by Melissa Hill
But Camilla simply waved a hand. “It’s practically a new unit. Besides the air conditioning—it’s no big thing. Not with scenery around us like this.” She motioned to the window, as if the view of Mt. Vesuvius would make up for the fact that the greater Naples area was suddenly having one of the hottest Junes on record—and that the house felt every bit the oven that it was.
Maia smiled knowingly, certain that most tourists valued air conditioning above all things. “I suppose we will just have to deal with it. But I feel it’s rather a cruel joke.”
Camilla looked at her friend, puzzled. “So the visitors will find it funny?” she asked. “Well, that’s good.” Clearly she didn’t hear Maia’s implied sarcasm.
But before Maia could explain her intent, she heard a car pull up outside, its wheels grinding against the gravel of the drive before it came to a stop.
“Oh that must be Giorgio—thank goodness,” said Maia, finalising laying out a set of bath towels in the room and smoothing back her hair. “Hopefully he can make this place a few degrees cooler—this is what it must feel like inside Mt. Vesuvius.”
She left the room as Camilla called out. “How silly you are—the volcano, it’s not active you know.”
Shaking her head, Maia stifled a laugh. No, her friend definitely didn’t get irony.
Going through the kitchen and to the exterior door with purpose, Maia readied herself to call a greeting to Giorgio when she was suddenly met with a car that she had never seen before and a person who she didn’t know, getting out of it.
Oh blast it, a guest—and they’re early!
Since receiving her first booking last week, Maia had been shocked to find herself with subsequent reservations - enough for a soon-to-be full house. Indeed it felt as if by the time one reservation had come in, she just as quickly had three—a booking for each guest room—and she made the quick decision to ensure that the website was updated with the announcement that they were fully booked for the time being.
Nothing like jumping in feet first, she had pondered. What she’d first thought was a sign from Jim that she was doing the right thing had quickly morphed into her wondering if he was playing some sort of practical joke on her from the ether.
That would be just Jim’s style.
Putting a smile on her face, she opened the door and stepped into the Italian sunshine just as the young man who was apparently her first guest closed the door of his Mercedes, an obvious rental by the sticker in its window, and opened the boot to extract his bag.
Quickly thinking back through the reservations she had received, Maia realised that this must be Jacob Bellafonte. The New Yorker. He had been due to arrive today, but not until the evening.
“Buongiorno!” she called out. “Benvenuto!” Good day! Welcome!”
The man looked quickly at the house and at Maia and gave a quick nod.
“Hi there,” he said quickly. “I’m Jacob Bellafonte. You must be Maia.” He crossed the distance between them in five long strides and extended his hand. “Sorry that I’m early. My flight got in ahead of schedule. We must have had a good tailwind from Manhattan. I hope that’s not a problem.”
Maia shook his hand as she noticed his strong New York accent and she wondered what brought him to Italy.
Looking to be in his mid-thirties, he was handsome and dressed in a dark suit, which she immediately recognised as a custom Armani. He had a watch with a large face on his wrist—the diamond inlay showed it was a Movado—and Maia was full sure that the shoes were also Italian—Gucci perhaps? All in all, Jacob looked successful and moneyed—and she immediately wondered why he had opted to stay at her place.
Not that her place wasn’t lovely of course, but she had priced it rather cheaply because it was unfinished, and the man in front of her looked better suited for one of Naples five-star luxury hotels.
“I am. Maia, that is,” she replied with what she hoped was an inviting smile. “And no, it’s not a problem. So lovely to have you with us, Jacob. Is that your only bag? Here let me get that for you.” She briefly remembered the episode of Downton Abbey she had been watching the night before and wondered if Carson, the fictional head butler would approve of her behavior.
But Jacob shook his head. “I can manage. It’s no problem. You’re English then?”
“No but close, Irish. And it’s easy to tell that you’re American. I mean that in a good way, of course,” she grinned. “Please come inside.”
Maia graciously led the way into the kitchen, where they found Camilla, who immediately straightened at the sight of the attractive young man with dark good looks. It was clear that Jacob was definitely Camilla’s type, as much by the woman’s hungry facial expression as the way she immediately stuck out her chest, making sure her impressive assets were introduced first.
Oh good Lord, Maia thought, she’s like a strutting peacock. “Camilla, meet Jacob Bellafonte, our first guest. Jacob this is Camilla di Mariano Filipepi—my er, helper.” Maia could hazard a guess as to exactly what Camilla wanted to help this particular guest with.
“Ciao, siete I benvenuti,” her friend purred batting her eyelashes seductively. Hello, you are most welcome. Maia heard the inflection of her words.
Jacob turned and looked at Maia. “Is it okay if we speak English? I mean, I hate to be that guy but…”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Yes that’s fine, my English is wonderful too,” smiled Camilla.
Jacob gave a weak grimace and shifted from one foot to the other, “I mean it’s not like I don’t speak Italian, I was born here,” he added quickly. “But I just prefer not to.”
Maia furrowed her brow. Seemed like a strange thing to visit Italy if you didn’t like to speak Italian – and could. “I’m assuming you are here on business then?” She again looked him up and down—the suit screamed business traveller, but again his choice of lodging contradicted that assumption.
“Not quite,” Jacob shrugged. “It’s family. My father lives here—in Naples. And well, to be frank, he’s dying. So that’s why I am here.” Maia realised at once that his voice lacked both sympathy and empathy.
But Camilla didn’t catch this, as she practically lunged forward—her actions were so dramatic, Maia believed she belonged in a Fellini flick. “Oh no how tragic, I’m so sorry. This must be so difficult for you. Are you close to him, your father?”
A cloud passed over Jacob’s face and he answered simply, “No. Which is why I’m staying here.” He turned to look at Maia. “If you don’t mind, could I be shown to my room? It’s been a long night, getting here, and I would like to get cleaned up.”
Maia rushed forward immediately, mortified that she hadn’t thought to bring him to the room first thing. Clearly she had a lot to learn! “Of course, if you would just follow me this way—we’ll get you all set up. Please forgive the heat our AC unit is on the blink, but it will get taken of shortly.”
Her curiosity piqued by Jacob’s ready dismissal of his family situation, Maia gave Camilla a glare that conveyed caution and quickly changed the topic.
Still she (and indeed Camilla) needed to remember that Villa Azalea was a guesthouse, not a therapy clinic and that her guests’ reasons for being here would likely be varied, but more to the point, absolutely none of her business.
4
“Is he settled in his room?” Camilla inquired as Maia re-entered the kitchen, fresh from making sure that Jacob had all needed amenities.
Wiping her hands nervously on her skirt, Maia shrugged, “I suppose in a manner of speaking—he has a bed to sleep in, fresh bath towels and a roof over his head.”
“But did you hear him? His family lives close by—and his father is dying. Clearly, something isn’t right between them, otherwise, why on earth would he stay here?” Camilla glanced in the direction of Jacob’s room, a forlorn look on her tanned face. “So sad. I can’t imagine not being close to my family, especially my papa. Maybe we should ask him?”
Maia’s ey
es widened. She shook her head. “No, no that’s very forward Camilla. We shouldn’t be that direct with a stranger, regardless that he is staying in this house. Not my business.” Maia then shot a warning glance at her. “Or yours for that matter.”
The young woman shrugged and faced toward the kitchen window. She turned on the tap and began filling a pot with water, apparently in an effort to begin making pasta noodles for whatever lunch she had planned. Instinctively Maia’s stomach grumbled. Camilla was an excellent cook.
“I suppose that is the difference with Italians. We say whatever we are thinking. No holding back. Probably why we have such low blood pressure, too. If we are angry, everyone knows it. Feeling happy, well, all those around us know it too. There are no secrets in my family,” she smiled, “we always say what we are thinking.”
Maia laughed. “Yes, I’d kinda gathered that.” Turning toward a wine rack that she kept on the counter, she grabbed a bottle of Sangiovese. “What do you think? Too early in the day? My nerves are a bit frazzled from welcoming our first guest.”
“It’s never too early in the day to drink in Italy,” scoffed Camilla. “Please, you should know that by now.”
The pair opened the bottle and savored a glass while Camilla cooked. Smells wafted from the stove as finely scented basil and garlic were added to a stewed tomato base. They swirled around Maia’s head, and she had a brief flashback of sitting there at the kitchen table, while Jim filled Camilla’s role—cooking succulent Italian dishes, just for the two of them. She had a sudden pang of longing, spurring her to finish her glass of wine and pour another.
“Life’s too short,” sighed Maia. She was speaking to herself more than anything, but Camilla answered.
“For what?” she asked, turning briefly from the stove. “Fighting with your family?”
Maia gave a meek shrug. “Yes. That. And other things, too.”
Thankfully, her melancholy was broken by the fact that Camilla was finished cooking lunch and her attention was turned to the plate of delicious looking pasta that was placed in front of her.
“Oh Camilla, you have outdone yourself, once again, I hope you know that I would be twenty pounds lighter if it weren’t for you.”
Camilla smiled happily. “Food is the flavor of life. Now you stay put. I will go ask our guest if he wants to join us.”
Happy to do as she was told, Maia dug in, working her hardest to think happy thoughts instead of the mournful bouts that sometimes entered her subconscious. She couldn’t deny that she missed Jim—horribly so—but she also knew that she had a life to live, and that Jim would not be pleased if she wrapped herself and her brain in a constant state of widow’s weeds, dwelling only on the life that she had before everything changed.
Jim would always want her to live.
Feeling contentment overcome her now, she took another sip of wine as Camilla reentered the kitchen, this time with a somewhat dour look on her face. Immediately, Maia knew what had happened.
“Let me guess,” she smirked, “he’s not hungry.”
Camilla sat down across the table from her with a definitive clatter. “Who is not hungry in Italy?” It was less of a question that an accusation, Maia thought. “Di tutte le cose stupide…” her friend muttered.
“Now now, it’s not stupid. He’s just not hungry. Let the guy get settled in before you try seducing him with your food.”
Camilla narrowed her eyes at Maia. “Fine. When he is hungry, I will just make him a new dish. He cannot escape me for long.”
Maia giggled. She had the immediate mental picture of Camilla standing over a cauldron, brewing a love potion that came in the form of fresh pasta and large amounts of Italian vino. However, the picture was interrupted by the sound of a small voice echoing from the doorway beyond where they sat.
“Um, excuse me. Perdonatemi?” Pardon me. “I’m wondering if I am in the right place?” said a properly accented British voice.
Startled, Camilla and Maia both turned to the door to find a young woman in her mid-twenties, standing in the entryway. She had her blonde hair pulled back into a severe chignon and a pair of dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, even though she was now practically indoors. She wore a pink sundress and gold sandals and would have looked perfectly at home as a tourist in the brilliant Italian landscape, but lines of worry that etched her forehead and around her mouth gave her away.
Tension radiated from her body and Maia immediately felt the slight buzz she had been experiencing from the wine she had been drinking evaporate.
“It depends on where you are supposed to be,” she smiled kindly, getting up from the table. “I’m Maia Connolly. And this is Camilla. And you are?”
“Amelia Crawley. I made a reservation for this guesthouse online. Just two days ago. This is a guesthouse, Villa Azalea?”
Maia nodded. “You’re in the right place. And yes, we were expecting you Amelia. Did you find the place okay?”
Amelia stole a glance around the kitchen, as if trying to determine if her choice of lodging had been a wise one. Her face practically screamed the words, “Stranger danger.”
“Yes, it was fine. I was glad you had rooms open. My trip was a bit last minute. Everything in the area was booked … well except one place, and I didn’t want to stay there because … just, because.”
Maia and Camilla exchanged a glance, immediately wondering what Amelia meant. After Jacob’s introduction, they suddenly felt on high alert about the hidden messages in their guests’ words.
“So are you in Sorrento on holiday?”
Amelia shook her head sadly. “Definitely not a holiday. My … um friend, is getting married. On Saturday. I just decided to come at the last minute.”
“How nice,” Camilla crooned. “Weddings are so lovely. Especially in this area and at this time of year. What a wonderful time you will have.”
Shrugging, Amelia offered a meek smile. The young woman once again looked around the kitchen, her eyes finally settling on the half-eaten meal that her hosts had obviously just been sharing. “Oh I apologise, I seem to have interrupted your lunch.”
But Maia jumped forward. “No, of course not. You didn’t interrupt. And really, would you like to join us? We have plenty of food and Camilla is an excellent cook. Please sit down, relax, have a glass of wine.”
Amelia shifted from one foot to the next and she looked poised to decline the invitation, but then her stomach gave her away. A tiny but polite grumble was heard and she blushed. “It has been a long morning. I hate airplane food, and Gatwick is such a nightmare… All right then.”
Quickly fetching another pasta bowl and wine glass, Maia made a home for Amelia at the table. Once seated, the slight-looking English girl had no trouble tucking into her dish of pasta. “This is really wonderful. Thank you.”
Camilla beamed with pleasure. There was no quicker way to win her over than by complimenting her cooking.
“So where is the wedding?” Maia asked with a smile, eager to engage their new guest.
But Amelia kept her head down, focused on her dish. Finally she spoke. “Um, down the coast somewhere. I’d have to look at the details on the invite,” she offered vaguely
“Your friends must be so happy that you made the journey here—to come to their wedding. Have you and the bride been friends for a long time?” Camilla pressed.
Suddenly, Amelia looked up and met Camilla’s eyes directly. “No, I’m not friends with the bride.”
Which Maia surmised meant that she was friends with the groom. Opening her mouth to inquire more, she all of a sudden noticed the stony look on Amelia’s young face—there was pain there that was far more advanced than her years and Maia felt at a loss for words and what to say next.
Closing her mouth and reaching out to grab her wine glass, she caught the look of relief that washed across Amelia’s face—as if she was pleased that the questions had ended.
Taking a sip of the fragrant liquid, Maia pondered all that occurred that morning.
It seemed that they had more than one mysterious houseguest on their hands.
5
Later that afternoon, Maia and Camilla sat outside fanning themselves, hoping to catch a breeze as it lifted off the Bay. They were each trying desperately to avoid the hotbox that the inside of the house had become without air conditioning when Giorgio, the handyman neighbour pulled up in his battered utility truck.
“Oh thank the Lord,” Maia exclaimed, casting a quick glance at the house. “I love Giorgio but sometimes he moves as slow as molasses in January.”
Camilla furrowed her brow as she attempted to understand the colloquialism. “Molasses in…”
“Never mind,” she smiled, not wanting to go into the nuances with her Italian friend. “It’s just great that he’s here, and before the last guests arrive too. I just don’t understand how Amelia has been able to put up with the heat inside all afternoon.”
After lunch, Amelia had retired to her room—commenting that she was going to have a nap. Jacob the New Yorker, on the other hand had emerged from his room as Camilla and Maia cleaned up after lunch. He took a quick look around and having successfully evaded Camilla’s attempts to cook him a meal, mumbled something about the hospital in Naples before getting into his car and driving off.
Maia felt the mystery of her guests thicken with every interaction, while Camilla simply mourned the lost opportunity of wooing Jacob with her culinary skills. Returning her attention to the matter of the air conditioning and Giorgio, who was gathering a variety of tools from his truck, Maia muttered, “I just hope this isn’t expensive.”
She was weary of writing cheques and paying bills—she needed just a brief respite from the stress—and to make a bit of progress in paying back her investment.
“Ciao!” Giorgio called as he walked up the path to the house. “Ho sentito dire che è un po ‘una calda nella vostra casa.” I hear it’s a bit hot in your house.
That’s the understatement of the year, Maia thought ruefully, casting a glance at Mt. Vesuvius in the distance.