by Noelle Clark
When he finished reading, he looked at her. His expression had softened slightly.
“Well, it seems that my Nonna’s agreement with you is in order. That is her signature all right, but…” He drew his brows into a frown.
“Your Nonna? Elena Lombardi is your grandmother?”
His dark brown eyes saddened. “My Nonna passed away last week. We buried her last Friday.” He cleared his throat. “We knew she wanted to stay there. It was her home for ninety-seven years. She had been worried about her cats—she wanted to find someone who would love her cats as she did.”
Sarah reached across and placed her hand on his arm. She felt sad for Pietro and his family.
“I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.” She took a breath. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay. Don’t worry about me. If there’s anything I can do to help…”
He turned and looked over the wall of the Piazzetta and watched as the funicolore arrived, the little cable car spilling a crowd of people into the square. Then he turned back to her.
“Rosamanti is not a luxury villa, and I have no money to do repairs to make it ready for the rental market. It has some…problems. Plumbing issues, and winter heating is…well…” He shrugged in a helpless gesture. “It was built nearly four hundred years ago.”
She bowed her head. She had so been looking forward to coming here. To restart her failing career. To get over her husband’s death. She inhaled deeply and looked up at him.
“Can I see it?”
“Va bene. Si.” His expression seemed to brighten a little. “Sure.” He smiled into her eyes. “But let’s leave your luggage here, eh? We can collect it later.”
He grabbed her suitcase and backpack, and she followed him to the nearby bus station where he deposited her gear into a locker. Without the luggage, climbing back on the Vespa was easy. She swung her leg over and settled comfortably behind him, wrapping her arms around Pietro’s waist. The Vespa started and they took off, riding up a series of steep lanes. The sides of buildings were adorned with signs made of white glazed tiles, decorated with motifs of blue swirls and yellow lemons. Black lettering showed the street names: via Croce; via Tiberio; and finally, via Lo Capo. Peering over Pietro’s shoulder, Sarah was enchanted with the views. Purple bougainvillea grew rampantly along the narrow roadway, and every now and then she caught a glimpse of the blue sea below. Looking beyond, the brown cliffs of the Sorrentine Peninsula, and occasionally the conical peak of Mount Vesuvius in the far distance, poked through the haze over Naples. The scent of roses in full bloom, mixed with the perfume of citrus trees created a heady, intoxicating fragrance. The wind blew her hair wildly, and she clung tighter to Pietro as they wove their way through the maze of narrow footpaths and lanes, climbing higher and higher up the mountainous terrain.
Soon, Pietro turned left off the narrow roadway and into a driveway flanked by two high, ornate brick pillars. The unpaved track wound upward through olive groves, then orchards laden with oranges, lemons, and other fruit she didn’t immediately recognize. They turned into a small gravel courtyard and she drew in a gasp as the whitewashed stone walls of a small villa opened before her, its orange terracotta tiles arranged roughly on the roof. Pietro pulled up in the shade of an unruly wisteria growing against the wall and cut the motor. He took her hand to help her off the scooter. Within minutes, three cats appeared and began rubbing themselves on her legs. She bent down and caressed them.
Pietro dropped to one knee and fondled the head of the black cat. “They’re hungry. Do you mind if I feed them now?”
She followed him toward the solid oak front door with big iron hinges. It squeaked as he opened it. Inside it was dim and shadowy.
“It’s not so dark with the window shutters open.” He flicked the switch to turn on a light in the kitchen, showing its austere, yet functional, fittings. An old refrigerator hummed loudly in the far corner. He opened it and took out some cans of food. The cats ran up to him, jostling to rub their cheeks on the tins and spoon.
“Ha, attenti ai gatti! Beware of cats who only want to be fed.”
Sarah watched as he spooned the food into three dishes and refilled their water bowls. As they waited, she fondled the cats, and they responded with loud purring and loving rubs.
“Ah, you like cats?”
“I love them.” She looked back at the cats, stroking them, giving each a good rubbing on their necks and ears.
“Signora?”
The tone in his voice made her stop and look up at him.
“I don’t even know your name. I mean, we have not formally met.”
“Sarah Halliman.” She held out her hand, expecting him to shake it. Instead, he took it in both his hands, then bent and kissed both her cheeks.
“Piacere di conoscerla. I am very pleased to meet you, Sarah.”
Their eyes locked and held for a moment.
The ginger cat jumped up onto the table and meowed loudly. Pietro smiled, breaking the moment. “Aw, zenzero. Here you go.” He placed the bowls of food down on the floor, then reached down and stroked the cats as they lapped at their food.
Sarah looked about the kitchen. Though small, it had a wood-fired stove and an intimate feel. The wooden table and matching chairs looked to have been hand made. The counters and benches were solid planks of timber, polished smooth from centuries of mixing eggs with flour and rolling pasta.
Once the cats had been fed, he looked up at her and smiled.
“Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” She followed him up the narrow staircase. It was obviously a well lived-in home, and Elena Lombardi’s possessions clearly spoke of a woman who only needed shelter, and a modicum of comfort, to be happy. Some areas, like the bathroom, were in need of some repairs, but it had a good vibe.
Pietro led the way back down to the kitchen, and they sat opposite each other at the big table.
“Nonna was very independent. She would not leave here, even when she found out about her illness. I came here several nights a week, and we would cook together and talk. On weekends, she let me do some odd jobs for her.” Regret sounded in his voice. “I wish I could have done more…”
Sarah’s voice was gentle. “You know, sometimes we just have to respect the wishes of our loved ones.”
The cats had finished their food and sat licking their paws and grooming themselves. They seemed incredibly happy.
He turned to look at her. “So, what do you think of Rosamanti?”
“I love it! But perhaps you’d prefer that I find somewhere else to stay?” She hoped his answer wouldn’t be yes. She needed to be here in Capri.
An expression passed over his face, but she couldn’t quite read it.
“Sarah, would you have dinner with me tonight? It will give us a chance to discuss the options.”
“I’d love to. But I need to sort out somewhere to stay for tonight.”
His smile lit up the gloomy little room. “Leave it with me.”
* * *
They sat across from each other in a busy sidewalk trattoria, sipping wine and chatting as easily as old friends.
“I’m intrigued, Pietro; how come you did a Law degree—at Yale, no less—and yet you’re here working in a restaurant?”
“Oh, it’s an awfully long story.” He smiled at her. “At seventeen I left home to see the world, against my mother’s wishes, and ironically ended up in the United States doing exactly what she wanted.” He shrugged. “But fate often plays a hand in our lives. Not long before I graduated, my mother was killed in a car crash. That was almost twenty years ago now.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. And…your father?”
“I never knew my father.” His face was expressionless.
Momentarily lost for words, she sat silent.
Eventually he continued. “Once I graduated, I came home to look after her affairs—and my Nonna.” He stared off into the distance, then continued. “My aunty—you met her down at the Marina Grande this afternoon�
�asked me to work in her restaurant until I could set up my law practice. So I moved into a small flat above her kitchen. She taught me to cook for large numbers.” He shrugged and held out one hand, palm upward. “And here I am, still cooking meals for tourists.”
“What happened to your dream of being a lawyer?”
He looked at her with his dark brown eyes. “It was never my dream to be a lawyer. It was my mother’s dream. She had lived a tough life, with very few opportunities. She wanted to give me a chance to move to the mainland. Besides that, Capri is a small island, and already we have several law firms. There is no room for another.”
“Are you happy being a chef?”
His eyes lit up with pleasure.
“Oh, si. At first I wanted to open my own restaurant. Up here near the Villa Jovis. Nonna and I discussed it at length. She wanted to sell Rosamanti to finance a small boutique guesthouse where we could give tourists an authentic taste of our history and serve the traditional foods of Capri. Forgotten peasant food from our ancestors—quail, fresh squid, and all the fishes and crustaceans of the sea.” He paused, his eyes intense with passion. “It’s the sun that gives our tomatoes their unique flavor, the soil that spices the herbs, the wind that charms the fruit to ripen so sweetly, and the perfect amount of rain that makes our vino blanco the best in Italy. I wanted to combine the essence of traditional food, in a setting that is unsurpassed in beauty, scenery, and antiquity.”
He stopped, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I have said too much. You will be bored.”
“Not at all. I’m intrigued with your dreams. I enjoy being with people who have passion about what they want to do or what they believe.” She paused. “But why talk about your plans as if they’re in the past? Can’t you still open the restaurant?”
His soft laugh didn’t hide the look of embarrassment that crossed his face. “Unfortunately I’ve never had the money to set it up. And my aunt keeps me exceedingly busy in her restaurant.”
“Now that your Nonna has passed on, will you sell Rosamanti? Perhaps it could finance the restaurant.”
His face fell slightly, then he looked into her eyes. “I could never sell Rosamanti. It is my ancestral home—I grew up there, living with my mother and Nonna.”
“Have you never married?”
He gave a short, half-hearted laugh. “No. You see, when I returned from America, all the nice girls here on Capri were already taken. I was supposed to bring back a beautiful American wife, but I didn’t. Then I got busy with work, and… Well, Zia Maria is always trying to marry me off.” He smiled at her. “I suspect that is why she asked me to bring you up here to Lo Capo.”
Sarah was horrified. “Oh, no. But she said you lived up here.”
“Ah, my aunty, she is good at—you know—bending the truth. And now I am nearly thirty-seven years old, and no pretty young girl will ever want me.”
Sarah didn’t know what to say. She saw in Pietro a very handsome man—tall, fit, with well-cut, thick, jet-black hair. She also thought he was exceptionally pleasant company.
“Come on, Sarah. It’s getting late and you have had a big day of travel. I’ll take you to a hotel for the night. There are plenty here in Capri township. And it’s still early in the high season, so we’ll have no trouble finding a room.”
He stood and pulled out her chair. It was dark now. She drew in a sharp breath. The full moon, buttery yellow and as perfectly round as an egg yolk, hung low over the horizon, casting a silver roadway across the Tyrrhenian Sea and bathing everything in silver light. They stopped and watched as the moon rose higher.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” His voice sounded close to her ear.
Eventually, she dragged herself away from the view. Fatigue began to hit her. He helped her onto the back of the bike and drove a short distance, stopping at a modern hotel along via Corso. Pietro booked her a room, and then turned and handed her the key.
“Room 35. Third floor. You go on up, and I will retrieve your luggage from the locker and bring it back here. The concierge will deliver it to you room. Is that OK?”
She nodded. He really was a kind man.
He kissed both her cheeks. “Ciao. I will pick you up here at ten o’clock. OK?”
Before waiting for a reply, he turned and walked through the glass doors. She heard his little Vespa start up, backfire, and then roar off into the night.
Chapter Two
She stretched and leisurely opened her eyes, squinting at the unfamiliar room for a few seconds before remembering the events of the evening before. Plumping the pillow, she stuffed it under her head and lay back, staring at the ornate plaster ceiling. The predicament in which she now found herself played on her mind. The sad and untimely death of Signora Lombardi had definitely thrown a monkey wrench in her plans, and Pietro had given no indication as to whether or not she could stay in his grandmother’s villa. If not, she hoped there would be other villas with as much character—and as isolated—as Rosamanti. Glancing over at the bedside clock, she was shocked to see it was already nine o’clock. Leaping out of bed, she drew open the curtains of the large window. The view took her breath away. Sweeping ocean, a cobalt sky, and hundreds of little white dots scurrying across the water, their silver wakes trailing out behind them. She headed for the shower. Soon afterward, her telephone rang.
She picked it up. “Si?”
“Buon giorno, signora Sarah.” The warmth in his voice made her smile.
“Ciao. And buon giorno to you too.” She was amazed at how comfortable she felt talking to this kind man. “Give me ten minutes?”
When the elevator doors opened, she walked into the bright foyer. As she approached, Pietro rose from the leather sofa. He put down the newspaper he had been reading, and walked toward her. His gaze quickly, but not offensively, scanned her up and down, seeming to approve of her colorful sundress and sandals. Then his eyes locked onto hers.
He looked different today. Clean shaven and dressed in cargo shorts that reached to his knees and a navy blue Polo shirt, he looked younger—more handsome.
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No, I slept in. I could really use some coffee.”
“Ah, that is exactly what I was hoping you would say.” He took her elbow and guided her outside into the brilliant sunshine. They walked through narrow, white-walled lanes. Masses of flowers tumbled out of hanging baskets; purple, magenta, pink and orange bougainvillea ran along the tops of the walls, sometimes their long tendrils reaching down low, causing them to duck to get past their sharp thorns without injury. They passed several shrines to the Virgin Mary, statues with little vases of fresh flowers and other tokens of supplication. After about twenty minutes, they entered the small square of La Piazzetta, where early morning crowds filled the cafés and gathered in groups, chatting and laughing.
Strolling toward one of the cafés, Pietro signaled to the waiter that they wished to sit outside under the shade of the white awning. “We will catch the breeze out here.”
A man in a white maître’d uniform came over and warmly greeted Pietro, clamping his hands on Pietro’s shoulders, and kissing both cheeks. They spoke in rapid Italian, obviously pleased to see each other. Pietro turned and indicated Sarah.
“Gianni, please meet Sarah. She is from Australia.”
She stood up, holding out her hand, but Gianni grabbed her in a bear hug and planted two wet kisses on her cheeks.
“Ciao, bella. Buon giorno!”
“Ciao.” She smiled, thinking to herself that she really had to learn more than five Italian words if she was to stay here.
Gianni turned back to Pietro, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to leave.
Pietro sat down. He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I know everyone in Capri. It sometimes gets in the way.” He shrugged, holding his hands out, palms facing upward.
“You know, I came here precisely because I don’t know anyone. But I’m more than happy to have made a friend so quic
kly.” The words slipped out before she had time to consider them. “I was quite nervous about coming here, not being able to speak the language, and—well—just getting on with my plans.”
“And, what are your plans?” The coffee arrived, followed by freshly baked panini with little pots of butter, jam, and honey. Next, a bowl of diced fruit salad was laid on the table. They dived into the breakfast. When they were both sipping their second cup of coffee, she spoke.
“To be quite frank, I’m a bit thrown by the change of circumstances here. You see, your grandmother told me in her letters that she was planning to go away for a while—I assumed to the mainland or something like that. She asked me if I would promise to stay for one year, and to look after her cats as if they were my own. I readily agreed. You see…” She paused, realizing her voice was beginning to show the emotion she felt. “I’ve recently been widowed.”
He reached over and placed his hand on hers as it rested on the blue and white check tablecloth. Her vision was blurry, and her face warming with color, but when she looked up into his warm eyes, they glistened with moisture.
“Mi dispiace! I am so sorry.” His voice was gentle, soothing. He reached over and gently used his thumb to wipe away a rogue tear that had started falling down her face. A waiter brought over another pot of coffee. Pietro filled their cups.
“But why would you want to be alone here, where you know no one? Would you not rather be comforted by your family and friends?”
Sarah reached into her bag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I can see that I should not have asked you that. Please forgive me.”
They drank their coffee, the silence vaguely awkward. She knew she should say something, but she didn’t trust her voice to work properly.
“Come, let me take you for a ride up to Rosamanti. You can see the chickens, and I will introduce you to Geraldina.”