Rosamanti (7 page)

“Tomorrow night, how about I introduce you to one of the loveliest customs for all Italians, but particularly for we Caprese? I will pick you up and we will take
la passegiatta
—a walk into La Piazzetta for ice-cream—then we will eat dinner somewhere nice. OK?”

Soon it was time for him to go. His work in the kitchen started very early.

“Once the high season is over, I get more time off. But right now…” He bent and kissed both her cheeks. “Ciao, bella.” Without a backward glance, he rode off into the night on his funny little Vespa.

She stood out in the garden for a little while, listening as the scooter wound its way up and over the hills, through the lanes, heading for the township. The peace and solitude of the garden hung in the air like a mist. Back home in Sydney, there was no way she could feel so confident living alone in such an isolated place, nor leaving the house wide open and unlocked. She turned and went inside. It only took a few minutes to wash up the dishes from their simple, yet magnificent, meal. She patted the cats and went upstairs to bed.

* * *

The next morning, she sat at her desk with the window wide open, smelling salt on the breeze. The sun was not yet fully up, and the crisp air was delicious. She had already fed the cats and chickens, collected the eggs, and tried valiantly to make friends again with Geraldina. At first, she received the cold shoulder, with Geraldina pretending she didn’t see her. But after a while, and after proffering several sweet apples, Geraldina came over for a rub, nuzzling Sarah with her nose. Eventually, the goat knelt down on her front knees, and settled the rest of her bulk up against Sarah on the grass. She was glad they were friends again.
After a little while, she stood, giving Geraldina a pat on the head.

“See you this afternoon, beautiful. I won’t forget you today.”

Geraldina responded with a happy little bleat, and regurgitating more cud into her cheeks, she happily began chewing.

Sarah entered the cool kitchen and decided to explore Nonna’s books. Entering the drawing room, she felt a strong presence of the lady whose life had been spent here in this house, in this room.

She turned on the light to help her better examine the books on the shelf Pietro had indicated. At first, she only found books written in Italian or Latin. Eventually she found a large, leather-bound volume. She pulled it from the dusty shelf and laid it on the coffee table. The words
Mappe di Capri
were tooled into the thick brown leather. Carefully opening it, she gasped as she saw hand drawn maps of the island. The sites and towns were written in a spidery hand in black ink. Page after page of maps, some quite detailed, leapt out of the book. Some names she recognized—
Marina Grande, Anacapri, Capri, Grotta Azzurra.
Her heart beat rapidly as she turned the pages, hoping to find a map of Rosamanti and Villa Jovis.
There!
She first saw the word
via Lo Capo
, and then, a tiny black dot with the words
Villa Rosamanti Lombardi.
Several smaller dots surrounded the main Villa. Maybe outbuildings?
She looked for a date, but found none. Following the tracks, she soon found a diagram depicting Villa Jovis. She was amazed to see how large the structure would have been. The map showed a large spa, spacious imperial quarters—even a lighthouse. She assumed the dotted black lines, following what looked like the contour of the ridges, were walking tracks from the center of the island, where the township of Capri was located, up to the cape where Villa Jovis commanded the entire head. She gently placed a fingertip on Rosamanti. There! A hairline black-dotted trail led up to the Villa. She realized that was the one she traveled yesterday! Her heart began beating faster. A twisting and turning, single black line, had a more direct route, and along it was written
via Lo Capo.

She closed the book of maps and perused the other books. As Pietro promised, there was an abundance of books on Villa Jovis and Emperor Tiberius. She scanned the titles, many of which meant nothing to her. She reached up and took out a cloth-bound hardcover.
The Lives of the Twelve Caesars—Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus.
She put it aside. “Hmm, some bedtime reading
.”

As she looked through the shelves, a flat shape caught her eye. She tugged gently, trying to extricate the item without ripping it. It was wedged in the bookcase, just where the shelf and the upright met. She looked down at a buff colored envelope, a deep crease across where it had been jammed in the gap. The flap wasn’t sealed, and she could feel that there was something inside. A faded, child-like script across the front said
Mappi di Villa Rosamanti — mia casa.
Hardly visible were the initials,
E. L.
Under that, a recognizable ink sketch of Rosamanti, drawn in a childish way, took Sarah’s attention. Curious, she held the envelope in her hands, feeling that something special was contained within its faded and discolored exterior.

“
Salve! Salve! C’è qualcuno in casa?
”

Sarah jumped at the sound of the voice. She placed the envelope back on the bookshelf and went downstairs. Standing at the kitchen door was a young boy of about eleven, with a shock of black curls, and a nervous smile hovering on his lips. In his hand he held a large jar.

“Hello.
Non parlo bene Italian.
”

“I am Carlo, Signora. My mother made you some
passata di pomodoro
. Welcome to Rosamanti.” A look of relief crossed his face as he ended the sentence. Sarah thought he might have memorized the sentence.

“Carlo. Grazie! Please, come in.” Sarah took the jar from him. The rich red tomato sauce looked wonderful. “You speak very good English, Carlo.”

His shy smile looked less nervous now. “I learn English at school.”

“Would you like some lemonade? Ah…” She searched her brain for the Italian word. “
Limonata
?”

“Si, Signora.” He sat down at the old wooden table, looking quite at home here. She poured him a glass of Pietro’s homemade lemonade.

“Did you know Nonna—Signora Lombardi?” Immediately she wished she hadn’t asked. His dark brown eyes glazed over. He nodded his head.

Not wanting to embarrass him, she turned and picked up a wire basket full of eggs. She turned to see Carlo draining the lemonade. Placing the eggs on the table, she sat down opposite him.

“Can you tell your mother I said thank you? And can you please give her these eggs? She might make something for your dinner with them.”

A broad grin spread across his face. “Si. I will tell her.” He wiggled off the chair and took hold of the wire handle with both hands.

“Come and visit me often, OK?”

He was already heading out the door. “Si, Ciao, Signora.”

“Ciao!” Then he was gone. Forgetting about her search in the library, she made a coffee and took it upstairs to her writing desk. Turning on her laptop, she started typing out some more ideas for the Felicity French mystery set in Villa Jovis. She realized the trap had caught her again—the trap of getting too deep into research and not enough writing. As she typed, ideas began pinging through her brain, like meteorites shooting across a night sky. They didn’t have to make sense. She typed them down as they hatched, capturing them for later.

* * *

The sun was low in the sky when she came back to reality. Time to milk Geraldina. She stood up and stretched. Her brainstorming session had paid off. The rough outline of a story was already taking shape, with just the right balance of suspense, tension, and red herrings. Early days yet, she thought.
She always found this the hardest part of writing a book. But she felt pleased with herself. It had been a good day’s work.

Geraldina listened attentively as Sarah told her about the book. She stood perfectly still and allowed herself to be milked, seemingly enjoying being the center of Sarah’s attention for a while. When the pail was full and Geraldina’s udders empty, Sarah gave the goat some carrots and tomatoes, then walked back up to the villa. She showered and spent some time making herself ready for her evening out with Pietro. Choosing a cool, sleeveless dress, she spent extra time on her hair and makeup. There had been no need to dress up for several days, so she was making the most of it.

Eventually, she heard the familiar sound of Pietro’s scooter winding its way up the hill from Capri, and soon she heard it sputtering as it entered the courtyard of Rosamanti. She walked out to greet him.

His eyes widened as he took in her dress, the cute sandals, and her shining hair.

“
Sei
bella
!
” He strode over and hugged her tight, kissing both her cheeks. “You look beautiful tonight.” His voice shook a little.

Pleased with his praise, she looked into his eyes. They were dark and stormy—dangerous. She looked down at his black slacks and well cut shirt. His hair had been recently trimmed, and he smelled of expensive aftershave.

“You look pretty good yourself.” She was rewarded with one of his beaming smiles.

“We will make a beautiful couple tonight in the Piazzetta. Come on.”

He held out his arm and she slipped hers through the crook. They set off back toward Capri township on their passegiatta. An electric golf cart came hurtling around a sharp corner toward them, managing somehow to narrowly miss them and not scrape against the high stucco wall. Pietro held her by the shoulders and yelled something in Italian at the driver, whose broad grin reached from ear to ear.

“Ah, Bruno. He is going to kill someone one day. He’s probably hurrying so he won’t be late for dinner.”

Pietro’s mood returned immediately to his normal pleasant one, and he chatted happily as they strolled along, telling her all about his day at the restaurant. She listened contentedly, happy to be in the company of this man. It seemed so natural to be here—in this place, in this time. How fortunate, she thought, that she got to have two shots at happiness. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She forced them away, allowing a smile to take up a permanent position on her face. Tonight she felt so very happy. She felt alive.

The evening was deliciously wonderful. As they got to Capri township, they met more couples walking arm in arm, just like them. Most knew Pietro, and greeted him warmly, casting knowing glances at him as they inspected the woman on his arm. She stole a glance at his profile. His head was held high, and pride shone from the set of his chin.

When they arrived at la Piazzetta, Pietro guided her to a
Gelateria
. He left her and went inside, coming out with two pointy wafer cones topped with delicious gelato. He handed her a paper napkin and one of the cones.

“Come, we’ll walk over to the wall and enjoy the view.” They crossed the square and stood at the low wall. The view down to Marina Grande took her breath away. It wasn’t yet dark, but the lights twinkled as they came on in the houses and hotels that clung to the cliffside. The remnants of the sunset cast a silver glow over the water, and boats of all sizes bobbed in the harbor. A little breeze ruffled the leaves of the nearby bushes and trees, bringing with it a sweet perfume.

“Mm, what is that gorgeous scent?”

“That’s the night jasmine. It’s beautiful isn’t it? Some people find it too strong, but I like it.”

She looked about her. The little square—the hub of Capri township—was quickly filling with people.

“These are nearly all locals. For the Caprese, this is the best time of the day. All the day-trippers have gone, and most of the tourists are watching television or dining somewhere. We come here in the evenings to catch up with our neighbors. It is an exceptionally special tradition.”

“Talking of neighbors, I had a visitor today. Do you know a young boy called Carlo?”

Pietro grinned. “Si. He and his mother live in the villa next to Rosamanti. I will show you on the way back. Carlo and Nonna were good friends.”

“Mm, I thought so. He looked sad when I mentioned Nonna. His mother sent me a jar of tomato passata. He seemed very pleased when I sent him home with some eggs.”

His eyebrows shot up. “See? You understand the way of life here already. We share what we have—they share theirs. This is how it’s always been. You will fit in here well,
bella
.”

After drinking in the vista, Pietro took her to a restaurant away from the crowds, affording a wonderful view of the lights of Marina Grande. The meal was delicious, the wine perfect.

“And now for the final part of la passegiatta
.
” He called over the waiter and spoke rapidly in Italian. Minutes later, two small glasses, containing a bright yellow liquid, were brought to their table.

“This is
limoncello
. A lemon liquor.” He picked up both the glasses and handed her one. “Salute!”

She touched her glass to his. “Salute!” The limoncello was sweet, syrupy and delicious—with a kick. “Mm. Now that is gorgeous!”

He smiled, pleased. “One day, I will teach you how to make it. It will keep you warm in the winter months.”

All too soon it was time to leave the lovely restaurant with the magnificent view, and walk back up to Rosamanti. Pietro reached for her hand and held it as they walked.

“The limoncello is quite intoxicating. You might stumble.”

She laughed aloud at the seriousness with which he spoke.

“You know, back in Australia, that would sound so corny.”

“But with me?”

She thought for a moment before replying.

“But with you—it’s not corny at all. In fact, it’s kinda nice.”

They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way. Sarah wondered what she had done to end up in this idyllic, lovely place. Even more—how had she topped it off with meeting the nicest man in the world? Sometimes she felt as though she wanted to pinch herself. It was truly a miracle that she had spotted that little advertisement in the newspaper, and a double miracle that she was the lucky person who had responded first. She wondered if there was, indeed, such a thing as serendipity—or was it just good luck. Either way, she knew she wasn’t dreaming, and she knew that this kind and friendly man walking with her wasn’t an apparition.