The House in Amalfi (15 page)

My heart sank. He wasn’t going to ask me to go with him after all. “And yours will be your new novel and a new woman,” I said, still hurting from being banished from his life.

“You’ll come out to Amalfi for holidays,” he promised. “The house is ours now. You can help me fix it up; it still looks the way it did when you were there.”

“All those years ago,” I said, remembering it clearly, as I always had.

He took a good long look at me. “You know you haven’t changed one bit,” he said. “Still the same big brown eyes, looking to find out my secrets. Still the same wild curly dark hair, still the same little girl you always were.
My
girl,” he added, gripping my hand tightly.

I was so choked up I couldn’t speak, but then the spaghetti Bolognese arrived and the moment passed. We finished our meal, chatting about school and college, my friends, Roman
restaurants . . . anything and everything except that the next day he was leaving me.

We walked home together, arms around each other’s waists—by then I was almost as tall as Jon-Boy. He came in to say good-bye to the Mortimers and thank them again for looking after me; then I walked him back down the path to his rental car. He put his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes.

“Never forget I’m your father and I love you,” he said. And then he kissed me and was gone to a new life that did not include me.

I never saw him again.

I wiped my tears on my sleeve. Jon-Boy had not been there for my college graduation. He had never even met my husband. I wondered what he would have said if he had. Would he have warned me against Alex? After all, who knew more about such things?

I put the photograph back on the table amid the years of dust.

Sniffing, I caught the room’s faint masculine odor. I opened the armoire and inspected Jon-Boy’s clothes: a smart suit, a soft cashmere jacket. Rome clothes, because mostly he just wore shorts or jeans here. But, surprisingly, hanging next to them was a beautiful red chiffon evening dress.

Of course there had always been women in Jon-Boy’s life. Had this one lived here with him? Was he in love with her? Was she here with him the night he died? And where was she now?

I couldn’t breathe. I ran to the window and threw it open, letting in the sweet evening air for the first time in all those years. After a few minutes I recovered and walked down the corridor to my own room.

I was afraid to look at it in case it wasn’t as I remembered. But it was. A plain whitewashed room with faded blue-green shutters, a narrow lumpy bed with an ornate iron headboard,
an old wooden cupboard and a battered old chair under the window. There was a table with a green-shaded lamp and the bed was made up with the bedspread neatly smoothed. My room had never looked this good when I occupied it; then it was a jumble of sheets and a trail of clothes and piles of books, with forgotten sandwiches hidden in the mess.

The big chair under the window was where I used to wait for Jon-Boy to come home, reading in the lamplight until my eyes bugged with fatigue. They hurt just remembering. And then there it was again: that old memory of waiting for Jon-Boy that I had refused to acknowledge. I felt the old pang of fear that he would not come back for me and now I remembered that this was what I had really felt. I had repressed the memory all these years. I’d always told myself he would come back for me. And finally, he had not.

Sighing, I went to my cupboard. Tossed on the floor was my old red swimsuit. I picked it up, seeing the holes in it. I’d worn it until it practically fell off me. Some of the happiest times of my life had been spent wearing that suit.

I went next door to the bathroom. There was still soap in the dish and shampoo. Towels had been flung over the shower rail to dry. It was as though Jon-Boy and the girlfriend who’d worn the red dress might walk in any minute.

I hurried downstairs to the kitchen. I loved this room, even though the white tiles needed a wash and the old propane stove was dirty and the dusty provisions of a bachelor household were still on the larder shelves.

I stood at the scrubbed pine table in the center of the room in the house that used to be the center of my world, and the sudden tears trickled down my cheeks.

“Oh, Jon-Boy,” I moaned to the empty air, “whatever happened to you?”

“Lamour?” A voice brought me back to reality.

I looked up, startled. Nico Pirata was standing in the doorway. I glanced quickly away, not wanting him to see that I was crying.

“I was in the cove,” he said. “I moored my boat at the jetty. Somehow I thought you might be here. I just came by to say hello.”

“Go away,” I said, turning my back on him.

“I’m sorry, Lamour,” he said quietly. “I understand what you are feeling and I’m sorry.”

I felt his hands on my shoulders; then he turned me to him. He put his arms around me. I smelled his salty sweat and felt the beating of his heart. It was comforting being held like that, and he was so beautiful, so vibrantly alive.

“I understand,” he said, stroking my hair. “I understand,
carina.
Everything will be all right now. Trust me.”

I’d forgotten how easy it was to sink into a man’s arms, to become the vulnerable little woman again.
Too easy,
I warned myself. And besides, he was a Pirata and, because of his father, I didn’t know if I could trust him.

I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. Mustering as much dignity as I could with my swollen eyes and red nose, I said, “I’ll be all right. It was just seeing everything here, just the way it was.”

“The house has been closed since your father died. Nobody ever came here.” He stepped back, watching me, arms folded across his chest. For a moment I was tempted to sink into his arms again and just cry on his shoulder.

“Well, thank you for coming by,” I said, and he took the hint and walked to the door.

He stood silhouetted by the setting sun. “May I see you again, Lamour?” he asked.

“If your father lets you,” I retorted. And this time I managed a grin. He waved as he left.

After a while I left, too. I didn’t bother to lock the door. It had never been locked all the time I had lived there and I was not going to start now. I stood on the terrace, letting my little golden house wrap its charm about me. Then I drove slowly back to the hotel, to tell Jammy everything that had happened.

A few days passed without any sight of Nico. Jammy had been here over a week. She was leaving the next day, but currently she was up a ladder painting the ceiling of the
salone
cream.

“I feel like Michelangelo,” she called. “I’ve got the same crick in my neck.”

“How d’you know he had a crick in his neck?” I said. “And anyhow, didn’t he paint lying on his back on scaffolding or something?” I was busy painting the shutters a cool sea blue. We’d sponged the walls yellow, the color of dawn just as the sun comes up, and already the house was beginning to look like it was mine.

“So how did he keep the paint out of his eyes, lying on his back like that?”

I laughed and said, “Oh, Jam, are you about ready for a break?”

“I didn’t want to be the first to admit it,” she confessed. She clambered awkwardly down. “I’ll never grumble again about the cost of having my house painted; they earn every penny.”

Carrying a couple of bottles of Coke, we sat on the front steps, stretching our aching backs and breathing un-paint-fumed air. We’d been at it since early that morning and it was now four in the afternoon. I was ready to call it quits, but
Jammy was determined to finish her ceiling before she flew off to Chicago.

“I hate going home without you,” she said.

“I’ll be right here,” I replied serenely, “at the other end of a phone.”

“Lam, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” she asked, giving it one last try. “Why not just think of it as a holiday house? We can all come out here in the summer; even the college kid will love it. I mean it, Lam; just think of the times we’d have together, eating pizza, swimming in the cove, fighting with the Pirate of Pirata. Also known,” she added, “as the Painter of Pirata.” She giggled, liking her new name for Lorenzo.

I laughed with her and suggested we have a farewell dinner at the Amalfitana that night.

She put an arm around my shoulders. Her face close to mine, she looked searchingly into my eyes. “Seriously, Lam, are you
sure
?”

I nodded, but I had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was all right when Jammy was here to keep me company: I had someone to laugh with over the upsets with the Piratas and all the work to be done. But when she was gone it would be another matter. I would be on my own in a foreign country. There would be no shoulder to cry on when things went wrong, no friend at my side to look out for me. I sternly reminded myself of my new vow of independence. So, where’s your backbone, girl? I chided silently. Stiffen your lip like the Brits. You’ve chosen this road and now you must travel it. Alone.

We spotted Mifune, heading for his meditation stone, and Jammy ran to greet him. “Mifune, you’ve known Lamour since she was a child,” she said. “I know you love her. Can I trust you to look after her when I’m gone?”

Mifune bowed. “Your trust is safe with me, Signora Haigh,” he said, and Jammy bowed back and thanked him, satisfied that as long as he was here no harm would befall me.

Later, freshly showered, hair still damp, dressed casually in white cotton capris and T-shirts, we lounged gratefully in the Amalfitano’s chairs, drinking white wine and nibbling on salad.

“I’m almost sorry to leave,” Jammy sighed. “I’ll miss all this.”

“Come back anytime,” I said, sounding hopeful, though of course I knew she had her own life to lead.

“I’ll bring the college kid; she’s gonna love it here.”

We had run out of conversation, and for the first time I felt a gap between us. “Jam,” I clutched her hand across the table, “I promise if it doesn’t work out, if it’s all too hard . . .”

Her face lit up. “Yes?” she said hopefully.

“Then like the little pig whose house blew down, I’ll just try, try, try again,” I said with a grin, and we were laughing again. Friends forever.

I saw Lorenzo Pirata before he saw me. He was with a group of people that included his daughter though not his son. Aldo and the waiters hurried to push three tables together to form a long one, slapping paper place mats with the map of Pirata and the Italian flag in front of them, slamming down silverware and a couple of glasses containing paper napkins. There were no frills at the Amalfitano. But this was a chic bunch, casual in a different way from Jammy and me. The women were elegant in thin white linen, sleek hair and gold bracelets and the men in fine polo shirts, shorts, and expensive loafers.

“We’ve got company,” I said quietly.

Jammy glanced quickly over her shoulder. She turned back to me, brows raised. “It’s his home turf.” She shrugged. I saw
Aldo hurrying to take their orders while the waiters brought bottles of wine. I kept my gaze firmly away from them, concentrating on my wineglass, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that eyes were on me. I took another sip of wine, trying not to hear their conversation.

“Signora Harrington. Signora Haigh.
Buona sera.
”

Lorenzo Pirata was standing next to me. I lifted my eyes to him, aware of Jammy sitting breathlessly opposite, waiting for what was to happen.

“Good evening, Signor Pirata,” I said coolly.

“I hope Aldo is treating you well,” he said, smiling. “I can recommend the eggplant; it’s his wife’s specialty.”

I hadn’t even known Aldo had a wife, much less that she did the cooking. “Then I must be sure to try it,” I said, matching his smile and thinking what a good-looking bastard my enemy was. Because one thing I knew for sure: he was my enemy.

“Then I’ll wish you both a pleasant evening,” he said, returning to his table.

I could feel Aurora Pirata’s eyes burning into me, but I ignored it. The eggplant Lorenzo had recommended was meltingly good, draped in the wonderful local mozzarella and as calorific as anything I’d eaten in years, except of course the pizza and the calamari and the bread. . . . I sighed.