The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  My breath seemed to fill the whole house in an instant. Frozen on the doorstep, all I could hear was a strange whooshing sound in my ears and the beating of my heart. I cursed myself for not thinking to bring a flashlight, then I thought of the torch on my phone.

  Praying I had enough battery, I took it out of my backpack, switched it on and scanned the walls beside the door, where I soon located a switch. If the electricity didn’t work, which surely it didn’t, there was no way I could explore the house with the weak light of my phone. Holding my breath, I flipped the light switch and, quite unexpectedly, an exquisite, small chandelier lit up a hallway leading away from the door, illuminating everything with a yellow glow. I exhaled, relieved, letting my guard down at just the moment that a clap of thunder, so deep and rumbling it felt like it was shaking the ground, made me jump out of my skin.

  The blonde wood floor creaked as I walked along the hall, and a moth flew from somewhere and disappeared again behind the curtains. Although abandoned, the place felt strangely alive. Or maybe it was just my imagination, flaring up with the tiredness, the upheaval of the last few days. Through the rain-covered windows I could see dancing black branches and an inky sky, lit up by lightning in the distance. The room was strangely warm, not freezing as you would imagine a long-empty house to be. I noticed there were radiators underneath each window. The idea of central heating was strange, in such an old house – but I supposed they’d been installed before the place was deserted. I touched one; it was warm.

  Was this house really abandoned? Had nobody lived here in years, like the nonna in the village said? Because not only was the place warm, but it appeared to be clean. As I entered what seemed to be a large drawing room, I stopped to flick a light switch by the door. Once the room was bathed in light, I was surprised by what I saw. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the floor, on the windowsills, on the coffee table, on the lamps. A brightly colored rug covered part of the wooden floor, its colors vivid, not dimmed with dust or dirt. The air in the room smelled subtly of… vanilla… and cinnamon.

  Anxiety fluttered inside me as I made my way deeper into the house, towards a rhythmic banging noise that appeared to be coming from the small round tower I’d seen from the road. My sneakers squelched on the floor as I walked, leaving a wet trail behind me. At the end of the hall, I plucked up my courage and opened the door in front of me, to reveal a study, complete with bookshelves floor to ceiling, and a wide, dark wooden desk. Beside the desk was a shuttered French window. The shutters were open and one hadn’t been secured. It was banging against the wall with every gust of wind. Running over to the window, and with white curtains billowing all around me, I grabbed the shutter and had begun to close it, when the beauty of the storm caught my eye.

  I stepped outside onto the terrace and, grasping the iron railings to stop my hands from shaking, watched as darts of lightning fell from the sky over the black mountains. My hair was soaked and dripping, but it didn’t matter. The clouds grumbled so loud that it felt like the noise was coming from the belly of the house, almost from underneath it; at the same time the shutter came loose again and banged loudly on the wall. I jumped out of my skin.

  There was somebody living in the villa. I was completely sure. It wasn’t abandoned at all. I darted back inside, ran through the house and dashed to the car without looking back.

  My hands shaking more than ever, while thunder, lightning and rain seemed to came at me from all sides. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Now. But every time I tried to unlock the car door, the keys slipped through my fingers and fell into the mud. And each time I bent down to recover them, rivulets of rain dribbled down my face. I grabbed at the keys one last time, a fistful of freezing mud coming up with them. I went to try the door lock again, only to find a pale face crowned by a hood – a man’s face – was looking at me from across the car, through the passenger window.

  I screamed and grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on – a fallen branch, wet and slimy – and swung it as hard as I could at the man, who was now walking towards me on my side of the car. He lifted up his hands, shouting things I couldn’t understand, as I took another swipe and knocked him into the mud. I dropped the branch, and was about to stick the car keys in the lock again, desperate to drive away from that place, when the noise of the storm subsided just long enough for me to hear what he was saying.

  “Sei pazzo?” he shouted. Are you crazy?

  “Stay away from me!” I replied in Italian, as he struggled to his feet.

  “I’m the castle caretaker!”

  I realized I’d dropped the keys yet again, but he beat me to it and bent down to pick them up.

  “I’m Tommaso Carpentieri. I live there,” he yelled over the noise of the storm. I followed his gesture, as he pointed to a gray stone cottage that looked like one of the castle’s outbuildings.

  “In the castle?” I shouted.

  “Sort of. Look, we really need to get inside.” Then he said something about fulmini.

  Fulmini? Oh, yes: lightning.

  I didn’t want to be electrocuted on my first night in Italy, but I wasn’t convinced.

  “How do I know you’re not a murderous maniac?” I shouted.

  “As far as I can tell, it’s you who hit me with a branch! Come on. Come out of the storm. But leave that behind!” he said, gesturing to the branch at my feet.

  “No way. I’m fine. I’m going to Aquila Nera in the sq— Aaah!”

  The loudest thunderclap yet broke through the sky. To my shame, I covered my head with my hands. The rain had become so thick, it was almost like breathing water.

  “It’s not safe out here!” Tommaso said. “We’re high up and last year a pine was set on fire by lightning just a couple of hundred meters from here. Look, I’m soaking and covered in mud. You have thirty seconds to decide. Either come inside with me or I’ll drive you down to the Aquila Nera now.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” I shouted, rain dripping on my face.

  “I’m not telling you—”

  At that moment, a small branch fell on the roof of the car and missed me by mere inches, making me squeal.

  “Fine! I’m coming with you!” I yelled, utterly defeated.

  “Good call,” the man shouted. He grabbed my hand, and we ran on slippery ground, soaked to the bone, toward a gray stone cottage.

  4

  The first thing I saw was a glowing fire, burning in a fireplace topped with a stone mantelpiece. There were beautiful, lyrical paintings on the walls, full of greens and blues. The ceiling was low and vaulted, red bricks laid together in symmetric patterns. The sudden warmth of the room made me shiver so violently that the man – what did he say his name was? - noticed.

  “Come. Sit at the fire,” he said, and I looked at him properly for the first time. He was tall, taller than me; broad shouldered, with thick, dark hair and skin that was used to the sun. He had stripped off his hooded jacket to reveal an old-fashioned sweater and corduroy pants, now muddy, which made him look like he was from another time. Outlander, I remembered – the story of a woman who walks unawares into a circle of stones and ends up in another time.

  “What did you say your name was?” I asked.

  I couldn’t tell his age, because there was a timelessness about him. He was older than me, for sure, but probably not older than thirty or so.

  “Tommaso. Tommaso Carpentieri. Come on, sit, get warm,” he replied. “And you are?”

  “Callie.”

  “Call-ee,” he said, in that Italian way that stressed the double ‘l’ and made the final ‘ee’ sound longer. I liked it.

  Safe inside, I began to wonder what had possessed me to follow this stranger into his house. He seemed like a perfectly nice man, yes, but didn’t it always start that way? Next thing you’re on the news, discovered buried in his back yard.

  Okay, maybe that was a bit far-fetched.

  Whatever the case, I was too frazzled to think any longer. I did as I was t
old and sat on a comfy armchair in front of the fire. Another long, deep shiver traveled through me.

  “Take those clothes off,” Tommaso said.

  I jumped right back up. “What?”

  He blushed pink on his dark skin. “I mean: I’ll give you some dry clothes so you can get changed,” he explained.

  “Did you just ask me to take my clothes off?”

  “I didn’t mean—” Another boom of thunder interrupted us, instantly followed by a strange sound from somewhere next door. A sort of yelp.

  “It’s okay. It’s just thunder,” Tommaso said, trying to reassure me.

  “That wasn’t thunder,” I whimpered, doing my best to steal a glance into the other room.

  “Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not usually scared of storms,” I scrambled, trying to sound normal, but wondering how I could run out of the cottage and back to my car, all the while dodging lightning and fallen branches.

  Another strangled yelp.

  I looked toward the door, my heart pounding against my ribs.

  “Everyone is scared of storms, deep down,” he said. “It’s instinct.” Then, “Morella!” he called in a light tone, stepping into the next room.

  I caught a glimpse of what was probably his bedroom, also with a low, red-brick vaulted ceiling and pure white walls. Should I run away now? I was frozen. In every way.

  “Morella, tesoro, come out.”

  Tesoro meant sweetheart. Did he keep his wife under the bed? “I’m home. I’m back, okay? Okay?” He crouched on the floor, sticking his head under the bed. That sound again – the yelp.

  “Come on! We have guests!” He made a clicking sound with his tongue and a black nose appeared from under the bed, and there was another yelp.

  A dog! I laughed to myself, cursing my imagination.

  “Come out, Morella. Come on,” he coaxed. “Papà è a casa,” he whispered, and then turned slightly toward me, embarrassed.

  I had to giggle. He’d just said, “Daddy’s home.”

  Morella appeared. I’d never seen a dog that big; she was more like a foal. “Good girl. Good girl. Callie, meet Morella. Morella, Callie.”

  I smiled. “Is she good? Can I touch her?” I loved dogs and couldn’t wait to pet her; but she was so big that I knew, should she decide to bite, she could take my arm off easily enough.

  “Of course. She’s great. She would never bite a friend. But if you’re someone who’s trying to get into the castle on shady business, that’s another story.”

  “Unless there’s a storm and she’s hiding under the bed,” I pointed out, and he laughed. Poor Morella was shaking all over. “Aw, come here.” I reached out my hand to her. “Don’t be scared.” Slowly, she wandered up to me and I sank my face into her soft fur. She came up to my waist.

  “I’ll get you some clothes,” Tommaso said, returning to the bedroom and opening a chest of drawers, while I cuddled Morella. The rain was battering the windows even harder than before, and it seemed that beyond there was only darkness.

  “Who’s a huge dog? Oh, you are! Yes, you are!” I said in English.

  Tommaso paused in the doorway, a bundle of clothes in his arms. “You’re American?” he said in English too.

  “Yes, from Texas. Could you not tell from my accent?”

  “I guessed you were not Italian. Why you come to Montevino?”

  It seemed like he would struggle a bit with speaking English, so I switched back to Italian, for his sake. “Long story, but I’m looking for… well, relatives.” I wanted to change the topic quickly, so I turned my attention back to the dog. “You beautiful puppy. You’re enormous!”

  “She’s a Romanian Shepherd.”

  “Is she? She does a great job of camouflaging as a dog,” I said, and laughed shyly at my terrible joke. Tommaso laughed too; not many people got my wonky sense of humor.

  “You make jokes in Italian! That’s really good, for a foreigner,” he said pleasantly. “There,” he added, handing me the bundle.

  I would look like a scarecrow in his clothes, but at that point I didn’t care. They were warm and dry, and that was enough.

  “Your home is so… picturesque.”

  “It used to be the gamekeeper’s cottage. Though I suppose I am a bit of a gamekeeper too. I take care of the deer, make sure hogs don’t come in.”

  “I think I have to explain what I was doing at the villa—”

  “Why don’t you get changed first? Otherwise you’ll catch something. When you’re done, I’ll be next door,” he said.

  Ten minutes later I was back, sitting in front of the fire in dry clothes – a pair of sweatpants that were too long for me, an enormous woolen sweatshirt and warm socks – with a cup of herbal tea in my hand, and Morella at my feet. My thoughts drifted to Misty back home. I knew there were a few others to feed and look after the little cat, but I still hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed when she couldn’t get into my apartment.

  “Are you hungry?” Tommaso had changed too, into jeans and a plaid shirt. He seemed younger now, more twenty-first century.

  “I suppose I am. I’ve been travelling all day. Or all night? I feel a bit… funny, actually.”

  “No wonder. You seemed terrified earlier on. You hit me with a branch,” he said cheerily.

  “I’m so sorry. But you freaked me out.”

  “Then I’m sorry too,” he said. His eyes were deep, dark green, the color of moss or leaves. He had a way of looking aside when he spoke to you – not shifty, just shy. “Drink up, signorina. Let me make you some pasta.”

  Oh, signorina. I loved being called signorina!

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I can handle pasta. Sorry… Oh, wait! Pasta! I need to go back to the nonna, she’ll worry…”

  “What nonna?”

  “The Aquila Nera one. I need to go, I suppose. It’s so late, I have already checked in… What if they close up…”

  “Hey, hey, hey. You can’t go back out in that.”

  “I need to call them, then.”

  “Cell phones don’t work up here. Use my landline. I’ll call them, if you want?”

  “That’d be great, thank you.”

  He did, and I listened to the quick conversation in Italian, in awe. They spoke so fast. He seemed to be friendly with Adriana; I supposed in a village as small as this, everyone knew each other.

  “Buonanotte,” Tommaso said into the phone. Good night.

  “I’m sorry I left them hanging. Of course I’ll pay for the room.”

  “I’m sure it’s not a problem. Oh, by the way. I have a message for you from Nonna Tina. She says to eat dinner, that you’re too skinny.”

  “Did I just gain an instant granny?” I giggled, but a part of me reveled in that feeling. Something warm, and loving, was beginning to bloom inside me, and it was so good that it was almost frightening.

  “All Italian nonnas are instant grannies,” Tommaso joked. He couldn’t see or guess the emotion I felt, and I could never have put it into words – not with a stranger, not with anyone. “How about some bread and honey? The honey is from bees I keep here. It’ll build you up a little.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind,” I said. At this point, exhaustion and the heat of the fire were beginning to creep in and my eyes were closing.

  I imagined giving Kirsten the lowdown on my day. Yes, I found the house. It’s actually a villa, but there’s a storm so I’m waiting it out in a gamekeeper’s cottage, and this mysterious Italian guy who looks after the castle is making me bread and honey.

  I pushed my gaze around the room again, and my eye fell on the lovely canvases on the walls. One in particular caught my eye: a black-haired little boy, against the backdrop of a grape-laden vine under a blue, cloudless sky. I wondered if Tommaso had painted them.

  “There. A bit of sugar to perk you up,” he said, as he came back, carrying a tray. “More tea, and a little grappa.”

  “Thanks. What’s grappa?”

  “A very
strong liquor. It’ll warm you, relax you and stave off colds.” Tommaso’s language was sophisticated, I thought, not basic; I could tell he was well educated, even with my imperfect knowledge of Italian.

  “And get me drunk?”

  “Not unless you’re a super-lightweight,” he said, lifting a crystal glass in which sat a tiny amount of honey-colored liquid.

  “Sold.” I wasn’t a big drinker, but I could do with a little bit of courage now. I took a suspicious sip, then downed the liquid. It was like swallowing an electric blanket – in a good way. The fire crackled and danced, reflecting a warm glow on the walls. It smelled of resin. “Oh, wow! That did warm me up.”

  “There, now you’re one of us,” he joked, then hesitated. “So… I suppose it’s the right moment to ask you what you were doing at the Stella house?”

  I bit into the bread, suddenly ravenous. The honey was out of this world. “Mmm. Yeah. I actually own it,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I wasn’t ready to discuss all that. It must have been the grappa.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? I mean, you’re American. Though your Italian is good.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that! But, thanks. Yes, I’ve grown up in America. My biological mom was from here, though, and apparently, she left me the house. I just found this out two days ago. Like I said, it’s a long story – and a little crazy.”

  He didn’t argue with that. “Who was your mother, if I may ask?”

  “Malva Stella.”

  Such a beautiful name. Malva Stella. And if my father, the man whose name I didn’t even know, hadn’t given me his last name, I was a Stella too. Callie Stella.

  Oh. That feeling in the pit of my stomach, somewhere between pain and warmth and longing.

  Belonging.

  “Oh, yes,” Tommaso said, breaking into my thoughts. ‘My dad was a friend of the Stella family. Malva moved to America and” – he hesitated – “I never knew she’d had a daughter.”

  He’d been about to say something else. I was eager to piece together every part of the jigsaw, so I pressed him: “What were you about to say?”