by Raye Morgan
For some reason, she still hadn’t told him that she’d met the prince. She wasn’t sure why she was hesitating, but something told her he wouldn’t necessarily be pleased. So her approach was less direct than usual.
She’d found her father trying to practice using a walker and she’d watched for a while, giving him advice as he’d grown more and more impatient. His ex-friend Fredo had been to see him again and put him in a rotten mood.
“Now he’s threatening me with health violations,” he grumbled. “Me! I’ve always had the cleanest kitchen in the village. And yet he dares to call me a violator!”
She got him calmed down and made him sit in his chair to rest, then brought him a cold lemonade and perched next to him, ready for the inquisition.
“Papa, tell me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How did you first know about the Monta Rosa Basil? When did you first find it?”
He sat back and slowly he lost the tense look around his eyes as he went into the past with a dreamy look on his face.
“As it happened, I was catering a picnic for the old prince, Prince Bartholomew, and his family, on the top of the hill, just above where the basil grows. I did more catering on my own in those days. I took every side job I could just to keep afloat. Money was very tight. There was hardly enough income to keep my stand going and I had to make some painful sacrifices just to survive.” She nodded encouragement, though at the same time she wondered if he didn’t see that they were close to being in that position again right now.
“There was a young maid who worked for the prince’s family. She showed me the herb. Made me pay a forfeit for some silliness or other by eating a leaf. I put it on my tongue, and I immediately knew it was something I’d never tasted before. At first I thought it strange. But I couldn’t get that taste out of my mind.”
Isabella nodded. Everyone was the same, instantly in love with the magic.
“So the next time I was on the grounds, I went to that hill again and picked some of the herb, took it home and tried it in some recipes.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Instant success. Everyone loved it.”
How exciting that must have been for him. She smiled, loving him. Growing up without a mother, she’d always felt extra close to her father. His happiness was hers, sometimes too much so.
“Did they have a lot of parties in those days?” she asked, curious to know everything she could about Max’s upbringing.
“Yes. Whole caravans of people would come from Rome or from Naples and stay a week.”
She shook her head with wonder. “Why don’t I remember any of this?”
“These things ended when you were a young child.” Luca sighed. “After Prince Bartholomew’s beautiful wife killed herself, the parties never resumed. In fact, he began to spend all his time in Rome after that.”
“Killed herself!” She sat up straighter and stared at her father. He had to be talking about Max’s mother. An icy hand gripped her heart. “What happened?”
“I don’t know the details. They said she jumped from a balcony.” He shook his head. “Poor thing. She was a film star, you know. She worked with Fellini and Antonioni. She was quite good. It was a tragedy.”
What a series of tragedies in Max’s family if all these stories were true. First his mother commited suicide, then his young wife drowned. And what about his own accident, the one that had done such damage to his face? She still didn’t have the details on that.
It was no wonder he had troubled eyes as they rode across his estate lands. He’d come by them naturally, it seemed. She looked over at him now and found him looking back at her.
“Just a little further,” he called to her from the back of his horse.
She nodded. “Your grounds are so beautiful. You should do something with them.”
He looked out over his hills. “You think so? What do you suggest?”
She wanted to throw out her arms to encompass it all. “I don’t know. You should share this with the world. Maybe put in a hotel, a spa, a destination resort.”
He turned to look at her again, grinning. “Isabella, what a middle-class mind you have. Must everything make you money?”
“No, but…”
She flushed, realizing he was teasing her, and she dropped her defensiveness and returned to a light-hearted mode.
“Hey, it’s the money-making middle class that makes the economy hum for everyone,” she reminded him. “Let’s have none of your upper-class arrogance.”
“The idle rich,” he muttered dismissively.
“Exactly.”
But she was laughing.
“You think I’m lazy, don’t you?” he said, as though it was a revelation to him.
“Not at all. I just think you don’t have an eye out for profit. The spice of life.”
He shook his head. His eyes were warm. For the moment, his troubled look had faded. “Tell me this, Isabella,” he said. “You’ve said your restaurant was in trouble because you couldn’t get the best ingredients. Is this going to make that big a difference? Will all be well now?”
She hesitated, tempted to fudge the truth a little. This was such a subject of frustration for her. But when she looked at his face, she knew she could never be less than frank with him.
“No,” she said simply. “All will not be well. My father is a wonderful man and a good cook, but he can’t run a business to save his life. We are in big trouble financially, and in all sorts of other ways. I’m not sure we’ll last much longer no matter how much good food we cook up.”
He nodded. From what she’d told him and a few things he’d heard from Renzo, he’d had a feeling that was the case.
“Maybe your father should let you take the reins,” he said dryly. “You are the one who seems to have a passion for business.”
That brought her up short, but she realized, very quickly, that he had a point. She had the instincts, though not the training. If only Luca would give her a chance…
“So what could I do to make a profit?” he asked her. “Besides turning my ancestral estate into a…what did you call it? A destination resort.” He gave her a mock glare. “Something, by the way, that I would never do.”
She took his question quite seriously. “Well, to begin with, you could renovate your vineyards. How about that? Wine sells very well these days.”
He was laughing at her. It was obvious he wasn’t taking this as seriously as she was. “Isabella, Isabella, what about the nobility of the grape?”
She made a face. “Nobility is a pose,” she said. “Something that looks nice for special occasions, but is shed in a moment when it’s no longer working for you.”
He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “I can see you have big plans for me. What in particular?”
“I was thinking after seeing your abandoned vineyard…” She hesitated. Did she really want to tell him her thoughts? But why not? If not now, when?
“Well, you could hire my friend Giancarlo. The way some people restore businesses that have been run badly, he restores vineyards. I’m sure he can get you up and running in no time.”
He gazed at her as though he wasn’t sure just how seriously to take what she was saying. “So I can sell my grapes?”
“Why not? Or how about your own winery? With a tasting room? Then you could run tours from the village. People love to tour wineries. A little wine tasting, a small bistro on the premises…”
He was laughing at her but she didn’t care. “You could run my restaurant,” he said with a grin.
“Thank you.” She made a pretend curtsy from the saddle. “I’d love to.”
What a great idea. She fairly shivered with excitement over it. To think of running a restaurant for Max! Of making the special sauce for tourists who would come from far and wide…
But she quickly brought herself back down to earth. It was a pipe dream and she knew it. He refused to come face-to-face with strangers. He wouldn’t even let vineyard workers on his land. How could he stand to
have tourists? It wasn’t going to happen.
They crested another hill and there below them was the field where the basil grew. She leaned forward in the saddle and sighed with relief. She’d had a dream during the night that she’d arrived here only to find the earth scorched and not a plant in sight. At least that hadn’t happened.
But that dream had cast a pall on her morning. She’d thought of it with dread as she was preparing the picnic lunch to take with her. Was it a sign? Should she be prepared for the worst?
Susa had raised an eyebrow at the preparations, but didn’t say a thing. Isabella ignored her and packed sandwiches in a basket and stowed them in her little car.
“Where are you going?” her father called from the doorway.
She hesitated. Should she tell him? Dashing back to give him a hug, she whispered in his ear, “I think I will have the basil with me when I return. Say a prayer for me.” And she kissed his leathery cheek, turned and hurried off before he had time to question her further.
And all the time, she’d wondered if the basil would even be there once she made her way to it. Now she knew. It was here all right. And she was going to take as much of it as she could.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ISABELLA slid down off the horse and began to collect the basil, snipping leaves with little scissors she’d brought along with her. Max dismounted as well, but he stood back, watching her, and when she glanced up she noticed that all his good humor had fled. In fact, he looked ill at ease.
This was the place he considered too dangerous to let her visit alone, but she still couldn’t really understand why. The hillside looked quite benign. The river was racing past below, and she knew how he felt about the river, but even if she started to slide there were plenty of places where she would be able to break her fall. No, she didn’t get it. The place seemed fine to her.
The only problem was, the basil was not quite at its peak and there was only a limited amount she could harvest at the moment. She was going to have to discuss this with him and ask to come again in a week or so. Was he going to allow it? She had no idea.
It did seem all his warmth had evaporated and all he wanted to do was hurry up and get her to finish up and head for home again. Looking at his face, she decided to deal with her problem later.
“Okay,” she told him at last, tying her two large bags together. “I think I have enough for now.”
He nodded, handing her Mimi’s reins and helping her aboard, then turning to mount his own horse. Isabella turned to look at him, and as she did the reins slipped from her hand.
“Oh!” She started to lean down to get them again, but the bags full of basil began to fall and she had to grab for them instead, stuffing them under a strap to hold them tightly secure.
And in that moment, something went wrong. She was never able to pinpoint exactly what happened, but something frightened the sweet, gentle horse who had been so pleasant all day, and suddenly she turned into a different animal.
“Max!” Isabella cried, grabbing handfuls of mane in order to keep from falling. “Stop her!”
Mimi wasn’t waiting around to see what Max would do. She neighed in an alarming way and shot off toward the river.
“Max!”
Isabella hung on for dear life. The water was straight ahead.
“No, Mimi!” she cried, seeing another dunking in her future, at the very least. Closer and closer—the river looked inevitable. Then, suddenly Mimi veered away, racing along the bank, into the trees.
In a moment, a small clearing appeared, and a beautiful waterfall, and Mimi came to an abrupt stop. Too abrupt. Isabella sailed right over her head and landed in the brush. Mimi seemed to understand exactly what she’d done and decided not to stick around and find out what her punishment would be. Instead, she took off again, this time with an empty saddle.
Isabella moaned, pulling herself out of the brambles and seeing Max arrive just too late.
“At least I didn’t get wet this time,” she commented shakily, then stopped dead as she saw Max’s ashen face. He leaped from his horse and grabbed her, looking her over as though he expected to find broken limbs and gaping flesh wounds.
“Are you all right?” he demanded harshly. “Isabella, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I think.” After all, she hadn’t had time to take an inventory. “I’m okay, but poor Mimi…”
He swore in a way that would have sent chills down Mimi’s spine if she’d heard him. “Never mind that damn horse. You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“No, but…” He took her by the shoulders, searching her face, then looked over his shoulder at the waterfall with such a look of dread, it took her breath away.
“What is it, Max?”
She put her hands flat against his chest, staring into his face. And suddenly, she knew.
“Is this where…?”
He looked at her as though he’d never seen her before.
“We have to go,” he said curtly. “We have to get out of here.”
“Oh, Max.”
He turned toward the horse and swung up, pulling her up in front of him just as he had that first night. His face was like stone but she could feel the tension in him and see it in the cords of his neck. His dark eyes were filled with pain and a pulse was beating at his temple. She saw all this and didn’t dare say a word. Just before they started off, he looked back toward the waterfall and the anguish in his face sent her reeling. Here, obviously, was the core and crux of his torment. This had to be the place where his young wife had died.
They rode hard back toward the palazzo, but after a few minutes the horse swerved into another direction and she realized he was taking them to the Rossi cemetery instead. They arrived and he lowered her, then dismounted himself. Without a word, he turned and strode off into the courtyard. Biting her lip, she followed, though she wasn’t at all sure she was welcome.
At first she thought he was heading for the little marble chapel, but he turned into the flower garden instead. Turning, he waited while she joined him. Her heart beat like a drum as she looked into the desolation in his eyes.
“Isabella, I’m sorry. I…I think you’ve probably guessed why I was upset near the waterfall. I just need a few minutes to unwind. If you could wait out by the chapel…”
“You want me to go and wait for you?”
“Yes. Please.”
She was already shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, I won’t go.”
He stared at her as though he wasn’t sure she understood. “Isabella…”
“Max.” She grabbed his arm and looked up into his tortured face. “I think you should talk about it. I think you should tell me…”
“No.” He pulled away from her touch. “I don’t talk about this. Not to anyone.”
“That’s why you must,” she insisted passionately.
He began to back away, but she wouldn’t let him go. “Max, don’t you see? You need to talk about it. You’ve probably been holding it all inside for ten years. You have to talk.” Tears filled her eyes. Taking his arm again, she shook it, not sure what else she could do to convince him. “Tell me about her. What was she like?”
He stared down at her. “Laura?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said. “Tell me about Laura.”
He turned woodenly and slumped onto the garden bench. She slipped in beside him, taking his hand in hers.
“What did she look like?” she asked gently.
“An angel.” His voice was gruff as gravel and he cleared his throat. “Blonde hair, light as a feather. And so fragile…” His voice broke.
Isabella squeezed his hand. “You loved her.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I loved her from the moment I saw her.” His voice was getting stronger. “She was good and kind and so very loving. Our life together was like a fairy tale. We were so happy.”
Isabella nodded as he went on and on about his wonderful wife. His pain was clear in hi
s voice and it was agony just to listen to him. But it was also good. She needed it, too. She wanted to understand him.
“When we found out we were going to have a baby,” he said at last, “we thought life couldn’t get any better.”
A baby. Isabella blinked hard and looked away. She hadn’t realized Laura was pregnant. That only made it all so much worse. Her heart already ached for him, now it broke in two.
“Our favorite place to have a picnic was by the waterfall,” he was saying. “But we shouldn’t have gone that day.” His voice was almost a monotone now. “I’d been up most of the night before trying to solve a problem with the accountant. I was dead tired. But Laura had been planning a special celebration and I didn’t want to disappoint her. So we went, and we toasted the baby that was on the way, and we ate Laura’s special croissants that she had just learned how to make.” His voice was suddenly choked. “And then we lay back on the blanket, wrapped in each other’s arms. And the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes and she was gone.”
His hand was gripping hers tightly now, so tightly she could hardly stand it, but she didn’t complain.
“I looked around. I couldn’t imagine where she could have gone. And then I saw a bit of her dress floating in the water.” A shudder went through him and he pulled his hand away from hers, leaning forward, his face in his hands. “I was in a frenzy. I pulled her from the water. Her foot had been stuck between two stones. I was so sure I could make her breathe again. I tried and tried. But it was too late. She was dead.” His voice was harsh now, harsh and grating.
“Gone forever.”
And then his shoulders began to shake and she knew he was releasing his grief at last.
He blamed himself. She’d seen it in his eyes, in every fiber of his being, as though despair and regret were all he knew. He blamed himself and it was so unfair. How could she get him to see that?
She stayed beside him, very quiet, until she could sense he would accept a bit of comfort, and then she touched his back, rubbing her hand softly up and down.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Oh, Max, I’m so sorry.”