The House in Amalfi (10 page)

Lorenzo’s family had been living here for three centuries and he knew every inch of his land. He knew every man, woman, and child in Pirata. He looked after them like a father. He was coming home, and for him there was no better place to be.

The bird’s-eye view of the pale terra-cotta Castello Pirata as he hovered before landing never failed to thrill him with its odd beauty. The central square stone tower with its battlements looked like Hamlet’s castle in Denmark and was all that was left of the original Castello, built by an ancestor with good taste and a lot of money in the seventeenth century. The legend was that the ancestor had made his money by acts of piracy on the high seas, hence the name of Pirata, or “pirate,” but apart from the skull and crossbones on the family
flag and the fact that the family’s business was shipping, that was now mostly forgotten.

Stuccoed wings and annexes had been added over the decades, as had the gardens. A grand terrace lined with tubs of lemon trees was fronted with a dozen massive sphinx heads, brought from Egypt in the early nineteen hundreds. Now they looked with disapproving expressions over the breathtaking panoramic view of the jagged Amalfi coastline.

A deep-blue swimming pool graced with delicate stone arches rippled in the breeze from the helicopter’s rotors. The young woman swimming lazy lengths glanced up, then waved a hand in greeting, and Affare barked frantically. Lorenzo smiled, pleased. His twenty-one-year-old daughter, Aurora, was home unexpectedly for the weekend from her university in Grenoble.

He set the helicopter gently on its pad, then sat for a moment in the sudden silence, letting his ears adjust to the stillness. There was only the sound of Affare’s panting, the hum of crickets, and the trickle of a fountain. The urban burden of his city life in Rome lifted from his shoulders and he was home again, in his own pocket of the world, in the place he loved.

He strode from the helipad with Affare bounding ahead through a little maze of thyme-lined paths and took the broad sweeping steps up to the house two at a time, shedding his jacket and loosening his tie as he went.

He was a big man of sixty-four years, always impeccably dressed, with a head of thick silvery hair brushed straight back, a hawkish nose and a firm chin, bristled now with a day’s growth of beard. Lorenzo Pirata was the kind of a man who simply by his presence commanded attention and respect. With his easy charm, he had the ability to dominate any room he entered, and also any woman who fell in love with him. And there had been many.

But Lorenzo had been married only once, to his first love. When she died, he knew he could never replace her or their first rare true love. But his life had gone on. He was now father to two grown children, a man of the world, urbane yet earthy, happier cultivating his gardens or sailing his old fishing boat than at any grand party in Rome or New York.

Massimo, the houseman, who had been with the family since they were both boys, had heard the helicopter and was already holding open the Castello’s heavy iron-strapped wooden door for Lorenzo. Lamplight spilled from the lofty Pompeian red hall as Massimo greeted him, holding out his arm for the cast-off jacket and tie as Lorenzo headed straight for the stairs to his room and a shower.

“Scusi, signore
, but Mifune is here to speak to you,” Massimo called after him.

Lorenzo paused on the steps. He swung round and saw Mifune standing discreetly by the door, his battered straw gardening hat clutched in both hands. The old man looked so frail, Lorenzo’s heart went out to him. He wanted to say, “Mifune, there’s no need for you to stand in my house. Please sit down here, on this comfortable chair.” But he knew Mifune would never step over that boundary between master and servant, even though, to Lorenzo, he was more like a family member. The dog ran to greet his old friend, and Mifune bent to pat her.

“You are well, I hope, Mifune?” Lorenzo said, alarmed by the unexpected visit and the old man’s frailty.

“I am well, signore, thank you.” Mifune’s reedlike voice could not carry far, and Lorenzo walked over to him, bending his head closer.

“The girl has returned, signore,” Mifune said.

Lorenzo lifted his head. He closed his eyes and did not speak for a moment. He did not have to ask who Mifune
meant. He said finally, “She waited a long time, Mifune.”

“She is not happy, signore. She says she needs to leave her life behind. She has come back to find the happiness she knew here with her father.” His faded eyes met Lorenzo’s piercing blue ones. “And I believe, also to find out what happened to him.”

Lorenzo paced the marble floor, hands behind his back, head lowered. “I shall not make her welcome, Mifune,” he said finally.

The old man’s thin shoulders seemed to droop with a new burden of sadness. His sparse grizzled beard sank into his chest and his wild eyebrows met in a frown. “Then I must, signore,” he said quietly. “It is my duty.” And with a bow, he turned away.

Lorenzo stood by the door, watching as the old man walked slowly down the wide stone steps and made his way back to the cottage in the grounds that had been his home since before Lorenzo was born.

They were both faced with a dilemma, and for once Lorenzo did not know what to do about it.

Lorenzo usually enjoyed his shower, the hard spray on his body, washing away the cares of the long workday. But not tonight. Mifune’s news about Jon-Boy’s daughter had come as a shock. After all these years Lorenzo had not expected it, and he wished with all his heart she had stayed home. Now he was put in the position of having to take a hard line with her, and he didn’t like it.

He lifted his face to the spray, letting it drum on his forehead as though it could erase the memories of the past. But it could not, and he had no choice in what he had to do.

His suite of rooms was in the old tower, the original part of the Castello. On the ground floor was his private sitting room, where the walls were lined with shelves of books and hung with fine paintings. They were not ones he’d inherited but artworks he had chosen himself for the simple reason that he had fallen in love with them. Each one gave him a great amount of pleasure, and in many cases he’d sponsored the young artists, encouraging their work and helping them get gallery showings. He also had read every book on his shelves—there were no leather-bound volumes here just for show.

Three photographs in plain silver frames sat on his desk. One was of Marella, his wife, taken on their wedding day. It had been a small wedding with only a hundred guests, just
family and friends, because Marella was never a woman who craved grandeur. They had taken their vows in the Duomo di Sant’Andrea, the cathedral in Amalfi; then everyone had returned to the Castello for a feast served on the terrace, with its fabulous panoramic view of the coast.

Marella looked out from her wedding photo with solemn brown eyes. Her hair was pulled back under a billowing lace veil, anchored by a wreath of fresh flowers instead of the usual diamond tiara. She looked sweet and very young, and it was Lorenzo’s favorite picture of her. Marella’s death was the greatest tragedy of his life.

His son Nico’s picture portrayed him exactly the way he was: brash, extrovert, a lovable charmer. What it didn’t show was his inability to accept responsibility, both in business and in his personal life. Nico’s refusal to work in the family businesses had hurt Lorenzo more than he cared to show. Instead he’d been harsh with his son, reminding him of his family responsibility. But Nico had gone his own way, dabbling in advertising and TV, and in fact, he was good at what he did. However, he was likely not to show up at work for weeks, going off on the spur of the moment on long vacations, which was not something his employers liked. In fact, if it were not that Nico was Lorenzo Pirata’s son, he might not still have his job, no matter how good he was.

Nico’s personal life was equally as erratic. He fell in and out of love rapidly and had a reputation for changing women as easily as he changed his clothes. Lorenzo did not approve of Nico’s behavior and had told him so, but to no avail. All Lorenzo could do was hope Nico would grow out of it.

And then there was Aurora. She stared warily into the camera lens, like a deer caught in the headlights. Lorenzo’s daughter’s beauty was like that of a polished cameo, with her delicate bone structure, high cheekbones, big dark brown
eyes, and full pouting mouth. Only Lorenzo knew that under that haughty beauty was an insecure young woman.

Aurora had always been a needy child. She had followed her mother everywhere, clinging to her, and when Marella died she’d been devastated and afraid. Aurora had held desperately on to Lorenzo, begging him never to leave her, and of course he’d promised he never would. He moved his little family to their palazzo in Rome so he could be close to them all week, but weekends they always returned to the Castello, the place he considered his true home.

Aurora had never lost that insecurity, nor her neediness. She acted brash and arrogant among her peers, and people thought she was selfish and spoiled, which indeed she was, but Lorenzo knew that inside she was still that frightened child, and felt he must do everything he could to protect her.

He toweled himself dry, put on casual pants and a linen shirt, and with Affare pattering at his side went downstairs to have dinner with his children.

They were waiting in the small sitting room that led onto the terrace. It was the place the family had always gathered, and in fact, the grand reception rooms were rarely used except for big parties or formal occasions.

Nico had a glass of whiskey in his hand and was staring out at the deep blue night sky while Aurora lounged in a chair flipping through the pages of a magazine. They looked up as Lorenzo came in.

“Papa!” Aurora exclaimed, getting up and running to him. “You are so late; where were you?”

Lorenzo gave her a great bear hug, making her laugh, and told her he’d been held up by a last-minute business problem.

“Oh, I hope it was resolved,” she said, looking anxious, and he smiled at her concern.

“It was, sweetheart. Everything’s okay.” Aurora sighed,
relieved, and he went to greet Nico, who had not moved from his position by the open French doors. “Good to see you, son,” Lorenzo said, clasping Nico to him, but Nico did not even put down his glass and merely patted his father’s shoulder. There was a distinct coolness between them.

“We’re running late,” Nico said, glancing pointedly at his watch. “Dinner should have been an hour ago. I have a party to go to and I don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

“A party? Where? Who with?” Aurora demanded, but Nico shrugged and said it was none of her business.

“I saw Mifune was here,” he said to Lorenzo. “What’s up? Is he sick?” There was genuine concern in his voice. He had known Mifune all his life, and the old man was his friend. Not so Aurora; she had always been a little afraid of Mifune’s pale gaze and startling appearance and did not understand him the way Nico did.

Lorenzo went to the sideboard that acted as a bar and poured himself a Campari and soda over ice. He added a fresh basil leaf—a personal quirk of his—rubbing it with his fingers so the aroma opened up.

“Mifune told me that Jon-Boy’s daughter is here from America,” he said. “She has not been back since he was killed, and to tell you the truth, I wish she had not come back now.”

Both his children knew the story of Jon-Boy’s death and the body never being found. Now they were curious about his daughter.

“Her name is Lamour Harrington,” Lorenzo said. “And since I have the unpleasant task of telling her she is not welcome, it would make things easier for me if you did not try to become friends with her. In fact I would prefer you not talk to her.”

Nico stared at him, astounded. “Are you
serious
? What’s she done, for god’s sake?”

“She has done nothing. I simply don’t want her opening up a past that is better kept under lock and key. Do you understand me, Nico? I don’t want you to befriend her.”

“I wonder why?” Nico said knowingly.

Aurora looked from one to the other, bewildered. “If Papa says we mustn’t talk to her, he has his reasons,” she said loyally.

Massimo appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served, signore,” he said, and Lorenzo nodded and led his children out on the terrace.

At the table, with the faithful Affare at his side, Lorenzo listened as his children chatted about their week. He wished Aurora had been the one to protest, but as always with her, whatever he said went. Sometimes he wished she would rebel, not depend so on him. He knew it all stemmed from her childhood, knew also there was nothing he could do about it.

“I want to go to the party with Nico,” Aurora said.

Nico threw her a withering glance. “No chance.”

“Why not? Papa, tell him I have to go, too.”

“Tell her she’s a spoiled brat,” Nico retorted.

Lorenzo sighed. Children chose their own paths in life. His were no exception.

“I’ll give you a game of backgammon after dinner,” he offered Aurora, not wanting her to go to the kind of party he suspected Nico might end up at. And when she pouted, looking prettily at him, saying she really wanted to go, he said firmly she could not.