The Knotty Bride (19 page)

chapter 2

E
XCEPT I AM not an Italo-American. Exactly. I am an American who has spent a third of her life in Italy. And, I have to say, living in a foreign country, one tends to pick up things. For instance, I have picked up the local driving habits. Even now, as I come through the gates of Villa Buschi, I try to gun it—and do a bit of slalom-like action trying to avoid all the vines, bushes and other forms of flora that are quickly overtaking the driveway.

Funny thing is, gunning it isn’t going to be an option here. I can barely see five feet ahead of me, let alone make out the next curve. The fact is, the driveway does not appear to be a “driveway”—it’s more like a glorified path for oxen. It’s so rutted and pitted that it jostles the Panda up and down. I let up on the gas pedal. Deliberately I guide the Panda over to the middle of the driveway so as not to risk the wrath of all the tree branches. All the while I am thinking, lovely place; really top notch. The whole jumbled mess of the grounds definitely adds a je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere. There are camellias, azaleas and rhododendrons that have jumped their beds and run amok, as well as all manner of tree, bush and flowering shrub vying for space and sunlight. There are thick, coarse vines which cling choke-like to anything in their path as they snake their way up the tree in a frantic bid for sunlight.

Looking around, I get the feeling something is wrong. I may not be an expert, but I am pretty sure that rich people’s grounds shouldn’t look this bad. The state of the grounds cause me to wonder; why does the new owner put up with such a mess? Perhaps he likes his privacy? He is a movie star after all, a hot and famous one. I know because I’ve seen almost all of his films.

Thinking about a gorgeous movie star causes me to lose concentration and I hit something large and log-like in the middle of the road. My car lurches forward. For a terrifying moment the Panda is airborne. It lands a second later with a bone-crushing jolt.

“
What
 
on earth
?” I stand on the brakes and check my rearview mirror. Behind me on the road lies the thickest, darkest, most virulent green vine I have seen in my entire life. It’s just lying there, right across the driveway.

“Only a vine,” I laugh nervously.

But as I am staring at it in the mirror, I swear it appears to 
undulate
. The primitive alligator part of my brain shouts “Snake! Huge snake! Possibly an anaconda!” I slam the gas pedal to the floor, inadvertently sending the car into a small ditch. The impact tosses me so far forward in my seat that I bump my head hard against the windshield. At the same exact instant as I hit the windshield, my seat belt makes a sharp snapping sound and jerks me back into my seat. I sit upright in shock.

Lily, I tell myself a minute later, it will be alright. Everything will be fine. I am bruised and breathless but I am fine. Once again there is no need to panic. Clearly that wasn’t a snake. Clearly it was a vine. There are no anacondas in Northern Italy. They live on some other continent—South America or somewhere. It’s just that it’s raining so hard everything is starting to look distorted, that’s all.

I take a big breath in, let it back out, and decide the important thing is to drive prudently. Yes, that’s it. I need to drive prudently and not daydream about the new owner of Villa Buschi. Gently, I tap on the accelerator and the Panda and I crawl forward. I drive with great prudence, picking my way cautiously through the flora like a Green Beret, or a Navy Seal, or something of that sort. Eventually, I make it to a clearing in the trees where, if I crane my neck just right, I can make out the backside of the villa. I circle around to the front of the building and feel a sense of relief because the villa itself looks fine. In fact, the villa itself still looks like the well-kept manor of the picture postcards. Sadly I can’t say the same for the gardens that lead down to the lake—the ones featured so prominently on those infamous picture postcards.

“Sweet heavens, they look as if they have been shelled,” I say to nobody but myself. Here the land is all tattered and cluttered, in a state of disrepair—with all manner of weed growing, and not a dainty bloom to be found.

I stare at the gardens a moment longer and then I remind myself that they are not my concern. What is my concern is the fact that I am late to work, so I tap on the accelerator once more and follow a small arrow-shaped sign that reads
Parcheggio
 to a stand of cypress trees. Once there, I nose my Panda into a tight spot, right between Alice’s ancient C-class Mercedes on one side and a bright yellow Ferrari on the other. Briefly I wonder why anyone would leave a bright yellow Ferrari sitting out here in all this rain. It’s as if the rich don’t even care, do they?

And how the heck did that Ferrari make it up that driveway anyway?

I have no idea. I really don’t. I turn the key in the ignition, shut off the engine and exit my car. Hurriedly, I reach into the back seat to pull out my umbrella and my enormous sack lunch. I have to admit, I am so famished that for one brief second I stop and consider the possibility of sitting on a tree stump and having a snack. I know that sounds like complete lunacy given that I am running late, but there was simply no time for breakfast—what with me starting a new job and it being the boys’ first day of nursery school and all. Honestly, it was all I could do to make it out the door. And once I did finally make it to the school, Matteo clung to my leg like a human sandbag the whole 25 yards from the car park to the front door. It took forever to reach his classroom where the headmistress gently tried to unwrap him. But when that didn’t work, the woman flat out had to pry Matteo loose. Then she told me to run. With all that drama, I didn’t even have a chance to stop at a café and grab a cup of coffee. But, as stated before, now is not the time to be thinking about food or coffee or the disastrous state of the grounds or anything else for that matter. Now is the time for starting my new job. Shoulder straight with determination, I tuck all my things under one arm, slam the back door to the Panda and begin the march up the pathway that leads from the parking to the villa. I swing along, realizing with a pang of excitement that I am feeling really good about my new job. I feel the “maid” part is just temporary. Why, with this job, the sky could be the limit. How wonderful to get to meet famous people like Brandon Logan and his guests. I’ll show them all over town; take them to my favorite café or the Borromean Islands or maybe shopping. Indeed, with their wealth and my local knowledge, we can peruse the flagship stores of Via Montenapoleone in Milan and shop at Prada, Fendi and Versace. In turn, of course, the rich and famous will be so gratified that they will help me find a new and even better job.

Unless I get fired first, which is a distinct possibility since my watch now says half past. I pick up the pace and practically sprint the rest of the way to the house. Then I huff up the great stone steps, almost tripping over an enormous cobalt-blue planter that sits abandoned on the top row with one forlorn stalk in it. I stare at that dead stalk for a moment until my gaze flits to the gargoyle knocker mounted on the massive front door.

Hmm, grounds in chaos, dead stalk in the planter and gargoyle knocker? It’s all very Tim Burton-esque. I decide it best not to touch the knocker and look around for a doorbell. As I am doing so the front door swings wide open and there she is, standing with her hands on her hips, looking scarier than anything out of a horror movie: my soon-to-be-ex-aunt-in-law Alice Bettonina, head of household here at Villa Buschi.

chapter 3

“B
UON GIORNO!” I beam at her.

“You’re late,” she replies in rapid-fire Italian.

Damn. Obviously Alice is going to be a bit of a stickler to work for.

“Permesso?” I plead.

She doesn’t flinch or move or breathe. She just stands there looking fearsome, dressed, as always, in her black wool sweater with matching wool skirt and wool leggings. (And probably wool underthings as well.)

“Permesso?” I raise my voice louder, asking again for permission to enter.

Like a hundred–year-old sycamore rooted to the very spot, Alice blocks the center of the doorway. Her face is all puckered and twisted in a look that says, “I’m just flat-out disgusted, Lily. This is, after all, your first day at work. And what time did we agree to start? Eight o’clock, that’s right. Eight o’clock.”

Hmm, no arguing with that angry face. The best tactic, I believe, is to try and sidestep her. So I twist my body and flatten myself out—and I scoot past her, falling through the door.

“Wow! This place is so… so…,” I sputter as I regain my balance.

Alice shuts the massive wooden door behind me, and it makes a loud “wump” noise.

“Help me, Alice, what’s the word I’m looking for?” I ask as I stare into an enormous entry way.

Alice prickles with silence.

“Old money, that’s what it is!” I gush in full-on Italian. Alice doesn’t speak English. She thinks she does, but trust me, her egleesh eessa notta so gooda.

“You promised you wouldn’t gawk,” Alice snaps crossly.

“Oh, I know. I know. I did promise that. But look at this place! And this is just the foyer, for heaven’s sake. How could I not? I mean, this room alone is five times the size of my apartment. Do you realize that?”

Alice winces. Apparently, my Italian is also notta so gooda. “I thought I told you to enter through the side door,” she says shortly.

“Well, I…,” I stop gawking at the entry hall and stare at her instead. It’s the funniest thing, but when she furrows her brow like that she looks just like an angry Queen of England.

“Promise me, Lily, that under no circumstances will you use the front door ever again. Remember you are staff.” She grabs my elbow to denote the seriousness of my mistake.

Heck no, I assure her. I won’t ever come through the front door again. Now if she could just be good enough to show me where the side door is…

She says something in reply as I gently try to pull my elbow out of her vice-like grip. She is saying something about a map she gave me with the side entrance to the staff’s cloakroom clearly marked. And what did I do with this map? Huh?

A map? Let me see. I don’t really remember that. Oh wait, now I remember. Luca spilled something in the car the other day and I had to use it to sop up some juice or some water or something.

Shrewdly, I decide not to share this anecdote with Alice.

“Oh Alice, I just love the champagne-colored walls!” I drool, changing the topic as I drift to the middle of the foyer where I begin to spin slowly in an effort to take it all in. I can’t help it. I continue to spin like a fairytale princess enraptured by the sight of her forest friends. The place is just that gorgeous. And so pristine! Completely opposite of the mess outside—the shrubs, the trees, the shelled gardens, the undulating vines.

“Oh my! I love how the paint seems to be peeling a bit with age,” I murmur. “And the austerity of the walls, with barely any decoration. And the furniture. Why, it’s massive. Is it Queen Anne? Or Louis the XVI
th
? Whatever it is, it’s gorgeous. Yet it’s simple—not over the top, if you know what I mean. In fact, it’s all, so… so… Well, I don’t know, what is the word exactly?”

I look expectantly at Alice, whose eyes narrow to slits.

“Oh never mind, I can’t think of the word. Anyway, Alice, I love it. I love it all.”

“Could you try not to drip?” Alice’s eyes flash with irritation.

I look at her incredulously. What kind of a question is that? It’s not like I am trying to drip water all over the place. And maybe I wouldn’t be trailing water all over the floor if I hadn’t been stuck out in the pouring rain for several minutes waiting for my soon-to–be-ex-aunt-in-law to finally open the gate and admit me.

“Zen,” I pronounce decidedly.

“What?” Alice’s right eyebrow shoots a mile high.

“It’s all so Zen. The paint color is Zen. That’s the word I was searching for. Very soothing to the eye, that champagne color.”

This time, Alice looks truly speechless and not just pretending to be.

“And it’s all so tasteful. What with the terra cotta tiles and that sweeping stone staircase. And what is that up there? Look at that chandelier. Look at it, Alice. It looks right out of 
Phantom of the Opera
.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Alice says, squinting suspiciously at the chandelier in question.

“Well, it’s very nice anyway. Very nice.”

Alice looks from the chandelier to me and frowns.

Oh, alright, I get it. I’ll stop. I’ll stop salivating over the foyer. I’ll try to think of something more useful to say. But I can’t. I just can’t. I am caught up in the beauty of my surroundings. I mean, can you imagine living here? Can you imagine coming through that massive front door, with that ugly gargoyle knocker, and saying, “Hi, honey, I’m home?”

I can imagine it. I am imagining it right now, but Alice is growing impatient.

“Um, Alice, there is a Ferrari outside in this weather, did you know?” There now, that was a very useful and employee-like thing to say. Alice, however, just stares at me with a blank expression.

“Alice, it’s a Ferrari for heaven’s sake. I know it’s not a convertible or anything, but still it’s probably worth a couple hundred thousand. Shouldn’t somebody, you know, put it away?” I proffer in a helpful tone as I start to peel off my coat.

“It’s none of my business or yours,” she snorts.

“But doesn’t Signore Logan mind? I mean, that his car is getting all wet?”

“Lily Bilbury!” Alice bellows.

What? Am I getting more water on the floor?

“Did you or did you not read the confidentiality agreement?”

The confidentiality agreement? The thirty-pages of legalese that Alice made me sign before I came to work here? Yes, I read it. Most of it. Oh right It says we’re not to mention Signore Logan by name even to each other. I mean, how stupid is that? Like he is Lord Voldemort or something.

“Oh right. Yes. Not to mention him by name,” I whisper.

Alice goes all prickly again.

“And 
why
 don’t we mention him by name?” she patronizes.

“Lest someone overhear?” I hazard.

“Precisely. The Signore needs absolute privacy.”

This makes me giggle, but not out loud because Alice looks like she might pulverize me. I do giggle internally, because everybody in Arona knows that mega movie star Brandon Logan bought this place at auction last year. It was on CNN, on Rai Uno, in 
People
 (the Italian version) and in every local magazine around. But okay, if Alice wants to play this game, I’ll play.

“Anyway, the Signore is not here. It is not his Ferrari,” Alice sighs as if that answers that. She holds out her hand for my coat.

“Now, Lily, if you’ll follow me we will get started,” she says as she takes my trench and begins to fold it wet side in.

“Yes, but one second, Alice. I have another question,” I say standing firm.

“Well?”

“Well… what in the world is up with the gardener, I mean the grounds are…”

“What?”

“Well, they are quite a mess and a little dangerous actually. I could barely see the driveway with all the branches and vines and leaves and everything. And that gate is practically falling off its hinges,” I say with a lighthearted laugh. I don’t want Alice to think I’m actually complaining or anything on my very first day of work. (Because I am sure complaining on the first day of work is in violation of paragraph 352 on page 27 of that incredibly long legal agreement that, okay, I confess I didn’t really read. I just sort of glanced at it. It was all, “thou shall not do this, and thou shall not do that.” I have to admit, I was so sleep deprived from parenting two toddlers by myself that I fell asleep right at the dining room table with my head on top of the confidentiality agreement. But as soon as I woke up again, I did sign the thing. That, I did do.)

As it turns out, my whole question is for naught, because Alice has no intention of discussing the gardens. Instead, she just drapes my trench over her arm butler-like, and takes off down the hallway, motioning for me to follow. As I am marched into the cloakroom and shown the “staff entrance,” everything becomes startlingly clear. This new job at Villa Buschi is not going to be fabulous at all. I am not about to meet fabulous people and get instantly promoted to do something much more interesting. Instead, I am going to spend my days scrubbing doorknobs with toothbrushes.

Nonetheless, while I stand there being lectured by my aunt-in-law for what seems like an eternity on the basic use of no less than 25 different cleaning solvents, I keep thinking to myself, “I need this job. I really do.” Because, you see, I have a theory which goes like this: economic independence = divorce = happiness. And the truth is, up until last week, I had no real prospects; I had no bright, shiny job offerings looming on the horizon. Which is why, when my aunt showed up on a beautiful Indian summer day, with a proposal that would enable me to become gainfully employed, I listened most intently to what she had to say.