Page 1 of Lost Dreams

1

Lorelei and her husband, Roberto, landed in Boston six days before the opening party at the White Oak Lodge. Lorelei had been asleep for much of the flight, drifting through dreams that seemed all the stranger because they occurred at such an altitude. Sometimes human flight seemed illogical. Sometimes she wanted to ask, "Are you sure we belong off the ground?"

Beside her, Roberto had his arms crossed, and his dark eyes were alert, peering out at the flat expanse of concrete that made up the airfield. Lorelei couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken, nor what they’d spoken about. But there was a comfort in seeing her husband of twenty-five years beside her on the plane. There was a comfort in knowing they’d just traveled halfway around the world together.

She loved him, after all. She told herself he still loved her too.

At customs, despite Lorelei having both an Italian and an American passport, they stayed in line together. Roberto was a born-and-raised Italian, whereas Lorelei’s story was much more complicated. Forty-nine years ago, she was born on Nantucket Island, a beautiful historical island off the coast of Massachusetts. But when she was in her early twenties back in 1998, a fire had engulfed her family’s hotel, sending their future into a tailspin. For terrifying reasons that were now clearer, if not totally understandable, her father and brother had faked their own deaths, and her mother, Francesca, had led the charge to her native Italy, bringing Lorelei and her sisters Allegra and Charlotte along with her. Their little sister Nina had moved to Michigan to live with their Great-Aunt Genevieve—all because, as it turned out, Nina wasn’t really Francesca’s daughter and therefore not really Italian.

All at once, their family had been split up.

Together in Italy, Lorelei, her mother Francesca, and her sister Allegra had made a life for themselves. Charlotte had lived there for a little while before making her way back to New York to be a documentarian.

Now, so many years after leaving the United States for Italy, so many years after the fire had broken out on that fateful Fourth of July night, the White Oak Lodge was reopening. All the Whitmores would be in attendance, and—incredibly—Roberto had agreed to be the chef for the night. He’d told Lorelei, “I want to play a part in your family’s dramatic history.” There had been passion in his eyes as he’d said it.

But by the time they’d gotten into the rental car and driven themselves to the ferry that would take them to Nantucket Island, Lorelei was beginning to think Roberto regretted his decision. She was driving, which left him to field phone calls from their three different restaurants across Italy. They had the one in Rome, their first, plus another in Sardinia and another in Sicily. The Sardinian and Sicilian ones were on the newer side and had numerous problems. The Sicilian one, for example, had struggled last year with the local Mafia, who hadn’t wanted to accept a Roman-born owner. Southern Italians could be protective in this way. There was a lot of dramatic history there. And the Sardinian restaurant had gone through three different chefs in as many months.

“I hired you as manager because I thought you could deal with this,” Roberto said over the phone now, the heel of his hand smashing against his forehead. “Now, I’m in America. I can’t just come to Sardinia and fix all your problems. Figure this out, or it’s over for you!”

Roberto hung up the phone and let out a horrible sigh. Lorelei reached for his shoulder and rubbed at the tense muscle, but Roberto shook her hand off and looked out the window. She sensed that he now thought agreeing to be the White Oak Lodge’s chef for the party had been a mistake. Maybe it had been. She wondered if he would say it aloud.

On the drive from the Boston airport to Hyannis Port, they passed numerous fast-food restaurants and gas stations. It all looked remarkably American—obviously—and filled Lorelei with a funny yearning that reminded her of childhood. But Roberto thought the sights were trashy. “I can’t believe you lived in America all year long,” he said gruffly.

“You know I had to,” Lorelei said. Her mother, Francesca, had been battling cancer for the past several months, and she and Allegra had lived with her in a gorgeous beach house on Nantucket Island, helping to make her comfortable and reconnecting with their roots. After Francesca’s treatments had finished, Lorelei had briefly returned to Rome to find her husband reeling, disorganized, and quite angry that she’d been gone so long.

They hadn’t discussed it much. Lorelei suspected it would blow over soon. They’d hardly remember it next year. Wasn’t that what marriage was? An agreement to let things go, to move forward together, despite heartache and disappointments?

“But still,” Roberto said, “when you’re used to Rome, how can you possibly stand for this kind of view? All these trashy restaurants? All these dollar burgers?”

“It’s beautiful on Nantucket,” she said, although he’d been there before. He’d come for Christmas.

“It’s not Rome,” he said. “It’s not Sardinia.”

“It’s my home,” Lorelei said quietly.

“Not really. Not anymore,” Roberto pointed out.

Lorelei wet her lips. She considered asking him about the menu he’d planned for the party, a topic he’d previously loved discussing in detail, or if he was excited to spend more time with her family. But his sour mood was apparent. What he needed was food and plenty of sleep. After that, maybe he would treat her like another human being. Perhaps he’d offer a bit of respect.

He’s just in one of his moods, she reminded herself. She had her own moods, too.

The first person they saw upon entering the refurbished White Oak Lodge was Francesca Whitmore. She stood grandly behind the front desk, her perfect wig shining beneath the ornate vintage light fixture they’d hung on high. She was every bit the classic beauty she’d always been. The chemotherapy had hardly touched that, miraculously.

Lorelei knew her mother was too vain to let even cancer get in the way of her beauty. In a funny way, Lorelei was grateful for that. It meant her mother would never stop trying to be herself.

Francesca swept around the front desk. In a flurry of rapid Italian, she welcomed them, saying, “I can’t believe it! My beautiful Lorelei, you’re back with me! And Roberto, you’re looking as handsome as ever. But so tired! Goodness, you must eat something. That awful plane food will not do. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen and make something divine for you both.”

Lorelei hadn’t seen her mother since Tio Angelo had been put behind bars for setting fire to the White Oak Lodge on top of his involvement in a massive drug ring. According to her siblings, Francesca had gone to see Tio Angelo in jail. It was hard for Lorelei to imagine such a terrifying exchange. But at her core, Lorelei knew that her mother still loved her brother. She’d never wanted to believe that he was a “bad apple.”

Francesca ordered them to take their bags up to the third-floor suite. Lorelei knew this was one of the better suites, that back in the old days of the Lodge’s fame, celebrities and politicians had usually booked that space.

“Are you sure?” Lorelei asked, taken aback.

Francesca smiled. “Roberto has offered us his remarkable chef’s talent on our first night back! It’s the least we can give in return. And we want you both to be comfortable.”

Lorelei and Roberto took the elevator to the third floor, where they used the vintage yet shining golden key to enter the suite. Lorelei was amazed at the work they’d done on it. She’d seen it months before, back when their refurbishment ideas had been ideas only. Now, walking into the suite was a little like falling back through time—while keeping all the modern amenities that made hotel living comfortable in the twenty-first century. There was a kitchenette, a fridge, a washer-dryer, a shower, a separate claw-foot bathtub, and a king-sized bed. It was big enough that they could live comfortably all summer long, if they wanted to. The view out the back window was of the glorious Nantucket Sound, upon which were dotted sterling-white sailboats. Lorelei let out a little sigh.

“How can you say that isn’t beautiful?” she asked Roberto, slipping her fingers into his.