heard my name mentioned and he eyed me briefly.

Finally, his face relaxed and he stood up, offering his arm to his mother.

“Thank you for helping us,” he said as they started to walk away.

“My pleasure.”

“Joe! This young lady helped me—this is no way to thank her. We will bring her back to the restaurant for lunch.”

“I’m not sure…” he began.

“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Rossi,” I continued.

“Yes! It has been decided,” she said. “It is our family’s restaurant and it has the best lobster linguini that you’ll ever taste—my grandmother’s recipe.”

Her son threw me a look that was half irritated, half apologetic. “Yes, you must join us for lunch,” he said.

“That’s very nice of you but…”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” said Mrs. Rossi.

I felt that to continue rejecting her invitation would cause offence, so I gave in graciously.

“Then I’d love to,” I smiled.

The Rossis walked slowly through the Met, clearly knowing their way, commenting on some of the artworks.

I took Mrs. Rossi’s other arm when we reached the steps at the entrance, and was astonished to see a Mercedes Benz Pullman car waiting for us, complete with a chauffeur in a dark suit. The restaurant business must be very profitable.

It was touching to see the care with which the younger Rossi helped his mother into the car, then remembered his manners and helped me clamber in. His hand was warm and dry and strong.

I glanced down but I couldn’t see a wedding ring.

I was surprised how easily the conversation flowed as we drove through Manhattan. Both Rossis enjoyed art and talked lovingly of trips to the Met.

“I think I’d have been disowned if couldn’t identify a Canaletto or Caravaggio by the time I was eight,” he said, a cheeky grin directed toward his mother.

“Rivers and roughnecks,” I smiled.

Mrs. Rossi laughed. “Joe always preferred the Caravaggios.”

“No, I only liked The Musicians, all the others are saints and death,” and he shuddered. “Have you been to Rome? To the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica?”

“Yes! I was fascinated by Narcissus. Almost as much as he was fascinated by himself.”

Joe met my smile with one of his own, his eyes sparkling. “Did you see Judith Beheading Holofornes?”

“Yes, very gory.”

“Not really, he shrugged. “The blood is wrong—it looks like a red scarf, and I always wondered why he did that. Caravaggio was a brawler, a street fighter—he knew what flowing blood looked like, so why paint it so theatrically?”

“Perhaps for that reason, Mr. Rossi. Because he didn’t want to seem so brutish.”

His hazel eyes met mine, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Yes, I think you are right. But please, call me Joe. And may I call you Stella?”

“You may.”

I caught the quiet smile of approval on his mother’s face, suspecting I’d been set up and finding that I didn’t mind at all.

The limousine stopped outside a small but pretty restaurant, an Italian flag next to a hanging basket of red, white and green.

Delicious aromas wafted through the air as Joe opened the door for his mother. My stomach gave a quiet growl of enthusiasm as I was ushered inside.

Waiters rushed to show the Rossis to a round table near the back of the room. I’d have preferred to sit at the window and people-watch so I hoped I didn’t show any disappointment.

Another waiter took my coat and a third filled a water glass for me.

“Please, let me order for you,” said Joe. “The lobster linguini is exquisite, as my mother said.”

He ordered an expensive bottle of chardonnay to go with the food, and we sat chatting about art and the places in Italy that we’d all visited.

“I’m curious,” I said. “Do you consider yourselves Italian or American or Italian-American: which comes first?”

Mrs. Rossi smiled. “When I talk about food, I am Italian; when I cast my vote, I am American; and when I wake up in the mornings, I am Carla DeMaria, fortunate granddaughter of American-Italian immigrants; widow of Alfonso Rossi, God-bless his immortal soul; and for my sins, mother of this cucciolo.”

Joe pretended to cringe at the nickname, and I smiled to see the love between mother and son. My father had died when I was young and my mother was currently living in France with her fourth husband. We weren’t close.

A little flash of envy burned through me. What would it be like to be part of this family?

“I’m tired,” Mrs. Rossi announced as I sipped on a strong but delicious espresso. “I’ll take the car home.”

“I must go, too,” I said. “It’s been a lovely lunch but I can’t intrude on you anym—”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted. “Joe, you must show Stella around Little Italy.”

“I’m sure Joe is too busy to play tour guide,” I said, offering him a get-out, but he surprised me.

“Not at all,” he grinned. “I can think of nothing else I’d rather do.”

I said goodbye to Mrs. Rossi, touched when she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. As I watched her being driven away, Joe helped me into my coat, then took my hand in his as he led me from the restaurant.

I was taken aback but pleased. Was he just being Italian and demonstrative, or did he really like me? I decided not to worry about it and simply enjoy being with a charming, cultured man, showing me the city that he loved.

He told me about growing up here, going to Stern at NYU to study business, his love of art, and his travels around the world. I told him about the long hours I worked to become CEO, about my enthusiasm for Early Renaissance artists and how I tried to love opera but couldn’t. He promised I’d change my mind when I heard Maria Agresta singing Tosca. I laughed and said I doubted it, so he pulled out his phone and bought two tickets for the Metropolitan Opera House for that evening.

He kissed me for the first time when he helped me into a town car to take me back to my hotel, promising to pick me up in three hours. Just a gentle brush of his lips against mine, an exquisite rush of heat.

For the first time in my life, I’d been swept off my feet. The feeling was incredible.

As I waited in the lobby three hours later, wearing the one smart dress I’d brought with me, excitement fizzed in my blood, colouring my cheeks and making my eyes glow. I was happy. Happy and excited.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

A man who’d been sitting nearby was now standing over me.

“Thank you but no. I’m waiting for someone.”

He nodded, his eyes cold. “Strangers in a strange city need to be careful,” he said, then walked away.

His words left an unpleasant sensation which was quickly forgotten as I saw Joe striding through the lobby, looking handsome in a tailored suit.

He took my hand, kissing my knuckles gently. “Ciao, bella! To your carriage, my lady.”

The evening was wonderful, magical, glorious. We didn’t stop talking, having so much in common, enjoying each other’s company. He hadn’t changed my mind about opera completely, but I was certainly open to going again. And how much he’d paid for a private box, I could only imagine: thousands of dollars, I was sure.

As we were driven back to the hotel, my head on his shoulder, his arms around me, we kissed again, hungrily, devouring each other with a ferocity that darkened his eyes and left me panting.

But he refused to come into the hotel, saying only that he’d pick me up for brunch tomorrow, and a stroll through Central Park.

I was torn, half wishing he’d come in, half relieved that he hadn’t.

As I waited by the lifts, I smiled to myself. This holiday was becoming something wholly unexpected.

The doors hissed shut in front of me, but not before I caught a glimpse of the man who’d offered to buy me a drink earlier. I couldn’t help feeling that he’d been watching me. I hurried to my room and locked the door behind me. I felt shaken, but for no real reason.

And when I closed my eyes that night, it was Joe’s eyes glittering in the darkness that I saw.

The days flew past and I was happier than I’d ever been. We couldn’t always be together because he still had work to do, but we walked the length and breadth of Manhattan, ate at the restaurant every evening, and spent time exploring the Met together. He even took me for a nighttime helicopter ride over the city, the river slicing the landscape of lights in two.

And I was ready to take things further with Joe—so very, very ready. Our petting in the limousine had got a little out of hand last night, and he’d made me come twice on the back seat. Yet, still he’d refused to come to my room.

“Soon, bella,” he whispered. “Soon, mi amore.”

I felt unsteady and giddy as I headed to my room that night.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

The voice interrupted my erotic daydreams and I turned to find the man who’d tried to buy me a drink, the man I’d successfully put out of my mind.

“Would you mind coming with me,” and he pulled out a leather wallet with a gold shield inside. “Agent John Forrester. This way, please.”

He took my elbow, giving me no chance to argue and hustled me to one of the hotel’s empty offices.

He flicked on the switch and was silently joined by another man in a suit.

“You are Stella Hartley, British citizen, CEO of Jade Holdings merchant bank, yes?”

“What’s this about?”

“Do you know this man?”

And he held up a photograph of Joe on his phone.

My heart started to race. “Yes, that’s Joe Rossi. He owns a restaurant in Little Italy.”

Agent Forrester shook his head. “No, he’s Guiseppe Rossi, head of the DeMaria crime syndicate.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said automatically. “He owns a restaurant! I’ve been there.”

But even as I said the words, I began to doubt. How could a simple restauranteur of one small Italian bistro afford a private box at the Met or a limousine with a chauffeur, available day and night? How could he afford helicopter rides and champagne picnics in the park?

But then they started showing me more photos, surveillance photos: Joe with men who looked like thugs; Joe with hard eyes staring at a man with a battered, bloody face; Joe’s chauffeur holding a hand gun as more men in expensive suits slipped into the back of the restaurant.

My heart cracked, and I desperately wanted to believe that the images were fake, but I couldn’t.

Then the questions started: how much money my bank was worth, who did I do business with, had Joe asked me to handle any money. The answers were: a lot, the wealthy elite of London, and yes. God damn him, yes! Joe had asked about me handling his investments.

The FBI agents made me feel ashamed and dirty. And when they’d finally sucked every last piece of information out of me along with my self-esteem, I felt empty.

I didn’t cry. To cry would be to feel something, but there was nothing left, just the memory of a wonderful holiday, an autumn in New York. But now winter had arrived.

Methodically, I packed my case, changed my flight, and ordered a taxi to take me to the airport.

As I left the hotel, I saw a familiar car waiting at the kerb.

“Stella…” Joe began.

I waited.

“What they told you, it’s not who I am.”

I nodded slowly. “No, but it’s what you do.” I walked past him, my suitcase already in the taxi, then I paused. “Was any of it real, Joe?”

“Yes, please believe me. Stella, we can still…”

“Fuck you, Joe!” I hissed, a volcanic anger exploding inside me. “Fuck you for making me think it was real!”

“It was, it is! Don’t listen to those FBI assholes!”

The fact that he knew I’d been interviewed by the FBI said it all, said everything.

I turned and looked at him for one last time. “Goodbye, Joe.”

As the taxi pulled away, his face faded into the night.

I knew that I’d never visit New York again.

Even though I’d left half my heart behind.

THE END