Rosamanti (4 page)

“She’ll love you forever if you feed her.”

Gingerly, she held out the bunch of green, sweet smelling hay. The goat gently nuzzled it from her grip and happily chewed on it, her lower jaw sawing sideways as she munched away. Geraldina turned her attention back to Pietro as she heard him pop the lid on the bucket, running over to him as he pulled out a carrot, some lettuce, and other fruits and vegetables. As she ate, he went into the shed and brought out a little stool and a shiny, stainless steel bucket. Fascinated, Sarah watched as he perched on the stool and milked Geraldina while she contentedly munched away, obviously enjoying the experience. It seemed clear to her that Geraldina and Pietro were an item.
She smiled broadly as she watched them, the big Italian man and the goat, marveling at the simplicity of life here on this rocky ridge, bathed in sunshine. Inner peace settled deep inside her for the first time in quite a while.

After about fifteen minutes, Pietro stood and carefully pulled the little pail out from under Geraldina. Handing it to Sarah, he smiled.

“Have you ever made cheese?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I could teach you.”

She took the shiny metal bucket from him and looked inside. It was nearly full to the brim with white, frothy milk. It smelled sweet and fresh. He stowed the stool inside the shed and gave Geraldina one last pat on her ample belly.

“Ciao
, bambino
.” He turned and looked at Sarah. “Are you ready for more of the tour of Rosamanti?”

She grinned broadly. “I certainly am. Lead on!”

He took the pail of milk from her, carrying it back up the rough, steep track. “This ground is a series of rocky ridges, with small dales or valleys in between which are relatively flat. Or, at least, flat enough to be productive. Nonna
and I have a vegetable garden that would rival any you would find anywhere.” The pride in his voice made her heart quicken—or maybe it was just the exertion of climbing up and over the rocky outcrops that dotted the pathway.

At the top of each ridge, there was a 360-degree view. To the north, she looked over the Tyrrhenian Sea to Naples. If she looked northeast, past the steep sides of a nearby mountain, the hulking Sorrentine Peninsula stood impressively high against the dark blue water. Looking west, she could see down to the Marina Grande and beyond, able to make out the coastline of Capri all the way up to a far headland.

“Over there, you can see the boats off the Grotta Azzurra.”
Pointing to the left, he indicated what looked like ruins. “That dark shape is the remains of Villa Damecuta.” He put a hand gently on her shoulder and turned her until she was facing west. He pointed a finger. “On that far hill top is Anacapri. There you can see the chairlift which goes all the way up to Monte Solaro—the highest peak on the island.”

A rocky, mountainous ridge blocked the view as she turned south, but completing the circle, several large, jagged rocks rose out of the water.

“Those are the Faraglione Rocks.” He sounded excited. “Sarah, there are so many wonderful things for you to see here. I would love to show you my island—if you would let me.”

She turned to look at him, seeing the kindness in his eyes.

“Pietro—I-I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I-I’m not here to—find a man or fall in love…”

She immediately saw the color in his eyes change intensity, like a shadow crossing them. He looked away and stared out into the distance. When he spoke, his voice made her regret what she had said.

“Signora. I am merely offering you the hand of friendship. I love to have the opportunity to speak English, and I love my island. As I told you last night, Zia Maria is more than capable of finding me a wife if I should want one. I don’t need to do it for myself.” With relief, she heard just a small amount of his good humor creep back into his voice.

She held out her hand to him. “Come on then. Help me up this steep old goat track. I’m worn out already.”

His white teeth flashed in the sunlight, setting off the deep tan of his complexion. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Hand in hand, they climbed slowly to the top of the next ridge. They stopped and Pietro pointed down to a square green patchwork of thriving vegetables. Deep red tomatoes hung in trusses from spindly plants, staked and tied to hold the weight. Shiny green zucchini and dark green heads of broccoli grew in abundance. Pietro pointed to the strong chicken wire fence surrounding the garden.

“That is to stop my girlfriend Geraldina from eating everything.”

“The garden is so big. Surely Nonna wouldn’t have needed this much food.”

“I supply some of it to Zia Maria for the restaurant. If we have too much, I give it to friends.”

Sarah was impressed. The little farm was delightful, and so lovingly worked. Pietro and his grandmother had obviously been a close pair.

“It’s hot now. Come up to the villa and I’ll get you a cold drink.”

They walked back in a comfortable silence, stopping at the chicken coop to pick up the basket of eggs. When they reached the villa, Pietro took her to a cool and inviting garden covered with a wooden pergola smothered in thick bougainvillea, the blossoms forming a purple canopy and casting shade over the area. A little white wrought iron table and matching chairs sat on some grey flagstones. The breezeway caught a small, cool puff of air, fanning the droplets of perspiration on her brow. She sat transfixed by the beauty of Rosamanti, its gardens, and by the stunning view. It felt surreal to be sitting here in this idyllic spot. She suddenly wished she’d had the opportunity to meet the lady who called Rosamanti home
.

Just then, Pietro appeared with a tray, upon which was a large jug of lemon drink, with slices of lemon and cubes of ice floating in it.

“Why the sad face?”

The ice clinked merrily as he poured out two glasses.

“I was just regretting that I didn’t get to meet your Nonna. She sounds like a wonderful lady.”

Pietro nodded his head. “I too regret that, Sarah. You would have liked her.” His smile returned. “I made this from our own lemons. It is my Nonna’s recipe.”

She tasted it. “Mm! Oh, seriously Pietro, that is delicious!”

His smile told her he was pleased. They sat and cooled off in the exquisitely beautiful garden. After a while, she turned to look at him.

“The reason I wanted to come here—to leave my daughter and my friends—is complicated. But I know it’s the right decision. You see, I’m an author—detective novels. But once Ted—my husband—got sick, I wanted to devote my time to nursing him. The trouble was, after everything that happened, I lost the drive to write. Broke a few contractual commitments.” She reached out and touched the condensation on the jug with the tip of her index finger. Immediately, a tear formed and rolled down the side of the jug. “My daughter, who means well, begged me to see a psychiatrist or someone, to help me get back to writing. My well-meaning friends started treating me like I was sick.

“Then, one day I received an email from a fan. She was writing to thank me for all the books. But she asked me a favor. She said she’d been diagnosed with cancer, and she’d read about my husband’s plight. She said that people who were sick loved the escapism that my books gave. She asked me to dig deep and see what was needed in my life, to help me get back to writing.”

She looked up at Pietro. He was staring out to sea, his face a mask.

“You know what? I’ve never told anyone else any of this. Not my daughter—no one. You’re a really good listener, Pietro.”

He turned, his eyes adjusting focus so that they seemed to look deep into her soul. He reached over and covered her hand with his. It was a friendly gesture, a way of saying
I understand, I care.
It was gentle, unobtrusive, totally without expectation.

“So, I did what the lady said. I dug deep. Very deep.” She fingered the groove in her left ring-finger. When she looked up, Pietro’s dark brown eyes reflected the sadness she felt. “Being married to Ted for twenty years was wonderful, but you are only ever one half of another person. I was a child when we fell in love. Once Ted had gone, I couldn’t function alone. It was quite a harrowing time, actually. But I realized that I needed to find myself again. The grown-up me. So…here I am.”

He said nothing for a long while, just stared out to sea. Then he turned to her.

“So, Sarah. Will you be staying at Rosamanti?”

“You know, I think I will.”

Chapter Three

The next three days went by in a haze of heat, housework, and happiness. The upstairs had four small bedrooms.

“This was Nonna’s bedroom. It’s the best one.” He opened the window wide and stood back, his arms folded across his chest. Her eyes widened as she peered out through the wooden frame. Sweeping views of Capri township spread out before her, spilling down to Marina Grande. The sparkling blue of the sea was breathtaking. She could even see the top of Vesuvius in the distance. It was as though she had a view from the top of the world.

“You will sleep in here?”

Pulling herself away from the stunning vista, she turned to look at him, trying to read the expression on his face.

“Is that all right with you? I mean…”

He nodded, his lips curving slightly into a sad smile. “Of course. Nonna would be happy if you move in here. And I am too.”

She and Pietro worked side by side in the little villa, packing up Signora Lombardi’s meager possessions and storing them in boxes in one of the back bedrooms. As she helped him to prepare her bedroom, she noticed Pietro placing a few small objects from Nonna’s old dressing table into a shoe box. She looked up, catching his eyes, noticing how sad they looked. He looked away and placed the lid on the box.

“Just a few small mementoes of my Nonna. Trinkets—I grew up seeing them here on her dressing table every day of my life. They remind me of her.”

She smiled at him, not really knowing what to say. His loss was still so new. She continued taking down the curtains, ready to wash them.

Another room was smaller, but somehow caught the light, making it feel warm and welcoming. She opened the window and peered out. From here, she had a sweeping view of blue sea, with the Sorrentine Peninsula and Amalfi Coast in the distance. But what intrigued her the most was a sharply rising cape atop sheer cliffs, covered with what appeared to be a large crumbling building, wedged right up against the soaring peak of a rugged mountain. Rising from the cliff’s edge, the white facade stood out clearly against the blue backdrop of the sea. Craning her neck, she leaned farther out the window. Broken staircases and columns, and beyond them, the ruins of foundations, lay mapped out on the green grass like an architect’s drawing.

“Ah, I see you have discovered Villa Jovis
.
” She hadn’t heard Pietro come up behind her. “The legendary, reclusive retreat of the Roman Emperor Tiberius.” He pointed to the peak faraway to the north. “That’s Monte Tiberio. Tiberius built in the safest place—a sheer cliff to the sea on one side, the other a sheer mountain. The only way in is through this valley where Rosamanti is.”

She remembered reading about Villa Jovis
on the plane coming to Italy. It was incredibly old—its construction beginning in the first century BC. Already, the author in her could feel the muse agitating, wanting to come and sit on her shoulder, to whisper in her ear. Suddenly, her writer’s block didn’t seem so solid. She looked back at the little room, knowing instinctively that this would make the perfect study. In here, with that marvelous view, she could write with the ghosts of the ancients; her muse could converse with the nymphs; and her books would come alive with the spirits of all who had lived there before. A buzz of excitement coursed through her veins at the prospect.

Happy with her decision, she wandered back downstairs and through the little hallway, turning into Nonna’s sitting room. In one corner a rocking chair sat forlorn, draped in a multi-colored crocheted throw. She could almost imagine little Nonna sitting there on a cold night. A worn rug covered the slate slab floor. An old stone fireplace took pride of place on the end wall, a pile of freshly cut logs beside it, ready for a windy, winter night. She loved the room. The old settee, its faded tapestry wearing thin, stood along one wall of the room. She sat down, leaning back in its comfort.

The light coming into the little room was bright, clear, thin. She was drawn to the exquisite watercolors and oil paintings adorning the walls opposite where she was sitting. She recognized images of the rugged Faraglione Rocks and Villa Jovis. Transfixed, she stared at one oil painting depicting an intense blue pool, the phosphorous water seeming to leap off the canvas. Whoever the artist was, they had created something magic when mixing the paints. She stood up and moved over to the painting, peering closely at the scrawled signature on the corner of the canvas.

She heard Pietro enter the room behind her.

“Who is the artist, Pietro? I’m in awe of the color they’ve painted the water. It’s as though they’ve depicted some surreal dream.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it just doesn’t seem natural. No water could be that—iridescent—and such an odd shade of blue.”

“And does it have to be—natural—to be any good? The artist, surely, can paint water red, or cerulean, if he or she chooses, no?”

Detecting an odd tone in his voice, she turned to look at him.

“Oh, absolutely. I think it’s superb. I like what the artist has done.”

“Would you be disappointed if you found out that the artist has accurately captured the color of the water?” Passion flashed in his eyes. “Sarah, at the first opportunity, I will take you to see the Blue Grotto. Then you can see for yourself that the artist was amateurish in his attempt to capture nature.”

“The Blue Grotto? It’s really that color?”

“Si. Nonna loved Grotta Azzurra. She went there often when she was younger, but only when there were no tourists. That’s why I painted it—or tried to paint it—for her.”