“I’m intrigued, Pietro; how come you did a Law degree—at Yale, no less—and yet you’re here working in a restaurant?”
“Oh, it’s an awfully long story.” He smiled at her. “At seventeen I left home to see the world, against my mother’s wishes, and ironically ended up in the United States doing exactly what she wanted.” He shrugged. “But fate often plays a hand in our lives. Not long before I graduated, my mother was killed in a car crash. That was almost twenty years ago now.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. And…your father?”
“I never knew my father.” His face was expressionless.
Momentarily lost for words, she sat silent.
Eventually he continued. “Once I graduated, I came home to look after her affairs—and my Nonna
.
”
He stared off into the distance, then continued. “My aunty—you met her down at the Marina Grande this afternoon—asked me to work in her restaurant until I could set up my law practice. So I moved into a small flat above her kitchen. She taught me to cook for large numbers.” He shrugged and held out one hand, palm upward. “And here I am, still cooking meals for tourists.”
“What happened to your dream of being a lawyer?”
He looked at her with his dark brown eyes. “It was never my dream to be a lawyer. It was my mother’s dream. She had lived a tough life, with very few opportunities. She wanted to give me a chance to move to the mainland. Besides that, Capri is a small island, and already we have several law firms. There is no room for another.”
“Are you happy being a chef?”
His eyes lit up with pleasure.
“Oh, si
.
At first
I wanted to open my own restaurant. Up here near the Villa Jovis. Nonna
and I discussed it at length. She wanted to sell Rosamanti
to finance a small boutique guesthouse where we could give tourists an authentic taste of our history and serve the traditional foods of Capri. Forgotten peasant food from our ancestors—quail, fresh squid, and all the fishes and crustaceans of the sea.” He paused, his eyes intense with passion. “It’s the sun that gives our tomatoes their unique flavor, the soil that spices the herbs, the wind that charms the fruit to ripen so sweetly, and the perfect amount of rain that makes our
vino blanco
the best in Italy. I wanted to combine the essence of traditional food, in a setting that is unsurpassed in beauty, scenery, and antiquity.”
He stopped, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I have said too much. You will be bored.”
“Not at all. I’m intrigued with your dreams. I enjoy being with people who have passion about what they want to do or what they believe.” She paused. “But why talk about your plans as if they’re in the past? Can’t you still open the restaurant?”
His soft laugh didn’t hide the look of embarrassment that crossed his face. “Unfortunately I’ve never had the money to set it up. And my aunt keeps me exceedingly busy in her restaurant.”
“Now that your Nonna has passed on, will you sell Rosamanti? Perhaps it could finance the restaurant.”
His face fell slightly, then he looked into her eyes. “I could never sell Rosamanti. It is my ancestral home—I grew up there, living with my mother and Nonna.”
“Have you never married?”
He gave a short, half-hearted laugh. “No. You see, when I returned from America, all the nice girls here on Capri were already taken. I was supposed to bring back a beautiful American wife, but I didn’t. Then I got busy with work, and… Well, Zia Maria is always trying to marry me off.” He smiled at her. “I suspect that is why she asked me to bring you up here to Lo Capo.”
Sarah was horrified. “Oh, no. But she said you lived up here.”
“Ah, my aunty, she is good at—you know—bending the truth. And now I am nearly thirty-seven years old, and no pretty young girl will ever want me.”
Sarah didn’t know what to say. She saw in Pietro a very handsome man—tall, fit, with well-cut, thick, jet-black hair. She also thought he was exceptionally pleasant company.
“Come on, Sarah. It’s getting late and you have had a big day of travel. I’ll take you to a hotel for the night. There are plenty here in Capri township. And it’s still early in the high season, so we’ll have no trouble finding a room.”
He stood and pulled out her chair. It was dark now. She drew in a sharp breath. The full moon, buttery yellow and as perfectly round as an egg yolk, hung low over the horizon, casting a silver roadway across the Tyrrhenian Sea and bathing everything in silver light. They stopped and watched as the moon rose higher.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” His voice sounded close to her ear.
Eventually, she dragged herself away from the view. Fatigue began to hit her. He helped her onto the back of the bike and drove a short distance, stopping at a modern hotel along via Corso. Pietro booked her a room, and then turned and handed her the key.
“Room 35. Third floor. You go on up, and I will retrieve your luggage from the locker and bring it back here. The concierge will deliver it to you room. Is that OK?”
She nodded. He really was a kind man.
He kissed both her cheeks. “Ciao. I will pick you up here at ten o’clock. OK?”
Before waiting for a reply, he turned and walked through the glass doors. She heard his little Vespa start up, backfire, and then roar off into the night.
Chapter Two
She stretched and leisurely opened her eyes, squinting at the unfamiliar room for a few seconds before remembering the events of the evening before. Plumping the pillow, she stuffed it under her head and lay back, staring at the ornate plaster ceiling. The predicament in which she now found herself played on her mind. The sad and untimely death of Signora Lombardi had definitely thrown a monkey wrench in her plans, and Pietro had given no indication as to whether or not she could stay in his grandmother’s villa. If not, she hoped there would be other villas with as much character—and as isolated—as Rosamanti. Glancing over at the bedside clock, she was shocked to see it was already nine o’clock. Leaping out of bed, she drew open the curtains of the large window. The view took her breath away. Sweeping ocean, a cobalt sky, and hundreds of little white dots scurrying across the water, their silver wakes trailing out behind them. She headed for the shower. Soon afterward, her telephone rang.
She picked it up. “Si?”
“
Buon giorno
,
signora Sarah.” The warmth in his voice made her smile.
“Ciao. And buon giorno to you too.” She was amazed at how comfortable she felt talking to this kind man. “Give me ten minutes?”
When the elevator doors opened, she walked into the bright foyer. As she approached, Pietro rose from the leather sofa. He put down the newspaper he had been reading, and walked toward her. His gaze quickly, but not offensively, scanned her up and down, seeming to approve of her colorful sundress and sandals. Then his eyes locked onto hers.
He looked different today. Clean shaven and dressed in cargo shorts that reached to his knees and a navy blue Polo shirt, he looked younger—more handsome.
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No, I slept in. I could really use some coffee.”
“Ah, that is exactly what I was hoping you would say.” He took her elbow and guided her outside into the brilliant sunshine. They walked through narrow, white-walled lanes. Masses of flowers tumbled out of hanging baskets; purple, magenta, pink and orange bougainvillea ran along the tops of the walls, sometimes their long tendrils reaching down low, causing them to duck to get past their sharp thorns without injury. They passed several shrines to the Virgin Mary, statues with little vases of fresh flowers and other tokens of supplication. After about twenty minutes, they entered the small square of La Piazzetta, where early morning crowds filled the cafés and gathered in groups, chatting and laughing.
Strolling toward one of the cafés, Pietro signaled to the waiter that they wished to sit outside under the shade of the white awning. “We will catch the breeze out here.”
A man in a white
maître’d
uniform came over and warmly greeted Pietro, clamping his hands on Pietro’s shoulders, and kissing both cheeks. They spoke in rapid Italian, obviously pleased to see each other. Pietro turned and indicated Sarah.
“Gianni, please meet Sarah. She is from Australia.”
She stood up, holding out her hand, but Gianni grabbed her in a bear hug and planted two wet kisses on her cheeks.
“
Ciao, bella.
Buon giorno
!
”
“Ciao.” She smiled, thinking to herself that she really had to learn more than five Italian words if she was to stay here.
Gianni turned back to Pietro, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to leave.
Pietro sat down. He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I know everyone in Capri. It sometimes gets in the way.” He shrugged, holding his hands out, palms facing upward.
“You know, I came here precisely because I
don’t
know anyone. But I’m more than happy to have made a friend so quickly.” The words slipped out before she had time to consider them. “I was quite nervous about coming here, not being able to speak the language, and—well—just getting on with my plans.”
“And, what are your plans?” The coffee arrived, followed by freshly baked panini with little pots of butter, jam, and honey. Next, a bowl of diced fruit salad was laid on the table. They dived into the breakfast. When they were both sipping their second cup of coffee, she spoke.
“To be quite frank, I’m a bit thrown by the change of circumstances here. You see, your grandmother told me in her letters that she was planning to go away for a while—I assumed to the mainland or something like that. She asked me if I would promise to stay for one year, and to look after her cats as if they were my own. I readily agreed. You see…” She paused, realizing her voice was beginning to show the emotion she felt. “I’ve recently been widowed.”
He reached over and placed his hand on hers as it rested on the blue and white check tablecloth. Her vision was blurry, and her face warming with color, but when she looked up into his warm eyes, they glistened with moisture.
“
Mi dispiace!
I am so sorry.” His voice was gentle, soothing. He reached over and gently used his thumb to wipe away a rogue tear that had started falling down her face. A waiter brought over another pot of coffee. Pietro filled their cups.
“But why would you want to be alone here, where you know no one? Would you not rather be comforted by your family and friends?”
Sarah reached into her bag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I can see that I should not have asked you that. Please forgive me.”
They drank their coffee, the silence vaguely awkward. She knew she should say something, but she didn’t trust her voice to work properly.
“Come, let me take you for a ride up to Rosamanti. You can see the chickens, and I will introduce you to Geraldina.”
Mystified as to who Geraldina was, she was glad to be ushered back through the maze of narrow laneways of Capri township. This was the capital of the island of Capri. She knew from her research that the other main town was Anacapri, on the other side of the island. They passed luxury designer shops, their expensive clothes, handbags and jewelry adorning the windows.
“None of the locals shop here. These are for the rich and famous. Movie stars, sports stars—they all come here for the big labels, but also for the local handmade sandals and other exclusive things. One day, I will show you some much cheaper places to get nice clothes in Anacapri.”
They finally arrived at a little square behind the main part of the town where dozens of scooters were parked. Pietro extracted his and wheeled it over to where she stood waiting. He climbed on and kick-started the little bike, then she swung her leg over. She wrapped her arms around his taut waist and hung on tightly as they roared off up the steep and winding lane toward Lo Capo.
They turned into the driveway of Rosamanti and parked the bike. Sarah sighed. Just coming back here to Rosamanti made her feel somehow better
.
Pietro helped her off the bike.
“Un momento, Sarah.” He disappeared inside the villa, soon reappearing with a plastic bucket with a lid on it. Taking hold of her hand, he led her down a steep rocky path toward a low brick structure with a corrugated iron roof. Wire netting was attached to the walls, creating a large chicken run. Seeming to recognize Pietro, the hens became excited as he approached, squawking and flapping their wings. He let go of her hand now that they were on level ground, and took the lid off a large oak barrel that stood outside the pen. He scooped corn and other cereals into a bucket and entered the chicken enclosure. The chickens raced after him, excited about the prospect of being fed. The noise was chaotic, clucking sounds mixed in with argumentative shrieks and squawks. He poured the grains into a flat tin, and pushed a float lever to fill up the water trough. Sarah watched as he bent low and entered the little hutch, soon emerging with a basket half filled with fresh eggs.
“I hope you like eggs.”
Again, he made her smile with the warm tone of his voice. He was definitely easy to be with. He rested the basket on an old wrought iron garden bench under an apple tree.
“Come on.” He held out his hand to her. She took it, enjoying the feeling of warmth and safety.
They climbed even farther down the steep rocky pathway. Another little shed lay in a hollow, surrounded by a fenced yard with several fruit trees which appeared to have had their leaves shorn off neatly at about waist height.
“Can you hold this for me please?” He handed her the bucket he had been carrying, opened the gate, and entered the yard.
“Geraldina!
Cara mia
!”
Sarah jumped as a huge white goat came rushing out of the shed, leaping awkwardly toward them. It had huge horns which lay back flat on its head and a long shaggy beard hanging from its face. As it approached Pietro, the goat stood up on its hind legs. He grabbed its forelegs and Sarah watched, stunned, as they did a kind of dance, finishing with Pietro hugging the goat and planting a kiss on its head, right on a little white fringe growing between its horns. Again, he opened up a secure barrel and took out some alfalfa, handing some across the fence to Sarah.