by Liz Newman
Chapter Twenty-Three
The morning sun rose in the Roman sky. In the distant hills, a rooster crowed insistently. Skye opened her eyes, for the first time not willing them closed and her body back to sleep. Tabitha’s presence gave her a purpose. Wrapping a robe around her body, she traversed the stairs and long corridors of the villa to the kitchen.
From the refrigerator, she extracted a bowl of congealed chicken fat that Annabelle must use for broth. Skimming the white grease from the top, she ladled the liquid into a pot and turned on the stovetop. The gelatin melted slowly, so slow Skye opened her mouth to call out for Annabelle but stopped herself as the mass collapsed from the heat. She stirred until the lumps loosened, becoming clear and bubbly. Placing the broth on a tray next to a bottle of sparkling water and fresh cut lemon slices, she made her way toward Tabitha’s bedroom.
She heard voices coming from behind a set of double doors at the end of the hall on the first floor. “You could be imprisoned for what you are doing,” Sal chastised in Italian.
“The Marchese will not miss the golden opportunity to seduce a woman who practically begs for it,” Marcellus replied. Skye felt a momentary tinge of glee. She spoke Italian better than when she’d first arrived, she planned to seduce at the right moment. Seduction, at this time, remained the farthest thing from her mind. Although not that far.
“Do you think this will fit me?” Marcellus asked.
“You’re too fat,” Sal replied.
She heard pants unzip and the rustle of clothing. Marcellus grunted and groaned while Sal laughed. “I hear there’s someone else keeping you entertained,” Marcellus quipped. She heard Marcellus mimic her voice. “‘What kind of flower is this? Way down here?’ he teased in Italian. ‘Oh, Sal, you’re so handsome for a gardener. How do you stay so young in all that sunlight? Please tell me, what’s your secret?’”
“Give those to me. You are embarrassing yourself. You look a fool, wearing those like an old woman’s bonnet,” Sal grumbled. Skye heard Marcellus’ heavy footsteps thunder around the room. She placed the tray down on a hall table. She had heard enough joking at her expense. Skye threw open the double doors.
At the sound of the latch turning, Marcellus, clad only in plaid boxer shorts, threw the panties Skye had lost in the garden the night she fell back into the rose bushes like a hot potato to Sal. Sal caught them and clutched them to his stomach, bending over on the bed to hide them. Marcellus stood right behind Sal’s rear with a guilty look on his face. The door swung open wide and Skye stood there with her hand on her hip. The men became aware of their positions, with Sal half bent over the bed and Marcellus standing directly behind him, half naked. They shifted with discomfort. Skye feigned surprise. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt your…private time.” She covered her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers in time to see Sal shove something down the front of his pants while he continued to lie on his stomach on the bed.
Marcellus backed away from Sal. “Signorina, I assure you what you have just seen is entirely different from your assumption.”
“What assumption is that?” Skye toyed with him.
“That we are…eh, in an amorous position,” Marcellus stammered. “Most untrue.” He postulated, pulling his shoulders backward and flexing his arms, confused as to how best to convey his virility. He gave up and sat down on the bed, slouching and giving an overtly manly pounding on Sal’s back with the palm of his hand. “Get up, please.” Marcellus picked up a pair of slacks off the floor and ducked into a changing room.
Sal rose and walked toward Skye. “What is it that you need, Signorina? I am at your service.” She stared hard at the stuffed area of his pants. She stifled her giggles by biting down on her tongue. Aware of the padded bulge in his pants, Sal gave up the ruse and pulled Skye’s panties out from under his waistband. “Giuseppe found these in the garden.”
“Why, thank you,” she said. “What in the world was my underwear doing in your pants?”
“You left them in the garden, last night. When you were, ah…” he trailed off. His eyes twinkled at Skye. She broke into a smile.
“Yes. I remember now.” She studied the doorframe intently.
“I will have Annabelle launder these on Tuesday. Today and tomorrow are her days off,” Sal said. He whistled a casual tune and twirled the panties around on his finger. Skye cleared her throat, raising her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Signorina.” He handed the undergarment over. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Tabitha and I need something to eat. If she’s up for it. I made her some broth, but I’d like to see her eat something more substantial.”
“You’re asking the right men,” Marcellus called from behind a door.
“I’ll see you in the kitchen.” Sal smiled. “I shall prepare breakfast for you.” He left the door open as Skye walked away with the tray.
Skye knocked softly on Tabitha’s door and opened it. Tabitha lay on her back, her chest moving with shallow breaths, her body stiffened, rigid as a corpse. Skye placed the tray on the side table and watched Tabitha’s eyes move behind closed lids. “Where did we go wrong, my friend?” Skye whispered.
Tabitha stirred and sat up in a white nightdress buttoned high on the neck. The various shades of alabaster, red and green her face turned the evening before now settled on a pallid blue. Her voice emitted thick and croaky. “I hate that you’re helping me now,” Tabitha said. “Get that tray away from me. That fat woman almost drowned me in chicken broth last night.” Tabitha pulled the covers up to her neck and lay back down on the bed, turning over. “You always were the strong one,” she whispered resentfully.
Skye shushed her. “Can I get anything for you?”
“A Bellini.” Tabitha’s fingers intertwined in the lace on a decorative bed pillow. She hooked the threads under her long red nails and pulled out the fine stitches, one by one. “Better still, vodka on the rocks with a twist. Make it a double.” Tabitha’s body shook, then stopped. A quake shuddered through her again as she hugged herself with her arms, shivering. She threw the covers off, ran to the bathroom, and threw up as Skye followed her, gathering up her hair and holding it back. Tabitha rocked onto her bottom, groaning in misery and self-loathing.
“The worst thing about finding your soul mate is that you can feel their thoughts at all times,” she said with her voice full of bile. “He knows he could’ve done better than me. He thinks I’m unaware of that. That’s the reason for the booze, the pills.” She laughed sardonically. “He once called me the woman of his dreams. But he couldn’t see me inside. Not until now.”
“Nonsense. You deserve him. You’re good enough. Everyone has faults. Maybe you’re putting him up on a pedestal and undercutting yourself. You’re talented, beautiful—”
“Beautiful,” Tabitha muttered. “He only sees me for what I look like; otherwise he’d have nothing to do with me. I’m a wreck. I’ve never done anything.” Tabitha picked a handheld mirror up from the marble countertop of the bathroom. “Look at me. I’m nobody. I’m nothing. A few weeks ago, he compared me to my Uncle Roy. Uncle Roy drank and shifted from side to side on the holidays while all the kids watched him warily. My mother would shoo all the kids away from Uncle Roy, who drank and drank until he passed out cold on the floor, and my mother would drape a blanket over him. Once he stepped on a shard of glass and cut his foot; he bled everywhere until someone noticed and then an ambulance came. Another time, I rummaged through my parents’ closet to find him clothes to wear after he fell in the pool. My father swore he’d never have Uncle Roy at our house again, but my mother would always say next time would be different. Uncle Roy would learn.
“My dad and I would sit on our porch swing, and I would lay my head on his shoulder and say, ‘I don’t like Uncle Roy. He’s loud, he’s mean, he bumps into things, steps on my feet and walks away without saying he’s sorry.’ My dad would say, ‘He has a disease. A sickness that makes him unable to stop drinking.’
; “‘Uncle Roy is just an asshole,’ I said. My mom heard me, and I spent an hour with a bar of Irish Spring soap in my mouth. Crisp, spicy. Clean as a whistle. Aargh.”
Skye laughed. “You don’t have to be Uncle Roy.”
“I am sick,” Tabitha went on. “Why should I wish Uncle Roy on my own husband?”
“Are you happy with him?” Skye asked.
“Don’t I look happy?” Tabitha held the mirror up to her face and made an agonized Tiki face. “He deserves better. He always has.”
The bath water ran, filling up the tub with warm water. Tabitha settled herself in the water and Skye made a pillow out of a towel for Tabitha to lean her head on. “Where did those two men go?” Tabitha asked. “The only thing that’ll make me feel better right now is flirting.” Tabitha gazed at her reflection in the handheld mirror. “I hope they like the vampy look.”
“I’m completely striking out with the gardener,” Skye said. “I’ll make myself feel better by believing he’s gay.”
“I’ve died and gone to hell.”
“Too bad, huh? I felt a little loose on my vacation. I’d take him in my arms and let him call me Mama. New York is fear, glamour, work. Rome is…him. Desire. A feeling I’ve known for only fleeting moments before satisfied.”
Tabitha complained of the motion of the water in the tub, lifting herself out and drying off. She wrapped a robe around her body and fell onto the bed. Skye lay down on the bed beside her. “Maybe Sal doesn’t want me. I get this feeling he views me as some sort of subterranean human being. And that I have no chance of changing his mind.” She relayed the story of Sal and their night at the Morrow Awards.
“Anyone who wasn’t in love would run screaming out the door after witnessing that.”
“Thank you, Tabitha, for wording that so delicately.” Skye propped herself up on her elbow, leaning her head on her hand. “Maybe he just thinks I’m too fast.”
“Nothing wrong with fast. I’m not looking to get laid. Just for drugs. Isn’t that how it starts?” Tabitha laughed, reminding Skye that she still harbored a soul struggling to unearth itself. “Sal being gay shouldn’t stop you. Just be safe. I slept with a gay man once. It was nice. We made out for hours. Forget the gardener. Aim higher, for the Marchese. The world stopped during the rampage last night when I heard the portly one mention his title. The Skye I know wouldn’t look twice at the quintessential working man. Where’s the glamour?”
“No more glamour. I want love,” Skye sighed. “When he looks at me, I feel him everywhere, in my soul. Has it really all come down to seducing potentially gay hired help? What’s next, paying for sex?”
“When I was kicking and screaming, he looked at you like he would kill me just to make you happy if you asked him to.”
“He just wanted you to stop screaming and needed an easy out. The request crossed my mind.” Skye buried her face into a tasseled velvet pillow.
“I feel fine now, thanks for asking,” Tabitha said. “Look at this situation with Sal however you want, but trust me, no man is happy with just one career.” Skye looked at her in bewilderment. Tabitha stretched her arms out, yawned, and shouted. “Food!”
A knock sounded at the door. “Signorinas,” Sal called. “Breakfast is served.”
***
“Le buone signore di mattina,” Marcellus purred in the kitchen. “Delighted you will join us here. We would take you out into the city, to one of the finest places for colazione dei ristoranti; however, I am like your Michael Jackson. A celebrità rinomata, si? The common people scream when they see me.”
A chuckle escaped Sal’s lips as he sliced three different types of bread, basting them with olive oil and sprinkling chopped pine nuts on their toasted, buttered crusts.
“Go with them, Sal,” Marcellus continued. “Retrieve the main course.” He gestured to the glass double doors past the kitchen table.
Tabitha, Skye, and Sal crept about the garden, sneaking underneath an arbor trellis. “I promise you a Roman treat. Stay very quiet. They like to hide in the cypress. They like to nest…right here.” Sal lifted a branch, remaining low to the ground. A hen clucked away, all fuss and feathers. Sal lifted an egg from the grass. “Ah-hah! Still warm.” He handed the egg to Skye. She wrapped her hands around the warm brown oval. He attempted to hand another egg to Tabitha, but she waved his hand away so briskly the egg almost fell to the ground.
Minutes later, Sal whisked the eggs in a bowl. Marcellus sat at the table, reading an Italian newspaper and speaking the headlines aloud as Tabitha thumbed through a fashion magazine and Skye shot transfixed glances at Sal’s profile. “The day’s fresh eggs of Roma,” Sal practically sang as he cooked, “are super eggs. Especially good for you, Tabitha, to renew your health.”
Marcellus swaggered to the kitchen island, cracked four large fresh eggs into four glasses, and added a teaspoon of sugar to each one. He stirred them and tipped a glass back at his lips, swallowing the mixture down as Tabitha wrinkled her pert nose. “Un Ovetto Fresco Battuto. For virility.” He winked at Skye and pounded his meaty chest like a gorilla. Skye laughed, a bit unwillingly. Marcellus placed the cups of raw eggs and sugar in front of the women.
“I’ll take mine scrambled,” Tabitha said, pushing the cup away.
Skye rose with her glass and stood next to Sal. “Do as the Romans do,” said Skye, and she and Sal clinked glasses as they downed the mixture simultaneously. Six scrambled eggs, twelve slices of charcuterie, a dozen fresh olives, and a platter of Pasta a Ceci made up a feast which they dined on, as snippets of conversation became melodies, and tentative glances eased into longer looks.
Tabitha and Skye ambled into the gardens, resting on lounge chairs. Skye sat for less than five minutes before she sprang to her feet. “I think I’ll go for a jog,” she declared. “Those egg yolks really do give a burst of energy.”
“All hail salmonella,” Tabitha said dryly.
“You need anything?”
“Booze and pills.”
“I’ll see you in a little while.” Skye made her way to the doors of the villa and called back over her shoulder. “Let me know what you feel like doing today.”
The sound of the clinking of glasses and plates rang out in the kitchen, along with the hum of running water. She peered in, watching Sal wash dishes as Marcellus leaned back into a chair. She eavesdropped on their conversation. The bare snippets of conversation frustrated her faltering translation skills.
“Some secrets are meant to be kept,” Sal said. “To make an advance is not fair to her or me. I do not desire to see another woman make a fool of herself.” Skye’s brow furrowed as she frowned at the words.
“What happened to you, Sal? Now, so boring. Another opportunity lost, for the sake of what? I ask you, who is suffering now? Only you.”
“Stop.” Sal’s eyes back stiffened as he scrubbed the pans vigorously before placing them in the dishwasher.
Marcellus ran his thumbnail under his index finger and remained silent for a few minutes. “If you are so sure of her faults, give me the opportunity.”
Skye moved closer to the wall. Her hand leaned on an iron candelabra, which creaked as it slid a half centimeter against the wall. She didn’t wait to see their heads turn toward the noise. She bolted up the stairs to her room to change into her jogging clothes.
Sweat poured down her face as she jogged among the rows of olive trees, darting through the alabaster facades of grimacing faces and snarling lions. Their calm, meditative presence anchored her spirit even as her body moved in intense motion, interrupting the angry demeanor of the surrounding stone. She welcomed the foreign sense of serenity. Past a trickling fountain she ran, feeling the brisk Roman air caress her face and neck. She zipped past waving plants in full bloom and azaleas, ferns, and the lush acres sloping away from the terraces to the valley below. A stream bubbled and bled over rocks, its banks enclosed by masses of leaves. She turned back and ran up the wide, stone steps, feeling the rigid block of sturdy travertine u
nderneath the soles of her shoes. She fully inhabited her own body for the first time since Gibbs’ death.
At the sight of Sal sitting down in the rear courtyard, Skye halted. He sipped a glass of lemonade, tilting it up to her in toast. She approached him, charmed by his relaxed attire.
“Buon giorno,” she panted. “Bel giorno.” She gestured to the sky for emphasis.
He rose to his feet. “Please, Signorina. Sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her and poured her a glass of lemonade from a pitcher.
“I’ll freshen up first,” she said.
“No need, Signorina. It is all right. I must get back to work soon.”
“On your day off?”
“Si. The palms must be attended to.”
Skye settled into a teak chair next to Sal, conscious of her profuse sweating. She kept her upper arms close to her side. A hummingbird paused at a flower bush, drinking its nectar and flying in receding concentric circles as it disappeared into the azure blue background of sky.
“Would you give me a tour of the garden?” she said after she took a sip.
“Certainly,” Sal rose and held his hand out to Skye.
She placed her glass on the table next to his and let him lead her out onto the stone pathway.
“The rear courtyard was the first area of the garden to be completed. Modeled after the baroque garden fronts of Carlo Fontana, I have placed what was described by a local newspaper as a theatrical use of light and shade, considering the position of the statues and walls.” He gestured to a Raphaelan stone figure with a carved cloth skillfully draped over its physique. “This is the work of Marinali. I…scusari, the Signora Luciana, purchased this item at auction.”
Skye stopped by an urn fountain and sat on an ornamental stonework bench. Sal sat down beside her. She grasped his hands in hers. So little time to know him. At the expense of being blunt, I cannot waste another moment. “What does this place mean to you, Sal? When I breathe the air here I feel as if I am breathing your heart and soul. Why is that?”