The House in Amalfi (24 page)

Another week went by and still no response from Lorenzo. I said nothing to Mifune. Working in the garden with him, I knew he was watching me, saw that he felt what I was feeling. He understood why I needed the house and what I was searching for and I was comforted, knowing somehow he would help me find it.

“Patience,
cara
,” he said to me as I prowled restlessly. “One day all will be resolved.” I wished I could be as sure.

Meanwhile, my new refrigerator was not delivered. Nor my washer and dryer. Then came a strong note from
il architetto
, stating that there was erosion of the cliff that would have to be dealt with—at great expense. Plus the septic tank would have to be replaced. And perhaps also there might be some structural problem at the rear of the house, where it abutted the cliff. Enclosed was an astronomical bill, far exceeding the amount I had been quoted for the inspection.

Plus my chickens had yet to lay a single egg. They ate in a frenzy, then disappeared into their expensive new wooden coop to snooze on their nests, while Mr. Rooster patrolled the perimeter of the cage like a prison guard, crowing every now and then to let me know he was boss.

I was going to have to give the little buggers their freedom, then see if they laid. But the thought of facing Mr. Rooster
out in the open was daunting, and I put off the freedom ploy until later.

No progress was being made on any front. I was on hold until Lorenzo gave me an answer.

Still, my little golden house wrapped its old charm about me as I struggled to get it back in shape. Then one fine blue morning, the truck with my new appliances arrived. Two burly deliverymen in blue boilersuits appeared at the top of the
scalatinella
, one clasping the washer in his arms, the other the dryer.

I stared, unbelieving, at them, edging crabwise down the steps, vast arms wrapped around the appliances. I saw the second man miss a step, wobble frantically sideways, then still clutching the dryer fall forward onto his friend, who in turn lurched forward. He flung his arms out to save himself, letting go of the washer, which crashed onward down the steps. Bouncing nicely, the dryer followed.

The two men sat in a heap, dusting themselves off, while my washer and dryer, now a mangled heap, lay useless at the bottom of the steps.

“Scusi, perdona, signora,”
they said, getting up and inspecting themselves for cuts and bruises, “but do you have a Band-Aid?”

“A Band-Aid,” I yelled, getting my voice back, because previously they had rendered me speechless. “You want a
Band-Aid
? Just look at my new washer! It’s ruined. They’re both ruined!”

They turned to stare at the mangled heap. “
Calmo, calmo, signora
, is nothing that cannot be fixed,” one said soothingly.

“Fixed? You want to
fix
this heap of junk? No, I’ll have to call your boss.”

They marched back up the steps while I paced, wondering gloomily who was going to end up paying for this, suspecting
it was myself. Five minutes later, they appeared at the top of the
scalatinella
, this time holding my refrigerator between them.

“Stop! Stop!” I waved my arms frantically. “Don’t you have a dolly or something to get the refrigerator down the steps?”

“Ah, sì, sì, signora,”
they said, and muttering under his breath, one man abruptly abandoned his end, leaving the other straining to hold the refrigerator alone.

I closed my eyes. At this rate I would soon be ruined.

The other deliveryman came back with a too-small dolly. Amid more muttering they heaved the refrigerator onto it. I held my breath as they edged it step-by-step down the cliff side and onto the terrace. I breathed again. Okay, so at least I would have a refrigerator. I led them to the front door, carefully pointing out the step. As they maneuvered over it I saw my new refrigerator tilt to the left. Then the right. Then left again. . . . I flung myself against it, desperately trying to stabilize it. It was no good. It came crashing down. Only this time on my foot.

“Jeez,”
I gasped, hopping backward, my face contorted with pain. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Perdona, signora,”
the larger one said solemnly, “but it was your fault. You should not have grabbed hold of it; we had it perfectly under control. . . .”

It didn’t pay to argue; I knew I would have to face that with the owner of the store where I’d bought the appliances. Meanwhile, my injured refrigerator was maneuvered into place in the kitchen. It stood there, chipped and battered, but at least when it was plugged in it worked. I was almost happy to settle for that.

I said good-bye to my trusty workforce, then hopped upstairs to the bathroom to soak my injured foot in a tub of cold water, because of course I did not yet have ice. Bitterly I
inspected my swollen foot. Nothing,
absolutely nothing
, was going right in my life. And this time even Nico wasn’t around to commiserate with me.

But Aurora Pirata was.

She was sitting on the bench outside my door, legs crossed, head flung back, arms spread along the curved tiles, looking like a photo in a fashion magazine. That this girl didn’t know she was beautiful staggered me. She could have been a
Vogue
model any day.

I said a cautious, if surprised, hello. She nodded her head and said
“ciao”
back.

“I’m surprised to find you here, Aurora,” I said, because she made no attempt to start the conversation or to tell me why she was here.

“I thought I’d tell you I’m asking my father to give me this house,” she said in that fast voice she used sometimes. I thought it meant she was nervous, but there was also something manic about her at times like this. “I’ll tell him I want it so when I get married I’ll have my children here. Of course you know he’ll give it to me, Lamour. He can’t refuse me anything.”

Anger flared. I’d had it with Aurora and her father. “Great,” I snapped. “Then you can also have the new washer and dryer. They’re lying at the bottom of the stairs, or didn’t you notice? And you can have the damned chickens as well.”

“What chickens?” she asked so sweetly she stopped me in my angry tracks.

I looked suspiciously at her, but she seemed suddenly genuinely interested.

“I kept chickens when I was a little girl,” she said, all quick enthusiasm. “My mother and I together. They were white and the babies were adorable. I know all about how to look after chickens.”

“Terrific. Then you’ll have no problems with these,” I snapped, unmoved by her new sweet tone.

“Oh.”

She looked so downcast that despite my anger I felt sorry for her. The girl was like a ball of mercury, splitting in a dozen different directions at once. I couldn’t keep up with her moods. But I still knew that she didn’t like me and didn’t want me around.

“Anyway, I’m sure you’re right about your father,” I added. “I doubt he’ll deny you anything.”

She got to her feet, a swift, graceful movement that took my breath away. I thought she should have been a ballet dancer, standing there so slender and elegant, looking sadly at me now.

“Thank you for listening to me,” she said with a subdued kind of dignity. I watched her go, saw her stop and stare at the broken refrigerator. Then she walked slowly up the
scalatinella
, back, I supposed, to the Castello. She seemed to have forgotten all about the chickens.

I thought my ownership of the little house was in even more jeopardy than before.

I could wait no longer for Lorenzo’s answer. I decided to go see him. Massimo answered the door. “I’ll find out if the signore is available,” he said.

I lingered in the Pompeian red hall, checking out the paintings, until Massimo came back and told me the
signore
was home. Instead of leading me into the
salone
, Massimo took me back down the steps and around the terrace to the stone tower.

I found myself alone in a room lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves of books, with tall, narrow windows set high in the stone walls. The ugly dog came and licked my hand. She wagged her tail sweetly and I melted. At least one of the Piratas was friendly.

Lorenzo came down the stairs. “Come, sit down, Lamour,” he said in a friendly tone. He was wearing his old paint-spattered shorts and a red polo shirt and I thought he looked like an ad for Ralph Lauren, one of those classy guys who inhabit old mansions on Long Island’s North Shore, where Gatsby lived. Lorenzo was too handsome to be believed. But believe him I did when he said, “I know why you are here, Lamour. I’m sorry not to have replied sooner, but I was away on business—New York, then Paris. . . .” He shrugged. “I’m glad to be back home again.”

He sat back in his leather chair behind his desk, twirling a
pen in his fingers. “I appreciated your note,” he said quietly. “But I’m afraid I cannot change my position. I cannot sell you the house.”

Seeing my stricken face, he said, “I’m sorry, Lamour; it’s simply not possible. But I hope you will enjoy the rest of your stay.”

I was a fool ever to have put myself in this position. We stood a foot apart, each searching the other’s face. I felt a pang of regret that I had to be on the wrong side of this man, because he was interesting in a way I had never encountered before.

“I don’t know when I’ll leave,” I said. “If ever. And if that makes me your enemy, then so be it.”

Lorenzo bowed his head in acceptance. He walked me to the door.

“Good-bye, Lamour Harrington,” he said.

I thought I saw a glimpse of sadness on his face, but it was gone so fast I couldn’t be sure. “Good-bye,” I said in a choked voice; then I strode back down the path to the little house that was mine no longer.

Later that evening, alone in his house, Lorenzo Pirata wrestled with his conscience. Lamour’s stricken face was imprinted on his memory. He hadn’t expected her to be so vulnerable, nor had he anticipated how much she would be hurt.

He saw Mifune tending the garden, half-hidden under his conical straw hat that now seemed too large for his delicate frame. As always, Lorenzo was struck with a pang of tenderness for the old man who probably knew him better than anyone ever had except for his wife, Marella. In fact, there was nothing Mifune didn’t know, and that’s why Lorenzo sought him out now.