Tuscan Holiday

by Holly Chamberlin

Genres: Family Life; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In this warm, evocative novel set against a breathtaking Italian backdrop, bestselling author Holly Chamberlin explores the complexities of mother-daughter bonds, and the gift of second chances. . . Marina Caldwell is thrilled to receive a two-week trip to Tuscany as a college graduation gift. That is, until she realizes her mother wants to go with her. The gulf between idealistic single parent Elizabeth and cautious, controlled Marina seems too wide to bridge, even with the aid of chilled Prosecco and mouthwatering panforte. But amid the magical sights and scents of Florence, Marina's careful plans for her vacation--and her future--are thrown into chaos, and Elizabeth's long-held assumptions crumble. Soon a world of unexpected possibilities unfolds for both--buoyed by newfound courage, unshakeable love, and the stirring beauty of a Tuscan sky. . . Praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin "Nostalgia over real-life friendships lost and regained pulls readers into the story." – USA Today on Summer Friends "It does the trick as a beach book and provides a touristy taste of Maine's seasonal attractions." -- Publishers Weekly on The Family Beach House

Release date: July 11, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“You shouldn’t have spent the money, Elizabeth.”

My mother sniffed delicately at the bouquet of Purple Moon Carnations. They were her favorite, a fact she often mentioned in the weeks before a holiday.

“You’re welcome, Mom.”

“Of course I love them. Thank you, honey. But you know I don’t need any gifts from you.”

In spite of the frequent hints about favorite flowers, fragrant beauty creams, and scented candles?

“But I need to give you gifts, okay?” I said. “So bear with me.”

“But still, they must have cost you a fortune!”

My God, I thought, you’d think I’d given her a diamond-encrusted evening bag! What ever happened to the art of gracious receiving?

“It’s rude to talk about the price of a gift, Mom,” I reminded.

“Oh, I’m sorry. The flowers are lovely. Thank you again, dear.”

My mother—Jane Caldwell, still teaching high-school English though nearing retirement—went off to put the flowers in a vase. I glanced casually at the mantel on the far side of the living room. No Mother’s Day card other than the one from me. So, Marina had forgotten or neglected to give her grandmother a card.... Or, a charitable thought, maybe she had a card for me and one for her grandmother in that monstrous bag she’d taken to lugging around, a metallic sack with grommets and fringe and buckles too numerous to count.

“This is a very popular style,” she told me, defensively, I thought, when I asked her where she’d gotten it.

“I know that,” I said. “I read InStyle. I read Vogue. I just asked where you got it.”

“It wasn’t expensive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Uh, no. What I’m asking—for the third time—is where you bought the bag.”

I swear, sometimes talking to one’s child is like negotiating a minefield. You didn’t ask to be in the middle of a minefield, you have no idea how you got there, and all you want to do is survive said minefield with your limbs intact.

I did finally learn that Marina had bought the bag at Marshall’s. I’d taught her well when it came to bargain hunting.

The doorbell rang, interrupting the mostly critical thoughts about my daughter. “I’ll get it,” I said. It was Rob. He hadn’t been at the graduation ceremony; Marina had been limited to three tickets.

“Where are Jotham’s parents?” Rob asked when he’d taken a survey of the guests: my father, Tom; Marina; her long-time boyfriend, now fiancé, Jotham Grandin, who’d also graduated earlier that day from Graham College in Boston; my mother, back with the carnations in a cut-glass vase; and me.

“Invited,” I explained, “but they said they had a previous engagement. Whatever. They took the kids out to dinner last night.”

“A pricey steak house, no doubt.”

“Now, Rob.”

“What? So, where did they go?”

“Capitol Grille. A pricey steak house.”

“Hey, it’s a celebration,” he said. “A time for indulgence.”

“Now you’re defending them?”

“What defending?”

“Anyway,” I said, “you’re right. This is a celebration, so I got a Carvel ice-cream cake. You know it’s Marina’s favorite. And considerably less expensive than a specialty cake from Patisserie Claude.”

“Mmm, Carvel ice-cream cake. Gotta love the crunchy chocolate layer.”

We joined the rest of the party in time to hear my father relating to a bored-looking Jotham his latest home-repair triumph, a tale involving the installation of a brand-new air conditioner in his tool room in the basement.

Rob hugged Marina and handed her a small, prettily wrapped gift.

“Oh, Rob, thank you,” she said. “Should I open it now?”

Rob shrugged. “If you want. And there’s a gift receipt inside in case you want to exchange it.”

Marina carefully sliced one taped end and slid a plastic-encased electronic device into her palm.

“Wow, it’s the new iPhone! Thanks, Rob.” She gave him another hug and handed the plastic case to Jotham, who immediately set to the difficult work of opening it with his Swiss Army knife.

“What exactly does the new iPhone do?” I asked, sotto voce.

“I’m not entirely sure. I think it has something to do with being able to use any service, not just AT&T. Or something.”

I looked hard at Rob. “You’re an engineer. You’re supposed to know how things work. You’re even supposed to know why they work.”

“True. But the world is changing awfully fast. . . .”

“Now you sound like an old man.”

“I am fifty.”

“Hardly old. And you can prove it to me later.”

“Really?” he said, with a grin. “Ice-cream cake and sex in one day? Who’s got it better than me?”

Rob Wayne and I had been together on and off for about thirteen years at that point, long enough to be comfortable with each other’s flaws, foibles, and weaknesses but still, amazingly, excited by each other. When we weren’t too tired or too busy or too hungry.

The buzz over Rob’s gift had died down enough for me to feel that it was time to present my gift. I retrieved a rather bulky envelope from the credenza in the front hall and brought it to my daughter.

“From me,” I said, struggling not to cry. Your child’s graduation from college—especially a graduation capping a successful four years of study—is a very proud moment.

Marina smiled, and if she was eager to see what was inside, you couldn’t tell by the way she carefully opened the envelope, barely ripping the sealed flap. With a questioning look at Jotham—what had she expected, snakes to pop out?—she extracted my present, two round-trip tickets to Florence.

“Oh my God!” she cried, turning once again to her fiancé. “We’re going to Italy, Jotham, you and me!”

I was painfully aware of the awkward glances shooting among the other three adults in the room, my mother to my father to Rob and back again. None of them looked directly at me; I was thankful for the small favor.

“Um, no, Marina,” I said. “Actually, you and I are going to Italy. I bought those tickets for us. You know, as . . .”

I hesitated; I was embarrassed at having to explain what I had hoped would be obvious.

“As what?” Marina asked, clearly disappointed and just as clearly trying to hide her disappointment.

“Well, you’ve graduated college, and you’re getting married next spring, and, well, I just thought this would be my send-off present to you, you know, as you venture out into the world.”

“Oh,” Marina said, with about as much expression as a turnip. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

Well, I thought, that big surprise fell flat. At least there was the Carvel cake.

“But Mom,” Marina said suddenly, “I have no idea what I did with my passport!”

Was that relief I heard in her voice, or was I just projecting ? “Remember I asked you to give it to me? It’s in the safety-deposit box, at the bank.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s good. Because I know you can’t get on a plane to Europe without a passport.”

Jotham winked at Rob and put his arm around Marina’s shoulders. “My dad knows some people. He could probably get things speeded up if you needed a passport right away.”

No doubt Frank Grandin did know “some people”—i.e., the “right people”—but did his son have to be such a self-important little—

“How about we cut the cake!” my mother exclaimed.

Rob took my mother’s elbow. “I’ll help, Jane,” he said and led her off to the kitchen. As they passed, I heard my mother say:

“I don’t know why Elizabeth had to get such a big cake. I just can’t imagine what she was thinking, spending all that money. Really, she can be such a spendthrift.”

Over his shoulder, Rob offered a consoling little smile.

“Marina didn’t seem very happy to be going to Italy with her mother.”

That was the understatement of the year. She and Jotham had made off immediately after cake and coffee, with only a “See you later, Mom” and a wave.

I tossed my bag on the hall table. Rob shut the door of my apartment behind him.

“She’ll have a great time once she’s there, you’ll see. Plus, you know how she loves to shop. She’s a professional bargain hunter. She’ll get into buying clothes for the trip.”

“She does love to shop, but she’s so damned finicky. It takes her hours to find the perfect T-shirt. It drives me nuts. What’s so special about a T-shirt?”

Rob gave me a look. “Good thing she’s old enough to shop on her own.”

“Okay,” I said, “so I’m being grumpy. But I don’t know, Rob. Maybe this trip is a stupid idea after all. Maybe I should cash in my ticket and buy one for Jotham instead.”

“No, Elizabeth.” Rob took me by my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “You deserve this vacation. And Marina deserves some time alone with her mother. Besides, we agreed it would do her good to spend some time away from Jotham. She’s attached to that boy like white is attached to rice.”

“That boy,” I pointed out, “is a young man. And that young man is going to be her husband this time next year.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked quickly.

Rob shrugged and stepped away. “Just that anything can happen.”

“Do you know something I don’t know?” I asked. “Did Marina talk to you?”

“Of course not. Look, just go to Italy and have a great time. Promise?”

“I promise to try. A glass of wine?”

“Sure.”

I went off to the kitchen for the wine and glasses. When I returned to the living room, Rob was frowning in the direction of the end table. The end table, a dubious antique I’d bought at a local garage sale, was where I’d been displaying holiday cards since long before Rob and I met.

“I see there’s no Mother’s Day card,” he said.

“She’s got a lot on her mind,” I replied, defending the unthankful child I’d been condemning earlier.

“She could have gotten you a card. Sorry. I know I shouldn’t comment.”

I handed Rob a glass of wine. “No, that’s okay. After all this time, you have a right to speak up.”

Honestly, it didn’t much matter to me that Marina had forgotten Mother’s Day, though I did feel bad on my mother’s behalf. As any parent can tell you, what hurts far more than no card on a Hallmark holiday are the casual slights, the eye rolls your child thinks you don’t see, the muttered “whatevers,” the unasked-for-and-unwanted criticism of your clothing, your speech habits, your existence.

Rob left about an hour later—after having gotten his cake and eaten it, too—and I busied myself straightening up. I’d rushed out of the house that morning, not wanting to be late for the graduation ceremony, uncharacteristically leaving breakfast dishes in the sink and several rejected outfits strewn across my bedroom.

I didn’t expect Marina to be home until much later that evening; I assumed she and Jotham would meet up with their bosom buddies, two other engaged couples who’d met during high school and who’d also graduated that day. The six of them were inseparable, a little club of eager-to-be-marrieds who were already planning how to save for their as-yet-to-be-born children’s college educations.

Not that there was anything wrong with that; it was just that sometimes Marina and her crew seemed even older than Rob and me, without the sense of adventure we assume the young should possess. Of course, the flip side of my daughter’s ostensible maturity was that she didn’t do drugs or drive without a license or have serial abortions, all of which a mother seriously appreciates.

Teeth brushed and face washed, I settled into bed; next to me sat the stack of guidebooks I’d been studying in preparation for the trip. On the small nightstand to my right stood a framed picture of Rob and me taken a few years earlier at Old Sturbridge Village. The two of us are cheek to cheek, arms slung around each other, laughing happily into the camera, oblivious to the goat that had snuck up on us and taken a mouthful of Rob’s sweater into his mouth.

I smiled, remembering Rob’s response to discovering the hem of his sweater in the mouth of a mad-eyed goat. He turned around to me with a sigh. “Why didn’t I wear the red sweater today?” he said. “I’ve never really liked that sweater.”

Two of the best things about Rob are his sense of humor and even temper, traits I found appealing right from the start. He doesn’t have a tendency toward frenzied action or manic speech; he doesn’t need to be the center of attention. Rob is the sort who can engage in intelligent conversation without either the need to dominate or the tendency to lose ground. In short, he’s mature and stable without being narrow-minded or rigid. I suspect he was pretty much always this way, though his parents are long gone, so I’ve no way of confirming this. It’s not that Rob won’t talk about himself if pressed; it’s just that he’s self-effacing enough not to indulge in details. This can be frustrating, but, the advice of women’s magazines notwithstanding, when you really think about it, reticence is hardly a major failing in a romantic partner.

I reached for one of the guidebooks and suddenly realized just how tired I was, too tired to read. Instead, I thought back over the day, remembered how immensely proud I’d felt when Marina had received her diploma. It had seemed a great culminating moment. I’d guided my daughter, my only child, through day care and kindergarten, through grade school, middle school, the relative hell that is high school, and, finally, through college. And through it all, Marina had thrived. You could even say that Marina’s life had been charmed, to the extent that any life lived without tragedy is charmed.

Yes, it had been a good day. It had made me happy to see my daughter surrounded by the people who meant the most to her—and to me: her grandparents, Rob, Jotham. The only person of importance—if one could call him that—in Marina’s life that hadn’t been present for the occasion was her father.

But he’d never been present for any of Marina’s important events, not even her birth. One would think I’d have been used to Peter Duncan’s absence by then, his utter lack of concern. One would think, but one would be wrong.

After the party at my grandparents’—complete with Carvel ice-cream cake; I swear, it wouldn’t have been a special occasion in my family if we didn’t have that cake! I hadn’t really liked it since I was about twelve, but I never had the heart to say anything to my mother—Jotham and I stopped at the Cherry Pit. It was kind of “our place.” At least once a week we met our friends Allison, and her fiancé, Jordan, and Jessica, and her fiancé, Jason, there. We’d all gone to college together. And we were all planning to be married within eighteen months of graduation, first Allison and Jordan, then Jessica and Jason, and finally Jotham and me.

The Cherry Pit was nothing fancy, just a chain pub/ restaurant. We liked it because of the usual things people like chain restaurants for—consistency and relatively low prices. And pretty decent food, though a lot of it wasn’t exactly what you’d call diet or health food. Anyway, we knew we could always get a table or snag a place in the bar. Being sort of a family place, the bar area emptied out after nine, except for Saturday night, which was still date night in our suburb of Boston. That night, a Sunday, the bar area was almost empty. Once I’d overheard my mother call the Cherry Pit “one of those bloodless generic suburban holes”, and her tone was anything but complimentary. It didn’t bother me. It wasn’t like Jotham and I ever asked her to hang out with us there.

We perched on high stools at a smallish, round table and ordered drinks; a basket of popcorn was already waiting.

“So, what do you think of my mom’s gift?” I asked. “Pretty . . . unexpected, right?” I was a bit nervous about Jotham’s reaction to my going away without him, and for two whole weeks.

“I think it’s great,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It’s good for family to do stuff together.”

I searched his face for a sign that he was fibbing, but as usual, Jotham’s expression was inscrutable. He wasn’t a guy to give anything away easily. “You’re not upset my mother didn’t invite you, too?”

“No, no,” he said, dropping my hand. “It’s fine. Besides, what would I do while you girls shopped and sat around in cafés, or whatever they have over there, drinking wine? I hate shopping, and I don’t drink wine unless it’s from California.”

“You could spend time in museums,” I teased.

“Yeah, that would happen. Look, you should go and enjoy and buy yourself something. I hear you can get good leather in Italy pretty cheap. Treat yourself. You only graduate from college once, right?”

I smiled and kissed his cheek as if I believed he was fine with the trip. But I didn’t really believe it, not after the Paris incident. But this was different, I argued with myself. This time my mother would be with me. What possible trouble could I get into traveling with my mother?

“Let’s talk about our honeymoon,” he said suddenly.

“But we haven’t even planned the wedding yet,” I pointed out reasonably. “I haven’t figured out how much the reception is going to cost, and I want to check out buying a used dress, and since we have a budget to consider—”

“Don’t worry about the budget right now. Let’s just talk pie in the sky. I bet I know where you want to go.”

I laughed. “I bet you don’t.”

“If I get it right, will you share some jalapeño poppers with me, no complaining about fat and cholesterol?”

“You’re on.”

“Hawaii.”

I laughed. “You are so totally wrong.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, really,” I said. “I have no interest in going to Hawaii. You really have no idea where I want to go?”

Jotham shrugged. “You got me.”

“The Grand Canyon! And maybe other parts of the Southwest, too: New Mexico, the Mojave Desert, Sedona with those big red rocks. Joshua trees. All those big open skies and Indian stuff and turquoise jewelry and a totally different landscape from New England. Doesn’t it sound exotic ?”

Jotham looked puzzled. “Hawaii isn’t exotic?”

“Well, sure,” I said, “I guess. But everybody goes to a beach resort for the honeymoon. Jamaica, Bermuda, the Caribbean. I just thought we could do something a bit different, try something new.”

“What, like go camping? We’ve never been camping,” Jotham pointed out. “You know I’m not a big fan of the outdoors. And since when have you become Miss Crunchy Nature Girl?”

“Well, we wouldn’t necessarily have to camp,” I said, though a vision of a vast, starry night sky had come to mind. “There are spas in the Southwest, Jotham, and I’m sure there are plenty of nice hotels. Santa Fe is supposed to have some great places to stay. I’m sure we could find something within our budget.” The look on Jotham’s face stopped me. “What? You don’t like the idea of the Southwest?”

“No, I didn’t say I don’t like the idea, exactly. But it is our honeymoon, Marina. Not just some silly vacation.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Jotham glanced around the almost empty room and then leaned in as if he were about to impart a big, important secret. “What if I told you I’ve already arranged for us to spend two weeks in a five-star hotel in Maui? Award-winning restaurant, exclusive day spa, personal trainers on hand, Vegas-style shows every night. Sounds good, huh?”

I knew it was a disloyal thought, but it occurred to me that the only reason Jotham wanted us to go on an expensive, fancy honeymoon was because he could be a bit of a snob. It was just possible that he cared less about pleasing me than he did about impressing our friends.

“What do you mean you already arranged it?” I demanded. “How are we supposed to pay for that?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve taken care of it,” Jotham replied in that condescending way that had been getting on my nerves ever since our junior year of college, when Jotham won a big prize for the debate team. I don’t know why his attitude should suddenly have started to bother me; he’d always been the same way, ever since (and probably before) I met him in sophomore year of high school.

“How have you taken care of it? What are you talking about?”

“Look, before I say anything, I want you to promise not to jump down my throat, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” I lied. “Just tell me. And you’d better not have taken out some crazy high-interest loan.”

Jotham frowned. “Please, Marina.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.” Jotham was nothing if not fiscally responsible.

“My parents are paying for our honeymoon. It’s our wedding gift. Well, part of it. They’ll be picking up the tab for the rehearsal dinner, of course. That’s traditionally the responsibility of the groom’s family.”

This news stunned me. When I recovered, my voice was unusually high. “But I thought the plan was to pay for everything on our own.”

I wasn’t used to what I saw as charity, and I had no desire to get used to it. True, while I had been known to complain about not driving a better car and not having enough money to buy the latest Coach bag for spring, I had lived a pretty good life, and I knew it. My mother and I were not poor; we had never really suffered or done without. It wasn’t as if we’d been forced to rely on food stamps or welfare; it wasn’t as if my mother had had to work two or three jobs to put me through college. I was proud of what my family had achieved—we’d earned it, after all, me included—and I wasn’t about to take a handout from anyone, especially not my future in-laws.

“A gift,” Jotham pointed out when I’d made my big statement, “is not a handout.”

“A gift,” I argued, “can be inappropriate. This is just too much.”

“We can’t say no to them,” Jotham said with maddening calm. “It would be rude.”

“But it’s our honeymoon, Jotham. It’s our wedding and our marriage. It’s supposed to be all about us. No one else can tell us what to do.”

Jotham gave me the look that was meant to shame. “I can’t believe you’re being so ungrateful,” he said. “Look, you’re taking a trip to Italy with your mom. It’s not like you’re opposed to accepting big gifts.”

“I’m not being ungrateful,” I argued. “How can you say that? And the trip to Italy is not the same thing as our honeymoon. My mother isn’t—interfering—with our relationship.”

“How is giving us a trip to Hawaii interfering? It’s not like my parents are coming with us. Come on, Marina, be reasonable.”

And just like that, I caved. What was the point in arguing ? In the end Jotham always got what he wanted. “All right,” I said. “Fine. Your parents aren’t interfering. We’ll go to Hawaii. I’m sure it will be very nice.”

Jotham straightened his shoulders and smiled the smile of the victor. “Good. Now, how about an order of poppers.”

I didn’t bother to point out that he’d lost the bet. “Sure,” I said, “whatever you want.”

“Ah, here comes the gang!” Jotham waved over to Allison, Jordan, Jessica, and Jason. Jason still wore his mortarboard ; I cringed and at the same time wondered why this should embarrass me.

Jotham dropped me home at about eleven that night. My mother had left a light on in the kitchen and a note to say that she’d gone to bed. The next day she’d be up at six, out the door at seven-thirty, and at her desk by eight. My mother has always b. . .