The Five-Day Dig (13 page)

O
TTO

W
INNIE SPENT A
couple of days sightseeing and dining out with Liz. Even after her friend flew home, she never had a whole day alone. She visited several minor museums and sites, mingling with other tourists, and on two occasions, she joined locals she’d met at the conference for a meal.

The only unpleasant moments came with news from home. Her sister still hadn’t heard from Sam and didn’t accept the single message Winnie had gotten as proof that he was all right. Christina tried contacting his friends and learned that he’d been out of touch with them, too.

Winnie didn’t like his secretiveness, either, but it wasn’t the first time he’d gone incommunicado, so she told herself not to panic. She hoped he was off on a sunny beach somewhere, self-medicating with umbrella-laden drinks.

In contrast, she heard frequently from Chaz. She resisted calling him but couldn’t seem to keep from e-mailing or texting. She would see artifacts on her museum visits that she knew he’d want to hear about. He would run thoughts by her about his dissertation. She’d get information about “The Five-Day Dig” that she wanted to share. One way or another, they ended up in touch throughout every day.

As for her research into rituals, she didn’t get far. Ancient initiates had been sworn to secrecy, and it seemed they had taken the oaths seriously. The sources she found were limited and vague. She worried that Dunk and company would come up with nonsense for the rites, and she would have nothing better to suggest. Her best strategy remained trying to stay in the background.

 
When the week ended, she drove the Punto to the airport to pick up Chaz. On recognizing his form coming out of Customs carrying a large backpack, she felt a rush of excitement.

Spotting her, he broke into a grin, which she automatically returned. He rushed over and gave her a peck on each cheek, European style. “Thanks for collecting me.”

The gesture made her heart race. She tried to contain her giddiness. “My pleasure. How was your visit with your parents?”

“As insufferable as ever. I can’t wait to get back to work.”

While they walked to the car, he told her that his father didn’t approve of his plans to appear on television. “He actually tried to forbid me. He’s mortified that my public involvement in a frivolous pursuit will besmirch the family name.”

“Really? Is this some sort of British class-consciousness thing?”

He frowned. “Perhaps. I suppose that’s preferable to him simply despising me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t despise you. Maybe he hates the show. I can kind of understand that – though trying to forbid you from doing it is pretty heavy-handed.”

During the drive to the Rentino estate, she confided some of her own family troubles – that Sam had been bipolar since childhood and had been distant lately. To lighten the mood, she added, “And my sister is just a pain in the ass.”

He nodded. “I have a brother like that.”

They moved on to discuss the excavation, both talking fast in their excitement about it.

Before she knew it, they had reached their destination. Lined with orange trees, a paved private road led to a walled sanctum behind iron gates. A servant at the other end of an intercom buzzed them in. The driveway turned into a crescent in front of a stucco mansion with a tiled roof, arched entrances and ornate window caps in varying shapes.

She grinned at Chaz. “Not a bad place to stay.”

They pulled up behind a line of cars already parked out front. She noticed Domenico close to the main entrance watching his driver pull a large black suitcase from the trunk of the Quattroporte. A gray-haired priest and a curvaceous young woman in a sleeveless designer dress stood by. The girl had long, wavy, chestnut-colored hair.

“Is that Enza with Domenico?” she asked Chaz, nodding toward them.

“Domenico?” He followed the direction she indicated and smirked. “Oh, right, you’re on first-name terms with Signore Rentino. Yes, that’s Enza with him.”

His gaze hung on the group, no doubt glued to the gorgeous female.

An unpleasant feeling stirred inside her.
Definitely jealousy.

She looked away.
Seriously?
Hadn’t she hoped that the girl would reconsider a relationship with Chaz? She tried to squelch her possessive feelings and vowed to flirt with Domenico the first chance she got.

After popping the lever to open the trunk, she got out of the car. As she walked to the rear, she glanced back at their host again. Escorting the priest toward the house, he and his daughter hadn’t noticed anyone else had arrived.

When Chaz joined her behind the car, she asked, “Why is there a priest here?”

He pulled out her suitcase, set it upright on the drive and yanked out the handle. “Dunk may have mentioned something about the Church wanting to look for evidence of early Christianity during the dig.”

She took the handle. “Going into an excavation with your mind set on what you want to find doesn’t do much for objectivity.”

He grabbed his backpack and shut the trunk. “Would you say that puts the priest at
cross
purposes
with us?”

A laugh burst out of her. “I might.” As they walked toward the house, she said, “How do you come up with this stuff?”

He smiled. “Pun-making is a common British affliction.”

“And the straight path to a linguist’s heart.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, she looked away self-consciously, then hoped her reaction didn’t add weight to her words.

Turning up the front walk, she reminded herself to stop overreacting.

She rang the bell, and a matronly woman wearing an apron answered the door, smiling warmly. “Welcome to Villa Rentino. I’m Signora Vaccula, the housekeeper.”

“
Buon giorno
,” Winnie said.

She introduced herself and Chaz, and they stepped into a spacious hall marked by a grand curving staircase. Taking in her surroundings, she admired the paneled walls punctuated with formal painted portraits, presumably of Rentino ancestors. Large plants in neoclassic urns afforded the space a touch of earthiness. “The house is magnificent, Signora.
Che bella.
”

“
Grazie, dottore
.” The woman gestured toward the staircase. “Allow me to show you to your rooms. Leave your bags, and I will have someone carry them up in a moment. You will stay in the east wing with the other television people.”

Chaz smiled. “Brilliant.”

She led them up the stairs, talking to them over her shoulder. “Dinner is served at eight. Before then, please make yourselves at home, but if you explore the property, be sure to keep to the paths. The army was garrisoned here during World War II, and stray munitions may still be found.”

Winnie and Chaz exchanged alarmed looks.

Signora Vaccula continued ascending. “This is why the Rentino family has avoided exploring the ruins all these years. But don’t worry. The signore had explosives experts come in and inspect the areas where you will excavate. And, of course, the manicured gardens are safe.”

“Good to know,” Chaz said with a hint of cynicism.

Winnie made a mental note to ask Domenico for more details when she saw him.

Her bedroom turned out to be fabulous – large and decorated in Italianate style with meticulously preserved antiques, including a canopied bed, two nightstands, a dresser and a full-size desk with a chair. A glance through an open door confirmed that she had her own bathroom, which looked equally well appointed. Best of all, a pair of French doors opened onto a balcony with a bistro table and two chairs.

She stepped outside and looked out at the front lawn with a sigh. Off in the distance, above the treetops, she could make out the
peak
of
Vesuvius
.

Someone rapped at the door. “Signorina, I have your suitcase,” said a male voice with an Italian accent.

She opened the door to a uniformed servant, who introduced himself as Aldo. He took a rack from the closet, which she noted contained spare blankets, pillows and a cot. After laying her case on the rack, he smiled at her. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Not at all.”

After he left, she unpacked her clothes and carried her toiletries into the bathroom, which featured a modern shower, toilet, bidet and marble-topped vanity holding a soap dish, toothbrush holder and a medieval-looking Madonna and Child statuette.

Raising an eyebrow at the latter item, she murmured, “You again.”

Carved in black wood, the stoic figures had unpainted faces, while their robes gleamed with a gold coating. Oddly, their eyes appeared to be closed. The mother held the child in one arm and a golden orb in the other hand. On her head rested a gold crown with a tree design in the center.
Curious.

Winnie picked up the piece and turned it over. “
Madonna di Oropa
,” the bottom read. “
Fatto in Italia
.” No clue to what the tree was about. Her mother had been raised Catholic but defected as an adult. Sometimes Winnie wished her mom had stuck with the religion, so she could understand the symbols. But did even good Catholics know where all of their traditions originated?

She set down the statuette and finished finding places for her toiletries.

Afterwards, to kill some time, she took a book out to the balcony and sat down to read.

Half-an-hour later, the sound of gravel crunching in the drive drew her attention below. Peeking over the railing, she saw Dunk get out of a silver Fiat Panda, accompanied by a young woman sporting thick, dark hair and a sleek business suit – probably one of the other cast members.

Another flashy dresser
, she noted, thinking of the Rentinos.
Maybe I
should have bought dressier clothes on my shopping trip.
Dressing up for an excavation hadn’t occurred to her.

While she rued the inadequacy of her wardrobe, the woman below picked up a suitcase, only to have it flop open and spill out stiletto shoes, scarves and belts. She waved off help from Dunk and stooped to collect her things.

Witnessing her clumsiness made her fashion sense a little less intimidating. Winnie remembered she did have one dress with her – a cute, color-blocked sheath in black and shades of blue. She decided to wear it to dinner.

That evening when she ran into Chaz in the hallway, the dress won her an appreciative ogle from him. His gaze slid down her body before he yanked it back up to meet her eyes. “You look amazing.”

She struggled to tame her pleasure into a casual smile.

He wore dark jeans and a button-down shirt in a light teal that only a British guy could pull off, but he looked as cute as ever.

“You’re not half-bad either,” she said, her good mood making her less reserved than usual.

Downstairs, Dunk introduced them to the woman she’d seen from her balcony, Amara Sandhu, production assistant for “The Dig.” She had changed out of her suit but still looked prim in a ruffled white blouse and pinstriped black skirt.