by Liz Newman
“Why does this always happen to me?” Skye muttered to herself, laughing with some amusement, but more with desperation.
Skye rapped on the doors, thinking about Annabelle’s ears, stuffed with hearing aids whenever she saw her. No doubt those hearing aids rested on a dresser. She knocked again insistently. No answer. The mere necessity of her predicament attuned her to the gushing spurt of the stone fountain and brought to mind the image of Giuseppe’s garden hose spraying water on the leaves of the flowers, and as the images in her mind grew all the more persistent she recalled a story she investigated as an intern, against the backdrop of the cascading rapids of Niagara Falls.
Her bladder stretched out to maximum capacity. Her legs rotated inward as she tried to continue walking upright, knocking desperately at every door and window she found. She staggered slightly and danced a painful kind of jig as she tried to control the urge to place her hands over her private parts. She ran to the bushes, lifted her skirts and squatted down over the freshly planted rosebushes. She closed her eyes as she relieved herself as a relieved ahhh escaped her lips.
A sudden light broke through the darkness, and her eyes flew open. Sal stood before her,. Skye made attempted to cover herself, but this loss of focus caused her to pee in her own shoe.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. At that moment, the automatic sprinklers switched on with a startling shirrh! Her ankles tangled in her underpants and her arms flew up in a frantic attempt to regain balance. Sal lunged to keep her steady, but his grasp faltered. She fell backward, her hands finding momentary purchase on a splintered wooden stake, before landing bare-bottomed on the thorny rose bushes. Pushing her feet up against the soil, she tried to raise herself to no avail. The thorns held fast, embedded into the tender skin in her upper thighs. Pain seared through her nerves, its white-hot intensity dispersing any sense of inebriation.
Sal struggled to free her, breaking apart each stem with his bare hands while taking care not to touch the thorny splinters. “Oww,” she cried. He tried to assist her. “I can walk.” She gingerly stepped forward, the heels of her feet tinged with blood.
“You might not like this, but I’m going to carry you. You will be more comfortable.” He flung her over his shoulder, her bottom upward, and she felt a sobering head rush as he made his way up the curving staircase to the guest suite. This is lovely. Very cave-mannish. My, oh my, he does have a nice bottom though. I hope he thinks the same about mine, even if mine is cut, scratched and bruised. Or would that be sick? The blood rushed into her head. His powerful arms secured her body to his.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Sal applied salve to her skin. She held her skirts up modestly, allowing only a small area of skin to peek out at a time. “I’m beginning to enjoy this,” Sal joked. “How long are you staying?”
“At this rate, you’ll be burying me in the yard soon.”
“There’s a nice deep hole where the rose bushes used to be.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
“They can be replanted.” Sal finished and lowered her skirt down. “You, probably not for a day or so.”
“Would you like to have a glass of wine with me? I’m having another, for medicinal purposes.”
“As you wish.”
She poured him a glass from the bottle on the wet bar in her room. They drank in silence. “I feel odd, in the city of romance, to be traveling alone,” she said. “You must have me pegged as some kind of farm animal, bleeding at weddings, pissing in the bushes.”
“You are human. It is refreshing to meet someone genuine, not another creature made up of fabric, jewels, and styling…” He trailed off and pointed to his head.
“Products,” Skye finished for him.
“Yes,” Sal said.
“I’m over it, you know,” Skye said. “Poor choice of words, actually. I don’t know how better to explain it. Guilt is a shawl you’d rather not wear, but somehow it offers a very suitable place to hide. It’s familiar.” She shrugged.
Sal picked up his empty glass. “If it means anything to you, Miss Skye, I have seen the flower vendor at the gates for years now. She and her daughter, on the brink of starvation. I never did anything kind for her, as you did. You are perhaps the most gracious woman I have ever met. Buena Sera, Mirabella.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The gardens of the villa permeated her senses with the fragrances of cypress and oranges. Skye lay on her stomach on the four-poster bed, her bottom still smarting from the thorns. At the requested time of noon, Annabelle delivered breakfast to Skye on a silver tray, with a customary bow. Fingers touching her forehead, Annabelle extended the back of her hand toward Skye. She disappeared down the hall in a huff, the chandeliers on the first floor quivering and jingling as she walked away. Skye retrieved her tray and hobbled out onto the balcony, sinking with a grimace into a cushioned wicker chair.
Yards away from the main building, Sal obsequiously toiled at the earth, partly hidden behind a row of box hedges. Skye watched the muscles on Sal’s back ripple as he dug. An olive tree in a planter towered over him, ready to be placed in its new home in the dirt. She stirred a spoon in her tea, mesmerized by the sweat forming a long oval shape down his back through his fitted T-shirt.
A dark-haired heavy-set man dressed in a tailored suit and twirling a hat on his finger strode down a stone path toward Sal. He ran a hand over his solid, shiny slicked-black mane, every strand held in place by a hair gel that rivaled plate armor. A uniformed chauffeur trailed behind him, desperately trying to balance four heavy suitcases on his small frame.
The man pointed to the ground. “Scarrozzata,” he said to the chauffeur. The bags toppled from the chauffeur’s hand onto the ground. The chauffeur accepted the money held out to him by the man with a bow. Sal picked up one of the bags that had been surreptitiously dropped on a bed of iris. The leaves that had been crushed by its weight sprang back in defiance.
The man chastised Sal in Italian, waving his arms and hands about, while Skye pulled a translator from her pocket and frantically typed in as many shouted words as she could, so she could understand their conversation.
“Deserted!” the heavyset man said. “Alone with the French-Canadians. Look at you, covered in dirt when we could be lounging over cocktails and fine cuisine in paradise! You lousy offspring of fruit!” Skye figured she heard the last word wrong. He ranted for so long Skye grew bored and retrieved a bristle brush from her room, running it through her hair. She stepped back out onto the balcony and found the two men staring up at her.
“Ah-hah-hah! Buon giorno, bella,” the man called to her. “My name is Marcellus Aganalli.” Marcellus laughed as he waved to her. “E Magnifica!” His tone changed to one of approval. He spoke to Sal in Italian, smiling and laughing as Sal shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered words back. Marcellus enveloped Sal in a hug, backing away quickly and brushing himself off. Sal resumed his toil on the ground as Marcellus flopped into a lounge chair, tilting his hat over his face. His eyes closed, and he fell asleep with his mouth open, waking periodically to swear softly and weakly fan small, buzzing insects away. While Marcellus slept, Sal turned and gazed up at Skye. She lowered the novel she read and stole another glance at him. He turned away from her at the same time she lifted the book up again to cover her eyes.
“Signorina Skye,” Annabelle called from behind her door. “Un visitatore vederla.”
“Visitatore?” Skye opened the door and raised her brows at Annabelle. “Per mi?” Annabelle gave her a tight smile and raised her own brows, in an expression Skye failed to interpret.
Skye hopped down the stairs and found Tabitha perched on a gold brocade armchair in the villa’s grand salon. Her clothes were rumpled and her make-up streaked. Her face looked like a deranged and sad clown’s, with smeared lipstick, and eyeliner and mascara weeping above and below her green eyes. Her auburn hair, normally combed perfectly into a cascade of waves, resembled a burning bush.
�
�I…I…I,” Tabitha sobbed into a tissue. “He left me. For another woman.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skye said, holding her tightly. Skye rocked her back and forth as Tabitha went on. “I can’t have children. I’m a terrible wife. Who was I kidding! He deserves someone better than me.”
“Don’t say that,” Skye soothed. “You are wonderful. Was it Tazim?”
“Yes,” Tabitha sniffed.
“How did you find out?”
“I came home…her car was there. I walked inside, and they acted like it was a birthday party for me, but I know something’s going on. I screamed out in the driveway calling Tazim a whore and when I came inside, everyone was staring at me. They were all staring at me! It was awful. He knows I hate surprises.”
Skye felt miffed at not receiving an invitation. She shrugged it off, deciding it must’ve been due to some oversight on Jonas’ part. Perhaps he felt Skye would bring with her the memory of Tabitha’s bloodstained wedding dress. Embarrassment welled up inside of her. She squelched the feeling quickly.
“Everything’s going to be all right. You’re in Rome now. With me.”
Annabelle lumbered in and handed Skye a handful of tissues. Skye dabbed at Tabitha’s eyes. “I’ll show you a place where you can rest and then when you’re calm you can tell me everything again and we’ll figure things out. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“I drank some wine on the plane. There’s something else. I nee-nee-need…he took them.”
“He took what?”
Tabitha wrung the tissues in her hands until they twisted and came apart. “My medicine.”
“What kind?”
“Valium. Roofies. Painkillers. Anything prescription. I have terrible headaches. There are no more in here. Oh, maybe…” Tabitha trailed off as she rifled through her cream Louis Vuitton hand bag, emptying her cosmetics and toiletries out in the middle of the parlor. Minutes passed during the search, and she sat there, dejected, her personal items strewn about. Her green eyes swam in their sockets, concentric circles seeming to form in enlarged onyx pupils.
“Annabelle,” Skye ordered with resolve. “Prepare a room for Mrs. Tabitha Laurenti. She’s going to rest here for a few days.”
Tabitha grasped Skye’s hands. “It should be easy to find a doctor in Italy, shouldn’t it? Or I’ll come with you to one of those black market places. I hear they’re everywhere south of Rome. Let’s go now, all right? I’ll shower and change and then we’ll go. I just need some coffee.” She turned to Annabelle. “Could you make me some coffee? Strong. Please.”
“Deve dormire. Molto…malato,” Skye struggled to find the words to speak to Annabelle. Skye placed her arms on Tabitha’s shoulders and pointed her in the direction of the hallway. “I’ll take care of it, Tabs.”
“Be back soon, okay? I’ll need something after I’m done showering. Suboxone was awful but I’ll take it if that’s all you can find. Terrible headaches. I prefer Valium or Rohypnol but I’m fine with Percocet or Darvocet, too. A doctor gave me shots of Demerol, but I hate giving myself shots. If you’ll do it for me, I’ll close my eyes. If that’s all you can find. Do you need me to write the names down for you?”
“No, Tabitha.”
Tabitha gaped with horror at the tight, focused gaze on Skye’s face. “You will get them for me, won’t you? You’re my best friend, Skye. Do you know that?”
Annabelle stood there, stout and patient. Even her patience wore thin; she led Tabitha by the arm toward the hall.
“Are you my best friend, Skye?” Tabitha shouted over her shoulder. “Are you my best friend?”
“Yes,” Skye called to her. “I am your best friend.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You wicked cow!” Tabitha screamed at Skye hours later as Skye wiped the rivulets from her inflamed brow. “Prehistoric mannequin! Insufferable bore!” The bed sheets twisted and turned in Tabitha’s grip as her long legs crashed down on the mattress, the force causing even a painting, a rolling vista of the Tuscan countryside, behind the headboard to vibrate. “You liar! You sicken me!”
Giuseppe held Tabitha’s arms back. Tabitha crouched, hell-bent on scratching Skye’s eyes out with her bare hands. “Let me out of this goddamn hellhole!” Tabitha continued. “I’ll go to a pharmacy myself!”
Annabelle blustered in with a tray of tea, broth and fruit. “Essere calmo. Mangiare,” Annabelle soothed. She sat on the side of the bed, humming softly. Tabitha’s breasts heaved up and down as she eyed Annabelle like a cornered feral. Annabelle dipped a spoon into the broth and brought it to Tabitha’s lips.
Tabitha’s heeled foot shot out and kicked the tray high into the air. Grapes and tangerine slices bounced off the walls as plates shattered on the travertine floor. Tabitha ran to the door and found it locked. Annabelle glanced at Skye and patted her apron pocket, the outline of a ring of keys showing through buff linen.
“Lie back down,” Skye soothed as she led Tabitha back to the bed. “Please.”
She flopped back onto the bed. Giuseppe placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her as she shot him a look of disgust.
A knock sounded at the door. Skye opened it and found Sal and Marcellus standing there, peering in curiously. Giuseppe’s hands relaxed and Tabitha sprang toward the door.
“Hold her,” Skye shouted. “Don’t let her leave!”
Sal caught Tabitha by the waist, apologizing profusely, and brought her back to the bed as she kicked and screamed. Her nails, like the claws of a hissing, spitting animal, raked at him. “Let go of me, you bastard!” Tabitha yelled. “I’ll tear this place apart!” She grabbed a ceramic teapot, hand-painted with blue flowers and gold trim, and hurled it at Annabelle’s head. Annabelle ducked, and the teapot shattered on a dresser. The immaculate piece of furniture, once exquisitely distressed, was stripped of a finely etched column. Giuseppe and Annabelle held Tabitha’s arms down as her head flailed from side to side.
“What time will the priest arrive?” Marcellus joked. Skye pushed Sal and Marcellus back toward the doorway, almost leaning into them for support while Tabitha drained what little energy she had left.
Her intention to relax in the solitude of the villa, now an opportunity forced on her by the insistence of her injuries, yielded to the intrusion of an unsettled visitor. The peaceful air of the home fled into hiding, violated.
Sal brought Skye closer to him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Marcellus’ black eyes glittered as he watched them. He offered her his hand. “It is a pleasure to be in the company of such a beautiful lady and such an energetic…lady.” He gestured toward Tabitha, all flying hair and flailing limbs on the bed. “I trust that the Signora Luciana and Sal—”
“And the rest of the hired help will take the utmost care of her and her friend,” Sal interrupted. Tabitha subdued her wails to the whimpers of a kitten. “Please hold your tongue and cease making any further remarks about our newest guest,” Sal chastised Marcellus. “The Signora shall return in a matter of weeks, and while she is gone the staff is in charge of overseeing the grounds.”
Turning toward Skye, he said, “Marcellus and I formed quite an unlikely friendship, as I am a mere peasant and he is—”
“The Marchese. A descendant of one of the grandest figures in Roman history.” Marcellus bowed grandly before Skye, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “Welcome to my humble home.”
“So you and the Signora are married?”
“We are very good friends. I allow her to live here, on my lands. I have vast estates all over the country. It is my pleasure to have such a lovely guest, and such exuberant associates, here at the villa.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Skye said. “If you’ll kindly excuse me, I must attend to my friend. She needs to detox.” Skye’s stomach fluttered slightly at meeting a Marchese. She kept the company of the rich and famous on many occasions, but she observed their lives the same way television viewers were spectators of hers. Those skilled with the media showed only w
hat they wanted her to see, and they never showed her any more than their public personas, out of fear that she would betray their trust. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She was, after all, a reporter.
Cold water ran from the bathroom sink as Skye held washcloths underneath the faucet, wringing them out and placing them in a bucket of ice. Tabitha perspired profusely on the bed, her body quaking every few minutes. “Please,” Tabitha said, her green eyes tortured. “Please.”
Marcellus and Sal spoke animatedly outside the open door. Apparently, privacy was of little importance in Rome. Skye interpreted their intrusion as a willingness to help if Tabitha grew violent again.
“Maybe a few days, perhaps even a week, and all these pills you’ve taken will pass through your body and you’ll be yourself again,” Skye soothed as she wiped Tabitha’s cheeks. She asked Annabelle to change the sheets again. The cold water soaked through. “You and Jonas can talk. You can work things out or part ways. You’ll stop taking drugs—”
“Shut up, you talking head!” Tabitha screamed as Skye jumped. The bowl of cool water tumbled onto the bed, seeping into the coverlet. Annabelle took Skye’s arms and led her out of the room as Giuseppe held Tabitha down again. She growled and spit in his face. He sighed helplessly as he wiped his face with a handkerchief from his pocket.
Marcellus poured three stiff cocktails. Skye sipped hers as he downed his. Sal shook his head at the offer and Marcellus drank Sal’s as well. Marcellus chose a Cuban cigar from a humidor and poured himself another stiff drink on the rocks. He lit the cigar and breathed in deeply. “Ah,” he sighed with pleasure. Skye opened the bedroom door at the sound of another crescendo of screams. “Before you go, Skye, what is detox?”
A high-heeled shoe flew through the opening in the door and hit Marcellus square on the shoulder. He brushed off his suit and reached down to pick up the shoe. “Must be something American,” he mused. “What a big foot.”