Guillermo drew a deep breath, trying to dislodge the knot of tension in his gut. "I see. I get it." He raked his hands through his hair.
"I love her, Memmo. I can't live without her. I am nothing without her."
Guillermo nodded.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so ashamed. I don't know how to solve this any other way. Mortgaging the villa was all I had left. We have to let it go, Memmo. Just let it go."
There was an excited knock on the door.
Guillermo raised a hand and stood up. He strode to the door and opened it a few inches, blocking the gap with his body, so that no one would see his brother in this state. It was Andreas Fitucci.
"Signor d' Aldobrandin, scusami. I am sorry to disturb you, but… I have just received a call from Mister Richie."
Guillermo's heart thumped.
"He has made an offer. A most generous offer."
Guillermo realized he and Jacopo had still not discussed the price. "How much?"
Fitucci's answer shocked him.
He stiffened, a sudden fist of ice forming in his centre, almost knocking him over like a sucker punch. He heard Jacopo gasp behind him, and the air in the room went still. "Grazie, Andreas. Leave it with us."
It was so much money it would pay the mortgage and then some. It could not be refused. The villa would be sold to Mad Masta Richie despite Guillermo's opposition and Jacopo's regret.
They had watched Andreas Fitucci scurry from the kitchen, his cell phone gripped in his hand, "Si, Signor Richie–"
Martino wiped his hands on a tea towel, disgusted. "I'm going to the garden." He left through the kitchen door, leaving it ajar, grinding his hat onto his head and bending into his stride.
Marcella tsked, standing to clear the remaining cups and dishes.
Clio realized she was still holding her breath. "What will happen, Marcella?"
Marcella shrugged and wiped the table in broad, practiced circles. She walked to the sink, rinsed and wrung the cloth, hung it up. "What I have seen many times, is that they will talk, then they will disagree, then Guillermo will get worked up, and then…" She shrugged.
"He'll leave. He'll run away again." Of course. I wonder if he'll leave me stranded here?
Marcella nodded, a wry expression on her old face.
Several minutes passed during which Clio realized they were listening. For what? The slamming of a door? The sound of feet crunching on gravel? The roar of an engine from the drive?
What is he running away from?
Instead the peaceful sounds of the Tuscan countryside drifted in. Songbirds chittering and grasshoppers clicking. The fountain trickling in the grotto below the terraces. The faint distant rumble of a farm vehicle.
They waited.
Marcella finally shrugged.
"What did you mean? When you said to Guillermo, 'You always were the one with sense, the… the fixer.'?"
Marcella rubbed her chin and perched back onto the chair opposite Clio. "This family." She thought a moment. "I knew their parents, si. And their grandparents, too. You know about Le Conte?"
"Guillermo's nonno?"
"Si. Le Conte was still running the estate when I came here, still the patriarch, until his stroke." She closed her eyes and shook her head back and forth sadly. "A big stroke. No warning. And that was the end of him. He was never the same after that. Very quickly he moved to the home. That… oh, well, that seemed to steal the hope from them all."
"Why?"
"They have been struggling with money for so long. Several generations back. Long, long ago, there were some successful businessmen in the family. But not lately. Some, like Guillermo's nonno, were the romantics. They held out hope. Others, like his father, and Jacopo, were the other sort. Determined, but slow witted, rigoroso, unimaginative, conservative and pessimistic. All of them failed to make significant changes. All of them passed up on opportunities that might have made a difference, and passed the troubles on to the next generation."
"I'm no business person, but, but there must have been something–things– they could do. What did they spend time on?"
"Politics," she spat. "I believe it all went wrong when they got involved in politics. Bene, they were good enough at that. They are intelligent men, democratic and fair, and they were popular. But if you cannot keep your personal affairs running smoothly, what business do you have running the country, eh?"
"And how does Guillermo fit in? Or doesn't he?"
A wry smile twisted Marcella's lips. "He's different, si?"
"So I'm learning."
"When the others were preoccupied with their education, or their careers, Memmo was living. He spent more time here than Jacopo, growing up. He was always outside, doing something." Marcella gestured out the open door. "Exploring, working on a project, helping Martino. He knows this place better than anyone. No one was surprised when he became an architect. He had a way of… of understanding how things were made, how they were put together, and how to fix them. Common sense, si?"
Clio nodded.
"His common sense stretched into other areas of life. If there was a crisis, Memmo would step in and somehow, almost effortlessly, solve it. Money, health, broken machines, the villa repairs, a car that wouldn't start, his sisters' wardrobe crisis, a boyfriend problem, broken hearts. Memmo was there. And he always knew what to do."
"I'm confused. It seems to me he's rather averse to responsibilities. Isn't that why he's always… running?"
Marcella nodded. "Maybe. But he has a way of always stepping up. Well, until the old man's stroke, he did. Memmo worshipped him. He took it hard. Then is seemed like overnight, Gemma was gone, cancer, and then Gabriel soon after– he never recovered from her death. He doted on her. Everyone did."
"But Guillermo seems so selfish, so superficial, so reckless. So determined to look out only for himself."
"Determined, yes. He won't let himself care too much. He's afraid, Clio. He sees his family falling down around him. He sees a connection between this villa, the title, the burden of responsibility– and how it has sucked the life from them all, even Jacopo, young as he is. Memmo is so full of life. I think he is a little bit like a wild animal, or a bird. You cannot tie him down or a little bit of him dies. He needs to be free."
Clio did see. And yet she also saw that Guillermo did care. More than he was willing to admit, even to himself. What would happen to him and his family now? How could Clio walk away without trying to help?
"You love him very much, don't you?"
Marcella's eyes met hers, sad but also shining with love. "Si. Memmo is my boy, my favorite boy, just as he was Gemma's favorite. He is so full of life and love and passion. Martino and I… we could not have our own children, and so… Memmo is the child of my heart."
Come,” Guillermo took her hand and led her to the kitchen door, a bottle of wine under his arm and two glasses in his other hand.
She looked over her shoulder at Marcella, whose expression said she was just as gobsmacked that he had strolled calmly into the kitchen a few moments earlier. What happened to the hasty getaway?
"Where is Jacopo?" Marcella asked.
"He decided to head back to town right away. He and Andreas have some papers to go over, and he has dinner plans with Valentina tonight."
The two women exchanged another look. What had happened?
"Where are we going?" Clio asked.
"I never got a chance to show you the gardens."
"Oh. Ok-ay. Um. Should I bring my camera?"
"No. You can go back in the morning if you want to photograph." He paused in the doorway. "What have you got planned for dinner, Marcella?"
In the morning? "What about returning to Firenze?"
"Shh, Bella." He squeezed her hand tightly, and she frowned.
"Mm. I have a filetto di maiale, pork tenderloin. Some early peas, spinach and carrots…"
He thought a moment, his eyes unfocussed while he searched his imagination. "Filletto in latte e risotto primavera?"
"Don't start until we return. I am cooking tonight. Find Bibi and tell her, too. Oh, and chill a couple bottles of Bianco delle Regine for dinner, per favore?" He led Clio out the door and along the path.
She kept her tone light, concealing her frustration. "Are you celebrating something?"
"Maybe."
Clio couldn't ask what had happened. It was none of her business, if he didn't want to tell her. Whatever it was, he seemed… elated. Not upset. Certainly he hadn't run away as he had from Pia's, and she had that to be thankful for. He seemed happy, but there was a kind of brittle determination about the way he was happy that made her worry. This wasn't over yet.
He led her down the stairs to the al fresco dining area they had passed when they first arrived, but this time he took a left under the huge chestnut tree and released her hand to go down a narrower staircase to the level below. The sound of trickling water grew louder as they descended through the robust shimmering oleanders and stubby, twisted olive trees that flanked the slope.
When the foliage opened out, she at last saw the secret grotto she had caught a glimpse of from her bedroom window. It was almost Moorish in design. A huge, rather shallow rectangular pond with a wide stone border. In the center rose a trio of figures, three lithe female figures clustered together, their arms entwined.
"Who–?"
"Who do you think, Clio?"
"Um… nymphs?"
He laughed out loud. "Come on. You can do better."
Clio grimaced. "They aren't muses."
"You have a problem with that?"
She groaned. "Which ones?"
"Calliope, the eldest." He pointed, and at once she recognized her writing tablet. "Terpsichore." Holding a lyre, of course. "And…"
"Clio." The third figure held a book. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged. "I am showing you."
"Why these three?"
"Who knows? There are so many choices, but these are the three that my ancestor chose. Personally I like these three. Epic poetry, song and dance, and history." He shrugged.
"One beautiful, one vivacious, and one seriously dull."
He looked confused.
She looked at him. "History is the dull sister to the arts."
His face darkened, and for a moment he seemed almost angry. "There is nothing dull about history. Why would there be a muse of history if it were boring?"
She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms tightly over her chest and moved around the perimeter of the square fountain. How could she explain? She'd always felt that way. The arts held so much potential, so much emotion and sensation, and the muses seemed to encapsulate all that creativity and beauty and pleasure. What was Clio, the muse of history, doing there at all? "Well, she is dull. I don't think she belongs."
He paused, eyeing her, a quizzical expression on his face when she glanced back to see why he was so quiet. "Seriously?"
She shrugged.
"Why do you study history, then?"
"My parents believe it is more worthy. Thus my name." She made a small bow, and he would have laughed, but she seemed so sad and pitiful. "But I choose to study the history of the arts. My more glamorous sisters."
"You mean…you are trying to compensate for… what? You are trying to absorb the other muses into yourself because you feel… somehow inferior?"
Clio felt a flood of heat wash over her. She pushed both hands down to her sides in protest. "Why do you have to say it out loud? It's horrible."
Guillermo's laughter jarred her. She shot him a look. How can you judge me? She felt so small. So insignificant. He sighed. "Clio, Clio. Why don't you do what you want to do? Would you rather be an artist than a scholar?"
She shrugged. "I love the arts. I love painting, sculpture, architecture, music, dance, poetry…"
"Everything but what you are."
"What am I?"
He shot her a sardonic look. "Like all the muses, formidable when crossed." He smiled, a broad knowing smile that bore no resemblance to the rakish, flirtatious, cocky smiles she was becoming used to. He lifted a hand to push back strands of her hair that had escaped their ties, the pad of his thumb grazing her temple, lifting a shiver that raced down to her shoulder blades and arms. "Where would we be without history, cara? She already includes all the others. They are her servants. Without history, we would have had no Renaissance at all."
She met his gaze, for a moment so lost in the sublime sensation of his touch, she'd thought he'd said something altogether different. "You are strange." A man who could talk intelligently of history, psychology, art and still make her feel desirable all in the space of a few minutes, was a man to whom she could lose her heart.
"Do you believe in destiny, Clio?"
What a question. She strolled past the big fountain to the long narrow trough of water along the wall. There was a series of shallow niches, each with a statue. Nymphs, gods and cherubs, as though they'd been added over time at the whim of various owners.
"I don't know. Why?"
"I think… I believe that you, Clio, were brought to me for a reason."
If her heart were a dove, trapped in the cage of her ribs, it had just flapped its wings violently. "Oh? Why? So I could watch the destruction of your family's history?"
He walked away from her, dragged his palm over a stone figure, suddenly sobered. "That was harsh."
Clio grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her face with her hands for a moment. Oh, wretched harridan. She didn't mean to hurt him. It's not his fault. Why blame him for his predicament, or punish him for her own fears? Her voice came out in a whisper, slightly tremulous. "I'm sorry, Guillermo. I didn't mean…"
Guillermo turned and strode toward her. He could feel her tension, and that was not what he wanted. He had wanted to entertain and to woo her. He wanted her to help him take his mind off of the atrocities of the day. She was too tense. This was going in the wrong way. He gave himself a shake, letting the worry go. "It's fine, Bella."
"It's only that I'm so frustrated. What happened in there? What's going on? I know I have no right to ask, but you…" She fluttered a hand at him. "You are so enigmatic. One moment I think you care deeply, the next…"
He raised a hand and gently pushed back a tendril of fiery red hair from her forehead, letting his fingers slide down to caress her smooth pale cheek. He wanted to kiss her there, on that translucent skin. Her blue-green eyes flashed in recognition of the spark of heat, the attraction that flowed between then. He also saw something else, fear. Go slow, Memmo. Go slow.
She was so exquisite. He could not remember being so enamored, so hypnotized by a woman. And there had been many, many women, but none before that seemed to keep him so tightly wound, so fascinated and feeling so helpless. What does it mean? "Of course, I care, Clio." He let his voice drop a register, to a quiet, intimate timbre that he knew from experience resonated with a woman's organs. Come to me, Bella. His hand dropped lower, tracing the lovely white line of her neck, the delicate bones of her shoulder. Her lips, wide and rosy, quivered in recognition of his touch. Her breath faltered. The moment for another kiss had come, at last. He dipped his head–
She drew in a sharp breath.
"You can't surrender, Guillermo."
He straightened, clenching his teeth. This woman would be the death of him.
"You don't know how valuable this is," she said. "It's not only the historic value, the importance of preservation, the art, books in the library, historical documents, everything intact, unchanged, the educational value." She paced away. "It's also the personal value. Your family heritage, your personal memories. Do you not realize how unique, how special and how priceless that is? Not everyone has that blessing. You can't let that go." She pounded at her chest with a tight fist, and he resisted the urge to smile at her earnest and fiery zeal lest she take offense.
He sucked on his teeth, pondering. "You have seen it is beyond my control, Clio
. No matter what I might want, I cannot have it. Do you believe we can have whatever we want in life?"
"No, of course not. But you can't lie down and… and…"
"Surrender without a fight?" He sighed. Perhaps if he surrendered to her, she would exhaust herself to the hopeless cause of his family estate, and then she would fall into his arms. "Tell me, cara. What would you have me do?"
She hesitated. "Really? You want to know?"
He took her hand and led her out of the grotto, past the clipped boxwood hedges of the formal gardens. It felt so normal, so right, to have her hand in his, and to walk by her side, he wondered how he had ever managed without her. "Yes. I want to know. I can tell you've been giving it some thought."
"I have. Since I met you, I've been racking my brain. I would need to investigate, but… but I'd be willing to do that. I could offer a bit of my time to help. I know a lot of people, in the universities, in the various non-profit agencies, and in government."
Now that she was thinking about him and not herself, she was quite altered–bold, beautiful, intelligent. What was it about her own life that made her seem so caged? He wanted to shake those feelings out of her.
He was swamped with a powerful urge to kiss and hold her, to make her his own, to repair whatever damage she had experienced that made her feel small and unworthy.
Since when did he care so much about the well-being of a woman that wasn't one of his sisters? One he'd only just met?
Guillermo said nothing, merely caressing the palm of her hand with his thumb in slow circles, accidentally-on-purpose brushing her shoulder with his as they strolled along the pea gravel paths past the potted herbs and shrubs. He could not pull her into his arms and crush her to him with the passionate kiss that he burned for. But he allowed himself to breath in her scent, to revel in the feel of her nearness, and to let his blood sing with unquenched desire. There was something to be said for anticipation. He knew how to slow down and enjoy the anticipation.
Though he was not accustomed to waiting for the surrender of a woman. Usually they fell into his arms most willingly. But Clio left him feeling as though the wait, the effort, would be well worth it. The pleasure they would bring each other would surpass all those other cheap encounters.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 13