Carpe diem, Arlene, she told herself bracingly. Stop wishing for the moon. Just seize the day and relish every moment!
She thought he’d take her to a neighborhood bistro within walking distance of the hotel. In fact, he took her by hot air balloon to a château in the country. His driver dropped them off next to an open field just south of the city, and before she could catch her breath, let alone decide if she was ready for the experience, she found herself bundled into the big wicker basket, and they were lifting off the ground.
“Your first ride?” the pilot, Simon, inquired, laughing at her white knuckled grip on the waist-high rim of the basket as the ground crew released the last line, and he fired the burners into the dome of the nylon envelope to gain more altitude and catch the prevailing wind.
And possibly my last! she thought. How could such a fragile contraption be safe?
But her apprehension faded as they drifted serenely over the sun-dappled landscape. Because they traveled with the wind, she was comfortably warm. Domenico stood beside her, his arm at her waist, and that was all she needed to feel safe.
For an hour, they sailed over sleepy villages, quiet country roads and lazy winding rivers. The autumn foliage glowed bright yellow and burnt orange in the early morning sun. She saw a woman hanging laundry on a line, children on their way to school who stopped to wave, a fox running beside a hedge, rabbits scurrying to hide in a patch of bushes. When they passed over farmland, the pilot used a different technique, somehow reducing the noise made by the burners to avoid frightening the livestock grazing in the fields.
Finally they cleared a wooded area and there below lay the château, its stone facade perfectly reflected in the surface of the lake fronting it. Built along classical lines, with a steep mansard roof, tall chimneys and long, elegant windows, it stood at the end of a long avenue lined with ancient chestnut trees, amid acres of gently rolling land.
Deer leaped for the cover of the trees as the big red and blue striped balloon made a slow descent. “Hold on tight,” Domenico warned, bracing her firmly at his side. “Even with a pilot as experienced as ours, landings can sometimes be a little rough.”
Simon brought the craft down so skillfully and gradually, however, that the basket bumped gently over the grass until the ground crew with whom he’d been in radio contact was able to bring it to a final stop and hold it steady.
She climbed out and was surprised when one of the crew produced a hamper containing a bottle of champagne and crystal flutes. “It’s customary to raise a toast at the end of a flight,” Domenico explained, accepting two glasses and passing one to her.
But Arlene hardly needed champagne. She was content to drink in the perfection of the scene before her. Timeless and dignified, the château rose up against a sky tinted the pale, cool blue of approaching winter. The sun glinted on its many windows and cast sharply defined shadows over its lawns. A hush hung over the land, broken only by an occasional burst of birdsong.
Leaving her wine untouched, she wandered away from the men, lost in her own thoughts. The peaceful setting spoke to her in ways Toronto never had, and brought home to her in a flash of insight one of the reasons she’d been so quick to accept her inheritance. She’d lived in the city most of her life, but it had taken a great-uncle she’d never met to teach her she was a country woman at heart.
Domenico came up behind her and wound his arms around her waist. “So what do you think?” he asked, resting his chin on her hair.
“That it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It’ll inspire me when I tackle restoring my house on the lake, though mine will never be as grand as this.” She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here, Domenico, and for all the other wonderful memories you’ve given me.”
Whatever he’d been about to reply, he suddenly changed his mind, and tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, said instead, “Let’s go inside. You must be starving and I know I am.”
They walked along a gravel path that wound around to the château’s main entrance where a butler of sorts waited to greet them. Tall, slender and silver-haired, he was as elegant as the house itself.
He ushered them inside to a graciously appointed room overlooking the lake. Rich cream silk draperies hung at the windows, the floors gleamed with a patina resulting from centuries of polishing, and the antique furniture might have come from a museum. But more than all that, it was the single table for two, set next to the fire roaring in the huge stone fireplace, which put paid to Arlene’s perception that Domenico had brought her to some exclusive hotel catering to the very wealthy.
“What is this place?” she whispered, the minute the butler left them alone.
“A country house,” he said.
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
Her jaw dropped.
He laughed. “Why the surprise, cara?”
“Well, for a start, you live in Sardinia.”
“Most of the time, yes. But when I want solitude, I sometimes come here.”
“So who looks after the place the rest of the time?”
“Emile, whom you just met, and his wife, Christianne. Also their three sons. They oversee the estate for me, with hired help from the village when it’s needed.”
“I thought you were devoted to your family.”
“I am. But as I already told you, we don’t live in each other’s back pockets. I have my retreats, and they have theirs.”
Retreats, she wondered. As in more than one?
“Now you look shocked, cara. Does that mean you don’t approve?”
Still trying to come to grips with what she’d learned, she said, “It’s not a question of approving, so much as being taken aback. I know people who have a place in the country, but that usually means a cabin or a cottage, not something a French king might once have lived in.”
“I believe the original château did once belong to royalty,” he said offhandedly, as if owning a chunk of history was no more important than buying a new pair of shoes, “but what you see now was built in the mid-nineteenth century.”
“How did you come by it?”
“I heard that it was on the market.” He shrugged. “It took my fancy, so I bought it.”
At that point, the butler, wheeling in their meal on an elaborate serving wagon, put an end to the conversation. When it resumed, over a delectable clafoutis made with tiny black cherries, they talked about other things, specifically what she should expect the next day, when the convention began.
“It will be tiring, and very intense. Unfortunately I can’t be with you all the time because of meetings I scheduled several weeks ago, but I’ll introduce you to people I know, and we’ll meet for meals.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she told him. “I’ll be fine on my own and certainly don’t expect you to hold my hand all the time.”
“Not even if I want to?” he said, dazzling her with his smile.
Please don’t be so charming! she wanted to tell him. Don’t make me fall in love with you any more than I already have.
When they’d finished eating, he showed her other parts of the house: the ballroom with its glittering crystal chandeliers, the spacious, elegant reception rooms; the upstairs suites with their claw-foot bathtubs, four-poster beds and carved armoires; the dining hall with its mirrored walls and long, polished table.
Finally after a visit to the kitchen to thank Emile and Christianne for their hospitality, they took a walk outside, and Arlene could see how it would take three grown men to oversee the grounds and keep them looking so pristine. Nothing marred the surface of the ornamental pond. The cobbled courtyard was swept free of leaves, the rose garden neatly pruned ready for winter.
But it was at their last stop in the greenhouse—the orange-rie, Domenico called it—that she realized there was a dimension to him that had nothing to do with wealth. A man worked at one end, painstakingly washing the leaves of a lemon tree with a small paintbrush. At thei
r approach, he turned, and she saw at once that he had Down syndrome.
Recognizing Domenico, he broke into a beaming smile and burst into speech, the words falling over themselves in his delight. Although her French was passably good, she couldn’t understand everything he said, but Domenico had no trouble at all. After introducing him as Emile and Christianne’s eldest son, Jean, he focused all his attention on what the man was so eager to tell him. Arlene didn’t have to understand the words being exchanged to realize that Domenico ranked only slightly lower than God in Jean’s estimation, and that keeping the greenhouse in perfect order for his idol was his passion in life.
They spent perhaps half an hour with him, during which time he showed Arlene his prized citrus trees and presented her with a sweet-scented lemon blossom. Although Domenico accompanied them, he left it up to her to make what she could of the conversation. Only when Emile came to announce that their driver was waiting did he step in and, counteracting Jean’s disappointment that their visit had been so short, brought it to a close with enviable diplomacy.
“Thank you for being so patient with Jean,” he said, taking her hand as the chauffeur drove the car down the long avenue of chestnut trees and took the road back to the city.
She looked at the fragile lemon blossom resting in her lap. “How could I not be, Domenico? He is a sweet and gentle soul.”
“Not everyone sees him or his brother that way.”
“His brother has Down syndrome, too?”
“Yes. Emile and Christianne desperately wanted children, but couldn’t have their own, so they decided to adopt. When they learned how difficult it was for older children, especially those with a handicap, to find placement with parents who would love them despite their difficulties, they decided it was God’s will that they give their love to such a child. Jean was seven when they brought him home. Two years later, they adopted Léon.”
“And the youngest?”
Domenico smiled. “God changed His mind. Christianne fell pregnant when Léon was five, and gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Hilaire will turn forty in December.”
“How did they all end up here, or were they already in residence when you bought the place?”
“No. I heard of them through an associate. There’d been several very unpleasant incidents in their village, which is some distance from here. The details aren’t important. It’s enough to say the entire family’s lives were made miserable because Jean and Léon were different.
“They needed a fresh start, some place where they wouldn’t be at the mercy of ignorant louts. I happened to have such a place, and I needed staff to run it.”
“That’s a beautiful story,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “And you’re a remarkable man.”
“There’s nothing remarkable about lending a hand when it’s needed. What’s money for, after all, if it can’t be put to good use?”
“Not every man with money has your moral integrity, Domenico.”
“Then I’d say he’s bankrupt where it matters the most. The wealthy don’t own exclusive rights to decency and kindness.”
She shouldn’t be surprised by his revelations, she thought. He’d done nothing but surprise her, from the moment they’d met. They reached Paris just after two and spent a couple of hours in the Louvre museum, then toured the picturesque old streets of Montmartre before heading back to the Ritz around six o’clock.
After such a long, wonderful day, they decided against going out for dinner that night. Instead Domenico had a meal brought up to the suite. “Nothing too special, so don’t feel you have to dress up,” he told her, when she went to change her clothes. “In fact, be comfortable and wear your bathrobe.”
“I will, if you will,” she said mischievously.
He laughed. “I thought you’d never ask!”
To her, “nothing special” meant a hamburger or pizza. She should have known better than to expect he’d think along such mundane lines. When she returned to the salon after her bath, she found a linen-draped table, with flowers, lighted candles and the hotel’s signature sterling and china. On a cloth covered serving table were chafing dishes hidden under silver domes, and wine chilling in a silver ice bucket.
They dined on creamy wild mushroom soup, pheasant with poached pears, and strawberries dipped in chocolate. In Arlene’s opinion, the only thing more delicious was Domenico in a bathrobe, with his hair still wet from the shower and his jaw freshly shaved.
“Has it been a good day?” he asked her, after the remains of the meal had been taken away and she sat curled up next to him on the sofa.
“Oh, very! But it’s made me realize that although you know a great deal about me, I still know next to nothing about you.”
“Not much mystery there, Arlene,” he said. “I was born in the house where you had dinner with my family, got into all the trouble boys usually manage to get into, eventually grew up, went to the U.S. to study, earned a master’s degree in viticulture and enology at California State University, then came home again and took over the family business because my father developed a heart condition that forced him into early retirement. That about covers it.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, cataloging not just the events of that day, but all the others that made up the time she’d spent with him. “You’re a lot more complex than you make yourself out to be. You just don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, why would I, when I could be making love to you?” he whispered against her ear.
And just like that, she forgot everything but the sublime pleasure he so easily aroused in her. She didn’t need to know anything else.
Or so she believed, at the time.
Chapter 8
At first, it all went well enough. She woke up early on the Friday, eager to begin the day, eager to make him proud. She didn’t dwell on the fact that, on Sunday, she’d be saying goodbye to him, because perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. Perhaps what they shared was too glorious to be snuffed out, and instead of coming to an end, they’d find they were just beginning.
She dressed carefully, teaming one of her silk blouses in a subtle black and white pinstripe with the cranberry-red suit. She pinned up her hair in a neat coil, inserted her pearl stud earrings and stepped into her new black leather pumps with the smart two-inch heels.
The chauffeur stood waiting, with the engine purring and car door already held open, when she and Domenico came out of the hotel. Seated next to her in the back seat, he looked at once supremely relaxed and ultra-professional in a dark gray suit, white shirt and burgundy tie, with only the soft gleam of his gold cuff links and watch to soften their severity. A leather attaché case rested on the seat beside him.
She sat with her knees pressed together nervously and her handbag and a new notebook clutched to her breast. Now that the moment was almost upon her, she wasn’t quite as sure of herself.
The mob scene when they arrived at the convention hall did nothing to boost her morale. Although Domenico had told her English would be the common language for all organized events, the babble of foreign tongues assaulting her was enough to send her running for the hills. She didn’t belong in such a well-heeled, cosmopolitan gathering; couldn’t even identify half the languages being spoken. Not that it mattered. She didn’t know enough about viticulture to hold a conversation with anyone, anyway.
Domenico, of course, suffered no such qualms. Grasping her elbow, he steered her confidently through the crowd, which parted for him as if he were Moses commanding the Red Sea.
“Wait here,” he ordered, depositing her next to a table overflowing with brochures. “I’ll be right back.” And promptly disappeared.
In fact, he was gone nearly fifteen minutes, during which time she pretended an interest in the first pamphlet she could lay hands on—which, she gathered from the address on the back, was written in Hungarian but might as well have been Swahili for all the good it did her.
“Sorry,” he muttered, when he finally returned
. “The trouble with events like this is that you can’t avoid running into people you know.”
She could. His was the only familiar face among hundreds.
“Here’s your registration package,” he went on, handing her an embossed binder beside which her spiral notebook looked pitifully inadequate. Program, pens, felt markers, paper, ministapler, calculator—the binder had it all. “Over breakfast, I’ll mark the sessions you’ll find most useful. You’ll see there’s a floor plan showing where each takes place. After we’ve eaten, we’ll attend the keynote address together, then you’ll be on your own until lunch. We’ll meet back here at noon, but in case you’re detained or can’t find me, here’s my cell phone number.” He handed her a business card. “Tuck it some place handy.”
And with that, they were off, caught up in the tide of humanity flowing toward the room where a buffet of brioches, croissants, coffee and juice waited. He had warned her it would be hectic. In fact, it was bedlam.
Somehow, though, she survived the morning, managing not only to acquire much useful information, but also finding herself swept up in an enthusiasm generated by the conventioneers themselves. To hear them talk, the wine industry was the most thrilling and satisfying occupation in the world, and by lunchtime, she believed them.
When the sessions ended, she found Domenico already waiting for her at their appointed meeting place. Unfortunately he wasn’t alone. The woman with him didn’t quite hang around his neck like a second tie, but she made it very clear she’d like to.
“You survived,” he said, his face lighting up in a smile when he saw Arlene. “How was it?”
“Incredible. I’m really fired up.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” He took her arm and gave it a discreetly intimate squeeze as he introduced her to his companion. “Arlene, this is Ortensia Costanza, one of my neighbors in Sardinia. She and her family own a winery on the west coast of the island.”
“A neighbor, and a friend,” the woman corrected, her eyes skating over Arlene’s cranberry suit as if she recognized it as one she herself had turned in to the consignment boutique in Alghero. Which was impossible, of course. She was at least four inches shorter than Arlene, with breasts twice the size. “A very dear friend, in fact. Shall we go into lunch, Domenico? Raffaello is saving us a table.”
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