Rosamanti (6 page)

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and tenderly pulled her to his chest, caressing her hair as she cried.

“Ssh, bambino. Cara mia. I understand. It’s OK.”

After her crying had eased, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears. She took it and gave her nose a good blow. Through blurry eyes, she saw that the moon was way up in the sky, almost right above them. She took a deep breath.

“My husband and I said goodbye to each other a long time ago. He made me promise I wouldn’t let the memory of him get in the way of my future happiness. But, Pietro”—another small rogue sob choked her—“I haven’t kissed anyone other than my husband since I was sixteen. It’s going to take me some time to find my new self and move on.”

He kissed her forehead. “I am a patient man, Sarah. I relish your company. I love your laugh. I want to be your friend. Will you let me?”

She wrapped her arms around him.
“I want to be your friend too.” They hugged for a long time. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing through her thin blouse. She wasn’t sure, but every so often, she thought she heard it catch slightly.

He was the first to let go. He stood up and held his hand down to her.

“Come on. Time for me to go now. If I’m late for work in the morning, you’ll incur the wrath of Zia Maria, and trust me, you don’t want that.” In the darkness, she heard the smile in his voice.

They walked down the dark track to the villa. He turned to her, kissed both cheeks, then jumped on his little blue Vespa and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Four

Sarah woke early. She had taken a long while to fall asleep the night before. It wasn’t just the different bed. It wasn’t just the three cats who had joined her, sharing it with her as they must have shared it with their beloved previous owner. Maybe it was the complete lack of sound—no traffic, no neighbors’ televisions blaring—total silence. Or perhaps it was the moon that streamed in through the window, lighting her room enough that she swore she could have read by it. But most likely, she thought, it was due to the conversation racing through her mind, almost like she had a mini version of herself sitting on each shoulder—one saying she shouldn’t have allowed the kiss to happen, and the other saying
It’s time, girl. Ted would be happy.
Whatever it was, she finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

The sound of chickens proudly announcing the birth of new eggs woke her. The clucking pierced her sleep-deprived brain, but somehow she found the noise of their cackling comforting. She bounced out of bed and showered. Dressing in comfortable shorts and a T-shirt, she went down to the kitchen and fed the cats. Then she took out two fresh eggs and some of Geraldina’s milk from the refrigerator. Soon she was sitting at the little table out under the pergola, eating a plate of creamy scrambled eggs.

On the table next to her was a notebook. She needed a routine. She couldn’t be spending all her time with the animals. She decided to rise early every morning and get all the animal feeding and egg collecting over and done with. Then she would have a quick breakfast, and sit at her laptop until lunchtime—no matter what. After lunch, she would go for long walks, exploring different parts of Capri. Later in the afternoon, she would milk Geraldina. “Right. Sounds good. Now I have to make sure I stick to it.”

With all the determination of someone who’s just made a New Year resolution, she sat at her laptop for five hours straight, trying to come up with a watertight mystery for Felicity French to solve. She knew she would have to cajole Felicity into finding deftly hidden clues that would lead her to the resolution. After hours of typing—and then deleting—she pushed her laptop back and rested her elbows on the desk, cupping her face in her hands. She recognized the sinking feeling all too well. She looked out the window at the idyllic view and realized she’d traveled half way around the world to be here, and yet nothing would come.
Anger started to replace frustration.

“Aagh!” She stood up, banging her fists on the desk and nearly knocking her chair over backward. “What’s
wrong
with me?” She flounced downstairs and out the back door. Marching through the garden, she took the first pathway she came to. With long, purposeful strides, she tried to channel her anger into her footsteps, stomping them out on the hard, rocky earth. Her eyes focused on the ground in front of her, watching the soles of her gym shoes connect with it.

Eventually, breathless, she stopped and raised her eyes, shielding them from the bright sun beating down on her bare head. She found herself high up on a big headland, and around her were rows of ruins, tumbled over as though a strong wind had blown over complete walls. Villa Jovis!
The realization sent a tingle up her spine. Pietro had said he would bring her here on his day off. A sense of excitement began to replace the despondency.

“Now, here is a real life mystery!”

Built in the early centuries, Villa Jovis was a luxurious retreat for the reclusive—and odd—Emperor Tiberius. It was from this very spot that he ruled, half-heartedly, the Roman Empire.

Sarah forgot all about Felicity French
.
She forgot all about her need to write a good thriller to satisfy her publisher and her fans. Instead, she picked her way through the ruins, letting her imagination conjure up the scene as it would have been back then. She wished she’d brought a map and guidebook with her, realizing it would have been better to wait until she knew exactly what it was she was looking at in this large complex, but the feeling it induced was delightful.

After an hour of wandering, she sat down on a flat gray rock in the shade of a high wall, her mouth dry. In her anger, she had stormed out of Rosamanti without her hat or a bottle of water.

“
Stupido!
”
A laugh escaped her lips. Pietro would love that word. She didn’t even know if there was such a word in Italian. But it sounded good. Thoughts of Pietro entering her reverie brought her back to reality. She couldn’t deny she was attracted to him, but she couldn’t let any silly, vacation-romance ideas spoil her chance to fulfill her goals. She had to remain focused. Despite her determination, She heard a small inner voice whisper in her ear,
are you sure this is a silly vacation romance? Aren’t you already falling in love with him?
She stood up abruptly, silencing the words filling her head.

Looking around her at the pale limestone ruins, she was filled with a sudden urge to study up on the life of Tiberius. What was he like? Why did he distance himself from Rome? Were the rumors of his “wayward” sexual practices true? Normally, she would turn to her good friend,
Mr. Google
, and read up on anything she needed. But with no internet, she would have to find the local library. A little ball of excitement formed inside her. “What if…” The germ of an idea settled in her mind. “What if…Felicity French came here? What if she stumbled upon a mystery—one that nobody knew about—but now it was vital that it be solved, otherwise lives would be in danger?”

A rush of urgency flowed through her. She stood up and headed back through the ruins, ignoring her thirst or the heat. Unlike her trek up to Villa Jovis
a few hours earlier, her feet skipped lightly on the earth as she headed back down the track to Rosamanti, a smile plastered on her face.

After about thirty minutes, she reached the yard of Rosamanti, entered the cool, dark kitchen, washed her face under the running water of the tap in the sink, and drank water out of her cupped hands. She took the stairs up to her study two at a time. Pulling out a large notebook and pencil, she began plotting her new novel.

* * *

A shout from downstairs roused her. Pietro!
She glanced at the clock on her laptop. Six o’clock. Jumping up from her chair, she ran down the stairs, nearly bowling right into Pietro as he came in the back door. His beaming smile disappeared and furrow lines drew his brows together.

“Ciao, bella. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Geraldina. I forgot to milk her.”

“
Non c’è nessun problema
. Let’s do it now.”

He grabbed the milk pail and together they walked down to the goat shed.

“Did you sleep through the afternoon?”

“No.” She paused, then rushed out her explanation. “No, I wasn’t sleeping, but I was caught up in the moment of writing. I know I’ve let you down. I realize how important it is to milk her at the same time every day. Poor Geraldina.”

“Mm. She will be a cranky old girl.”

As he predicted, Geraldina was not happy. She refused to take the alfalfa from Sarah and twice knocked over the milk bucket while Pietro milked her.

“You see, her udders get really full if she’s not milked on time. But more than that, she likes her food—and company.”

After they had finished with Geraldina and walked back up to the house, Pietro offered to show her the cellar before it got dark.

In the little utility room behind the kitchen, there was a trap door set in the floor. He lifted a brass ring and pulled, and the door opened up, showing a dark, steep staircase going down into the darkness. He reached up to a hook on the wall and retrieved a flashlight.

“Follow me, but watch your step.”

He climbed downward, shining the flashlight beam so that she could see the rungs. As she neared the bottom, he waited to steady her. Hanging the flashlight on a hook in the ceiling, he took her hand and showed her around.

“These signs are the vintage. The dates are in Italian, so you will have to become familiar with them, but it’s easy enough. For the whites, drink these first, starting here.” He indicated a large rack of dust covered bottles, reaching from floor to ceiling. “The rosé is over here. They are best drunk in summer. Again, drink the oldest first. We don’t have many red wines, mainly because the grape variety grown best here is for white wines. But there are a few. Please, just help yourself to whatever you wish.”

“I’m impressed, Pietro. No way in heaven did I ever imagine that I’d have access to such a wonderful cellar when I came here. Thanks.”

“You are welcome, of course. So, what shall we have with our dinner tonight? Hmm, what can I recommend?” He thought for a moment, then walked over to the whites, choosing a bottle from the rack. “2007. It was a wonderful year. The wine is fruity and fresh. Unoaked. Does that sound all right to you?”

“Perfect. I can’t wait to try it.”

Sarah climbed up the steep little staircase first, emerging from the hole into the utility room. Pietro followed, carefully carrying the bottle of wine and the flashlight. They went into the kitchen and he washed the bottle under the tap and put it in the refrigerator.

“What did you have for lunch today, Sarah?”

“Um—well, I didn’t eat lunch today. I—was kind of—busy.”

“Oh, that’s right. You said you have been writing.
Brava
. I’m happy to hear that. Rosamanti agrees with you, si?”

She laughed. “Well, it wasn’t all that easy, actually. I went for a walk. As often happens, inspiration comes to me when I stop trying.”

“And which part of Lo Capo was it that inspired you?”

“Quite without intending to, I ended up at Villa Jovis. I started thinking about how ancient the structure is, about Tiberius, and presto, I think I can use Villa Jovis as a setting for my book. Tell me, where is the best library? I need to do some research on Tiberius and the Villa.”

Pietro raised his eyebrows. “Follow me.” He led her up the hallway into Nonna’s sitting room. “Nonna collected many books written about Villa Jovis. After all, she and Tiberius were almost neighbors—give or take a couple of thousand years.”

“But won’t they all be in Italian?”

“Oh, my Nonna just loved collecting books about Villa Jovis. She always said she wanted to learn English, but…”

Sarah wondered who had helped Nonna place the newspaper advertisement for Rosamanti, and who had written the letters to her. For some reason, she had just assumed it was Elena Lombardi herself. It obviously wasn’t Pietro. He knew nothing about Sarah coming here.

Pietro indicated two shelves. “These are the books that you will need. For a controversial history of the not-so-nice behavior of Tiberius, read Suetonias.”
Sarah looked at the title:
The Lives of the Twelve Caesars.

“Of course, some scholars discredit what Suetonias has said, but perhaps if I take you to see the Grotta di Tiberio and the nymphaneum at Matermánia, you will see that there is some justice for the allegations.” He turned to her. “But come, let’s see what is for dinner.”

“Oh, I haven’t prepared anything.”

“Ah, but we have eggs, flour, tomatoes, basil, and onions. And,” he added with a flourish, “we have an Italian chef! I will make you some pasta and a
caprese
sauce. OK?”

She watched enthralled as Pietro spread the pliant dough on the smooth, floured bench in Nonna’s kitchen. Sipping wine, she could feel contentment oozing through every pore of her skin. He started singing as he worked—firstly skinning the rich, ripe tomatoes, and dicing the onion and basil finely. Every so often, he looked at her and winked, a happy smile resting on his handsome face. When the meal was ready, they sat opposite each other at the old wooden table. She loved the meal, and she loved the happiness that he infused into the food. Wholesome, calm, generous, and sweet.

When they finished eating, he raised his glass to her. She clinked hers with him and smiled.

“Bella, you look so happy.”

“I am happy, Pietro. I’m happier than I’ve been for a long time. I don’t know if it’s your wine, your food, or Rosamanti, but I feel like I’ve been transformed into a fairy tale where everything is good.”

His face took on a look of mock admonishment. “Ah, bella,” he chided, “maybe it is because of
me!”

They both laughed. She looked thoughtful for a moment, tipping her head to one side. “You know, maybe—just maybe—it is.”

The tender look in his eyes, and the happy smile on his face, warmed her heart.