Island in the Sea (3 page)

Juliet nodded. “That's so romantic.”

“Unfortunately his ship sunk and he lost all his money. The only way to keep Casa Isabella was to turn the downstairs into a restaurant,” she explained. “After my grandparents died, my parents took over. My mother is the maître d' and my brothers catch the fish and my father runs the kitchen. My mother loves flitting around the dining room; she thinks every night is a party. But my father would rather be upstairs in his study reading a book on medieval history.”

“Why doesn't he hire another chef?” Juliet asked.

“In Majorca everything is about family.” The woman straightened Juliet's silverware. “No one else would care as much that the monkfish is perfectly sautéed or the lettuce is fresh from the garden or the tomatoes are sliced so thinly they melt in your mouth. My father grumbles but he doesn't let anything leave his kitchen unless it would be fit for the prince and princess of Spain.”

Juliet ate cold tomato soup and watched the young woman fill breadbaskets and smooth linen napkins. She listened to the violin playing in the garden and suddenly felt warm and happy. She was in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, eating a salad of feta cheese and red peppers and scallions.

She thought about Lionel and wondered how he could be depressed surrounded by so much beauty. She pictured his living room with its grand piano and French doors and floral sofas. She saw the garden filled with birds of paradise and dahlias. She pictured Gideon with his salt-and-pepper hair and patterned shirts and shuddered. He had made it clear that if Juliet didn't return with a packet of Lionel's songs her job was in jeopardy.

*   *   *

Juliet finished the last bite of almond cake and blotted her mouth with a napkin. It had all been delicious: the Sóller prawns cooked in sea salt and olive oil, the salmon in a marsala sauce with baby carrots, the selection of fruits and local cheeses. She glanced around the room, wishing to thank the young woman but she had disappeared and been replaced by an older woman with dark wavy hair and green eyes.

Juliet walked through the foyer to search for a powder room and heard a woman singing. She listened closer and remembered when she was young and discovered her mother's Carly Simon album. She remembered listening to Carly's bright, clear voice and feeling her lungs expand and her heart race.

She gingerly opened a door and saw the young woman standing at a double sink. She wore a white apron over her navy dress and her hands were covered in soap. She glanced up at Juliet and her cheeks flushed.

“I wanted to thank you for a lovely dinner.” Juliet hesitated. “The grilled salmon was delicious.”

“My father will be pleased.” She beamed. “He refuses to serve fish that wasn't caught the same day, he says you should be able to taste the ocean.”

“You have a beautiful voice.” Juliet entered the kitchen. The counters were stacked with silver trays and square white plates. Brass pots hung from the ceiling and a planter box held round red tomatoes.

She shrugged. “I've always sung, it helps pass the time when you're peeling potatoes or slicing mushrooms. My brothers used to stuff their ears with cotton wool and I'd get back at them by hiding their soccer ball.”

“Have you ever considered singing professionally?” Juliet asked.

“When my mother was young she wanted to be a dancer, she spent hours practicing arabesques in the garden.” She untied her apron. “She ran off to Paris when she was nineteen and performed at the Moulin Rouge. She lasted eight months and returned to Majorca and married my father.”

“I'm sure she would have been a success if she had continued,” Juliet murmured.

“Men sent her flowers and perfume and waited outside her dressing room.” She wiped her hands. “She had three marriage proposals and a jewelry box full of gold necklaces and earrings. She drank champagne and ate caviar at smoky cafés and realized there was nowhere she'd rather be than Majorca.”

“I don't understand.” Juliet frowned.

“Why would I want to sing professionally when I have everything I need right here?” she asked. “A beautiful house and a wonderful family and the Mediterranean outside my front door?” She stopped and held out her hand. “My name is Gabriella, please come back another night. You have to try my father's seafood risotto, it's the best on the island.”

*   *   *

Juliet opened the door to her room and slipped off her sandals. She unzipped her dress and pulled a cotton robe around her shoulders. She climbed into bed and thought about her meeting tomorrow with Lionel. Whatever Gideon had done, she had to convince Lionel to write some new songs.

She closed her eyes and pictured the Casa Isabella. She remembered the dining room with its round tables and high ceilings and marble fireplace. She saw Gabriella standing at the double sink with an apron tied around her waist. She remembered her high, clear voice and a tingle ran down her spine.

chapter two

L
IONEL PRESSED HIS FINGER ON
the alarm clock and waited for his head to stop throbbing. He stumbled to the closet and pulled a bottle of scotch from the box of Bruno Magli loafers. He fished a glass from under a pile of Paul Smith silk shirts and filled it to brim. He took a quick gulp and let his shoulders relax.

He thought about last night and tried to remember when he started drinking. It was probably early, right after the new maid insisted he eat a bowl of paella and plate of green asparagus. He would have to tell the service he didn't want the maid preparing his meals, he felt like a small boy at boarding school forced to eat his vegetables.

He remembered sitting on the porch with a glass of Château Rothschild Chardonnay and a copy of
Ivanhoe
and groaned. Not even a fine wine discovered in the villa's vast wine cellar and a poem by one of his favorite poets could stop the weight pressing against his chest. He finally replaced the wine with straight bourbon and Sir Walter Scott with the latest issue of
GQ
and went upstairs to bed.

*   *   *

Now he drank another sip of scotch and glanced at his alarm clock. Juliet would be arriving in an hour and he hadn't shaved or showered. He thought about calling her and telling her he was sick but she would probably arrive with a carton of chicken soup and a box of Kleenex. He pictured her smooth brown hair and blue eyes and thought she wasn't the type to let a summer cold interfere with what she wanted.

He glanced at his phone and thought about calling Gideon and demanding he put Juliet back on a plane to California. But Gideon would probably send someone who didn't have long legs and wear Dior perfume. He could send an e-mail saying he didn't care if he sent Mariah Carey or Beyoncé, he wasn't writing any new songs. But he pictured seeing Gideon's name in his inbox and decided he would handle Juliet himself.

He put the glass on the bedside table and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He couldn't remember eating anything last night except a Cadbury Fruit &Nut bar and suddenly he was starving. He'd have a piece of toast or a bowl of muesli and then come upstairs and get dressed. He glanced in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and chuckled. If Juliet saw his drawn cheeks and unbrushed hair she might get scared and never come back.

*   *   *

Lionel heard a knock on the door and hurried down the staircase. He inhaled the scent of furniture polish and fresh cut flowers and admitted the daily maid service had its virtues. At least Juliet wouldn't be able to criticize his housekeeping the moment she entered the stone foyer.

“You've cleaned up,” Juliet said, gazing at the plumped floral sofas and neat stacks of magazines. The silk curtains were pulled back and light streamed through the tall French doors.

“My mother did teach me to clean my room before I invited a pretty girl over,” Lionel said. He fished in his slacks for his gold cigarette case.

“I think you cut yourself shaving,” she said. She motioned to his cheek. “You're bleeding.”

“We are the only species that purposely uses a dangerous weapon on our face,” Lionel said. He touched his cheek and winced. “I've always wondered what would happen if you sneezed while holding a razor. But nothing makes you feel more alive than a close shave. When I was performing I had a barber come to the house every morning before I ate my porridge.”

“Gideon told me you were terrible at managing your expense account.” Juliet smiled.

“He seemed happy to indulge me in Brioni suits and Santoni shoes when I was lining his walls with gold records.” Lionel grimaced. “I once met a psychiatrist who insisted I could blame Gideon for my expensive tastes. Weaning yourself off Turnbull & Asser shirts is harder than giving up Cuban cigars.”

“Do you see a psychiatrist?” Juliet asked.

“God, no.” Lionel flicked open a pearl lighter. “Psychiatrists have no desire to cure you, then who would pay for their holidays in Ibiza? I met a female psychiatrist at a party who wanted to give me a free session. But the only time I want to recline on a sofa with a woman is when we're nibbling caviar and drinking Möet & Chandon.”

“It's a gorgeous day, should we sit outside?” Juliet walked to the balcony. The swimming pool was a sparkling turquoise and the fishpond was filled with orange goldfish. Two lounge chairs were littered with striped cushions and there was an outdoor bar lined with brightly colored bottles.

“The sun is so strong, I never go outside before three
P.M
.” Lionel inhaled slowly. “You think you'll be young forever but one day you'll look in the mirror and see a character in a horror movie. You'll climb into bed thinking it was the fourth martini or the extra slice of pannetone but in the morning you'll shuffle to the mirror and see the same figure.

“By then it will be too late to reverse the damage so you'll say you don't care that your eyes are puffy and your stomach sags, but secretly you'll long for the days when you could roll out of bed and pull on a white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.” Lionel gazed at Juliet's smooth brown hair and slender cheekbones. He saw her red linen dress and low white pumps. “Youth is the greatest gift and we don't give a fig about it until it's gone.

“I sound like one of those VHI flashbacks,” he groaned, rubbing his brow. “Let's go into the library, I found a very nice sherry hidden behind a copy of T. S. Eliot's
The Wasteland
.”

Lionel walked down a narrow hallway and entered a room with high ceilings and paneled walls. There was a wide ebony desk and leather wingback chairs. Oriental rugs covered a worn oak floor and a carved elephant stood in the corner.

“The villa has a marvelous collection: Melville, Cervantes, Paul Theroux.” He ran his fingers over the leather-bound books. “I love a thick novel or a juicy memoir, but poetry is the greatest form of literature. A poem can't rely on plot or dialogue, it has to move you with six lines of iambic pentameter or terza rima.”

“My mother writes for
The New Yorker
and hosts a literary salon once a month,” Juliet replied. “She insisted I minor in English in college because she said you can learn everything you need to know by reading Shakespeare's sonnets.”

“And I thought you were one of those young heathens raised on The Backstreet Boys and NSYNC,” he mused. “Did you leave behind a boyfriend in California? Some blond surfer who takes acting classes during the day and parks cars at Château Marmont at night?”

“I don't have a boyfriend in Los Angeles.” Juliet shook her head.

“Don't tell me you are in a long distance relationship filled with Skype sessions and endless texts.” Lionel sighed. “The fastest way to end the human race is to conduct love affairs through a metallic device that AutoCorrects every original thought.”

“I don't have time to date.” Juliet studied the patterns on the rug. “I'm either buried under contracts at my desk or backstage at a concert trying to stop the lead singer from sneaking out for a packet of Twizzlers.”

“I could never go onstage without eating a mince pie and drinking a can of orange Fresca.” Lionel grinned. “But that's ridiculous, love comes before anything. When I met Samantha I had just arrived in London. I was twenty-two and determined to make it as a songwriter; the last thing I needed was to spend my afternoons moping around Hyde Park and wondering if she would see me again.” Lionel opened a drawer in the ebony desk and took out a crystal decanter. He filled two shot glasses with dark red liquid and handed one to Juliet.

“My mother was from a wealthy family in Knightsbridge and did the things girls of her class were supposed to do: took ballet lessons at Sadler's Wells and competed in gymkhanas and learned to ski in the French Alps. She attended boarding school at Woldingham but instead of going to finishing school in Lausanne or taking a summer cooking course in Provence and meeting some young investment banker with his own town house in Chelsea, she fell in love with the son of a local solicitor and stayed in Surrey.

“They got married and lived in a red brick house with a tennis court and a swimming pool. I had a perfectly nice childhood: two older sisters, cricket matches on the village green, and monthly visits to London to see exhibits at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

“My writing teacher insisted I apply to Cambridge and surprisingly I got a place.” Lionel paused and ran his fingers over the shot glass. “I spent the first year studying the great essayists: Thomas Carlyle and William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. But I realized I didn't have deep opinions on important subjects or a burning desire to share them if I had.” He swallowed the sherry. “I stumbled on the romantic poets and became enraptured by Byron and Keats and Browning. There were the answers I was looking for! Not about the fate of humankind or how we could improve society but why a man would plunge a knife in another man's chest in the name of love. I grew my hair long and wrote poetry every moment I got. But no matter how I arranged the verses I felt something was missing.” He stopped and looked at Juliet. “Poetry has to hit you like an arrow in a bull's-eye; if it lands just to the left it may as well never have been written.”