The House in Amalfi (37 page)

The nurse avoided my eyes and I guessed she wasn’t going to talk about Aurora’s other “sickness.” I thought of Lorenzo, gazing, stricken, at his unconscious daughter, and the grief in his eyes. All her life he had sheltered her, protected her from dealing with the real world. He had found the best psychiatrists and psychologists, but he had never been able to remove the great weight of clinical depression that had brought Aurora to the point of attempted suicide. There were times, I realized, when love alone was not enough.

The door opened and I recognized Lorenzo’s footsteps even before I saw him. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t mean to, but when I looked into his concerned face I felt those stupid tears roll out of my eyes and slide onto my pillow.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and heard him laugh.

The nurse arranged my pillows so I could sit up. I saw Lorenzo was carrying a tray with tea and toast and boiled eggs, chocolate chip cookies, and milk.

“Lunch,” he said. “You’ve been sleeping for hours; you need nourishment.”

He put the tray in front of me, then took my hand and kissed it. “How are you,
tesoro
?”

I nodded, still choked up. He had brought me to his home, put me to bed, gotten me a nurse, and now he’d served me breakfast. “I’m okay. Now you make me feel like a real
tesoro.
”

“That’s because you are.” He buttered a piece of toast and handed it to me, watching as I bit into it. “I’m so sorry, Lamour. What can I say? What can I do . . . ?” He lifted his hands, defeated. “I never thought Aurora would go this far. She told me she had meant only to drown herself—like her
‘father,’ she said. She didn’t mean to harm you, but then the storm came. She told me you were her friend, her sister. . . .”

I felt a sudden fierce loyalty to Aurora. She was a part of me. “And I am,” I said.

“She asks your forgiveness.”

I saw again her beautiful radiant face as she pinned my hands to the wheel. “Tell her there’s nothing to forgive. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Is that the truth, Lamour? I must know, you see, whether it was a deliberate act? Whether Aurora really wanted to kill you?”

I shook my head. “No. No! She was crazy at that moment. She didn’t know what she was doing, Lorenzo. I swear she did not.”

I saw the relief in his eyes; then he bent over and kissed me. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“What will happen to Aurora now?”

“The doctor says she must be hospitalized for a few weeks. They have medication for these conditions, they’ll stabilize her, then perhaps she’ll be able to go back to the university, be back with people her own age. She’ll try to get her life back on track, be ‘normal.’ We’ll just always have to be aware that she’s fighting this depression.”

“You’ve always helped her,” I said.

“And I always will.”

We sat there, holding hands. “I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Lorenzo said after a long silence.

“Well, you didn’t,” I replied.

“Nico was superb; he came to your rescue. He managed that Riva in terrible seas like a born sailor, which of course he is. His only complaint is that he scraped her along the side of the fishing boat and ruined her paintwork.”

I grinned. “It was for a good cause. He’ll get over it.”
I lifted Lorenzo’s hand to my lips and kissed it. I liked his hands, hard workmanlike hands, scattered with dark hair. Hands that worked magic on me.

“Want to come to bed?” I asked cheekily.

I loved the sound of his laughter.

Finally knowing the truth about how Jon-Boy died left me bereft. After all these years I had thought what I would feel was relief that the mystery was solved and that I would finally be able to put my ghosts to rest. Yet the image of Jon-Boy falling, of his broken skull, of the poor crazed woman who had done this to him, and of Lorenzo holding my dead father in his arms haunted my days as well as my dreams.

Lorenzo was in Rome, and Mifune and I were working together in my garden, clearing ground for an old olive tree I’d bought and that was to be delivered the next day. I’d chosen its position carefully, placing it next to the steps leading from the terrace, where I would see its beautiful silvery leaves fluttering in the breeze as I drank my morning coffee. But Jon-Boy was on my mind and I needed to talk about him.

“I’m in trouble, Mifune,” I said when we finally took a break. “You were right, when you told me that unlocking the door to the Amalfi house would unlock not only my past but also Jon-Boy’s. You asked me if I was sure I wanted to do it, and I was so foolishly confident, I did. Now, I’m not so sure.”

We were sitting side by side on the steps. He said, “It was not only because of Aurora that I did not tell you what happened that night; it was because I did not wish you to feel this pain. I had great respect for Jon-Boy. He was my friend. I went many nights after it happened to sit where I had last seen
him, watching the sea, hoping for his body to be returned so we might honor him with burial, the way we should our ancestors. But it was not to be. Instead I put flowers on the shrine of Saint Andrew, the patron saint of men at sea, asking that he look after Jon-Boy’s soul.”

Our eyes met, and once again I felt embraced by this man. With his help my bruised spirit would be taken care of, and I believed that my shattered heart would eventually mend. “Life is granted to no man on a permanent basis,” Mifune said. “It is a privilege, and we must use our time wisely. It is up to each of us to make of it what we can.

“Remember this,
piccolina,
” he added, calling me by the affectionate diminutive he’d used when I was a little girl. “The soul is like a bird in flight. It escapes from us and flies free again without constraint. There are many more ways to remember Jon-Boy than his ending. Open your heart to those memories,
piccolina,
and let him fly free again.”

For the first time in my life I took Mifune’s hand. I held it in both mine. I was so grateful for his beautiful image of the soul as a bird flying free, I was moved to rest my cheek against his frail palm. “I never told you this, Mifune,” I whispered, “but I’ve always loved you.”

He patted my head and said, “Love transcends everything,
carina,
even death.” When I looked up at him, he was smiling. And I was able to say my final good-bye to Jon-Boy.

Of course I called Jammy and told her the story. We cried together over the phone until she said finally, “Okay, so now you know, honey. It’s time to get on with your life, remember?”

I did remember, but I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do about Lorenzo and me. I wondered where our relationship could go from here. Was I content to remain the mistress, the way poor Isabella had? The woman left behind while her man got on with his real life?

In the end I sent Jammy a long e-mail in which I poured out my heart about my feelings for Lorenzo.

I don’t think there is any future for us,
I wrote,
but I’m so in love, Jam, I’m living for the moment. I know he worries about the age difference, but hey, I’m gonna be thirty-nine next year. Do you think that helps? This is the first time since I was thirteen that I wished I were older, and it may be the last. It is odd, don’t you think, that I fall for a man who remembers me when I was a child? But when I look at him I don’t see an older man. I see Lorenzo, gentle, tender, handsome, and ohh, I see a wonderful lover who makes me feel the way a girl should when a guy makes love to her, hot with passion and sweaty with it, but at the same time sort of “treasured.”

Of course I’m very much aware that he’s an important man, a successful man. He knows everybody there is to know and he’s invited everywhere . . . but he always comes back to the Castello,
which is where he tells me he is happiest. Jam, as you know, I’ve never been one for the social whirl; I prefer my solitude and my gardens. Lorenzo’s life is different from mine, and so many people from those business and social worlds make demands on him. Our lives are really poles apart, except on the neutral and anonymous ground of the Castello, and here at my house.

What I’m asking, Jammy, is can two such opposing lives ever mesh? Though why I’m asking I don’t know, because Lorenzo has never mentioned any “future plans” and we both seem to be living for the moment, so I guess the point is a moot one.

Besides, there’s the question of his children. Aurora is damaged; she’s like a wary young horse shying away from anything new, especially anything that might take her father and her security away. As for Nico, the eternal happy playboy? Well, he’s just an amusing flirt. It was interesting for a while to imagine myself a little in love with him; he made me feel good. But there again he might not enjoy the idea of his father being my husband.

Oh, Jammy! What with Jon-Boy’s tragedy, and Aurora’s illness, and my shaky love life, you can imagine how I’m feeling. Only Mifune remains steadfast, and I find myself leaning on his strength.

I think I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and go sit in my belvedere and watch the sunset. At least that’s no problem—it’s just beautiful.

You know how much I love you and Matt—and the college kid—and how much I miss you. And thank you for letting me get all this off my chest.

A few days later, I bumped into Nico at the Amalfitano, where I’d dropped in for lunch after a little shopping. He was alone, sitting over a cold beer. He glanced up. “I could use some company,” he said.

“Then I’ll buy you a pizza.” I took a seat next to him.

Spotting me, Aldo came hurrying out from behind the bar. Nico and I ordered our pizzas; then I sat back in my seat and took a long look at him.

“So what’s up?” I asked gently. He shrugged and looked away, unsmiling.

“Nico-o-o, come on; I can see something is wrong. Now tell me.”

“It’s love,” he said.

“So . . . well . . . that’s nothing to be upset about. There’s nothing wrong with love.”

“There is when the woman involved does not love me,” he said, with that little sulky edge to his voice that let me know I was in trouble.

“When you say ‘woman’ are you by any chance referring to me?” I hid a smile because this was all too ridiculous.

He threw me a soulful glance, the kind I swear only Italian men know how to do, half dejected suitor, half hopeful lover. “Who else?” he asked sadly.

I laughed out loud. “Nico Pirata, you are not and never
have been in love with me. I loved
being
with you; you made me feel good. We had fun times together and you’re a great companion, but . . .
love
? Oh, come on, Nico; we never even kissed.”

“Not because I didn’t want to,” he said, bristling with injured masculinity. “And now you prefer my father.”

“It’s not a matter of preference. It’s a completely different relationship.”

“It’s love with you and my father, then?” he asked gloomily. I agreed that yes, it was. He heaved an enormous sigh. “Then I guess we’d better drink to that.”

“Thanks, Nico,” I said, and we raised our beer glasses in a toast to “love.” “You’re really a good guy, you know that,” I said. “And one day you’ll make some gorgeous young woman a very good husband.”