A Trail of Pearls: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel

by D. M. George

  Her reverie ended when the cab stopped in front of a small shop with a sign above the glass door that read TESORI DAL MARE.

  “We’re here,” announced the middle-aged cherub. Perla handed him some euros and thanked him for the ride. She stopped, straightened her skirt, then pulled open the door.

  Visual overload hit her like a gust of wind. She walked into a treasure chest overflowing with gold, cameos, and coral jewelry. The glass counters and wall cases burst with pendants, rings, and bracelets. Ropes of bright red and pink beads hung on stands, waiting to touch human skin.

  “Bella donna, may I help you?” A salesman sidled up to her in too-tight jeans and a dated turtleneck sweater. He puffed his chest, lifted his chin, and pursed his lips when he spoke—the way men who are full of themselves do.

  “I’m Perla Palazzo, here to see Renzo,” she said, “but I’m a little early.” Pathologically punctual, to be exact. Arriving less than fifteen minutes early was late in her book.

  “I’m Matteo. Please, go ahead and browse. Is this antique?” He pointed to Perla’s cameo. “Can I see it?”

  “No!” Perla clutched her neck as if she’d swallowed a bee.

  “No, it’s not an antique?” He stepped closer, intruding in her American-size personal space.

  “A woman named Parthenope gave it to me.”

  Matteo laughed. “If Parthenope gave it to you, you are the antique. She died thousands of years ago, if you believe the mythology. We have many mermaid-themed cameos I can show you if you like.” He reached into one of the display cases and selected a cameo ring featuring a mermaid.

  “Wait, you know her?”

  “Everyone knows of her—she’s a legend around here. Naples was originally named after Parthenope. There’s even a school there called Parthenope University.”

  “Did she sing and play the lyre?” Perla asked, fascinated.

  “Of course. Her music was said to be deadly. Odysseus was the only man to hear her voice and live, but he cheated by ordering his crew to tie him to the mast of his ship. Supposedly she drowned herself after failing to entice him—that’s the tour guide’s version anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Locals know the truth. For centuries, fishermen along the Amalfi Coast have claimed they’ve heard Parthenope’s haunting voice, sometimes glimpsing her long red hair. There are stories of her saving fishermen in danger.”

  As Matteo spoke, he took Perla’s hand and slid the mermaid ring onto her finger.

  “Isn’t this gorgeous?” Matteo said without releasing her hand. His lips curled as he slid his other hand up her arm toward her breast.

  Parthenope’s cameo suddenly buzzed against her chest like a cell phone on vibrate mode. Without a second’s hesitation, Perla jerked Matteo toward her with the hand he held, so close their noses almost touched. She grabbed his testicles with her other hand, hard.

  “I’ll see Renzo now,” she hissed.

  “What’s going on here?” A man materialized behind Perla. He said a few angry words in Italian to Matteo, who was crouched in pain, then introduced himself and ushered Perla into his office at the back of the store.

  “My salesman was offensive. I apologize.” Renzo’s gorgeous eyes rested on hers. He was both classic and classy—the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome Italian man.

  “He was, but I handled it.” She fought the urge to smile.

  “My sincerest apologies. He can’t keep his hands off women. I will have to let him go this time. He’s my brother-in-law, and I never wanted to hire him in the first place.” Renzo had a sincere, guileless face. “My wife is going to kill me.”

  The cameo stopped buzzing. Perla sat in front of Renzo’s cluttered workbench. She nodded and smiled as he described the ancient art of cameo carving. He handed her a cross section of the special shell he used and pointed out its different strata of color. The information was important for her article on cameos, but her churning mind blocked his words.

  Good Lord, what did I just do? Perla’s brain shouted as Renzo talked. She had never assaulted a man before, never even imagined it. Who was the vulgar woman standing in her shoes? And yet she felt exhilarated instead of ashamed, empowered rather than repulsed. For the first time in her life, she’d gone on the offensive and it felt good. She was tired of being a victim.

  Renzo showed her a cameo in progress and demonstrated the tools used to carve each layer of the tiny portraits. Pay attention, she told herself, but at the end of the interview, Perla couldn’t remember a thing he’d said. She thanked him for his time and hurried out of the store.

  A few steps away from Tesori dal Mare, Perla stopped and slumped against the wall. Her gift of youth had come with a price tag after all. But was her own repressed anger taking control, or was Parthenope channeling her vengeful personality through the cameo? She’d returned to her polite, meek self as soon as the cameo stopped buzzing, but what would happen if she kept wearing it? Would she kung fu the next man who bumped into her on the street? And if someone intentionally caused her harm, would she grow shark’s teeth and rip him to shreds?

  As those thoughts swirled in her mind, Perla did what any woman in her midfifties would do if she had been magically rejuvenated by a man-eating mermaid’s dubious gift—she went shopping. Her budget was tight and her credit card was only for emergencies, but didn’t instant transformation into a thirty-five-year-old qualify as an emergency? Was there any better reason to buy a new dress? Vanity prevailed.

  Corso Italia, the main shopping street in Sorrento’s old town area, overflowed with souvenir shops and pricey boutiques catering to wealthy tourists. Sorrentini residents, it seemed to Perla, lived modest lifestyles and eschewed these stores. They either couldn’t afford or didn’t want the expensive clothing and accessories displayed in the windows. Perla wanted it all.

  A glowing apricot sheath dress caught her eye, and she simply had to try it on. A friendly, tastefully dressed woman welcomed her into the small boutique and showed her to the dressing room. Perla zipped up the dress and pirouetted several times in front of the full-length mirror. An attractive young woman smiled back at her.

  Perla smoothed her hands over her hips and felt the satin lining lick her thighs. The side slits balanced its demure length with a dash of sluttiness. Perfect.

  Perla paid for the dress and wore it out of the store, carrying her old clothes in a plastic bag. She entered the narrow, cobbled streets behind Corso Italia and headed into the oldest part of Sorrento. Her heart thumped in the rush of a full-blown shopping frenzy. Narrow, open-front stores lined the crowded pedestrian-only street, spilling their merchandise onto the sidewalk. Tables and racks stacked with belts, beach bags, tiny bottles of limoncello, jewelry, and refrigerator magnets formed a gauntlet of temptation.

  Perla’s dress seemed to call out “Get me a new handbag and shoes—now!” A tractor beam pulled her into one of Sorrento’s many leather stores. The skinny, one-room shop was a leather avalanche waiting to happen; hundreds of handbags, wallets, jackets, briefcases, and backpacks climbed the walls to the ceiling. A dark orange shoulder bag caught her attention, and the sales clerk used a pole and hook to bring it down for her. Perla drooled the moment she touched the buttery calfskin. Three hundred euros later, Perla raced out onto the street in search of new sandals.

  Hunter-gatherer euphoria never peaks higher than when shopping for shoes. Perla glistened with sweat. She had to find the perfect pair of sandals to complete her ensemble. A momentary break in the crowd revealed a collection of spring sandals in a shop window. Perla burst through the door, and the proprietress, who recognized the frenzied expression, steered her toward the table with the expensive shoes.

  “These are known as Jackie sandals—the most popular style sold on the Amalfi Coast. Jackie Onassis, who vacationed in Capri frequently, loved this simple, feminine design. She bought so many pairs she inspired a fashion trend that continues to this day.” The woman guided her to a seat and replaced o
ne of Perla’s low-heeled pumps with a twinkling sandal. “These are marvelous on you.”

  They were marvelous. The simple, flat thongs had a thin leather band over the top of her foot and behind her heel. A dollop of faux emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds of all shapes and sizes hid the intersection of straps above her toes. The sandals glittered unapologetically. Perla squeezed her earlobe. Were they too gaudy? Hell yes—but today she wanted to glitter just as unapologetically. She paid for the sandals and wore them out of the store.

  Perla glanced at her reflection every time she passed a store window. She strutted out of the alley into Piazza Tasso. Spine straight, shoulders back, chin up. Nobody got whiplash turning to stare, but she sensed a few appreciative glances from men on the street. She felt dressed for the ball but without a date and nowhere to go, so she took a seat at one of the many outdoor cafés.

  “Buongiorno, may I get you something to drink?” asked a waiter in black pants and a white shirt.

  “What are they drinking?” Perla pointed to a couple sipping bright orange drinks from big wine goblets.

  “Aperol Spritz. It’s very popular in Italy.”

  “What a beautiful color.” Perla ordered one and nursed it, content to detox from her shopping high while watching the human river in the plaza. She froze. In the distance, among the crowd, a man who resembled the jewelry-store clerk glared at her. The crowd shifted and he vanished. Was it just her imagination?

  Ischia

  Perla hit the Save button and closed her laptop, then stepped outside the glass door onto the balcony, breathed in the fresh morning air, and relished its promise of a beautiful day. Her first article, “The Cameos of Sorrento,” was finally complete. She reflected on the past three days, which she’d spent holed up in her hotel room. Putting her thoughts onto paper had been far more difficult than she’d expected. Squeezing out the required 1,500 words had been like giving birth. Parthenope, the cameo, and the anticipation of the trip to Ischia with Teddy had made her attention span gnat-like.

  Would her article be good enough? Was it too personal? Just good enough doesn’t win prizes, so she’d gambled on a radically different approach. She had written her article about life instead of a piece of jewelry: her life, women’s lives, the seasons of beauty, and the coming of old age. She’d described how cameos made her feel rather than what they were made of, how much they cost, or where to buy them. She’d posited they were timeless symbols of feminine beauty, badges that honored a woman’s inner goddess throughout all stages of life, regardless of her external appearance. She wondered if her musings would resonate with a wider audience.

  Perla’s prediction of a beautiful day came true. Capri loomed majestically against the cloudless sky and blindingly blue water. Perla spotted Teddy near a limoncello stand that dispensed free samples in tiny paper cups to tourists. Her new friend stood out from the crowd with her silvery silk scarf and a gauzy jumpsuit—a beacon of tasteful simplicity against the backdrop of parti-color tourists. Teddy led Perla down the esplanade to the marina, where they approached three people standing next to a white speedboat.

  “Perla, this is my dear friend Maria and her husband, Etienne. They are neighbors of mine. Maria owns a clothing boutique, and Etienne manages a restaurant in Capri town.”

  Perla nodded at the short, wiggly woman and her tall, taciturn husband.

  “And this is the love of my life, my son, Roman.” Teddy beamed at her tall, tanned son who had shaggy blond hair, a wide smile, and was wearing board shorts.

  Perla silently rejoiced at how dramatically the little boy with the pained expression had matured into the happy young man before her.

  The immaculate speedboat awaited. Roman took her hand and helped her onto the deck. Maria and Etienne settled into the curved, sofa-like bench seat while Perla followed Teddy up the narrow steps on the side of the cabin. Padded vinyl covered the entire bow of the boat, and an upholstered bench seat faced forward below the windshield.

  “Wow, it’s like a big bed.” Perla sprawled on her back and rolled around.

  “This is my favorite place to sit. I like to see where I’m going.” Teddy tied her hair up in her scarf, rolled up her pant legs, and flexed her pink-polished toes.

  Roman started the powerful engine and it gurgled in self-restraint, like a dog straining to be let off its leash. He backed the boat out of the slip, motored through the harbor past the farthest buoy, and hit the throttle. The boat lurched forward and flew over the glassy water. Perla glanced back at Roman through the windshield. He seemed so relaxed with his hands on the wheel, so content within his element. Capri had indeed been his healing balm.

  In less than an hour they arrived in Sorgeto Bay, their first stop in Ischia. Sheer rock walls encircled the cove, and a steep flight of stairs wound down the bluff to a narrow strip of beach. Roman slowed to a stop in the middle of the bay, switched off the engine, set anchor, and pulled a huge duffel bag of snorkeling equipment from under the transom. After handing out the gear, he climbed to the front of the boat and sprawled out on the padded bow.

  “I’m going to snooze. You guys take your time.” Roman took off his Wayfarers and closed his eyes—hence the perfect tan.

  “Rough night in Ischia?” Etienne chided him.

  “Oh yes.” Roman grinned, his eyes still closed. “And again tonight. One of my guys will take you back to Capri later.”

  Teddy and Perla sat on the swim deck, putting on their fins.

  “Are you two coming with us to the thermal pools?” Teddy asked Maria.

  “No, we’re looking for red coral today.” Maria told Etienne to hurry up, pulled the mask over her face, and splashed into the water.

  “Did you say thermal pools?” Perla asked in a tight voice.

  “Yes. See where all the people are sitting in the water?” Teddy pointed to a spot a short swim away. “Hot water bubbles up there into shallow pools and mixes with seawater. It’s nature’s hot tub. You don’t like hot springs?” Teddy scanned Perla’s serious face.

  “Uh… oh no, they’re fine. It’s just been a long time…” Perla massaged her right forearm anxiously.

  “Well, let’s go then!”

  They dropped into the water and swam toward shore.

  Mossy green boulders, which resembled giant Easter eggs, studded the rocky beach. The scent of sulfur and seaweed filled the air. Perla inspected each of the shallow pools, gingerly dipping a foot in each one. The water temperature varied from scalding to tepid.

  “Let’s sit there.” Teddy pointed to the largest pool. “It’s not too hot and not too cold.” They joined the half dozen bathers sitting nipple-deep in the water.

  Perla hesitated. Her breath quickened.

  “Come on.” Teddy waved her over.

  Perla sank down beside her and rested her back against the rocks. The water’s deliciously dangerous warmth penetrated her muscles.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” said Teddy.

  “Just lovely.” And it was. Within seconds, Perla’s tension dissipated in the steam, and within minutes, she floated in amniotic bliss. The pink faces ringing the pool resembled those red-faced, hot-spring-loving snow monkeys from Japan—minus the frosty hair.

  The moment stood still, as time often does when traveling, and Perla’s mind wandered. Life’s surprises were both good and bad, she conceded. Less than a week ago she had left California with her tail between her legs, never imagining that days later she’d be in Nirvana, swimming with a celebrity, having so much fun.

  “What a pretty cameo,” Teddy said, leaning closer to see the necklace.

  “Thanks. A friend gave it to me.” When she had dressed that morning, she’d had to think hard to remember if she’d been wearing the cameo on the day she’d met Teddy. How could she explain showing up the wrong age?

  “A man friend?”

  “Oh no. I’ve retired from men.”

  “Don’t give up—the right one might be just around the corner,” Teddy said through
the mist. “And why not? You’re attractive, funny, and a good listener. Keep an open mind.”

  “Thank you for the encouragement, but my heart is roadkill right now,” Perla replied, embarrassed but pleased by Teddy’s compliment. She looked down at her new leopard-print, one-piece swimsuit and suppressed a twinge of guilt—another credit card charge. She’d much rather go into debt than embarrass Teddy and her friends with her ratty swim attire.

  “What about you? Do you hate men after Roger?”

  “I’ll never marry again, if that’s what you mean. What’s the point? I’m financially and emotionally independent now,” she said. “I have several beaux whom I see occasionally. Nothing serious though. Friendships are what are important to me these days, after Roman of course. I measure wealth by the number of good people in my life.” Teddy stood up. “I’m cooked. How about you?”

  Perla jumped up and grabbed her fins. “Let’s go.”

  Back at the boat, Perla and Teddy wrapped themselves in towels and sat next to Maria and Etienne.

  “Is everyone ready for lunch?” Teddy asked, and the others nodded.

  Perla expected a cooler full of sandwiches and sodas to appear, but apparently Teddy had something more elaborate in mind.

  “I’ve reserved a private terrace for us at the Poseidon Thermal Gardens.” She turned to Perla. “It’s only ten minutes away and you’ll love it. There are over twenty pools fed by natural hot springs, each a different temperature. There’s a sauna cave and restaurants too. Our terrace has its own bathrooms, so we can shower and change before lunch.”

  Great. More hot springs—just her luck.

  Perla marveled as the sprawling Poseidon Thermal Gardens complex came into view. She beheld a terraced wonderland of lush gardens and flowing water chiseled out of the hillside behind the Bay of Citara. A neat line of raffia parasols spanned its long white beachfront, and a towering statue of Poseidon welcomed visitors through the main gate into a manicured garden of palms, pines, and hibiscus.