Lake Como (12 page)

“He’s right.” The man nodded. “But visitors aren’t allowed. He shouldn’t have brought you.”

“I’m sorry.” Hallie walked toward the exit. “I can wait outside.”

“You’re here now.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Angus Barlow.”

“Are you the owner?” Hallie asked.

“I’m Max Rodale’s estate manager.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My job is to keep out people like you.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Hallie said, frowning.

“Mr. Rodale is in Florence,” Angus said. “The Uffizi Gallery is interested in his Renaissance art collection.”

“I studied Renaissance paintings at UCLA,” Hallie breathed. “Can I see them?”

“Are you sure you don’t have a camera in your buttonhole?” Angus asked.

“I don’t even have a button hole.” Hallie grinned. “You can search me.”

“You have an honest face,” Angus relented. “I better not be wrong, or I’ll get fired.”

*   *   *

Hallie followed Angus through a succession of rooms with polished floors and stately furniture. Every piece was exciting: the authentic Louis XIV chairs, the lacquered cabinets, the gold candelabras. Hallie glanced at the ceiling and saw planets circling the solar system.

“Mr. Rodale has one of the finest private Renaissance collections in Italy.” Angus directed Hallie to a small room past the library. “It includes one of Botticelli’s earliest works and several little-known paintings by Bellini.”

“These are original?” Hallie asked.

Angus nodded. “It’s been his life’s work for the past decade. Mr. Rodale keeps a very low profile. I’m the only person who sees him.”

“The only one?” Hallie repeated.

“He buys his art through dealers and I take care of his personal life,” Angus explained. “One of the hardest things is keeping the paparazzi away. You’d think they’d stay busy with George Clooney, but when they smell money they attack like vultures.”

“I’m sorry I barged in,” Hallie apologized.

“It’s nice to have company.” Angus smiled. “I only see the gardener and the cook and the butcher every Thursday.”

“Can I see more of the villa?” Hallie asked tentatively.

Angus paused, scratching his forehead. “Just the first floor,” he said finally. “But please don’t touch anything.”

Angus showed Hallie the indoor fountains, the grand circular staircase, the bathrooms with marble floors and gold-plated bidets.

“How long has he lived here?” Hallie asked when they stepped onto the balcony. There were a series of terraced gardens leading down to the lake, and a grove of apple trees.

“Four years.” Angus leaned on the railing. “He wanted a place where he could build his collection in private. Sometimes I think I should carry a stick and pepper spray. I once found a photographer hiding in an apple tree. He almost landed on my head.”

“Collecting priceless art isn’t the best way to avoid attention.” Hallie grinned.

“I guess it’s hard to escape one’s passion.” Angus shrugged. “I should ask you to leave. Mr. Rodale could return at any time.”

“He should display the paintings in a better space,” Hallie said as they retraced their steps. “Each painting should have its own wall and be flooded with light.”

“Hallie!” Alfonso rushed down the hall. “I thought you vanished.”

“I did a little sightseeing on my own,” Hallie replied, glancing nervously at the floor.

“I found her in the hall of mirrors,” Angus explained. “I thought she was paparazzi. I was about to throw her into the lake.”

“I apologize.” Alfonso bowed his head. “I wanted to show her the beauty of Villa Luce.”

“Don’t bring anyone again,” Angus replied, suddenly abrupt.

“You have my word,” Alfonso mumbled. “But so much beauty should be shared.”

“That’s not for us to decide,” Angus said gruffly. “I’ll let you show yourselves out.”

*   *   *

Hallie and Alfonso were silent on the trip back to Bellagio. Alfonso was angry that she wandered off, and Hallie’s head was spinning at the villa’s grandeur. She sat backward in the boat, watching the Villa Luce disappear across the lake. She wanted to call Constance and tell her about the paintings. She opened her purse to take out her phone and realized Angus had kept her business card.

chapter eight

Hallie sat in the front parlor flicking through an
Italian Architectural Digest.
She hadn’t seen Portia since the feast and she was worried about her. Portia’s phone went straight to voice mail and her room was empty, the bedspread unruffled.

Hallie’s phone buzzed and she answered it without checking the caller ID.

“Hallie, darling,” Francesca said. “How is Italy?”

“I thought you were Portia.” Hallie frowned. “I haven’t seen her in two days.”

“Portia’s missing?” Francesca replied. “I thought you were going to keep an eye on her.”

“Sophia held a feast to celebrate my arrival and Portia left with Riccardo. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Well, if she’s with Riccardo.” Francesca hesitated. “That’s great news.”

Hallie thought about Riccardo’s mistress stashed in Milan, about his declaration that he wanted to divorce Portia and marry Veronica.

“I hope so,” Hallie murmured, fiddling with the gold tassels on the sofa.

“Tell me everything.” Francesca’s voice was warm and engaging. “Are Sophia and Pliny treating you well? Have you seen Marcus?”

“Marcus and Angelica are visiting her parents in Tuscany,” Hallie replied. “Sophia is still a dragon, but Pliny has been very kind.”

“He does have a charming side,” Francesca agreed. “I can’t imagine Sophia mellowing with age. That would be like the Pope becoming less Catholic.”

“I saw the most beautiful villa,” Hallie mused. “It’s in Lenno and it looks exactly like Versailles.”

Since she returned from Villa Luce she hadn’t been able to think about anything else. When she closed her eyes she saw the glittering chandeliers and the elaborate frescos. She pictured the bubbling fountains and magnificent chestnut trees.

“Have you thought about Peter?”

“San Francisco seems so far away,” Hallie replied. “I don’t know how I’ll feel when I see him.”

“Distances can seem very great or terribly small,” Francesca said thoughtfully. “I must go; I have a six-tier vanilla custard wedding cake to deliver.”

“How do you fit that into your car?” Hallie giggled, suddenly missing her mother’s light vanilla custard and rich chocolate icing.

“Very carefully.” Francesca laughed. “Give my love to Portia.”

Hallie hung up and flipped through the magazine. She wished she could go for a run on the Marina Green or buy dinner at Safeway; do all the normal things that filled her life. Without Portia, the day stretched ahead like a blank sheet of paper.

“Hallie!” Portia blew in the door. She wore a silver Versace dress and gold Gucci sandals. Her cheeks were tan and her hair tumbled down her back.

“You look very elegant for eleven o’clock in the morning.” Hallie smiled. “I take it you didn’t run away to the ballet school in Milan.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.” Portia threw herself on the sofa. “Riccardo took me to the Villa d’Este. It was such a whirlwind; I didn’t even have any clothes. I had to buy this in the gift shop.”

Hallie raised her eyebrows. The Villa d’Este was one of the most famous hotels in the world, patronized by kings and rock stars. Hallie had seen pictures and Alfonso had pointed it out from the boat, but she had never been inside.

“We wanted to be together after the feast,” Portia explained. “I couldn’t take him up to my bedroom.”

“Why didn’t you go to your villa?”

“Riccardo wanted to do something more romantic.” Portia fell back against the cushions. “We ate on the terrace overlooking the floating pool, we danced under the stars. It was like being on honeymoon.”

“Are you back together?”

“Riccardo doesn’t think we should live together yet,” Portia replied evasively.

“You mean he’s keeping his mistress in Milan, and humoring you on the side?” Hallie asked, suddenly angry.

“At least he still wants to be married to me,” Portia argued. “He didn’t mention divorce.”

“Villa d’Este is hardly the place you take someone to discuss divorce,” Hallie muttered. “Do you want to date your own husband?”

“If Riccardo leaves, no man will want to marry a divorced woman.”

“This isn’t the Dark Ages.” Hallie sighed. “Remember your vows: in sickness and in health, through good times and bad. They didn’t say anything about two nights at a five-star resort when you’re horny.”

“It wasn’t just sex.” Portia pouted.

“You deserve better; Alfonso agrees.”

“When did you see Alfonso?” Portia asked.

“I ran into him in Bellagio yesterday. He took me to see the most amazing private villa. He said you always brought home bad boys.”

“Alfonso and Marcus think they know everything.” Portia shrugged. “Men are like little boys, they are good and bad at the same time.”

“A husband isn’t a child.” Hallie closed the magazine. “Let’s go exploring. I’d love to see the castle at Varenna.”

“Are you trying to get my mind off Riccardo?” Portia asked suspiciously. “You think I’ll meet some romantic Frenchman and fly off to the City of Lights?”

“It could happen.” Hallie grinned.

Portia shook her head. “A Tesoro has to marry an Italian.”

“Pliny married Francesca,” Hallie protested.

“When he was a university student on a ski vacation.” Portia sighed. “Sophia didn’t know about it until he carried Francesca over the threshold.”

“It’s your life,” Hallie argued.

“But it’s the Tesoro name,” Portia mumbled. “I’ll go upstairs and change and then we’ll sightsee. Promise that you won’t say anything bad about Riccardo.”

Hallie looked at Portia’s narrow cheekbones, her dark luminous eyes. She saw pain and joy flit across her face. She crossed her fingers behind her back and nodded.

*   *   *

Hallie and Portia sat in the Piazza San Giorgio, sharing a wood-fired pizza. They spent all day exploring Varenna, climbing higher until they reached the ruins of the Castello di Vezio. They learned about Queen Theodolina who was sentenced to death in the seventh century, and imagined what it would be like to know your days were numbered when you were surrounded by so much beauty.

Hallie thought maybe Portia was right about Riccardo. Portia was almost her old self. When they reached the Castello di Vezio, Hallie was breathless from the long hike, but Portia twirled around the ruins like it was a stage. Portia ran all the way down to the Piazza San Giorgio like a child testing a new bicycle, while Hallie navigated the uneven cobblestones, trying not to feel dizzy.

Now, sitting in the charming square surrounded by its medieval buildings and stone fountain, Portia devoured her pizza like a teenager. She washed it down with a glass of wine and licked olive oil and tomato sauce from her fingers.

“I had forgotten what sex does for the appetite.” Portia smiled wickedly. “I’m going to have a double scoop of gelato for dessert.”

“I’m glad Riccardo is good for something,” Hallie said warily.

“You promised you wouldn’t say anything bad about Riccar-do.” Portia scowled. “Tell me about the fabulous villa you saw yesterday.”

“It’s owned by a man named Max Rodale. He’s a complete recluse. The dimensions of the rooms were overwhelming,” Hallie replied, picturing the smooth gold floors and dramatic ceilings.

“Lake Como is full of mysterious villas,” Portia said, and shrugged. “I’m going to get a gelato, would you like some?”

Hallie shook her head and waited for Portia to return. She sipped sparkling water and watched tourists try on souvenir T-shirts. She saw a tall man flipping through magazines at the newsstand. He paid for the magazine and walked toward her, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You’re the intruder.” He stopped at her table, frowning in the late-afternoon sun.

Hallie noticed that his eyes had yellow flecks, and his hair was the color of chestnuts. “Interior designer, not intruder,” she mumbled, swallowing a bite of pizza.

“Are you sure you’re not following me?” Angus smiled. He wore beige shorts and a plain black T-shirt and carried a cloth shopping bag.

“I’m sightseeing,” Hallie replied. “What are you doing here?”

“Max likes a special olive oil they only sell in Varenna,” Angus explained. “I take the opportunity to stock up on American magazines. I miss reading about the Red Sox.”

“I love everything Italian.” Hallie wiped her mouth with a napkin. “They don’t sell pizza like this in North Beach.”

“May I sit down?” Angus pointed to the empty chair. “I want to ask you something.”

“Sure.” Hallie nodded. “But I promise I didn’t take any pictures of Villa Luce, you can search my phone.”

Angus sat opposite her, cramming his long legs under the table. “I mentioned to Max your suggestion about the paintings.”

“What suggestion?”

“About housing them in a bigger space,” Angus replied.

“I’m gone two minutes and you give away my chair?” Portia demanded, licking a cone of rainbow gelato.

Hallie blushed. “This is Angus Barlow. I met him yesterday at the Villa Luce.”

“You didn’t tell me the villa came with a sexy estate manager.” Portia fluttered dark eyelashes.

“Am I interrupting?” Angus started to get up.

“Please stay.” Portia pulled up another chair. “I love to listen to American accents.”

“Max thought it was a great idea; he’s been thinking about redoing the monastery wing for some time,” Angus continued.

“Alfonso said the original owner closed it up because it was unlucky,” Hallie said, frowning.

“There is a story about an unfaithful noblewoman buried under the floor.” Angus shrugged.

“Italian men.” Portia shivered. “Treating their wives like chattel.”

“That was four centuries ago.” Hallie turned to Angus. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Max wondered if you’d be interested in designing the whole wing,” Angus replied.

“Me?” Hallie stammered.

“He checked out your work online,” Angus continued. “You could set your own budget and make all the decisions.”

Hallie pictured the villa perched above the lake like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She saw the endless halls like reflections in a funhouse mirror. She imagined combing stores in Milan for fine silks, traveling to Paris for Louis XIV armoires.