He lit it, flicked the match over the side of the bridge, and watched the boys come closer. They disappointed him by exchanging uneasy glances and passing on.
He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and told himself to forget about last night. But he couldn’t quite manage it. The woman’s light brown eyes had shone with intelligence, and all that buttoned-up sophistication had excited him, which was probably why he’d neglected to pick up on the fact that she was a wacko. At the end he’d gotten this gut-churning feeling that he was somehow attacking her. He might rape women on the silver screen, but in real life that was one outrage even he couldn’t imagine.
He left the bridge behind and wandered along an empty street, taking his foul mood with him, even though he should be on top of the world. Everything he’d worked toward was about to happen. The Howard Jenks film would give him the credibility that had eluded him. Although he had more than enough money to live the rest of his life without working, he loved the whole business of making films, and this was the role he’d been waiting for, a villain who would be every bit as memorable to audiences as Hannibal Lecter. Still, he had those six weeks to get through before Night Kill started filming, and the city felt claustrophobic around him.
Karli . . . The woman last night . . . The sense that nothing he’d achieved meant anything . . . God, he was sick of being depressed. He tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and kept walking. James-fucking-Dean on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
The hell with it. Tomorrow he was leaving Florence and heading for the place that had drawn him here.
5
Isabel turned over in bed. Her travel clock said nine-thirty, so it should be morning, but the room was dark and gloomy. Disoriented, she gazed toward the windows and saw that the shutters were closed.
She rolled to her back and studied the combination of flat red roof tiles and rough wooden beams above her head. Outside she heard something that might have been the distant rumble of a tractor. That was all. No reassuring clank of garbage trucks or musical shouts of taxi drivers cursing each other in Third World languages. She was in Italy, sleeping in a room that looked as if its last occupant had been a martyred saint.
She tilted her head far enough back to see the crucifix hanging on the stucco wall behind her. The tears she hated started leaking out. Tears of loss for the life she’d lived, the man she’d thought she loved. Why hadn’t she been smart enough, worked hard enough, been lucky enough to hold on to what she’d had? Even worse, why had she defiled herself with an Italian gigolo who looked like a psychopathic movie star? She tried to fight the tears with a morning prayer, but Mother God had turned a deaf ear to her delinquent daughter.
The temptation to pull the covers over her head and never get up was so strong that it frightened her into dropping her legs over the side of the bed. Cold tile met the soles of her feet. She made her way across the dreary room into a narrow hallway with a utilitarian bathroom at one end. Although small, it had been modernized, so maybe this place wasn’t quite the ruin she’d imagined it to be.
She bathed, wrapped herself in a towel, and returned to her martyred saint’s cell, where she slipped into a pair of gray slacks and matching sleeveless top. Then she walked over to the window, unlocked the shutters, and pushed them back.
A shower of lemony light drenched her. It streamed through the window as if it had been poured from a bucket, the rays so intense she had to close her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she saw the rolling hills of Tuscany lying before her.
“Oh, my . . .” She rested her arms on the stone ledge and took in the mosaic of buff, honey, and pewter-colored fields, broken here and there by rows of cypress, like pointed fingers against the sky. There were no fences. The boundaries between the harvested wheat fields, the groves of trees, and the vineyards were formed by a road here, a valley there, a simple curve of land somewhere else.
She was gazing out over Bethlehem. This was the Holy Land of the Renaissance artists. They’d painted the landscape they knew as the background for their Madonnas, angels, mangers, and shepherds. The Holy Land . . . right outside her window.
She took in the distant view, then studied the land closer to the house. A terraced vineyard extended off to the left, while a grove of gnarled olive trees grew beyond the garden. She wanted to see more, and she turned away from the window, then stopped as she saw how the light had changed the character of the room. Now the whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams were beautiful in their sparseness, and the simple furniture spoke more eloquently of the past than a volume of history books. This wasn’t a ruin at all.
She moved into the hallway and down the stone steps to the ground floor. The living room, which she’d barely glanced at the night before, had the rough walls and vaulted brick ceiling of an old European stable, something it had probably once been, since she seemed to recall reading that the tenants of Tuscan farmhouses had lived above their animals. The space had been beautifully converted into a small, comfortable living area without losing its rustic authenticity.
Stone arches wide enough for farm animals to pass through now served as windows and doors. The rustic sepia wash on the walls was the real version of the faux treatment New York’s finest interior painters charged thousands to reproduce in uptown co-ops. The old terra-cotta floor had been waxed, polished, and smoothed by a century or more of wear. Simple dark-wooden tables and a chest sat along the wall. A chair with a muted floral print rested across from a couch covered in earth-toned fabric.
The shutters that had been closed last night when she’d arrived were now thrown open. Curious to see who had done it, she passed through a stone arch into a large, sunny kitchen.
The room held a long, rectangular farm table nicked and scarred by a few centuries of use. Red, blue, and yellow ceramic tiles formed a narrow backsplash over a rustic stone sink. Below, a blue-and-white-checked skirt hid the plumbing. Open shelves displayed an assortment of colorful pottery, baskets, and copper utensils. There was an old-fashioned propane stove and a set of wooden cupboards. The rough French doors that opened to the garden had been painted bottle green. This was everything she’d imagined an Italian country kitchen to be.
The door opened, and a woman in her sixties walked in. She had a dumpling figure, doughy cheeks, dyed black hair, and small dark eyes. Isabel quickly demonstrated her crackerjack mastery of the Italian language.
“Buon giorno.”
Although the Tuscan people were known for their friendliness, the woman didn’t look friendly. A gardening glove hung from the pocket of the faded black dress she wore with heavy nylon stockings and black plastic mules. Without a word, she removed a ball of string from the cupboard and went back outside.
Isabel followed her into the garden, then stopped to absorb the view of the farmhouse from the back. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Rest. Solitude. Contemplation. Action. There could be no better place for it.
The old stones of the house glowed a creamy beige in the sharp morning light. Vines clung to the mortar and curled near the tall green shutters at the windows. Ivy climbed a drain spout. A small dovecote perched on the roof, and silver lichen softened the rounded terra-cotta tiles.
The main part of the structure was built in a simple, unadorned rectangle, the typical style of the fattoria, or Italian farmhouse, that she’d read about. A one-story room bumped haphazardly off the end, probably a later addition.
Even the dour presence of the woman digging with her trowel didn’t detract from the shady enchantment of the garden, and the knots inside Isabel began to loosen. A low wall built of the same golden stones as the house marked the far perimeter, with the olive grove sloping away beyond it, and the vista Isabel had seen from her bedroom window behind that. A wooden table with an old marble top sat in the shade of a magnolia tree, a perfect place for a lazy meal or for simply contemplating the view. But that wasn’t the only refuge the garden offered. Nearer the ho
use, a wisteria-covered pergola sheltered a pair of benches where Isabel could envision herself curled up with pen and paper.
Gravel paths meandered through the garden’s flowers, vegetables, and herbs. Glossy basil plants, snowy white impatiens, tomato vines, and cheery roses grew near clay pots overflowing with red and pink geraniums. Bright orange nasturtiums formed a perfect partnership with the delicate blue flowers of a rosemary shrub, and silvery sage leaves made a cool backdrop to a cluster of red pepper plants. In Tuscan fashion, lemon trees grew in two large terra-cotta urns sitting on each side of the kitchen door, while another set of urns held hydrangea bushes heavy with fat pink blooms.
Isabel gazed from the flowers to the bench beneath the pergola, to the table under the magnolia where a pair of cats lounged. As she breathed in the warm scent of earth and plants, the sound of Michael’s voice in her head grew silent, and a simple prayer began to take shape in her heart.
The woman’s dark mutter broke the peaceful mood, and the prayer drifted away. Still, Isabel felt a glimmer of hope. God had offered her the Holy Land. Only a fool would turn her back on a gift like that.
She drove into town with a much lighter heart. Finally something had happened to ease her despair. She stocked up on food at a small negozio di alimentari. When she returned, she found the woman in the black dress working in the kitchen, washing up some dishes Isabel hadn’t left there. The woman shot her an unfriendly look and went out the back door—a serpent in the Garden of Eden. Isabel sighed and unpacked her groceries, arranging everything neatly in the cupboard and tiny refrigerator.
“Signora? Permesso?”
She turned to see a pretty young woman in her late twenties with sunglasses perched on top of her head standing in the arch between the kitchen and the dining area. She was petite, and her clear olive skin made an unusual contrast with her fair hair. She wore a peach blouse, a slim, biscuit-colored skirt, and the killer shoes favored by Italian women. The beautifully curved heels tapped on the old tiles as she approached. “Buon giorno, Signora Favor, I am Giulia Chiara.”
As Isabel nodded in response, she wondered if everyone in Tuscany walked into strangers’ homes unannounced.
“I am the agente immobiliare.” She hesitated, searching for the English words. “The real-estate agent for this house.”
“I’m glad to meet you. I like the house very much.”
“Oh, but no . . . is not a good house.” Her hands flew. “I tried to telephone you many times last week, but I could not find you.”
That was because Isabel had disconnected her phone. “Is there a problem?”
“Si. A problem.” The young woman licked her lips and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a small pearl stud in her lobe. “I’m very sorry to tell you, but you cannot stay here.” Her hands moved in the graceful gestures Italians employed for even the simplest of conversations. “Is not possible. This is why I try to call you. To explain this problem and tell you I have another place for you to stay. If you’ll come with me, I will show you.”
Yesterday Isabel wouldn’t have cared about leaving, but now she cared very much. This simple stone house with its peaceful garden held the possibility of meditation and restoration. She wasn’t giving that up. “Tell me what the problem is.”
“There is . . .” A small arc with her hand. “Work needs to be done. Is not possible for anyone to be here.”
“What kind of work?”
“Much work. We must dig. There is problems with the sewer.”
“I’m sure we can work around it.”
“No, no. Impossibile.”
“Signora Chiara, I’ve paid two months’ rent, and I intend to stay.”
“But you would not like it. And Signora Vesto would be most upset to have you unhappy.”
“Signora Vesto?”
“Anna Vesto. She would be very displeased if you were uncomfortable. I have found you a nice house in town, yes? You will enjoy it very much.”
“I don’t want a house in town. I want this one.”
“I’m so sorry. Is not possible.”
“Is that Signora Vesto?” Isabel pointed toward the garden.
“No, that is Marta. Signora Vesto is at the villa.” She made a small gesture toward the top of the hill.
“Is Marta the housekeeper here?”
“No, no. Is no housekeeper here, but in town there is very good housekeepers.”
Isabel ignored that. “Is she the gardener?”
“No, Marta keeps the garden, but is not the gardener. There is no gardener. In town is possible for you to have a gardener.”
“Then what does she do here?”
“Marta lives here.”
“I understood I’d have the house to myself.”
“No, you would not be alone here.” She walked to the kitchen door and pointed at the one-story addition at the back of the house. “Marta lives there. Very close.”
“But I’d be alone in the middle of all those people in town?” Isabel said, taking a wild guess.
“Si!” Giulia beamed, her smile so charming Isabel hated to put a damper on it.
“I think it would be best if I spoke with Signora Vesto. Is she at the villa now?”
Giulia looked relieved to pass the ball. “Si, si, that would be best. She will explain to you why you cannot stay, and I will come back to take you to the house I have found for you in town.”
Isabel took pity on her and didn’t argue. She’d save that for
Signora Anna Vesto.
She followed the path up from the farmhouse to a long, cypress-lined drive. The Villa dei Angeli sat at the end, and as Isabel caught sight of it, she felt as if she’d been transported into the film version of A Room with a View.
Its salmon-pink stucco exterior, as well as the wings that sprouted here and there, were characteristic of grand Tuscan homes. Lacy black grillwork covered the ground-floor windows, while the long shutters on the upper floor had already been closed against the heat of the day. Nearer the house, the cypress gave way to the rigid formality of clipped box hedges, classical statues, and an octagonal fountain. A double set of stone staircases with massive balustrades led to a pair of polished wooden doors.
Isabel climbed the stairs, then lifted a lion’s-head brass knocker. While she waited, she gazed down at a dusty black Maserati convertible parked near the fountain. Signora Vesto had expensive tastes.
No one answered, and she knocked again.
A voluptuous middle-aged woman with discreetly colored red hair and tilted Sophia Loren eyes gave Isabel a friendly smile. “Si?”
“Buon giorno, signora. I’m Isabel Favor. I’m looking for Signora Vesto.”
The woman’s smile faded. “I’m Signora Vesto.” Her plain navy dress and sensible shoes made her more likely to be the housekeeper than the person who owned the Maserati.
“I rented the farmhouse,” Isabel said, “but there seems to be a problem.”
“No problem,” Signora Vesto replied briskly. “Giulia has found you a house in town. She will see to everything.”
She kept her hand on the door, clearly wanting to hurry Isabel away. Behind her a set of large, obviously expensive suitcases sat in the entrance hall. Isabel was willing to bet that the villa’s owners had either just arrived or were about to leave.
“I signed a rental agreement,” she said, speaking pleasantly but firmly. “I’m staying.”
“No, signora, you will have to move. Someone will come this afternoon to help you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I’m very sorry, signora, but there is nothing I can do.”
Isabel realized that it was time to get to the top of the chain of command. “I’d like to speak with the owner.”
“The owner is not here.”
“What about those suitcases?”
She looked uneasy. “You must leave now, signora.”
The Four Cornerstones were made for moments like this. “Behave politely, but decisively.” �
��I’m afraid I can’t leave until I speak with the owner.” Isabel pushed her way into the entrance hall and received a brief impression of high ceilings, a gilt and bronze chandelier, and a grand staircase before the woman jumped in front of her.
“Ferma! You can’t come in here!”
“People who try to hide behind their authority do so out of fear, and they need our compassion. At the same time, we can’t let their fears become our own.”
“I’m sorry to upset you, signora,” she said as compassionately as she could, “but I must speak with the owner.”
“Who told you he was here? No one is to know this.”
The owner was a man then. “I won’t say anything.”
“You must go at once.”
Isabel heard Italian rock and roll coming from the back of the house. She headed toward an ornately carved archway with green and red marble inlays.
“Signora!”
Isabel was tired of people messing with her—a crooked accountant, a faithless fiancé, a disloyal publisher, and her fair-weather fans. She’d lived in airports for those fans, taken the podium through a bout of pneumonia for them. She’d held their hands when their kids did drugs, curled her arms around them while they struggled with depression, and prayed for them through desperate illnesses. But the minute a few dark clouds had shown up in her own life, they’d run like rabbits.
She charged through the house, down a narrow gallery where ancestral portraits in heavy frames juggled for space with baroque landscapes, across an elegant reception room wallpapered in brown and gold stripes. She whipped by grim frescoes of hunting scenes and grimmer portraits of martyred saints. Her sandals left scorch marks on the marble floors and singes in the fringes of the kilim rugs. A Roman bust trembled on its pedestal as she rushed by. Enough is enough!
She came to a halt inside a less formal salon at the back of the house. The polished chestnut floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and the frescoes showed harvest scenes instead of boar hunts. Italian rock music accompanied the shafts of sunlight spilling in through long open windows.
Breathing Room Page 5