Her stomach clenched and unclenched, and she could feel a film of perspiration along her upper lip. “Shit! Face it, Caro, you’re sweating like a pig.” She said the words aloud and they bounced back to her in the still, early evening quiet.
It was peaceful. No cars, buses, scooters or taxis whizzed by like they did in the centre of the city. The taxi journey had taken about half an hour to reach this leafy suburb and it wasn’t an area Caro knew by either name or reputation. But it probably did have a reputation and a seriously outrageous price tag. This road, these houses, they screamed old money, old style, class.
Slowly, the gateway to Bellaire came into view. The massive wrought-iron gates looked imposing but they were also beautiful. Intricate scrollwork and the tails of two peacocks were displayed, one on each side. The gates were painted black but were no less impressive for that.
Caro saw an intercom box to the side of the left gate and she hesitated in front of it. Looking about, she saw a security camera aimed directly at her, and as she peered through the open ironwork, several more on the inside. A gravel avenue curved away from the gates – she assumed towards the house itself.
A strange sense of calm descended on her as she realised that this couldn’t be Toni’s parents’ home – he hadn’t been stuck up or grandiose in any way. He’d worked as a porter, for God’s sake. And though he’d been generous and kind, he’d never flashed money or credit cards, and his scooter had been several years old. Definitely a different Luca, she decided, so I’ll just confirm that and move on to the old-fashioned method of looking it up in the phone book. Which when she thought about it, she should have done first. Except, with the hundreds of potential Toni Lucas, that could have been horribly time-consuming.
“Pronto?” a raspy voice came through the amplifier after she’d pressed the buzzer.
“Do you speak English?” Caro asked, sticking with her gut not to break into Italian.
“Sì, I do. A leetle.” The voice was heavily accented. And older. “What is it you wanting?”
“Oh, good. I’d like to speak to Signore Antonio di Luca on a personal matter, please. My name’s Caroline Fitzgerald, but I don’t think he’ll know me. May I come in?”
Caro could hear the whirring of the camera as it focused on her and then as it swivelled slowly to take in her surroundings.
“Where eez your car?” the alien voice asked.
“I came by taxi. It has left. Please, I just have a few questions to ask Signore di Luca and then I’ll be on my way.” She smiled directly into the camera lens, brushing her hair back behind her ear in an admittedly nervous gesture.
“One a momento, pleeeze.”
Several seconds passed, maybe a minute. Caro waited. She walked back and forth in front of the closed gates and trailed her fingers over the fine detail on the filigree-type work. Just as she was about to ring the buzzer again and ask them not to bother but please order her a taxi, the gates opened inwards, silently and slowly, revealing the driveway ahead. Caro settled her shoulder bag and stepped through the opening, her stomach deciding off its own bat that she wasn’t calm and un-phased, after all. She was bloody terrified.
There were flowers and shrubs and fountains. Out of the corner of her eye Caro could see the beauty, recognise it for the grandeur it represented, but in truth she couldn’t tell the name of one plant or identify one colour even with a gun to her head. It was all a blur. The gravel crunching under her feet, the heady scent of evening blossoms, the gentle splashing of water and the distant sound of music. Music? Her attention focused in on the sound of some classical opera wafting across the air. She forced her eyes upwards, away from the pink-and-grey pebbles beneath her feet, and allowed herself the first view of the palazzo.
Wow. It wasn’t a palace, not really, but it could, as they say, have played one on TV. It was three-floors high and five-windows deep on each side. A warm, bleached, cooked salmon colour, it oozed “ancient” like an Etruscan artefact. The trim was all white, including the shutters and plasterwork. A set of wooden-panelled double doors sat in the centre of the ground floor with four wide granite steps leading up and an actual portico with columns to the front. It should have screamed ostentation, but the dullness of the coloured walls and the vegetation all around set it firmly in the early twentieth century. Caro didn’t have time to take in the gardens in front of the circular entranceway, complete with centre fountain of your bog standard Cupid and lyre, because one of the heavy doors opened as she arrived at the bottom step. A woman of indeterminate years, grey hair scrunched back in a bun, formal black dress and white apron, appeared, hands clasped in front of her at her waist, and paused as Caro slowly walked up the steps.
Not totally sure of the protocol with Italian “home help”, Caro stuck out her hand and smiled.
“Hello, I’m Caroline Fitzgerald. How nice to meet you.”
The woman looked deliberately at the outstretched hand and then at Caro’s face. She sniffed with an upwards gesture of her head. “Come,” she barked, the same raspy voice from the intercom, then turned her back smartly and entered through the doorway.
Swallowing an “Okay,” Caro walked into a huge hallway dripping in marble, plasterwork, paintings and greenery. It was overwhelming and she couldn’t help but turn a full 360 degrees to try to take it in before realising Signora Crosspatch was waiting with her foot actually tapping impatiently! Oh, my God, this battle-axe could teach Sister Bernadette a thing or two about cordial greetings and welcomes – how to make a guest feel not at home . . . And yet, here was Caro obediently following her through what appeared to be several different reception rooms, each one leading to another without the use of a corridor.
The layout of this pretty darn big house was confusing, as it now appeared like they were at the back, looking out onto beautifully landscaped gardens visible through open patio doors. The darkly dressed woman stopped abruptly and gestured stiffly towards the terrace outside.
“Signore Antonio weeel see you now.”
If it wasn’t for the arctic delivery style, the accent and even the husky quality would be charming. Caro nodded to her and with a deep breath and another here goes nothing, stepped out onto the terrace.
Antonio di Luca watched through narrowed eyes as the young woman walked towards the seating area on the south terrace, where he was having his aperitif. The wicker furniture was aged, to be sure, but the cushions and tablecloths gave a fresh, clean look with pistachio-and-rose stripes and solid colour accents. He liked the old, comfortable chairs and the creaky sounds as one shifted and stood, as he did now, to greet Miss Fitzgerald.
He didn’t know this woman but was intrigued as to why she thought she might know him. Hopefully not another gold-digger or scam artist. She looked too serene for that – although he was an old fool when it came to a pretty face and hers was, indeed, a pretty face. Not an Italian drop of blood, as far as he could see, with her light skin and eyes. Even her brown hair had a touch of chestnut and was just loosely brushing her shoulders.
Since it was October and the evenings weren’t exactly warm, she was wearing a navy jacket over jeans and a blue shirt almost the exact colour as her eyes. Her gaze was direct on his and he liked that as she reached out her hand immediately to shake his.
He placed his drink on the table and shook hers as he asked in English, “How may I help you, Signorina?”
“Thank you so much for agreeing to speak to me, Signore di Luca, and I’m actually not sure you can help at all.” She smiled as she spoke. “But I’m hoping you can help me locate a young man I knew fourteen years ago when I visited Rome and we were friends.”
Ah! Antonio thought, a natural beauty, with that lovely open face and such a pretty smile that lit up her features. Her voice was low and her demeanour respectful. He liked that, too – so many brash, rude young women about today. She took the seat he gestured towards and settled the bag at her feet.
“I won’t take up much of your time, I promise,” she continued
as she glanced around. “Oh, my! Gosh, what a beautiful setting.” Turning back to him, her eyes sparkled, taking in the lavish gardens of low trimmed hedges, manicured lawns, splashes of colour and the gurgle of water everywhere. “What style is your landscaping, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A very smart and subtle question, my dear,” Antonio chuckled, “and as you can probably tell, but are too polite to say, it is a, how do I say it in English?” Antonio paused, searching his memory. “A blend of mash?”
“A mishmash of styles, perhaps,” she laughed delightedly and cast her glance about again. “And a charming blend it is, too. I wouldn’t have expected so much colour but it’s refreshing, indeed. I thought,” she continued, her gaze back to him, “that most gardens of this size were mostly green with stonework of various sizes and, of course, fountains.”
“Well, we have a lot of the water and green, too, but my wife and I, we have spent a little amount of time touring Great Britain. We simply adored the abbondanza of colourful flowers in everybody’s gardens, from the small patches to the big, grand houses, so much bigger than this.”
Antonio waved his hands about, showing his meaning with his hand gestures and his arms. Then he remembered his manners and offered the young visitor an aperitif, which she refused graciously.
“Truly, Signore di Luca, I don’t want to interrupt your evening, so I’ll get straight to the point.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forwards. “The young man I’m hoping to track down worked as a porter at the hotel Paradiso fourteen years ago and we were . . . ” She paused and took a breath. “Friends. I went to the hotel to ask about him but it seemed to be complicated asking for personnel records and I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. But your name was mentioned and since it’s so similar to my friend’s, I wondered if you could have possibly known him.”
She reached down into her bag and rummaged about, taking out a wallet and pulling a worn photo from within.
“His name is Toni, Toni Luca, and he’d be about thirty-three years old now. Perhaps you recognise him.”
She held out the picture towards Antonio, who slowly let his fingers clasp about it, but he didn’t look down.
“Tell me a little about this man, if you please.” His voice went quieter, lower, he knew, but it was important to hear what she had to say. A movement behind the open glass door caught in his peripheral vision and his heart twisted a little tighter. “Please, continue.”
As the words describing Toni Luca filled the air on the south terrace of Palazzo Bellaire, Antonio di Luca leaned back, clutching the still un-looked at photograph, and closed his eyes. He listened, picturing and remembering – warm, smart, kind and generous, an irresistible smile, childish sense of humour, a man of dreams and bursting with potential, a hard worker.
He sensed, before he saw, the woman from the shadowed room behind move quietly to stand next to him. Valentina reached down and took his hand in hers, bringing it to kiss gently on his knuckles. He felt the wetness of her tears even before he opened his eyes and saw them, shimmering against her lovely sad, cocoa-coloured eyes. Together, they looked at the now quiet and frowning woman seated opposite them. Their visitor was moving her gaze from one to the other, a puzzled, unhappy look on her face.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to catch up with Toni, for old times’ sake. I . . .”
She looked at the older lady, dressed simply in a cotton dress of lavender, a long silver chain hanging down past the V of the neckline. Her grey hair was short and stylish, but her eyes were filled with pain, her mouth sad.
“I’ll just take my picture and leave, if that’s okay.” And she rose from her seat, decidedly uncomfortable.
“Sit, my dear,” the older woman said softly and she eased the picture from Antonio’s hand. “This is Toni, our son,” she said, such longing in her voice that Antonio’s already tight chest squeezed a little harder. “But,” she continued, her hand clasping his as she looked directly at their visitor, “I am afraid you cannot meet him.” She looked away, out across the lawn, her fingers drawn up to cover her quivering mouth.
Antonio cleared his throat, took a swallow from his glass and put it back down, gently.
“Toni died three years ago.”
Chapter 7
Dead.
Actually. Bloody. Unbelievably. Irrefutably.
Dead.
Caro dropped her head to her hands again, pain ripping through her chest. How could it be? The handsome, bright, funny young man she’d known appeared in her head as if it were yesterday she’d seen him last. How could he be dead? She reached for the bottle of brandy and took a slug.
Uncouth, Ms Fitzgerald, really uncouth.
She didn’t care. Wiping her hand across her mouth she waited for the tears, but so far it was just pain. Lots of pain, deep in her chest.
Stupid, really, as fourteen years had gone by and she hadn’t missed him, not truly. It would be unfair to say she hadn’t thought of him, as his mirror image was in her life every day, so kind of hard to forget. But she hadn’t thought about him, Toni himself, and what he was up to, where he was living, what he did, was he married – those questions had only pushed their way into Caro’s awareness since last summer, so this gnawing ache in her body shouldn’t be so bad, should it?
Deciding uncouth behaviour wasn’t in her modus operandi, she got up from the balcony chair and reached for a glass in the kitchen. She added a decent-sized splash and corked the bottle – just because she was remembering her upbringing didn’t mean she couldn’t get shit-faced drunk right now. She went back out onto the balcony, to the blessed darkness, and sat, staring at nothing as she tried to sort out in her mind the previous few hours.
The shock on hearing Valentina di Luca confirm what her husband said knocked Caro sideways. She simply didn’t know what to say. Where to start. The couple had been so lovely, getting her a sherry, of all things, which almost made Caro cry right there, as it was exactly what her mum would have offered in the same circumstances.
But she’d held it together.
These sad people didn’t need her blubbing all over them and a part of her didn’t feel she had the right to share their grief. And their grief was enormous. Still. Even three years later. That, Caro could understand – any parent would get that part. She got the feeling they would have liked her to stay and talk about her friendship with Toni. But while she was marginally tempted, how the hell could she? Knowing they had no clue about what resulted from that summer. Not knowing if Toni had ever even told them about her – though it seemed obvious that he hadn’t; even back then he’d kept his family life private.
Caro puzzled over that part. It wasn’t like she was set on moving in with him and it wasn’t like she’d been a pushy fortune hunter. He could surely see she was from a solid middle-class background and not after his money. God, how they’d scraped and saved for their pizza dinners and maybe one glass of beer each – her parents had given her a tight budget and looking back, she realised maybe his had, too.
His pay as a porter was minimal, he’d said, and he’d slept in the employees’ quarters at the hotel. They’d laughed over that, because “quarters” was a fancy name for saying a large room with two sets of bunk beds, a kettle, a cooking ring, table and chairs, and a tiny fridge. Food for him hadn’t been a problem, staff ate from the hotel kitchens, but he knew several atmospheric little bistros where they went on the evenings he wasn’t working, and they’d bring bread and cheese on their weekend picnics.
But he’d been lying to her all that time.
It was all a joke to him. It must have been. Taking out the naïve little foreign girl, pretending to be genuine, interested, loving. Caro rubbed a closed fist over her chest, trying to erase . . . something. She needed to stop this – she’d done enough hurting when email after email, text after text, call after call went unanswered all those years ago when she’d tried to contact him about Toby.
She
hadn’t told him she was pregnant, not straight away. It wasn’t something you just blurted out, she’d wanted to talk to him. She’d given him all of her contact information, even her parents’ address, and never heard a word. Her brothers had begged her to tell them the identity of the baby’s father but Christ, how could she? He very obviously didn’t want a damn thing to do with her, so why on earth would she want him forced into parenthood? Would she have done it differently if she hadn’t the support, both emotional and financial, from home? Hard to answer that one. But now, knowing she’d never see him again, knowing Toby would never know his dad, and that was on her?
That hurt like bloody hell.
She tilted her head back against the cushion behind her and squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to cry it out, needed to, but nothing would come.
When she’d stood up to take her leave from the di Lucas, she’d been mighty tempted to tell them about Toby, but something stopped her. They’d invited her to afternoon tea at the hotel in a few weeks and she’d said yes, in a rush of sympathy, understanding that they’d like to chat about their son some more, but Caro already had doubts about turning up. It was an avenue that shrieked danger and complications. She couldn’t get to know these people and keep such a massive secret from them – she just couldn’t.
For the first time since discovering she was pregnant with her son, Caro wished desperately that she’d shared her story with someone else, that someone else knew about her and Toni, and she could call them right now and just talk.
But there was no one and that had been her choice. God, she felt the loneliness of that now. More than any other time since she first felt her baby kick, she wished she could share this loss now. The only person she had to discuss this horrible, sad mess with, was Toby – she owed him the truth and it was a conversation long, long overdue. And not one she was relishing on any level.
Roman Holiday Page 9