Rosamanti

by Noelle Clark

  “Ah, Bruno. He is going to kill someone one day. He’s probably hurrying so he won’t be late for dinner.”

  Pietro’s mood returned immediately to his normal pleasant one, and he chatted happily as they strolled along, telling her all about his day at the restaurant. She listened contentedly, happy to be in the company of this man. It seemed so natural to be here—in this place, in this time. How fortunate, she thought, that she got to have two shots at happiness. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She forced them away, allowing a smile to take up a permanent position on her face. Tonight she felt so very happy. She felt alive.

  The evening was deliciously wonderful. As they got to Capri township, they met more couples walking arm in arm, just like them. Most knew Pietro, and greeted him warmly, casting knowing glances at him as they inspected the woman on his arm. She stole a glance at his profile. His head was held high, and pride shone from the set of his chin.

  When they arrived at la Piazzetta, Pietro guided her to a Gelateria. He left her and went inside, coming out with two pointy wafer cones topped with delicious gelato. He handed her a paper napkin and one of the cones.

  “Come, we’ll walk over to the wall and enjoy the view.” They crossed the square and stood at the low wall. The view down to Marina Grande took her breath away. It wasn’t yet dark, but the lights twinkled as they came on in the houses and hotels that clung to the cliffside. The remnants of the sunset cast a silver glow over the water, and boats of all sizes bobbed in the harbor. A little breeze ruffled the leaves of the nearby bushes and trees, bringing with it a sweet perfume.

  “Mm, what is that gorgeous scent?”

  “That’s the night jasmine. It’s beautiful isn’t it? Some people find it too strong, but I like it.”

  She looked about her. The little square—the hub of Capri township—was quickly filling with people.

  “These are nearly all locals. For the Caprese, this is the best time of the day. All the day-trippers have gone, and most of the tourists are watching television or dining somewhere. We come here in the evenings to catch up with our neighbors. It is an exceptionally special tradition.”

  “Talking of neighbors, I had a visitor today. Do you know a young boy called Carlo?”

  Pietro grinned. “Si. He and his mother live in the villa next to Rosamanti. I will show you on the way back. Carlo and Nonna were good friends.”

  “Mm, I thought so. He looked sad when I mentioned Nonna. His mother sent me a jar of tomato passata. He seemed very pleased when I sent him home with some eggs.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “See? You understand the way of life here already. We share what we have—they share theirs. This is how it’s always been. You will fit in here well, bella.”

  After drinking in the vista, Pietro took her to a restaurant away from the crowds, affording a wonderful view of the lights of Marina Grande. The meal was delicious, the wine perfect.

  “And now for the final part of la passegiatta.” He called over the waiter and spoke rapidly in Italian. Minutes later, two small glasses, containing a bright yellow liquid, were brought to their table.

  “This is limoncello. A lemon liquor.” He picked up both the glasses and handed her one. “Salute!”

  She touched her glass to his. “Salute!” The limoncello was sweet, syrupy and delicious—with a kick. “Mm. Now that is gorgeous!”

  He smiled, pleased. “One day, I will teach you how to make it. It will keep you warm in the winter months.”

  All too soon it was time to leave the lovely restaurant with the magnificent view, and walk back up to Rosamanti. Pietro reached for her hand and held it as they walked.

  “The limoncello is quite intoxicating. You might stumble.”

  She laughed aloud at the seriousness with which he spoke.

  “You know, back in Australia, that would sound so corny.”

  “But with me?”

  She thought for a moment before replying.

  “But with you—it’s not corny at all. In fact, it’s kinda nice.”

  They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way. Sarah wondered what she had done to end up in this idyllic, lovely place. Even more—how had she topped it off with meeting the nicest man in the world? Sometimes she felt as though she wanted to pinch herself. It was truly a miracle that she had spotted that little advertisement in the newspaper, and a double miracle that she was the lucky person who had responded first. She wondered if there was, indeed, such a thing as serendipity—or was it just good luck. Either way, she knew she wasn’t dreaming, and she knew that this kind and friendly man walking with her wasn’t an apparition.

  “What are you thinking, bella? You have gone very quiet.”

  She snapped to it and saw that they were standing next to his Vespa at the kitchen door of Rosamanti.

  “I was just thinking how lucky I am to be in this beautiful house, on this gorgeous island—and walking in the moonlight with this wonderful man.”

  He bent his head down and gently kissed both her cheeks. Then he touched his lips to hers, ever so lightly, like a butterfly’s wings. He moved his face back and looked into her eyes. It was too dark for her to see his, as the moon was now behind him, but she could hear the smoldering heat in his voice. “Cara mia.”

  Abruptly, he stepped back. “Bella. If I don’t go right now, I will not be able to restrain myself. My heart—and my body—are hungering to kiss you. I know you are not yet ready, so I will go now.” He turned and began to sit astride the Vespa.

  “Maybe I am, Pietro.” Her voice was soft—a little unsure. He turned round abruptly.

  “Che?”

  She held out a hand to him. He took it, turned it over palm up, and kissed it. He looked up at her for a second, then, as if in slow motion, they came together in a warm, strong, embrace. He murmured beautiful Italian words into her ear. He raised his big hand to her hair, stroking it, while the other one held her close. He kissed her lightly on her cheeks, her eyes, her neck—small, soft caresses. Then he placed his lips on hers and held her close as he kissed her passionately. It was warm, soft, and loving. She never wanted it to end. Winding her arms around his neck, she gave in to her feelings of longing—of closeness—blocking out all other thought.

  Pietro responded to her gesture as he pulled her whole body against his. The beat of his heart drummed beneath his shirt; and the hardness of his arousal pressed firmly against her. Her heartbeat quickened. A feeling of panic suddenly washed over her, and she tensed.

  Breaking from the kiss, he buried his face in her hair. “Bella? You want to stop?” Disappointment muffled his voice.

  She realized she had broken the magic of the moment.

  “I’m so sorry. I want to—so much—but…”

  “Then let’s just hold close, si? I told you I’m a patient man.” He wrapped her in his strong arms, holding her tight until her heartbeat slowed. They stood like that for what seemed like a long time. She wanted him so much, yet…

  “Come to bed with me, Pietro?”

  His head jerked back and he looked at her quizzically.

  “Hold me in bed?”

  Without answering, he swept her up in his arms and carried her into the kitchen, then up the narrow stairs. He made for her bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. Lying down next to her, he cradled her in his arms, then brought one hand up to touch her cheek. She looked into his eyes, their faces close together. Unhurriedly, he reached down and began stroking her neck. Then his hand moved down over her breast. She was still fully clothed, but she felt her nipples hardening beneath her bra.

  “Cara mia? Are you okay?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  She took his face between her two hands and kissed him on the lips. He brought both arms up and wrapped them around her. His kiss was one of unbridled passion, parting her lips and savoring her mouth. She responded, allowing herself to float on a sea of arousal and passion. Their tongues met, kissing and touching. Soon, he unzipped her dress at the back and let it fal
l from her arms. Reaching around, he unclasped her bra, her full breasts parting slightly as he slipped it off. He scooped them up and loved them with his mouth and his hands. She heard herself let out a small cry as he played with her nipples, titillating them until they were perky and hard. He pushed her dress down until her stomach was showing, his lips caressing the softness of her belly, making her squirm with delight. Standing up, he ripped off his shirt, revealing his broad chest dusted in silky black hair. Coming down again and lying next to her, he buried his face in her breasts, his hands gently stroking her body. She closed her eyes and felt the fire of longing well within her.

  “Sarah?” She opened her eyes and looked at him, still catching her breath. “Are you OK?”

  She nodded. His face was close, his bare chest touching her arm. He put his arm across her, holding her close. They lay together for a long time.

  The moon rose and shone brightly in through the open window. Eventually she noticed the even rise and fall of his breathing. He was asleep. She tenderly ran a finger down his cheek, feeling the stubble already beginning to come through. His handsome profile in the moonlight filled her with feelings that she recognized. Affection? Love? Deciding to allow fate to decide her destiny, she too dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah jumped when he leapt out of the bed.

  “Mama mia!” His manly voice filled the little room.

  He ran under the shower and hurriedly dressed in the clothes he had worn to the restaurant. She got up and slipped on a silk robe.

  “Zia Maria will be waiting for me.” He paused, wrapped his arms around her, and then stood back, his hands still on her shoulders. “Cara mia. I will be in Napoli for two days. We go shopping every two weeks in Naples. My aunt and I.” He looked flustered. “Will you be OK until I get back?”

  Her heart sank. “Of course, Pietro.” She kissed him lightly on his cheek. “See you when you get back.”

  He kissed both her cheeks. “Ciao, bella. Ciao.”

  He ran down the stairs, and moments later she heard the Vespa sputter into life, roar down the gravel driveway, and then fade into the distance. It was still only half light; the sun wouldn’t rise for another half hour or so. In a dream-like state of absolute contentment, Sarah showered and dressed. She wandered downstairs and made coffee, for once ignoring the always-hungry cats.

  Taking her coffee outside, she sat at the little white wrought-iron table under the pergola and waited for the sun to rise. Her thoughts turned to Ted and she felt the weight of sadness deep within her. When he was first diagnosed, they talked a lot. She remembered his words: “You’re still a young woman. Promise me you’ll love someone else.” She drew an involuntary breath as she realized she may have just done exactly that. The vision of Ted’s sick, pale face dissolved into a brown, smiling countenance brimming with life. Pietro’s black eyes twinkled as they gazed out from his handsome face. She felt like she was sixteen years old again. No way—no way at all—had she expected this to happen. Not so quickly. Maybe even never.

  Her girlish reverie was shattered by the heralding of a new day from a horny rooster down in the hen house, followed by the proclamations of more eggs from the hens. She went into the kitchen and gathered together the animals’ food, feeding the three hungry cats who lovingly entangled themselves around her legs. Once they started eating, their purring was so loud it just about rattled the glass in the windows. She set off with two buckets of vegetable scraps—one for the chickens and one for Geraldina. “Hm, I wonder if I should tell Geraldina I just slept with her boyfriend.” The thought caused a broad smile to spread across her face and happiness to exude from within her, forming an invisible aura around her.

  After giving Geraldina a big handful of alfalfa and some vegetables, she left the goat happily chewing her cud. She looked about her. It promised to be yet another beautiful day, the sun shining in the deep blue sky. As she walked back up the hill toward Rosamanti, she caught sight of the faded pink cottage tucked in the lee of a hill, about halfway between Rosamanti and Villa Jovis. She paused on the path, examining the building. She remembered Pietro saying it used to be someone’s house. Faded green shutters covered the windows, and a brick chimney extended crookedly from the top of the terracotta roof. A green vine looked like it was stuck to the walls, half covering one end, and she could see it had also extended onto part of the gable.

  She felt a sudden compulsion to detour from the track back to Rosamanti and to cut across country toward the little house. Stepping into the long, spiky grass, she made a beeline for it. The sun was rapidly heating up, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Some bushes scratched her arms as she passed them by without even seeing them. At last she reached the side of the building. It was in quite a state of disrepair, as though nobody had been there for many years. The stucco walls had cracks running from the ground right up to the roof. The vine she had seen from the track was indeed invading the structure, its claw-like roots entering the cracks, taking hold. The long grass around the building looked as though it hadn’t been trodden on by man nor beast for a long time. The thought crossed her mind that Geraldina could have this grass under control in no time. At the rear, the house wasn’t totally rectangular. What looked to be a kitchen area stepped out from the main building. Farther along, plumbing on the external walls told her there was either a bathroom or utility room of some sort. It was a much larger structure than she had first thought.

  Working her way around to the front, she saw two more shuttered windows on either side of a green door, its paint faded, flaking, and bubbled. Three heavy wooden battens crossed the door horizontally, bolted to the door jams. She remembered Pietro saying it was boarded up now, unused. She scrunched up her nose and tilted her head to one side. Why? Why not clean this place up and rent it out? She turned to look at the isolated hillsides around her. From the front door, there was an uninterrupted view of Villa Jovis, high up on the headland. To the right, the cobalt sea sparkled and shone. Another headland jutted out farther to the south, tall pines standing majestically against the blue sky. There was not a house, not a farm, nothing, in sight. What a view! Her mind immediately began to overflow with all sorts of ideas, rushing in so fast she couldn’t make sense of them all. But one idea certainly took hold. Pietro’s restaurant!

  Her heart skipped a beat, the excitement of the prospect taking hold. It was perfect. Build a leafy pergola out the front so people can dine al fresco. In winter, drop down plastic café curtains—or maybe grow a hedge… Her fertile mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. She sat down in the shade of the wall and ticked off a list of what needed to be done. Expand the vegetable patch; employ a local to tend it; introduce pigs and cows back to the property; re-fit the kitchen and bathroom. The ideas were flowing like a river in springtime. Pietro could grow or produce every ingredient here at Rosamanti and cook it for discerning diners who wanted good quality, organic, fresh, ingredients. Heck, they even had their own wine.

  In her mind, she could see the building, soft yellow lights from candles glowing in the windows, little tables set with bright red table cloths, people sitting there chatting or taking in the amazing view, and sipping the Lombardi wine.

  She lay on her back in a clearing where the grass wasn’t so spiky, daydreaming, looking at the sparse white, fluffy clouds skip across the cobalt sky. Images and sketches skimmed through her thoughts, exciting her. The avalanche of ideas felt familiar, somehow. Almost how it used to feel when the writing muse was virtually sitting on her shoulder, compelling her imagination to write wonderful stories. It felt good to be so free of worries, so free of cluttered thoughts. From where she was right now, nestled into a patch of yellow straw-like grass on the side of a mountain on this beautiful island, everything was good with the world.

  It was hours before she finally left the forlorn little cottage and slowly made her way back up the hill to Rosamanti. She looked up, seeing the sun almost directly overhead. Well, there goes my writing
morning, she thought. She noticed that the same old guilty feeling wasn’t gnawing at her, chastising her. Instead, she felt uplifted, excited, thrilled. She couldn’t wait to talk to Pietro, to tell him of her fantastic idea. A small stab of concern entered her mind, threatening to pour cold water on her enthusiasm. What if Pietro said no? She knew he didn’t have money for repairs for Rosamanti, let alone funds to renovate a run-down building stuck on a hillside. A small, impish grin formed on her lips. But she did.

  * * *

  She entered the cool, dark kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, and took out a carafe of cold water, poured it into a glass, and drank thirstily. Her stomach grumbled, complaining that she had not yet had breakfast—only coffee. Deciding to take a break from Felicity French for a while, she made a sandwich and headed for Nonna’s drawing room. Her discovery that morning had made her curious to examine the book of maps of the island more closely.

  She found the large, leather-bound book of maps of Capri still lying on the little table where she had left it. Carefully turning each page, she finally found the map of Villa Jovis and its surrounds. She squinted, trying to see the tiny details. With one finger on the track to Villa Jovis, she traced back down until she found a small black dot which was marked as Villa Rosamanti Lombardi. She searched the ornately drawn margin of the map, looking for its creator or a date. Nothing. Remarkably, when she let her eyes relax from the intensive search, she saw a squiggle in the right hand vertical border, down near the bottom corner. With difficulty, she saw written what looked like Milo MDCLXXVIII. Her heartbeat quickened as she realized she had found the date of this book. Each map was an original. This was no mass produced atlas. She ran upstairs and got a notebook and pencil, then ran back to the drawing room. She wrote out the Roman numerals, calling on her childhood school memory to work out the year of creation. Eventually she had it—1678. Tingles of excitement and awe swept through her.