The House in Amalfi (20 page)

The floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed with his books, and a beautiful writing table stood by the window. This time, with a clearer head and also in the clear light of day, I saw that the table was an antique, probably eighteenth-century Italian, and probably valuable. I had not seen it before and I was surprised.

On it was a bunch of papers and the coffee mug with
Souvenir of Sorrento
inscribed on it, in which he kept his different-colored pens. He used a new color for each day; he said that way he always knew exactly where he was in the narrative.

I went and sat in his chair, a straight-up simple dining chair borrowed from downstairs and never returned. I opened the top drawer and saw a yellow legal pad with several pages covered in his small closely written script. There were also a
couple of reference books and a battered old dictionary from his college days. And a dark blue leather diary.

I stared at the diary. It probably told everything I needed to know, but I was loathe to invade my father’s privacy—and God knows there is nothing more private than a diary. Yet I
had
to know what had been happening in the months leading up to his death. Guiltily I read the first entry.

Jan. 1. Rome
, he had written in the small space provided for that day.
Up all night—and the night before. Snow fell at midnight, grand soft flakes studding the sky like crystal ornaments, blending with the fireworks, sparkling in the streetlights, melting on the tongue, like a chaser to the too-much champagne we had drunk. “C” in red chiffon, wrapped in fur, face peeking from the big collar like a pretty little fox . . . or vixen is more like it. We met at Orlando’s overcrowded party at the Palazzo Rosati-Contini—nothing but the best for Orlando, including the women. Had gone there in a bad mood after the usual chaotic scene with “I,” expecting nothing—and suddenly I found myself escorting the vixen home. We both knew what awaited at the end of our walk through Rome’s now deserted streets—but after forty-eight hours without sleep, trying to avoid the usual rows and distractions with “I” and do some work, plus all the partying and all the drinking . . . I hoped I was going to be up to it.

Jan. 2. Six
P.M
. “C” is an incredible woman, beautiful . . . she seduced even this tired writer and succeeded in making me feel I was the only man in her life. Would that that were true. Now I think I’m in love. What a note to start the new year on. Life is suddenly looking good.

I slammed the diary shut. I shouldn’t have read it. I didn’t want to know the details of Jon-Boy’s love affairs. I sat for a moment, undecided. His
life
was in there. I
needed
to read it. I
opened it again and I looked up the final entry. The date was October 30. The day he died.

“I” has been here; I know it. When I returned from the Amalfitano, I noticed things had been moved. The desk lamp was on, a drawer was open, the armoire door left ajar. She had not taken “C’s” red chiffon dress, but I knew she had seen it. Who knows what conclusions she came to? I suppose I should keep the front door locked, but that’s not the way around here, and besides, I would never lock her out. I’ve found out the hard way that love never really dies, and I still care about her, yet I’m crazy for “C.” Perhaps the only really true love we have is the love we give our innocent children. This is a thought I must always keep in my mind. Maybe at Christmas I’ll fly to Chicago and surprise Lamour, the true girl of my heart.

Jon-Boy’s final words had been about me. I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes, picturing my father sitting here writing this. “I love you, too, Jon-Boy,” I whispered.

I put the diary back in the drawer and locked it. I couldn’t bear to pry anymore; it just wasn’t right. I went to the armoire, took out the red dress, and held it to me. Perfume lingered in its folds, a sophisticated scent I couldn’t quite identify. It was silk chiffon, falling into a soft flutter at the hem. The hand-stitched label said GIORGIO VIVARI. It was the designer I had encountered in Rome, the one who had complimented me on my charming foot! I thought not only was “C” beautiful and sexy; she was also expensive. Way beyond Jon-Boy’s means, I knew, because he’d gone through his royalty windfall from the first novel—his only novel—as fast as it came in.

I never knew quite what he’d spent it all on, though he’d rented a glossy apartment in one of those grand palazzi in Rome that we could never afford when I was a child. And of course, he’d bought this house, the refuge to which he’d
intended to retreat and write his next opus. I wondered if “C” had put a stop to that? Or maybe “I”? I had fewer details on her, but I guessed she was the rejected lover, and jealous women did crazy things; everyone knew that.

Hadn’t I felt those same pangs of jealousy when Jammy told me of Alex’s betrayal, even though he was dead? I’d felt the humiliation of being cheated, the pain of being rejected for someone new. I had felt anger. Who knew what I might have done had I found out when Alex was still alive?

But I would never have killed him. More likely I’d have wanted to hurl
myself
off the balcony.
Failure
was a terrifying word, especially in love.

The shrill beep of the Italian phone service brought me back to reality. I dashed to my room and picked it up.

“So where were you?” Jammy’s voice brought an instant smile to my face.

“Somewhere in the past. Reading Jon-Boy’s diary.”

“It’s never a good idea to read other people’s diaries.”

“I know that. And believe me I feel guilty, but I thought he might mention what was going on, that there might be some clue. . . .”

“And was there?”

“Only that there was a woman in his life, beautiful, sexy, expensive. . . .”

“Sounds like par for the course, knowing Jon-Boy.”

“Yeah, but there was also a second woman. He’d left her and I think she was jealous.”

Jammy sighed again, a big, gusty sigh that I knew meant she had had enough of Jon-Boy’s past. “So what’s happening with
you
?” she demanded. “How’s
your
love life with all those gorgeous Italian men around?”

“I assume you are talking about the Piratas?” I said. “I
went to Capri with one yesterday and I’m having lunch with the other tomorrow.”

“Capri? That’s exciting. Tell me all, girl.”

So I told her all about my day with Nico, how charming I thought he was, how delightful a companion, and about the bracelet. “But . . . ,” I said finally, and heard her laugh.

She said, “With men there’s always a ‘but.’ Haven’t you learned that by now? And what about the other Pirata? The painter who didn’t want you to talk to his offspring?”

I told her the chicken story and how Lorenzo had come to my aid. “He apologized for telling Aurora and Nico not to talk to me,” I said. “I kind of liked that he admitted he was wrong, Jammy. I mean a man in his position, he could have just told me to mind my own business and keep out of the Pirata family’s way.”

“That he could,” Jammy said thoughtfully. “So I wonder what he wants?”

I told her he had invited me to lunch to discuss the house. “Ha, the truth at last,” she said. “And what do
you
think he wants, Lamour?”

I said I hated to admit it, but I thought he wanted the house back and me out of there and out of the Piratas’ lives.

“You can always come home,” Jammy said, sounding so unsympathetic I laughed.

I asked about Matt and the college kid and I promised to call immediately after the lunch and tell her everything that had happened.

Back downstairs I found a man standing outside the open front door. “Signor Pirata sent the chicken feed, signora,” he said politely. He carried two huge bags into my kitchen and I thanked him and the signor Pirata and gave him a tip. He lifted his cap politely, then departed.

I quickly opened a bag, scooped the feed into a saucepan, then hurried out to my chickens. They were lined up, beaks sticking through the wire, looking irate. When I opened the gate the rooster came strutting at me. I flung in feed and slammed the gate shut. I filled the saucepan with water from the garden faucet, shoved it in, and clanged the gate shut again. I made sure the wire was wound securely around the makeshift latch and left them happily scratching and pecking at the food.

Perhaps they’d just been hungry, I thought. When they’ve eaten they’ll be content and snuggle up on their straw nests and get to work laying.

I walked back around the house onto the terrace. The pretty coral bracelet was still on the table where I’d left it. I put it on, turning my wrist this way and that, thinking about Nico. He’d said it was meant for me, but of course I couldn’t allow him to buy it. I’d write a check now and send it over to the Castello. Inside, though, I was secretly thrilled. Maybe I fancied Nico Pirata and maybe he fancied me. Love affairs have been based on less than that.

I dressed carefully for my business meeting with Lorenzo Pirata, because a “business meeting” was what it definitely was. I couldn’t flatter myself I was being invited because of my charms. This Pirate captain moved in far grander circles than his forebears and was certainly out of my dating realm.

I wore a skirt I’d bought with Jammy in Rome. Actually I’d fallen for the color, a lovely apple green, more than the skirt, as I much preferred wearing pants. With it I wore a matching T-shirt and the raspberry-colored sandals I’d bought in Amalfi. I thought I looked a bit like a limeade Popsicle, but it was too late to change. I brushed my unruly hair into a tight knot because it looked more businesslike, added gold hoop earrings and a hint of Jo Malone’s honeysuckle perfume. I’d already done my face, minimal as usual, just a little shiny pink blusher, lipstick, mascara. I wondered why I was going to all this trouble for a man who obviously didn’t even like me.

I was halfway out the door when I remembered Nico’s bracelet. I went back and put it on. After all, the Pirate didn’t know his son had given it to me.

Mifune was waiting for me out on the terrace to accompany me on my walk up to the Castello. Adjusting my long-legged stride to his slower pace, I told him how much I was looking forward to seeing his gardens again.

“I am sorry I did not bring you to see them earlier,
cara
,” he said, “but they do not belong to me and I could not invite you without permission.”

I stared at him, astounded. “Mifune, do you mean to say you were forbidden to bring me to see your lovely gardens?”

“Not
forbidden
, Lamour. It was suggested to me that it might not be suitable.”

That sounded like a Pirata euphemism for “forbid” to me. Fuming, I walked along the pathway lined with cedars, through the small grove of olive trees that provided the family with first-rate olive oil, also sold in stores in London and Rome. We stopped for a moment to admire the arched wooden bridge over the carp pond, where the orange fish leaped up at us, looking for food.

I remembered these gardens so well I could have drawn a map, but I was not here on pleasure and we walked quicker now, up the herb-lined gravel path. A helicopter sat on its pad below the house and I thought how rich the Pirate must be to own such a thing.

Mifune left me at the bottom of the wide stone steps. He said gently, “Do not take everything that is said today to heart. It is not exactly the way it seems.” And with that cryptic remark he walked away, leaving me wondering uneasily what on earth he had meant.

A houseman in a white linen jacket was holding open the massive door. He told me his name was Massimo. I said,
“Buona sera,”
and stepped inside the Pirate’s stronghold.

I looked around the lofty hall, painted that wonderful shade of ocher red you see in ancient frescos. There were cherubs and clouds on the pale blue ceiling and on the walls golden sconces that looked as though they could hold a hundred candles. The floor was tiled in black and white marble,
and twin alabaster staircases rose to meet in a balustraded gallery in the middle.

Impressed, I followed Massimo through a pair of tall double doors into a formal living room. It was as large as the hall, with immense silk-curtained windows, and it had the air of a room long unused.

“Welcome to the Castello Pirata, Signora Harrington,” Lorenzo Pirata said from behind me.

I swung round, startled. He held out his hand and I took it, because, friend or foe, I’d been brought up to be polite. He was immaculate as always, impressive with his leonine good looks, his piercing blue gaze, his thick silver hair. A
strong
man who I knew would make a formidable enemy. The ugly white dog stood next to him. She did not come over to say hello.

“You have a very beautiful home, Signor Pirata,” I said.

He nodded. “Thank you, though I can’t take much credit for it. The Castello was built by my family and I was lucky enough to inherit it. My wife was responsible for the decoration of this room, though, and I think she did a remarkable job, don’t you?”

I wondered why I hadn’t realized there must be a wife and quickly decided she must be some gorgeous blond trophy who right now was out spending his money.