The House in Amalfi (17 page)

Nico held my hand and we wandered around, staring into shopwindows that offered a million temptations, like handmade sandals, jewels, bikinis and couture dresses, bags and shawls and bed linens that made you dream of curling up in them.

I lingered in front of Alberto and Lina’s jewelry store, tempted by a delicate coral bracelet.

“Why not get it,
carina
?” Nico said, as though expensive trinkets were something I bought every day on the spur of the moment.

I hesitated. The chunks of coral looked as though they had grown out of the gold. It was lovely in its simplicity.

“Maybe later,” I said lightly, letting him lead me away from temptation. Besides, I had more important things to spend my money on these days.

Nico was still holding my hand, but it seemed so natural, and anyhow, I loved it. It made me feel I belonged.

We went to a pretty terraced restaurant off the Piazzetta called La Capannina, where he was greeted enthusiastically by the patron and shown a table (“Your usual table, Nico”) on the veranda. Instead of sitting opposite, Nico came to sit next
to me. He took my hand again and I looked questioningly at him. He laughed and put my hand to his lips. “Enjoy,
carina,
” he whispered, looking tenderly at me.

We admired the other diners, chic in their Dolces and Versaces, as beautiful and colorful as a flock of chattering parakeets, and Nico ordered those fresh peach and champagne cocktails called Bellinis. We sipped them and without looking at a menu he told me exactly what we should eat. It was easy to be seduced into the delicate little woman role with Nico, allowing him to make the small decisions: where to go today, what to order, what to drink, what to buy. . . . I was a pampered female, purring into my Bellini, so when Nico started laughing, I asked him, puzzled, why.

“Because today you are a different woman,” he said. “You’ve lost all that prickly get-out-of-my-hair attitude. I almost believe you are enjoying yourself.”

He let go of my hand when our
insalata caprese
arrived. The tomato and mozzarella salad was interleaved with sprigs of fresh basil. The salad was invented on Capri and named for the island, and though I must have eaten it a thousand times, it had never tasted quite like this. First, the cheese was
burratta,
a creamier version of mozzarella. The tomatoes were grown in somebody’s garden plot on the island and picked that morning and the basil was cut straight from the garden. Drizzled with local olive oil and lemon and spiked with black pepper, it was the freshest taste in the world. I need not have eaten another thing, especially as Nico and I were holding hands again, which I liked enormously, and now sipping a chilled light pink wine.

We smiled a lot at each other, talking about nothing in particular . . . the other diners, the color of the sky, and whether I should really buy the little bracelet I had admired at Alberto and Lina’s. I found myself telling Nico about my life in
Chicago and about my work. He became very solemn when I told him about Alex’s death, though I had the sense not to tell him Alex had been about to leave me for someone else.

“Poor Lamour,” Nico said, caressing my hand gently. “It must have been so hard for you. You deserve a holiday like this.”

Then the
linguine con lo scorfano
arrived, pretty as a picture, though the spiky scorpion fish were a bit intimidating looking.

I thought back to that cold, rainy winter night with Jammy at the
trattoria
in Chicago, drinking Chianti and dreaming about Italy. And now here I was with a charming, beautiful man whose eyes rarely left my face and whose only desire in life seemed to be to please me. I buzzed with happiness.

“Nico,
caro, there
you are!” A girl stood by our table, slender as a model in a low-slung miniskirt that showed off her gemstudded navel and her exquisitely brown thighs. She tossed her long blond hair, looking impatiently at us, as Nico got to his feet.

He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Cara,”
he said softly, “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you were still in Rome.”

“How could I stay there without you?” she demanded. Nico glanced at me, and with a murmured
“scusi”
he led her away.

I put down my fork. The gloss had suddenly gone off the day. The girl was not only gorgeous; she looked all of nineteen and was obviously more than just a friend. Feeling foolish, I poured more wine and sipped it, staring down at my plate.

The two of them were in the piazza. I saw him put his arms around her. They were so close their thighs touched. He took her face in both his hands and put his lips close to hers. For a moment he held her like that, and then he kissed her. A
long
kiss.

After a while, she stepped back and I saw that she was smiling. He said something and then she walked away, turning to wave to him. He waited until she was out of sight before returning to the table.

“I’m sorry,
cara,
” he said easily, “but that was an old friend from Rome.”

“Hardly an
old
friend,” I said more sharply than I should have. “She’s just a baby.”

He looked at me, surprised; then he burst out laughing. “Come, Lamour, let’s finish our delicious lunch,” he said, pouring the last of the wine and signaling the waiter for another bottle.

But it was different now, and he knew it.

We walked back across the piazzetta no longer holding hands. From time to time I felt, rather than saw, him glance my way. He said nothing until we passed Alberto and Lina’s jewelry store. “Wait,” Nico said cajolingly. “What about your bracelet?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want it after all,” I said, sounding like the spoiled child I wished I was. I wanted to be that eight-year-old again, back with Jon-Boy, the child without a care in the world.

On the boat ride back to Pirata there were no happy calls back and forth this time, just the roar of the engine and the sound of the wind. I thought how foolish I was to have imagined even for a few moments that a young man like Nico could have been interested in me as a woman.

Back at the jetty, he tied up the boat, then helped me out. “Thank you for a wonderful day,” I said politely, offering him my hand.

He looked at me for a long moment. “It was a pleasure,
carina.
And I mean that,” he said.

I picked up my straw bag and walked quickly away. “Thanks
again,” I called over my shoulder. “No need to see me home. I’ll be okay.” And then I remembered what I’d wanted to ask him.

I turned at the steps. “What do you know about Jon-Boy’s death, Nico?” I asked.

He froze; then he turned and looked at me. “Nothing. I know nothing,” he said. “You must ask my father about that.”

I turned and walked away. I didn’t believe him for a minute. And anyhow, why did he tell me to ask his father?

I plodded up the steps to the house. I’d broken my rule and allowed myself to be flattered by Nico’s attention. Seeing him with the pretty young girl had brought me back to my senses, before it was too late. All I’d been for him was a local “flirtation.”

I was too needy. Too vulnerable. And too damn old anyway!

On the terrace I stretched out full length on the old chaise lounge. I could feel the sting of sunburn on my shoulders and tasted sea salt on my lips, mementos of a pleasant day. I had no right to think Nico had behaved badly. Obviously he knew lots of girls, and of course they were in love with him. The fact that this one was beautiful and young was my problem.

I must have dropped off to sleep on the terrace, because the next thing I knew it was dark. I sat up and looked at my little house. There were no lights gleaming in its windows and no Jon-Boy there to welcome me. Loneliness swept over me in a huge wave. I huddled on the chair, arms clasped around my knees, head sunk, thinking of the happy times in the past. I’d been so confident I could re-create them, but now I wasn’t so sure.

I wished Jammy was here sharing secrets, telling me in her high little-girl voice I couldn’t possibly live here. For the first time I thought maybe she was right; then I told myself not to be so foolish. How could I allow a mild little flirtation gone
wrong to make me change my mind? I must be crazy after all.

I picked up my straw bag, dusted myself off, and went into my house. Lying on the terra-cotta hall tiles was an envelope. Somebody must have pushed it under the door. I went into the
salone
and turned on the lamps to read it.

Signora Harrington
was written in a large firm hand on the envelope. I tore it open and unfolded the single sheet of creamy handmade paper. It was from the Castello and written in English.
Dear Signora Harrington,
it began,
I would like to discuss your situation re the Mistress’s House and would be pleased if you could join me for lunch next Friday at 1:00
P.M
. here at the Castello. I understand from Mifune that you are a landscape architect, and I shall look forward to showing you around my gardens. Sincerely, Lorenzo Pirata.

I thought the politeness and the offer to show me around his gardens were probably the sugarcoating on the bitter pill of what he really wanted to discuss. The house had belonged to the Pirata family before Jon-Boy bought it, and now I got the feeling Lorenzo wanted it back. And he also wanted me out of here and out of the Piratas’ lives. Telling myself he’d soon find out he was dealing with the wrong woman, I quickly dashed off a note accepting his lunch invitation. I would give it to Mifune to deliver tomorrow. I would also ask him what he thought Lorenzo Pirata wanted to talk about, because I suspected Mifune knew everything that went on around here. Maybe he even knew what had happened to Jon-Boy.

I told myself I was being ridiculous; of course Mifune would not deceive me. I was just feeling sorry for myself.

I put a record on the long-unused record player, poured myself a glass of wine, and curled up on the sofa, letting the lush strings float rather squeakily around me.

What I
really
needed, I decided gloomily, was a dog.

The next morning I was up early, sitting over a cup of coffee, listening to the purr of the waves and waiting for Mifune. I knew he would come because he was obviously the letter carrier between me and Lorenzo Pirata. I’d put all thoughts of Nico behind me and resolved simply to get on with my life.

Today, for instance, I intended to paint my bedroom the color of ripe apricots. The narrow little bed of my childhood was too small, and I would order a new one to be delivered as soon as possible. I’d go to Amalfi and buy inexpensive but beautifully embroidered linens and thick new towels, and a soft rug for my bedroom. I’d buy new sandals, though now I regretted not getting the lovely handmade ones sold in Capri. And best of all, I would buy a boat. She’d be small, of course, and inexpensive, and she’d be my water taxi. I would call her
The Lady Lamour
. Remembering how lonely I’d felt last night, I thought, hell, I might even buy that dog.

I grinned; there was nothing like shopping to raise a woman’s spirits. I saw Mifune coming toward me and I asked him to please take a seat and share some coffee with me.

He refused and I remembered too late he drank only Japanese green tea. He’d told me the Piratas imported it specially for him, with other Japanese condiments and delicacies that, when he’d first come to Italy, had helped make him feel at
home. Now he ate Italian like everyone else, though I could see he ate very little and he confessed his diet was mostly the vegetables that he grew at the Castello.

Il architetto
had sent a report on the erosion, as well as on the state of the septic tank, but I didn’t even want to think about that. As for the erosion, Mifuni and I agreed all would be well when we had cleared the rest of the scrub. We would bring in new topsoil and replant with sturdy young trees and new shrubs whose roots would eventually knit the earth together again.

“Did you enjoy your day in Capri, Lamour?” he asked.

“It was pleasant,” I said. “Capri was as beautiful as I remembered and the people as glossy and cosmopolitan as ever.”