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I’m silent for most of the drive. Too stuck in my own head to make interesting conversation.
“Tell me a happy memory,” Massimo says as we drive along the isolated mountain road.
I turn away from the window to look at him. “What?”
“I want to know one of your happy memories,” he prompts.
He’s trying to take me to some happy place and I kind of love him for it.
“Come on, humor me,” he coaxes. “When you think of a happy memory, what is the first thing that comes to mind?”
I don’t hesitate. “My mom.”
“What was she like?”
“The belle of the ball. Always immaculately dressed. Not a hair out of place. Nails perfect. Makeup flawless. Never without her signature scent.” If I close my eyes and try hard enough, I can still smell her signature perfume. Soft and delicate with light floral notes. “She was a lot of fun. She had this smile that could light up a room, and this infectious laugh, that no matter how annoyed or angry or upset you were, if you heard that laugh, you couldn’t help yourself, you’d start laughing too.”
“She sounds like an incredible woman.”
“She was. I remember wanting to be just like her when I grew up. I used to love sitting next to her when she was doing her makeup. She had one of those three-mirrored dressers where you can see your face from different angles, and I would sit there and watch her, and we would talk and laugh, and she’d tell me little stories about growing up, or about the people she would meet. Her and my father were always going to fancy parties and rubbing shoulders with famous people, and she would wow them all. But in those intimate moments in front of the mirror when it was just her and me, it felt like I was her whole world and none of the glamour and celebrity encounters meant anything to her. It was those moments she loved the best, she said. Hanging with her favorite girl. After she was finished doing her makeup, she’d paint my lips with lip gloss. I remember how cool and soft her fingers were on my chin when she painted on the gloss. Then she would laugh and tell me that every girl should have a good lip gloss in her purse.” I sigh. The nostalgia feels heavy in my chest. “Gosh, I haven’t thought about that in years. Not since she died.”
It's bittersweet remembering my mom. She meant so much to me, and my memories of her make me happy. But to know I will never see that smile in person again breaks my heart.
“How old were you when she died?”
“I was twelve.”
“That’s a young age to lose your mom.”
“My father came home late one night and found her floating in the pool. I was asleep upstairs, so I couldn’t shed any light on what happened. Talk about feeling guilty. For years I carried that around, the giant what if I could have saved her.”
“You were just a kid asleep in your bed. No guilt required.”
“Tell that to twelve-year-old Bianca. I blamed myself. Especially because her death remained unsolved.”
“I heard they had various theories but couldn’t make one stick.”
“For a while, they thought her death was the result of foul play. But when the toxicology reports came back showing high levels of alcohol in her system, they theorized she’d consumed a bottle of wine at the pool’s edge and then slipped on a wet step. She hit her head and fell into the pool. But she didn’t drown. The blunt force trauma she sustained in the fall was what killed her.”
“So why didn’t they rule it an accident?”
“Two things. The odd angle her of her head. It was as if someone had placed it on the step of the pool, so her face was just out of the water.”
“Odd,” Massimo says, his brows pulled together. “What was the other reason?”
“The antique locket she never took off went missing. It was silver with a big ruby on the front of the pendant. It was the second thing that stopped them from ruling it accidental.”
“Maybe it slipped off during the fall.”
“They drained the pool.” I can still see my father standing on the edge of the pool, looking out at the sweeping view of New York City beyond the gates, his shoulders slumped and tears streaming down his face as the pool was drained and searched. “They never found it.”
“Was it worth anything?”
“It was a family heirloom, so it was sentimental to my mom. That’s why she never took it off. It had been handed down through seven generations. But I later found out the necklace was insured for three hundred thousand dollars. Although my father never collected on it. He said it would be tasteless.”
“Is it possible someone stole it? Perhaps they heard it was worth three hundred thousand dollars and decided they wanted it. It would be easily sold on the black market.”
