by J. M. Stengl
The old lady’s pale eyes stared vacantly. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. I felt nearly as lost as she did: This pitiful, withered woman was nothing like the Lady Beneventi of the past three days. Was this real or an act?
She finished her breakfast and gradually revived as the morning progressed, though I hardly knew how to respond when she made requests instead of insult-laced orders. Once she was seated on her sofa, I suggested, “Would you like me to bring your little dog?”
Her wide blue eyes turned to me, and I realized with a jolt that she must once have been a handsome woman. Even now, with her silver hair and patrician features, she was striking for her age. I had never noticed before; her usual scowls overshadowed all else.
“A dog? I would like that.”
“And he will be delighted to see you.”
I turned toward the doors, but she spoke before I could take a step. “You are very beautiful to look at. Such vivid blue eyes, and that red-gold hair! My sons would enjoy meeting you. Will you bring me that portrait, please?” She pointed toward a framed photograph amid the clutter atop the grand piano.
I picked up the faded portrait of a man with a thick black beard and handed it over.
Her trembling hands grasped the frame, and her eyes seemed to soak in the image. For a moment, the hair on top of her head appeared to swirl, but I must have imagined that. “My darling Arturo,” she said, one gnarled finger tracing his features.
She seemed to have forgotten my presence, so while she talked to the photo, I slipped to the door, admitted Bacio, and watched him dash across the room and throw himself into her lap.
Then I noticed a man standing near her sofa. A black-bearded man, who turned to me and nodded politely.
The room seemed to rock, and my stomach dropped to my feet. Bird-nest Beard?
But no, this man had gray hair at his temples. My vague memories of Fidelio’s cousin didn’t include gray hair, so it couldn’t be him. Whew! But where had this man come from? How had he sneaked into the room during the time I turned my back and let the dog inside?
A suspicion turned my knees weak. Was he another . . . anomaly?
Lady Beneventi looked at me, and her brows knitted in confusion, then smoothed. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Arturo, this girl is supposed to be my new companion. No one can ever replace Giovanna, but I do like to have pretty things around me.”
“There could never be another like Giovanna,” the man responded with, I thought, a hint of irony. He smiled and bowed to me with elegant grace. Despite his bushy beard and out-of-date clothing, he reeked of nobility. “Catriona,” he addressed the old lady almost as if prompting a child, “will you introduce me to your lovely young friend?”
She scowled. “I don’t know her name.”
Now, there was the Lady Beneventi I knew.
“Lady Gillian Montmorency.” I offered my hand.
He took it, his fingers cool and soft, and smiled into my eyes. Something about him seemed familiar . . . I was sure I hadn’t seen him at the cocktail party, but he definitely had that same misty vibe. My nerves tingled, and I’m afraid my smile looked unnatural.
“Ah, Lady Gillian,” he said, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. You may call me Arturo.” His respectful tone eased my nerves, made me feel that he understood my fear. “Thank you for caring for my Catriona.”
“Lady, indeed.” Lady Beneventi gave a snort. “Servants don’t have titles.” She turned and set up the photo on the end table.
I glanced at the photo, then did a double take. Slowly my gaze returned to the visitor. He met my gaze and nodded slightly, his slightly blurry eyes gentle and sympathetic. I swallowed hard, fighting the desire to turn and run.
This man, Arturo? He was the man in that photograph. He was also the man—an older version yet easily recognizable—in the large painted portrait hanging above a table in the entry hall.
He was Lady Beneventi’s long-deceased husband.
Oh, this was getting to be a long week!
It was Sunday afternoon. I was starving.
Two o’clock, and I had eaten nothing all day except jam.
Why? Because there was no food in the house except jam. In every flavor imaginable.
As of today, my first week at Torre Santa Lucia (better known as the Haunted House of Insanity) was behind me. I had lived through the worst seven days of my life . . . to date, anyway.
Sunday was my half day off, and you can believe I’d counted the minutes to noon. But now I’d been free for two hours, and the time dragged. Unless I wanted to organize my room again or work out for the second time that day in the weight room I’d discovered near the laundry room or hang out with the servants, I had nothing to do.
No car. No friends. Limited band-width.
To pass the time, I posed in the garden with the statue of the piper and took selfies: pretending to kiss its cheek, gazing wistfully at its solemn face, cheek to cheek, and otherwise acting juvenile. What did it matter? Nobody cared what I did on my day off.
When I called my parents, they were just arriving at a luncheon party. My mother spoke to me for maybe two minutes, my father not at all. Neither cared to hear about my adventures. My sister didn’t pick up when I called, and my brother . . . well, I hardly knew him. He was fifteen years older than me and almost a stranger.
Raquel’s phone went straight to voicemail. I asked her to call me and hung up. Supposedly I had other friends, but none of them would really care to hear from me. Was Raquel ducking my calls?
My phone buzzed. I had a message!
Oh. My heart dropped. It was from Max. A photo of him at a beach, posing like some calendar model. Yuck! I nearly chucked my phone into the pond. A creep with muscles was still a creep.
I posted a few of my silly selfies, just for something to do.
And there I sat in the garden on the bench beside the marble statue, listening to the trickling frog fountain and trying to forget most of the past week. Trying not to remember how many weeks remained in a year. It didn’t work. I could only hope these few hours of freedom would prepare me for the crazy week ahead.
My stomach growled. I ignored it. Lying down on the bench with one knee up and the other ankle propped on it, I stared up at blue sky and addressed the statue, reaching up to pat its foot. “Giano, don’t you ever get bored of this garden?” Lady Beneventi wanted to visit this spot nearly every day, so the piper and I were well acquainted.
“Does he ever answer you?”
A face appeared above me, and I started hard enough to shake the bench. My yell was more of a croak. I launched off the bench and spun around to face Manny, dizzy and breathing hard. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”
In truth, I’d been keeping a wary eye out for him, hoping for an opportunity to regain some respect. Pretty much anything would be an improvement.
Manny pointed somewhere to his right. “The power plant. There was a problem with one of the new generators yesterday, but it’s running well now, and we’re back on track. We’ll be starting restorations on the house soon—mostly exterior work as long as the weather is fine.” He propped his hand on the bench back and gave me a tentative smile. “I planned to stop by the house before running an errand. Sorry I startled you. I wasn’t trying to sneak.”
I fiddled with my phone, flipping it over and over in my hands. “I guess I was lost in thought.”
“Or deep in conversation with the piper boy here.”
My head jerked upright. “Hardly conversation. Statues don’t talk back.”
“Then why talk to him?”
I wanted to smack that smile off his face. “Because he is one male who listens and doesn’t make smart remarks. What? Do you think I need a therapist?”
The smile disappeared, and he shook his head. “Do you think you need one?”
I wanted to tell him to get lost, but I had to defend my sanity first. “Look, Lady Beneventi was sitting right here when she wished to have
one hundred dogs like Bacio.” I studied his face for a reaction, but he simply listened. “I know I acted crazy the other day, but you have no idea how weird that was! One minute there was one annoying dog. The next minute there were a hundred. It felt more like a million.”
“I can see why that would be startling,” he said.
I was not appeased. I stuffed my phone into my pocket and started pacing. My flip-flops were under the bench, but the grass felt good on my feet.
“You still believe Lady Beneventi wished all those poodles into existence?” he asked.
Bristling, I spun to face him. “I heard her say it, and the dogs appeared!”
He raised a hand in defense. “I don’t doubt you, just double-checking the hypothesis. Have you heard her make any more wishes this week? I mean, have any unusual things happened other than the poodles?”
“Unusual things?” I tried to laugh, but it sounded garbled. “What qualifies as unusual around this house? Nobody bats an eye at ghosts and doors that disappear and poodles that multiply and . . .” I stopped, crossed my arms, and stared him down. “Do you really believe anything I say after . . . after Tuesday?”
I saw his mouth twitch, but otherwise he kept a straight face. “Especially after Tuesday. Nothing you tell me will sound impossible or wacky to me; I’ve seen too much. What’s been happening?”
“Are you married?” I blurted.
That startled him. His mouth snapped shut, then opened enough to emit a “No.”
“In a relationship?”
His brows twitched together. “What does my private life have to do with the mysterious happenings here?”
I flung my hands out and resumed pacing. “I want to make sure you didn’t go home the other day and tell your girlfriend about the crazy girl who climbed you like a tree, did the clinging-vine routine, and babbled hysterical nonsense in your ear.”
Silence. When I dared a glance his way, I could not read his expression. He studied me with narrowed eyes.
“You did! I knew it,” I blurted.
“I haven’t told a soul.”
I gaped at him. “Seriously? You didn’t tell her? If you don’t, she’ll think you really have something to hide. I despise secretive men!”
He was shaking his head, half laughing, his eyes closed. “Wait! Calm down and listen.” He looked me in the eye. “I didn’t tell her because there is no one to tell.”
“Oh.” Well, that was some relief.
“Now, if you’re satisfied that no one can rightly object to my being climbed as a substitute tree, please sit down and tell me what’s been going on here.”
I heaved a little sigh and perched on the edge of the bench. “You can sit too.”
Instead, he walked around the bench to stand near the pool, facing me, and folded his arms.
“Fine. Stand, then. Have you been inside the house today?” I asked.
“Not yet. What’s happening?”
“This morning when the cook sent up our breakfast, Lady Beneventi went into a snit because there was honey instead of jam for the toast. She wished there would be nothing to eat in the house except jam.”
“Let me guess: Your breakfast turned into jam?”
“Jars and jars of it, in all imaginable flavors, but no toast to spread it on. The first few bites were lovely, but the very thought of jam makes me queasy now.” I laid my hand on my empty belly.
He chuckled and shook his head. “There’s no food in the kitchen?”
He was more businesslike than friendly, yet I felt almost giddy. I had made him laugh! “Nowhere in the house. Not even dog food. The refrigerator, freezer, and cupboards are filled with jars of jam. If you don’t believe me, go look for yourself.”
He paced in front of the bench, thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. “How is Lady Beneventi taking it?”
“She was delighted at first—ate jam from every jar on the tray. But she seemed less pleased with it at luncheon. The maid gets to deal with her now, since it’s my afternoon off. I get to sit out here and dream of toast to go with my jam.”
His gaze flashed to me. “You haven’t eaten anything else?”
“What would I eat? It’s not as if I can go anywhere to buy food. I’m on that new diet, the Jam Fast.”
His lips twitched. “Doesn’t sound very nutritious.” Then he gave me a sidelong glance. “I’ve got an errand to run. See you later.”
My spirits deflated like a popped balloon.
“Right.” I listened to him walk away, then slumped back on the bench and folded my arms. So much for telling him about the rest of the wishes. I glanced up at Giano. “The man has issues. At least you never walk off like that.”
Maybe I did need therapy.
I opened my phone and checked for messages. None. Several people had responded to my selfies. I laughed aloud at one comment and glanced up at the statue. “Giano, my sister approves of your ‘rock-hard abs.’”
Encouraged, I clicked through the photos, proud of how well they’d turned out. The villa showed in the background, and some of those tall cypress trees. “You know, I look surprisingly good, and you are one handsome hunk of marble. A bit weather-worn perhaps, but well preserved for your age.” I laughed at my own stupid jokes.
Maybe Fidelio would see the pics and laugh?
Fidelio.
I’d hardly thought of him for days. I clicked to his page but saw no new posts except photos of him posted by other people, always in groups. Groups that often included Raquel.
I was lying on the bench, listening to music with my earbuds and possibly half asleep, when something dropped onto my belly. I jerked upright, grabbing the something, which turned out to be a paper sack. Beautiful aromas teased my nose as I pulled out the earbuds. “What is this?”
“It’s not jam.”
Manny, of course. Who else would talk to me? Instantly alive, I put my feet on the ground and my back to him while digging through the sack. Bread and salami. Heaven! I opened my mouth for a bite, then thought to ask, “Where did you get this?” Sun in my eyes made me squint up at him.
“Scoot over.”
I shifted closer to Giano, and Manny sat on the end of the bench. “I bought it from a vendor in the village. There’s a cream-cheese bun in there too. Didn’t think to bring you a drink. Go ahead and eat before it goes stale.”
I gave him a narrow look. “Did you eat already?”
“I’ve still got my cream bun.” He waggled another paper sack, then met my gaze. “I’ll eat dessert with you.”
Conversation lagged while I tucked into my lunch. Just bread and salami, but it tasted like ambrosia to me.
After a surprisingly comfortable silence, he said, “Elena sent Luca to their house for food this morning, so everyone on staff except you had already eaten lunch out on the pool deck. Since there wasn’t much left, I went and picked something up.”
Either nobody else thought of me or they couldn’t find me. But I wasn’t exactly hiding.
Manny, the guy who despised me, had driven into the village to buy me lunch. My chest felt thick, and there was an awkward pause before I mumbled, “Thanks. For the food.”
“Seeing you stuff your face is thanks enough.”
Cheeks full of my last bite, I glared at him. He grinned and unwrapped his cream bun, so I started on mine. “This is delicious,” I commented, trying to eat the pastry without making a mess.
“They’re my favorite.”
I surreptitiously licked creamy cheese from my fingers, glanced his way, and caught him smiling at me. “No napkins,” I snapped.
“No comment,” he responded. I might have punched him if I hadn’t been a lady.
Manny leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms. “Before we talk weird magic again, I want to know why you didn’t come to the pool party last night.”
I kicked at the grass with my toes. “Why would I socialize with the servants? Besides, what if the family found out the hired help was using their pool on the sly?”<
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Manny frowned. “You really believe Jacopo and Elena and the rest of them would sneak behind the Trefontane family’s back? The Ganzas are as honest as the day is long. They have full permission to use the pool. They maintain that ancient relic; why shouldn’t they have the fun of using it? No one else does.”
“My parents would never permit the staff at Roxwell Hall to use the pool,” I informed him.
“I would imagine not.” When he spoke again, his voice had lost that frustrated edge. “This place is different from most estates since only Lady Beneventi lives here. Villa staff members are free to invite a few friends to the Saturday parties. My renovation crew has a standing invitation whenever we’re in town. Last night, three of us stuck around to swim.” He paused. “I thought you would be there; Luigi told me he’d invited you.”
I shook my head. I loved to swim, but what noble of any rank would attend a pool party with servants?
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at me over his shoulder as if trying to read my expression. “The sun warms the pool in summer. By this time of year the water is getting colder, so nobody swims for long. When I play water volleyball with the Ganza brothers, we all wear wetsuits. Mostly everyone just hangs out and eats Elena’s good cooking.”
Having spied from the balcony windows while Lady Beneventi watched a movie the night before, I already knew about the swim parties. I knew that Jacopo and Elena Ganza were the estate steward and the cook/housekeeper, and that their three sons included the two charming young men who had tried to rescue me from the bathroom.
I also knew that Manny and the handsomest gardener-brother were an almost unbeatable water-volleyball team. And that they both looked incredibly good in wetsuits. I had come alarmingly close to running down to join the party after Lady Beneventi went to bed.
Manny ran one hand over his hair and added, “You need to get to know the household staff. They’re your best allies in this situation. With the wishes, I mean.”
My pride rose, though it felt flimsier, less comforting than usual. “I don’t fit in with the servants, and I don’t want to. I mean, I’m working here, but everyone knows I’m not really one of them. I’m nobility.”