Rosamanti (2 page)

The woman came back to her table, hovering nearby.

“Could you please tell me the best way to travel to Lo Capo?”

She creased her brow and looked meaningfully at Sarah’s heavy luggage.

“Depends. Taxi can only take you to La Piazzetta. Then you need to walk.”

Sarah inwardly groaned at the prospect of carrying all of her bags in this heat.

“
Un momento
.” The woman turned and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, she came out with a man dressed in black and white check chef’s trousers, and a dirty white linen jacket. A damp, red neckerchief was knotted around his neck, and a small chef’s cap sat atop a mop of black curly hair. His face sported a dark five o’clock shadow, his smile warm and friendly.

The woman and the chef spoke rapidly in Italian for a few minutes, hands gesticulating and pointing from Sarah’s bags up to the top of the cliffs. He shrugged and looked defeated. The woman turned to Sarah, her face beaming with the smile of a victor.

“Signora, this is Pietro. He is finishing his shift now. He will take you to Lo Capo.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom, looking very pleased with herself. Sarah saw a look of uncertainty cross Pietro’s eyes.

“Are you sure? I can pay you for your trouble.”

She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “
Non è necessario.
”
She placed Sarah’s bill on the table and marched back inside, poor Pietro following meekly behind. Sarah took out some Euros and placed them in the plastic folder with her check, leaving a good tip. As she bent to retrieve her backpack, Pietro appeared and picked up her heavy suitcase as if it was empty.

“Do you speak English, Pietro?” asked Sarah hopefully.

He turned to look at her, his face breaking into a charming smile, showing dazzling white teeth in his handsome brown face.

“Certainly, signora
.
I studied law at Yale. I think I can make myself understood.” His eyes twinkled.

Sarah sighed. Although he had an accent, his English was very good. She smiled back at him, feeling the unfamiliar sensation spread across her face.

She followed Pietro down an extremely narrow lane to a small, untidy yard behind the restaurant. She wondered how he managed to get his car in here. Then it hit her. Standing propped up against a large industrial bin was a small Vespa scooter with a rip across the vinyl seat and faded powder-blue paintwork. She watched as he put her trolley case on the ground next to the little scooter, swung his leg easily over the seat, and kick-started the motor. It spluttered into life, uttering a backfire which went off like a gunshot, making her jump. His eyes twinkled again with mirth. Cocking his head sideways, he indicated with his eyes the small patch of seat behind him.

Eternally grateful she was wearing jeans, Sarah, with her pack firmly strapped to her back, and clutching her over-filled shoulder bag, swung her leg over the seat. Her breasts pressed against his back as she wriggled her bottom into a position where she hoped she wouldn’t fall off at the first corner.

“What about my suitcase?” Even she could hear the fear in her voice.

He adjusted himself forward on the seat, creating a gap between her chest and his back. Then he bent sideways, picked up the suitcase, and wedged it awkwardly in between the two of them. She didn’t believe this was happening! She had to turn her head sideways, her cheek hard up against the rough fabric of her case.

“Hold on Signora!” With a roar that sounded like a sick lawn mower, they took off down the narrow alley which they had just walked through.

“What do I hold on to?” Sarah nearly screamed.

“My belt.”

She quickly slid one hand around the suitcase, found his belt, and tucked her fingers tightly through it. Feeling his smooth skin on the back of her fingers, she hung on for grim death as they burst out of the alley and onto the crowded promenade of Marina Grande. Prevented from seeing anything other than the side view, she clung tightly to her suitcase with one hand, and his belt with the other. The narrow road climbed steeply and she sensed the little scooter leaning first to one side, then the other. As they rounded what felt like a tight hairpin bend, she saw below her the road they had just traveled, snaking upward at a steep gradient, and the blue of the sea sparkling below.

After about fifteen minutes of hair-raising turns and switchbacks, and the constant tooting of horns blaring from taxis coming dangerously close as they passed, she became aware of the bike turning into a flat area and heard Pietro cut the motor. He swung one leg across the handlebars, and within a split second, stood next to her, smiling.

“There, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”

“You drive like a maniac!” She pushed the suitcase toward him. “I do believe you enjoyed that.”

His laugh was rich and pleasant. “Indeed I did, signora
. Benvenuti a Capri!
Welcome!” She liked the way his accent made every word seem so—heartfelt, so passionate.

She laughed back, just a small one, but the first she had heard herself emit for a long time. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect to be traveling like this, that’s for sure.”

He placed the suitcase down on the ground, then glanced around, gesturing with his hand. “So, this is Piazza Umberto. We call it
la Piazzetta
. No cars allowed past here. Now that the worst part of the journey to La Capo is over, tell me where exactly you are going and I will take you.”

Sarah started to rummage in her shoulder bag for her document wallet. She faltered and lost her balance, nearly falling off the scooter, but two strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

“Here, let me help you off. Sorry, there is not much seat for you to sit on.”

She looked at him, expecting to see amusement dancing in his eyes, but she saw genuine warmth. He took her hand and steadied her as she swung her leg over the back of the bike and gained her balance.

“When I was a teenager I would’ve fitted on here a bit easier.”

“When I was a teenager, signora,
I would have put you side-saddle across my lap.”

A rush of heat suffused her face. She withdrew her hand and focused on rifling through her bag until she found the wallet. She pulled out a sheet of paper with the address of the villa and handed it to him.

He studied it for a moment. “Rosamanti? You are going to Rosamanti?”

“Yes. You know it?”

“Si
.
I know it.” He kept staring at the sheet of paper. “Tell me, signora,
when did you make this—arrangement—with Signora Lombardi?” His voice sounded different, strained.

“We finalized it a couple of weeks ago. Is something wrong?” A weight settled in her stomach. “Here, I’ll show you our correspondence.” She pulled out several envelopes bearing Italian postage stamps. Her hands shook as she opened the old-fashioned, hand-written letters and handed them to Pietro.

When he finished reading, he looked at her. His expression had softened slightly.

“Well, it seems that my Nonna’s agreement with you is in order. That is her signature all right, but…” He drew his brows into a frown.

“Your Nonna?
Elena Lombardi is your grandmother?”

His dark brown eyes saddened. “My Nonna passed away last week. We buried her last Friday.” He cleared his throat. “We knew she wanted to stay there. It was her home for ninety-seven years. She had been worried about her cats—she wanted to find someone who would love her cats as she did.”

Sarah reached across and placed her hand on his arm. She felt sad for Pietro and his family.

“I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.” She took a breath. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay. Don’t worry about me. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

He turned and looked over the wall of the Piazzetta and watched as the
funicolore
arrived, the little cable car spilling a crowd of people into the square. Then he turned back to her.

“Rosamanti
is not a luxury villa, and I have no money to do repairs to make it ready for the rental market. It has some…problems. Plumbing issues, and winter heating is…well…” He shrugged in a helpless gesture. “It was built nearly four hundred years ago.”

She bowed her head. She had so been looking forward to coming here. To restart her failing career. To get over her husband’s death. She inhaled deeply and looked up at him.

“Can I see it?”

“
Va bene.
Si
.
” His expression seemed to brighten a little. “Sure.” He smiled into her eyes. “But let’s leave your luggage here, eh? We can collect it later.”

He grabbed her suitcase and backpack, and she followed him to the nearby bus station where he deposited her gear into a locker. Without the luggage, climbing back on the Vespa was easy. She swung her leg over and settled comfortably behind him, wrapping her arms around Pietro’s waist. The Vespa started and they took off, riding up a series of steep lanes. The sides of buildings were adorned with signs made of white glazed tiles, decorated with motifs of blue swirls and yellow lemons. Black lettering showed the street names:
via Croce; via Tiberio;
and finally,
via Lo Capo.
Peering over Pietro’s shoulder, Sarah was enchanted with the views. Purple bougainvillea grew rampantly along the narrow roadway, and every now and then she caught a glimpse of the blue sea below. Looking beyond, the brown cliffs of the Sorrentine Peninsula, and occasionally the conical peak of Mount Vesuvius in the far distance, poked through the haze over Naples. The scent of roses in full bloom, mixed with the perfume of citrus trees created a heady, intoxicating fragrance. The wind blew her hair wildly, and she clung tighter to Pietro as they wove their way through the maze of narrow footpaths and lanes, climbing higher and higher up the mountainous terrain.

Soon, Pietro turned left off the narrow roadway and into a driveway flanked by two high, ornate brick pillars. The unpaved track wound upward through olive groves, then orchards laden with oranges, lemons, and other fruit she didn’t immediately recognize. They turned into a small gravel courtyard and she drew in a gasp as the whitewashed stone walls of a small villa opened before her, its orange terracotta tiles arranged roughly on the roof. Pietro pulled up in the shade of an unruly wisteria growing against the wall and cut the motor. He took her hand to help her off the scooter. Within minutes, three cats appeared and began rubbing themselves on her legs. She bent down and caressed them.

Pietro dropped to one knee and fondled the head of the black cat. “They’re hungry. Do you mind if I feed them now?”

She followed him toward the solid oak front door with big iron hinges. It squeaked as he opened it. Inside it was dim and shadowy.

“It’s not so dark with the window shutters open.” He flicked the switch to turn on a light in the kitchen, showing its austere, yet functional, fittings. An old refrigerator hummed loudly in the far corner. He opened it and took out some cans of food. The cats ran up to him, jostling to rub their cheeks on the tins and spoon.

“Ha,
attenti ai gatti!
Beware of cats who only want to be fed.”

Sarah watched as he spooned the food into three dishes and refilled their water bowls. As they waited, she fondled the cats, and they responded with loud purring and loving rubs.

“Ah, you like cats?”

“I love them.” She looked back at the cats, stroking them, giving each a good rubbing on their necks and ears.

“Signora?”

The tone in his voice made her stop and look up at him.

“I don’t even know your name. I mean, we have not formally met.”

“Sarah Halliman.” She held out her hand, expecting him to shake it. Instead, he took it in both his hands, then bent and kissed both her cheeks.

“
Piacere di conoscerla.
I am very pleased to meet you, Sarah
.
”

Their eyes locked and held for a moment.

The ginger cat jumped up onto the table and meowed loudly. Pietro smiled, breaking the moment. “Aw,
zenzero
. Here you go.” He placed the bowls of food down on the floor, then reached down and stroked the cats as they lapped at their food.

Sarah looked about the kitchen. Though small, it had a wood-fired stove and an intimate feel. The wooden table and matching chairs looked to have been hand made. The counters and benches were solid planks of timber, polished smooth from centuries of mixing eggs with flour and rolling pasta.

Once the cats had been fed, he looked up at her and smiled.

“Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” She followed him up the narrow staircase. It was obviously a well lived-in home, and Elena Lombardi’s possessions clearly spoke of a woman who only needed shelter, and a modicum of comfort, to be happy. Some areas, like the bathroom, were in need of some repairs, but it had a good vibe.

Pietro led the way back down to the kitchen, and they sat opposite each other at the big table.

“Nonna
was very independent. She would not leave here, even when she found out about her illness. I came here several nights a week, and we would cook together and talk. On weekends, she let me do some odd jobs for her.” Regret sounded in his voice. “I wish I could have done more…”

Sarah’s voice was gentle. “You know, sometimes we just have to respect the wishes of our loved ones.”

The cats had finished their food and sat licking their paws and grooming themselves. They seemed incredibly happy.

He turned to look at her. “So, what do you think of Rosamanti?”

“I love it! But perhaps you’d prefer that I find somewhere else to stay?” She hoped his answer wouldn’t be yes. She needed to be here in Capri.

An expression passed over his face, but she couldn’t quite read it.

“Sarah, would you have dinner with me tonight? It will give us a chance to discuss the options.”

“I’d love to. But I need to sort out somewhere to stay for tonight.”

His smile lit up the gloomy little room. “Leave it with me.”

* * *

They sat across from each other in a busy sidewalk
trattoria,
sipping wine and chatting as easily as old friends.