The Juliet Club (3 page)

“Sarah!” Annie snapped. “We are talking about our friend
Kate
.”

“I know that,” Sarah said, injured. “That's what I was saying. Once she gets to Verona, she'll forget that she's been tragically hurt by love and get a crush on some cute Italian boy and all will be well.”

“I'm not so sure,” Annie said darkly. “You know how she loves to prove a point. She'll spend all her time in some dreary library, her nose stuck in a book.”

“Not in Italy,” said Sarah with serene confidence. “When she comes home, she'll be in love, I'm sure of it.”

“Really?” Even over the phone, Sarah could hear the sudden, sharp interest in Annie's voice. “How sure?”

Even though Sarah knew better, she said confidently, “Absolutely, positively sure. In fact, I'd be willing to bet—”

“—your silver necklace with the four-leaf clover charm?” Annie asked quickly. Sarah swore that wishing on this necklace had helped her pass algebra, won her a place on the drill team, and summoned a blizzard on the day her unwritten history term paper was due. Not that Annie really believed any of that, of course, but she wouldn't mind wearing that necklace herself. . . .

“Fine,” Sarah said, “if
you
will wager your black suede boots.” She had lusted after those boots ever since Annie had made a major score at an outlet mall and gotten them for seventy-five percent off. The fact that they both wore exactly the same size only made Annie's triumph cut deeper. “The ones with the buckle on the side and the wedge heels,” she added, just to be absolutely clear what was at stake.

“Done!” Annie said recklessly.

And so a wager was made; a lucky silver necklace and a pair of black suede boots, size six, were put into play; and the power of love was put to the test. . . .

Act I
Scene II

Kate stared up at the villa where the Shakespeare Scholars were going to stay. It was eight o'clock in the evening, and she and her father had finally arrived after traveling for almost twenty-four hours straight, thanks to weather delays, missed train connections, and all the other assorted misfortunes that can befall the unlucky traveler. They had entered through a large wooden door that led into a courtyard, an enclosed area where, Kate presumed, carriages used to stand, back in the day before cars. Then they looked through an archway to a small front garden and at the villa itself.

It was built of old stone that had been softened by age: moss crept up the walls, and centuries of use had worn shallow indentations into the front steps. Faded green shutters covered the windows, giving the house a secretive look. A series of ancient terra-cotta pots were lined up on either side of the front steps, filled with a profusion of blue, yellow, and pink flowers.

“
Villa Marchese
,” she murmured, a shiver of excitement running through her. “
Bellisima!
”

But her father glared, first at the villa, then at her. “Indeed,” he said coldly. “It's amazing what the wages of sin can buy these days.” He finished with a huge yawn.

Kate gave him a look. She knew her father had a chip on his shoulder when it came to Francesca Marchese, but really . . .

“You wouldn't feel so tired if you'd taken that herbal supplement for jet lag like I did,” she said. “And sin seems a little strong.”

“I'm speaking of academic sin, of course,” her father said. “To think that she acquired all this”—he made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm to encompass fifteen bedrooms, extensive gardens, a ballroom, and an entire floor of servants' quarters—“by writing that ridiculous book!”

“A lot of people loved
The Shakespeare Secret,
” Kate offered meekly. Three million people, to be precise. She herself had purchased a copy in secret and stayed up until two in the morning to finish it. Unfortunately for her father, she had found it enthralling, something that she could never, ever admit. “And the reviews were pretty good.” In fact, the reviews were fantastic, which her father knew quite well.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said testily. “She has achieved fame and fortune by cheapening the work of the greatest playwright the English language has ever known. Very impressive.” He stood stock-still and glared at the villa as if he were a virtuous David confronting the immoral might of Goliath. “Well, as long as we are forced to reside in this den of iniquity, I suppose we might as well get settled.”

He walked up the steps to a massive oak door and swung the heavy brass knocker, one, two, three times.

Each knock echoed in the quiet courtyard with all the force of a magical incantation, then the door swung open, revealing a bent, elderly woman. She was wearing a black dress, black lace-up shoes, and despite the heat, a black cardigan. She had a long black staff topped with a tarnished silver knob, which she seemed to be holding not for support but as a potential weapon should the need arise.

“Buon giorno,”
her father said. “We're here for the Shakespeare Seminar.”

“Ah,
si, si
.” She smiled broadly, revealing a blinding set of dentures, and pulled the door open a little wider, gesturing for them to come in. “Shakespeare,
si
!”

“I'm Professor Tim Sanderson. This is my daughter, Kate,” he said, as he hauled his suitcase over the threshold. “And you are . . . ?”

“Si, si!”
She nodded her head vigorously and pointed to herself. “Maria!” Then, introductions accomplished, she started up the sweeping staircase at top speed. After a moment's hesitation, Kate and her father looked at each other and realized there was nothing for them to do but follow.

Maria ushered them through a maze of halls with the courtly manner of an old family retainer. They walked past walls lined with enormous oil portraits in heavy gold frames, the faces dim and darkened by age; past dozens of doors, a few open just enough to offer teasing glimpses of grand four-poster beds and vases filled with fresh flowers; and past wall niches that contained plaster statues of saints or more flowers.

“Must cost a fortune to keep this place going,” her father said. “She'll probably run through all her money within a year and not even know where it all went.” He looked pleased at the thought. “Sad, really.”

They had reached another flight of stairs. Her father eyed it with the look of a mountain climber who can see the summit but isn't at all sure he can make it. “Ah, another floor?”

“Si, si!”
Maria made an energetic gesture toward the heavens, smiling maliciously. She was obviously ready to sprint up four more flights, carrying a suitcase or two if necessary.

“Lovely,” he said. “But perhaps we could stop for just a moment . . . jet lag, you know. . . .”

“If you'd set your watch to Italian time as soon as we got on the plane,” Kate said, seeing an opening, “and if you'd worn that sleep mask so that you weren't awake all night—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said testily. “I'm sure that if I had done all that I would now feel fresh as a daisy, but I didn't and I don't!”

They staggered up the stairs to the next landing, where he halted, mopped his brow, and took several deep, shuddering breaths. He spotted a series of old black-and-white photos hung on the wall and pointed to them with feigned interest. “Are these family, then?” he asked Maria.
“La famiglia di Professoressa Marchese?”

The elderly woman spared the photos one scornful glance, then hit the floor with her cane.
“Morto!”
she cried, pointing to a stiff portrait of a man in a three-piece black suit. Her face lit with glee that seemed to say,
He
is dead and
I
am not!

As she led them down the hall, she lifted her cane and pointed to one photo after the other as she cried triumphantly,
“Morto! Morto! Morto!”
Dead, dead, dead!

Finally, after walking past a half-dozen more rooms, this morbid march ended and they came to a halt. The woman opened two doors, one across the hall from the other, and gestured that they should take their luggage inside.

“Oh, our rooms at last!” her father said with relief. “How delightful.”

As her father entered his bedroom, Kate blearily wheeled her suitcase into her own. It was a large room with high ceilings and tall windows covered with green velvet curtains. There was a four-poster bed draped with rich tapestries and an ornate mirror hanging over a marble fireplace. Kate wandered over to peer at her reflection. It wavered in the dim green light so that she seemed to be floating underwater.

There was a knock on the door, and she turned to see her father leaning against the door frame as if only that support could keep him from sliding to the floor from exhaustion. “I think I might need a tiny nap before we go out to see the sights,” he said, blinking owlishly at her.

“You know, the latest research shows that it's helpful if you try to stay awake until your normal bedtime.”

He just made a noise in his throat, like a discontented bear, and waved one weary hand as he disappeared. Kate went into her bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Apparently, the bathroom was shared with the bedroom next door. Someone had scattered lipsticks, lotions, gels, conditioners, powders, eye shadows, curlers, bobby pins, hand creams, manicure scissors, facial scrubs, and moisturizers next to the sink.

Kate shook her head at the sight as she virtuously unpacked her own bathroom kit: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, one lip gloss (pink), one eye shadow (sand), and one mascara (brown).

She brushed her teeth quickly and wandered back to her bedroom, thinking fuzzy thoughts about how glad she was that she had followed her anti-jet-lag regimen to the letter. That's why she still felt so . . .

She stifled a yawn.

. . . so completely rested and refreshed. Kate stacked her Italian dictionary, several guidebooks, and a history of Italy neatly on a table, then stretched out on her bed and began flipping through one of the guidebooks. As she found the section on Verona, she couldn't help feeling sorry for her father, who was probably passed out in his bed across the hall. . . .

She yawned again. Her own bed, she couldn't help but notice, was incredibly comfortable.

. . . while
she
was ready to explore the town. . . .

But as her vision blurred and another yawn overtook her, Kate realized that her body had other ideas. A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Her eyes closed, her book fell from her hand, and Kate fell deeply asleep.

Act I
Scene III

When Kate woke up on Saturday morning, it took several moments of staring up at the brocade canopy to remember where she was. When she did, she sat up with a start, checked the bedside clock, and was astonished to see that she had slept for almost twelve hours. She felt alert, energetic, and remarkably cheerful.

She jumped out of bed and surveyed her room with great satisfaction. For the past few years, whenever she had fallen subject to a fit of melancholy, she had imagined living in a garret. A charming, light-filled garret, of course, that would comfort her soul by offering her beauty and peace and, most of all, solitude. No one would be allowed in her garret. Absolutely no one—

“Not even us?” Sarah would cry, a note of betrayal in her voice.

Kate had sighed, aware of how foolish she had been to share this fantasy with her two best friends. “You, of course, would be granted visiting privileges,” she would say to Sarah. And with a nod to Annie, “You, too. Naturally.”

Annie had merely lifted one sardonic eyebrow. “Thank you so much. No heat in winter, I suppose. Cold water all year round. Only a radish for supper. How dull, and how like you, Kate.”

But when Kate had imagined her cozy garret, this had been what she had seen. Walls with faded frescoes, bookshelves filled with volumes covered in shades of lemon and ivory, high ceilings with ornate moldings, and warm Mediterranean sunlight slanting through the shutters.

She jumped out of bed, pulled back the window curtains, threw open the shutters, and discovered that her room faced an enormous garden that stretched out behind the villa. Closer to the house, dark green hedges divided the lawn into neat flower beds; borders of purplish gray lavender edged the paths; and a wide avenue, lined by stately rows of cypresses, bisected the lawn with geometric exactitude.

But there were hints of wildness and mystery as well: a shadowy forest beyond the hedges; a rustic bench tucked under a rose-covered arch; glimpses of a high stone wall, crumbling with age. A bird suddenly winged from one tree to another, a swift arrow against the sky. Bees hummed drowsily in the hot sun, and she could smell a spicy, sun-warmed fragrance that seemed both familiar and exotic.

As she was trying to identify it, there was a knock at the door that led to the bathroom. Then a tanned, laughing girl with long blond hair and cornflower blue eyes burst into her room.

“Well, hey there!” the girl said in a Southern drawl. “You must be Kate Sanderson! I'm Lucy Atwell, I'm from Jackson, Mississippi, and I'm real pleased to meet you! My room's just on the other side of the bathroom; we're sharing, but I guess you figured that out. I've already met a few of the other students—there's Winnie, who's super serious, and Jonathan, who's super intellectual, but Tom across the hall is real nice. At least he's still in high school, like us.”

As Lucy paused for breath, she glanced at the suitcase Kate had placed neatly at the foot of her bed. “Did the airline lose the rest of your luggage? 'Cause I've heard that happens a lot when you travel overseas and I have to tell you, I was just scared to death it was going to happen to me, but thank the lord all my luggage got here all right—”

“No, that's all I have,” Kate interrupted.

“Oh.” Lucy looked taken aback but quickly recovered. “Well, aren't you smart to travel so light! Now, I brought six suitcases—”

“Six. Really.” Kate tried to imagine how much could be transported in that many suitcases. Probably her entire wardrobe, with room to spare.

“I know that seems like a lot, but let me tell you, that was the
bare minimum,
” Lucy said, somewhat defensively. “In fact, that's what I told the man at the check-in counter, because he was being really sarcastic. I finally had to say, look, I
would
pack less stuff, but then everything would be at home!”

Kate wrinkled her forehead. There must have been some lingering fogginess from the trip, because she didn't seem to be able to track that reasoning. “Quite true,” she said at last.

Lucy wandered to the dresser, where Kate's workout clothes were still piled high, waiting to be put away. “You must really like to exercise,” she said.

“I run every day, if I can,” Kate said. “If you'd like to go with me, I'd love the company.”

“Oh, honey, I wouldn't run unless I was being chased by a bear,” Lucy said with a flip of her hand. “I hate getting sweaty. But maybe Tom across the hall would go with you. He looks very athletic.”

“So who
is
this Tom-across-the-hall?”

Lucy brightened up immediately. “Oh, he's a super-sweet guy, which is good because we're the only three Americans. Well, the only Americans who are still in high school. There are a bunch of college kids staying here, too, but they're not going to be in our seminar, and I can tell you I am just completely thankful about
that
because I've already met a few of them, and in my opinion, they are
way
too intense.”

As they headed across the hall to meet Tom, Kate learned that Lucy's father was a businessman known as the Sofabed King of the South; that her mother was a former Miss Mississippi; that one of her six suitcases was actually empty, ready to be filled with what she bought in Italy; that there were only a hundred and three people in her high school class; and furthermore—

Tom Boone opened his door. “Hey.” He had sun-bleached hair, clear green eyes, and a smile that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. “Are you guys hungry?”

As they headed downstairs in search of breakfast, Lucy confided that she simply
adored
Shakespeare, that she harbored a secret hope of playing the part of Juliet in her high school's fall production, and that
Romeo and Juliet
was simply her favorite play of all time.

“I mean,” she finished up, “it's so
romantic
.”

“Why does everyone always say that?” Kate asked as they walked into the dining room, a note of exasperation in her voice. “Even a superficial reading of the text would indicate that the word ‘romantic' doesn't really apply. After all, the story does end with a double suicide.”

Too late, Kate realized that they were giving her odd looks, the same kind of looks that she used to get in school when she got too enthusiastic about iambic pentameter or the construction of sonnets.

She could almost hear Annie's voice in her ear, making a point that they had argued many times over the years.

“You're such a nerd,” Annie would sigh.

“So? What's wrong with being a nerd?” Kate would snap. “Bill Gates is a nerd, and he's the richest man in the world.”

“There's nothing wrong with
being
a nerd,” Annie would say patiently, as if she were merely stating the obvious. “What's wrong—or at least monumentally inappropriate—is letting people
know
you're a nerd.”

Lucy was saying blithely, “Well, I know the ending is a downer, but I just stop reading before Juliet takes that sleeping pill. After all, before that happened, things were going
so well
!”

Kate opened her mouth to point out that, in fact, by the time Juliet drank the potion, the Capulets and Montagues were well enmeshed in a bitter rivalry, two people had been killed in sword fights, and Romeo had been banished . . . then she remembered Annie's warning and quickly shut her mouth.

But maybe Tom would reveal hidden depths. A deeply held passion for poetry, perhaps, or an interest in the historical context of the plays.

“What about you, Tom?” she asked as they started down the breakfast buffet. “Why did you enter the Shakespeare Scholar competition?”

To her surprise, the question seemed to unnerve him. “Me?” He looked up from a serious contemplation of the yogurt, fruit, and cheese, his expression startled, as if it had never occurred to him that someone might ask him this question. Finally, he muttered, “Um, well, I guess I just, you know . . . like Shakespeare?”

Kate nodded encouragingly and waited.

But he glanced away, his eyes lighting with interest on a plate of prosciutto. He picked up a piece of the thinly sliced ham and took a cautious bite. “Hey, you should try this. It's really good.”

“What was your essay about?” Kate persisted.

“Well, I just picked an idea,” he muttered. “I didn't think about it too much.”

“Did you bring a copy with you?” Kate asked. “I'd love to read it some time.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Now he looked positively hunted. “My hard drive crashed a month ago, so I don't know . . .”

He was rescued by Lucy. “Well, I'm just glad I won, I really didn't think I had a chance in the world, to tell you the truth, but here I am in Verona!” she said. “Walking the actual streets where Romeo and Juliet walked! Oh, listen, I have a fabulous idea. Why don't we all go to Juliet's House after we eat? We have hours before we have to get ready for the opening-night party, and I just can't wait to see where all the events of the play took place in real life! Imagine standing on the very spot where Juliet stood when she first met Romeo!”

Her eyes were shining with enthusiasm, so Kate decided not to mention that no one could confirm that a Capulet family had ever lived in the house, that Juliet's existence had never been proven, or that the famous balcony had been added to the house in 1928.

Instead, she shrugged and said, “Why not?”