Grace Takes Off (2 page)

HOT AND FRAGRANT, THE AROMA OF RIPENING OLIVES ENVELOPED ME THE MOMENT THE
limo door opened. I boosted myself from the shadowed leather backseat, blinking against
the sudden brightness of the lazy afternoon sun. Our ride through Italy’s Tuscan countryside
had been chilly, cushioned bliss, but the moment I crunched one foot on the gravel
outside, I was engulfed again by the day’s oppressive heat.

Bennett Marshfield, my boss and benefactor of this whirlwind excursion, had come around
from the other side and now offered me his hand to help me alight. How he managed
to remain so cool and stately when beads of sweat exploded at my hairline, I didn’t
know, but I accepted his assistance as the chauffeur held the vehicle’s door.

Bennett turned to him. “Will you be driving us to the airport tomorrow?”

The elderly driver smiled. “It will be my great pleasure,” he answered in heavily
accented English. As he trotted to the limo’s trunk to retrieve our luggage, he added,
“Signor Pezzati has arranged for me to be available whenever you have need.”

Bennett thanked him as we made our way up the path to the grand villa before us. The
patchwork of stones beneath our feet had been worn to a shiny, flat surface over the
centuries, making me wonder about the warriors who had trod this path before us.

“Some place Nico’s got here, eh?” Bennett said under his breath, though there was
no one nearby to overhear.

Built in the fourteenth century and renovated countless times since, this former fortress
was now home to one of Bennett’s oldest friends, Nico Pezzati. Smaller than Marshfield
Manor—though not by much—it sprawled atop this hillside like a cat sunning itself
on the back of a lush outdoor sofa.

My pale pink blouse—the one a saleswoman claimed would “breathe” but rather saw fit
to absorb moisture from the air and deliver it directly to my skin—clung for dear
life against the front of my chest and between my shoulder blades. As Bennett and
I took the uneven stone stairs up to the home’s front doors, sweat rivulets raced
down to pool at my waist. Another two minutes out here and I’d be drenched in my own
perspiration. What a lovely way to meet Bennett’s old school chum.

To my great relief, the moment we reached the top step, thick mahogany doors swung
wide, and a delicious rush of cold air swirled around us.

A young man in a crisp, white shirt greeted us in enthusiastic Italian. “
Benvenuto,
signore
e
signorina.” He flashed a smile that contrasted against his rich bronze complexion
and switched to English. “Signor Pezzati anticipates eagerly your arrival.”

“Thank you,” I said as I stepped deeper into the oasis of cool. “We are very happy
to have been invited.”

I gestured toward the car, but before I could voice my question, the young man answered
me. “Your belongings will be sent upstairs ahead of you.”

“Thank you,” I said again. “And you are?”

The young man pressed his fingers against his chest. “I am Marco,” he said with a
rousing, rumbling
R
. Sweeping his hand in front of us, he stepped backward, allowing us to pass. “
Prego
, please enter.”

As we’d driven up, I’d been struck by the villa’s austere appearance, tabby cat–colored
bricks stretching outward and upward in bland, undulating monochrome. No doubt the
structure had served well in its fortress days, but I’d had my doubts about how it
would fare in its contemporary role as a Tuscan home for an elderly billionaire.

The moment I stepped inside the soaring foyer, however, I sucked in a breath of surprise.
Yellow reflective walls, set ablaze by the sun streaming in from high skylights, made
me believe the room was lined in gold. “Oh,” I said. Words escaped me, and I realized
by Marco’s smile that he was used to such a reaction.

The floor, made of cobalt-blue tile, glimmered cool like a river. Marco urged us to
follow it—and him—through a narrow walkway that led deeper into the home.

“Signor Pezzati wishes to visit with you on the terrazzo,” Marco said as we traversed
a shadowed room where draperies were shut against the day’s relentless sunshine. The
room featured painted wooden ceilings, thick green wall hangings, and a coat of arms
displayed proudly above a fireplace that was almost as large as my entire kitchen.
I knew Bennett to be an avid collector of antiques and priceless artwork, but what
I could see in this room alone made me curious about how the Marshfield stash would
stack up against Nico Pezzati’s. Decorated to within an inch of its life, there was
almost nowhere in this room for my eyes to rest as I took in the walls, the furniture,
and the knickknacks. Every horizontal space was crowded with pieces, some of which,
even from this distance, I recognized as extremely rare.

Bennett maintained small talk with Marco as we made our way toward the terrazzo. “How
long have you worked with Nico?” he asked.

“I am here for one year,” he said. “Signor Pezzati has been diligent in his teaching
of me, and I have learned much of your language. You do not find I am difficult to
comprehend?”

“Not at all,” Bennett assured him.

Marco flashed a glance over his shoulder, silently seeking my opinion. I smiled at
his eagerness to impress us. “You are far, far ahead of where I would be after only
one year of Italian,” I said. “You’ve made remarkable progress.”

“I hope to visit America someday.”

“Be sure to let us know when that day comes,” Bennett said. “You will be most welcome
at Marshfield.”

We followed Marco along a circuitous path through several more rooms where the temptation
to stop and examine the riches on display was overwhelming. I slowed my pace to be
able to take in the plump furnishings, the gold-leaf walls, and the delicious, musty
scent of history that permeated every inch of this home. I guessed that Villa Pezzati
was about two-thirds the size of Marshfield Manor, but it easily housed three times
the amount of treasures.

Marco noticed me lagging. “There will be time,” he said with a knowing grin. “As our
guests, you are to stay in this home as your own.”

Marco stepped aside as we entered a wide, airy room obviously added on centuries after
the fortress years. Decorated in buttery yellows and white, this room had a far more
contemporary feel than had any of the others thus far. A wall of windows faced northwest,
and I spotted our elderly host, his hunched back to us, reclining under a terra-cotta
awning’s shade. Two men hovered nearby. One stood, almost at attention, on the white-and-gray-patterned
flagstone floor. The other looked as though he was having an argument with Pezzati.
He paced and gesticulated, his raised voice coming through loud and clear. For all
the good it did: Everything he shouted was in Italian.

“Prego,”
Marco said. He slid open one of the glass doors to allow us outside, silencing the
pacing man’s diatribe. Though he worked hard to arrange his face into a welcoming
smile, the man fell short in quelling the blaze of his glare. I glanced to Bennett,
who kept his expression neutral.

Bennett and Nico had been boys together at school and had maintained their friendship
over many decades. The difference in the two men struck me as Nico struggled to his
feet to greet us. The other man, who appeared to be a servant of some sort, reached
forward to help the elderly gent.

I’d dreaded the idea of returning outdoors to the hotbox for this reunion, but I was
pleasantly surprised. There was an awning above, and an outdoor air-conditioning system,
the likes of which I’d never seen before, that wafted cool breezes across the luxurious
patio. The view was spectacular. We were surrounded on all sides by wide-trunked trees,
the captivating scent of sun-warmed soil, and the ever-present aroma of olive oil
filtering through. “This is heaven,” I said.

“Indeed,” Bennett agreed. He crossed the terrazzo in three strides, preventing Pezzati
from stepping away from his massive cushioned wicker chair, the back of which he clung
to with bony fingers. “Nico,” Bennett said warmly, reaching to grasp his friend’s
free hand. “It’s been too long.”

Bennett had provided a little background on our trip out here. Nico Pezzati had inherited
his considerable wealth as a young man and had managed his many interests from a New
York City penthouse up until about fifteen years ago. Widowed young, and tired of
the frenetic American pace, he’d relocated to Italy, near where his parents had been
born. He had two grown children, a son he had disowned shortly after he’d moved here,
and a daughter, whom Bennett barely remembered.

As he’d provided this history, Bennett had adopted a wistful, resigned look. “We lost
touch over the years, Gracie. I think Nico was ashamed of his son. Having managed
so much wealth so successfully himself, he expected no less from his progeny. His
disappointment in Gerard’s irresponsible behavior was too much for him.”

“And they have no contact at all anymore?” I’d asked.

Bennett had given a thoughtful sigh. “I should be a better friend to Nico,” he’d finally
said. “We were so close so many years ago, and I’m beginning to grasp how little we’ve
kept in touch.” Turning to me again, he forced a smile. “Neither of us is getting
any younger. Maybe this trip will allow us to reconnect.”

I’d patted his arm. “I’m sure it will.”

Now, as Bennett introduced me, Nico took my hand in both of his. He was probably my
height, but seemed shorter due to his stooped posture. Behind his age-spotted, sun-scarred
face, I could see the handsome man he’d once been. Deep smile lines and twinkling
eyes led me to believe his spirit embraced a more youthful existence than his body
allowed.

“Grace,” Nico said, holding tight. He gave me a surreptitious once-over. “Your name
suits you.”

“It’s my great pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “Bennett has told me a lot about
your adventures at school.”

He chuckled. “I hope he hasn’t told you
everything
,” he said. “I have a reputation to uphold.” Letting go of my hand, he turned to Bennett
with a glimmer of understanding in his eye. “When you told me that you would be accompanied
by an
assistant
, I confess I had entirely different expectations. You are still quite the active
man, aren’t you, my good friend?”

Bennett cleared his throat. “You misunderstand. Grace is my n—”

“Curator,” I volunteered, realizing that by cutting Bennett off I was probably feeding
directly into Nico’s assumptions. I couldn’t allow myself to be identified as Bennett’s
niece, though. Not yet, anyway. Not until we knew for certain, and we both understood
that day might never come. “And estate manager,” I continued. “I’m in charge of the
artifacts, the tourism, and the grounds.”

“Ah,” Nico said in a gracious tone that made it clear he didn’t believe a word I’d
said, “my mistake. Allow me to present some of
my
assistants. They are nowhere near as lovely as you are, Grace, but I am in need of
a different sort of comfort these days.”

As though to emphasize his words, Nico lifted his free arm and the man who hadn’t
been arguing with him grabbed it and helped lower the elderly man back into his chair.

“Please, join me. Sit,” Nico said. He gestured blithely to the other man. “That is
Angelo, and this”—he pointed up toward the fellow who was now arranging pillows—“is
Gianfranco. Neither man speaks any English, although I believe they’ve begun to catch
on to a couple of words here and there.”

At the sound of their names, both men made eye contact with us and gave a small nod
of acknowledgment. As Bennett and I sat, forming a small
U
-shaped conversational area around a low, painted table, I studied the assistants.
The larger of the two, Angelo, the one who had been arguing with Nico as we’d approached,
stood about fifteen feet away from us, hands crossed in front of his waist, his pale
face impassive, eyes staring straight ahead like a soldier who had just been told,
“At ease.”

Gianfranco, by contrast, was slightly built with a darker complexion. His glare bounced
from us to Angelo, to Nico, to the house. His fingers were long and thin and in constant
motion, much like his furtive glances. He attempted to refill Nico’s wineglass, but
when he lifted the yellow-and-blue pitcher to pour, nothing came out. Gianfranco barked
an order at Marco, who disappeared back inside the house without a word of complaint.

Bennett and Nico faced one another, with me between them. I couldn’t help but notice
Nico’s keen interest in my presence. “Your Marshfield Manor is doing well?” he asked
Bennett, keeping his attention on me.

“Grace has been instrumental in boosting attendance,” Bennett said. “She’s been the
best thing to happen to Marshfield in a long time.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Nico said. “And apparently the best thing that has happened
to you, my friend.”

Bennett sat forward. “I know you don’t mean to offend, Nico, but you must stop this
at once. Grace is my trusted assistant.” He shot me an apologetic smile. He’d warned
me that Nico was—in his words—
saltier
than most of his contemporaries. “She is like a daughter to me.” With a twinkle in
his eye, he added, “Or a dear niece. Your innuendo is making us both uncomfortable,
and I’m certain that is not your intent.”