The Widow

by Anne Stuart

“The studio is empty, lady. Haven’t you seen it? I can just drag a mattress in there and be fine.”

  She stared at him, knowing she should say something. Anything. But she couldn’t. The studio was more than just the room where Pompasse had worked—it was the heart of the house.

  “It can’t be,” she said in disbelief. Suddenly Maguire was no more than a perplexing annoyance in the whole scheme of things. If the studio was empty then something was definitely very wrong at La Colombala, more than just the loss of its owner. “Ex-excuse me,” she stammered. “I have to go.”

  And she left him without another word, heading straight for Pompasse’s deserted studio.

  4

  Charlie moved by instinct, avoiding the center of the house as she headed straight for Pompasse’s old studio. She half expected the French doors to be locked, but they opened easily enough, letting light and Charlie into the gloomy interior.

  Dust motes sparkled in the shaft of sunlight that lit the huge room, and the smell of turpentine and paint flooded her with memories. But it was overlaid with something else, something disturbing, and it took her a moment to recognize it.

  It was the smell of neglect. Cobwebs stretched across the inside shutters, dust was thick on the floor, and she could smell the unmistakable odor of a resurgent mouse population. Even the cats hadn’t been allowed into the atelier. Which meant that Pompasse hadn’t worked in a long, long time.

  Maguire had been right, though she hadn’t really doubted him. There were no canvases in the room. No sign of his art at all. He’d had periods of inactivity in the past, but never long enough to allow his studio to deteriorate into this. And where were his current paintings?

  He must have been working elsewhere. Astonishing as that notion might be, he had to have found another place to paint. Pompasse had lived at La Colombala for the past thirty years, and he’d always insisted that nowhere else had the same perfect light. But the idea of him not working at all was even more preposterous.

  She moved to one window, about to push open the shutter, when the room suddenly darkened as something filled the doorway, blocking out the sunlight. “What are you doing here?” a voice demanded in Italian.

  It was a young voice, full of shaky bravado, and Charlie pulled open the shutters, letting the light stream into the abandoned workroom before turning to face her questioner. It had been a rough day already, and she wasn’t really in the mood for another confrontation.

  “Hi, Gia,” she said pleasantly enough. She didn’t make the mistake of crossing the room and pulling the girl’s slight figure into her arms in comfort. Giavianna Schiavone wouldn’t accept comfort from the likes of Charlie—she’d always been too jealous.

  Gia Schiavone was a slender, olive-skinned Modigliani sort of girl—with huge dark eyes and all the dubious wisdom of her twenty-some years heavy on her face. She had taken Charlie’s place as Pompasse’s model when she was fourteen, and taken her place as Pompasse’s lover when she was seventeen. Pompasse had always been fond of seventeen-year-olds, Charlie thought grimly. When she’d last seen Gia she’d been rebellious, devoted to Pompasse and utterly without humor. It still astonished Charlie that Pompasse could have painted such a shuttered, brooding soul in the translucent Tuscany light.

  As expected, Gia made no move toward her. She’d never disguised the fact that she despised Charlie, and Pompasse had actually encouraged her animosity. It suited his vanity to think that women fought over him, and it didn’t make any difference that Charlie had conceded the battle long ago.

  “What are you doing here?” Gia demanded.

  She’d lost that dewy-eyed innocence, Charlie thought critically. But then, Pompasse stripped the innocence off most people.

  “I thought you knew I was coming,” she replied. “I’m the executor of Pompasse’s will. I’m supposed to oversee the disposal of his things….”

  “He didn’t leave you anything!” Gia cried. “He told me he didn’t. He said you abandoned him, and you would have nothing.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Charlie said in a soothing voice. “I’m just here to meet with the lawyers and insurance people and make sure things are in good hands. I owe Pompasse that much.”

  “You owe him more than that. You owe him everything,” Gia said wildly.

  Charlie had never particularly liked Gia, though she’d always felt sorry for her. It had been overwhelming enough for Charlie, falling under Pompasse’s spell when she was seventeen. Gia had been only fourteen—she’d never stood a chance.

  “We’ll get everything sorted out quickly,” she said. “I can’t stay away from my restaurant for too long, anyway, but I promised I’d see things settled….”

  “He gave you that restaurant,” Gia taunted her.

  In fact, he hadn’t. She’d bought it with the remnants of her inheritance from her father once she’d managed to break free from Pompasse’s controlling spell, but she didn’t feel the need to defend herself with Gia.

  Instead she moved to the next flank of shutters and opened them, letting the midday light stream into the deserted room. She’d have someone sweep out the place, or maybe she’d do it herself. She couldn’t stand to see it so dusty and abandoned. “How is Madame Antonella? I haven’t seen her yet.”

  Gia was obviously torn between the need to gossip and her desire to stay aloof and disapproving. “She’s still alive. She’s senile—doesn’t recognize anyone nowadays, but she’s comfortable enough in her little cottage.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’ll have to go pay her a visit.”

  “She won’t want to see you,” Gia snapped. “Emmanuelle was here but she left, which is just as well. I doubt you’d get along with her, either.” If Gia’s voice had been hostile before, it was now filled with pain.

  “You’d be surprised how easily I get along with most people. Who’s Emmanuelle?”

  “Pompasse’s new model.”

  “I see,” Charlie said gently. So Gia had already been replaced. No wonder she was in such a torrent of pain. It should have come as no surprise—Pompasse never stayed with one woman for long, though he never abandoned the others.

  Antonella had been his first model, an early mistress, and she’d held a place of honor in his life and his household, even though she held no place in his bed. She had been a few years older than Pompasse, and now she was lost in the vagueness of the past, victim of the early stages of senility.

  Lauretta was a remnant from one of his middle periods, and she had run his household ever since. There had been others, of course, young women, old women, fat women, skinny women, who’d come and go; he’d sleep with them, but never paint them. Most of the ones he’d painted, he’d kept, unless they slipped away in the middle of the night without a word.

  Except for Charlie. She’d escaped, the first and last ever to simply walk out on him. She now had a life of her own, a man who was devoted to her, and Pompasse couldn’t touch her from beyond the grave. Couldn’t hold on to her, the way he was obviously still holding on to Gia.

  She looked into Gia’s narrow, bitter face, and she didn’t know what to say. Had Pompasse provided for his women, his castoffs? Surely he must have. Gia had turned her back on her disapproving family, with no assets but her beautiful, mournful face.

  Charlie suppressed a sigh. It had been hard enough to break free from the old man—now she had suddenly become responsible for the others, as well.

  The sooner she saw the will, the better.

  “I met Maguire,” she said. “He’s the one who told me the studio was empty. Where has Pompasse been working? There’s nothing here.”

  “You’ll have to ask Lauretta. For all I know he may have burned his current work.”

  “Burned it?” Charlie echoed, horrified.

  Gia shrugged. “He had the wrong model. That little girl could never inspire an artist like Pompasse. He was a fool to think she could.”

  So Pompasse had moved on to another teenager, Charlie thought. No wonder Gia
was so bitter. It was hard to be considered too old at her young age.

  “I’ll go find Lauretta,” Charlie said.

  “Fine,” Gia said with a toss of her head. “We’ll make a pact—you keep out of my way and I’ll keep out of yours.” And she stalked from the deserted studio, impressive and indignant.

  Charlie suppressed an irritated sigh. So this was Pompasse’s ultimate revenge. She may have escaped, but he’d left her his damaged castoffs. It was going to be a horrendous few weeks getting things settled.

  She moved toward the door, and the soft light washed over her. She could smell the pine resin and the wild rosemary, the tang of the lemon trees. No, horrendous was not the right word. A week or so at La Colombala was worth dealing with Gia and the insurance adjuster and dotty old Madame Antonella. She would take her joy from the place, do her duty, and then turn her back on it once more, closing that chapter in her life for good. Gia’s hostility would only make things easier.

  She glanced over at the vineyard. There was no sign of Maguire’s rumpled figure, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. He made her nervous, though for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why.

  Once Henry was there she’d feel safer. Why she would think a man like Maguire would be any kind of threat was something she didn’t want to consider.

  At least Lauretta and Tomaso were happy to see her. The plump, middle-aged housekeeper greeted her like the prodigal son, with tears and cries of joy and so many hugs and kisses that Charlie felt winded, while her husband Tomaso beamed with pleasure. She dutifully plowed through half the wonderful food Lauretta placed in front of her, drank the strong, bitter coffee and laughed about the past. There was no mention of the present—the shadow of Pompasse loomed over all of them, and it was too soon to speak of it.

  “I was going to put you in the master’s room,” Lauretta said apologetically, leading the way up the narrow stone stairs. “No one’s used it in a long time, and of course I kept it clean, but I decided you’d be happier in your old room.” She pushed the door open. “It seemed best.”

  Charlie froze, not making any effort to enter the room. “It’s still the same,” she said in a hollow voice. Except for her suitcase which Tomaso had already carried up for her.

  “The master would never let anyone else use it. That Gia wanted to move in, but he wouldn’t let her. Everything is just as you left it, though of course it’s been dusted every other day. All your clothes are still in the closet, all your jewelry is in the jewelry box. Your makeup and perfume were too old, so Pompasse had me buy new ones every year, to keep them fresh. He also had me keep fresh flowers in here. Wildflowers in the summer, as you liked them. Yellow hothouse roses in the winter. He said he wanted it to be welcoming when you came back home.”

  Charlie stared at her in bewilderment. “I had left him, Lauretta. I’d filed for divorce. Surely he knew I wasn’t coming back?”

  “He always hoped,” Lauretta said calmly. There was no censure in her voice, no judgment. She had spent her life serving Pompasse, could imagine no reason not to, but she’d served Charlie in her own right, as well. She had lent Charlie her own money to make her escape that night seven years ago.

  Charlie walked into her old room, trying to shake off the peculiar sense of foreboding. It was like stepping back into her past, back into the old emotions. Fear, anger, resentment, all the feelings she’d pushed away from her were back in force, overlaid by guilt at the sight of the wildflowers blooming cheerfully in the terra-cotta vase.

  She moved to the window, looking out over the view she had loved so much. The windows were spotless, and she pushed them open to stare at the rolling countryside and the tangled gardens just beneath her. That was another thing Pompasse had let slide. While her room had been kept as a shrine, the precious formal gardens had been allowed to turn into a jungle. No more neat, weed-free rows pruned into submission—they were wild and uncontrolled. And for some reason Charlie liked them better that way.

  She could still see Maguire out there, moving through the tangle. “For an insurance adjuster he certainly doesn’t seem that interested in work,” she muttered.

  Lauretta leaned past to look out into the garden. “You met him already? He’s been working very hard searching for those old books and paintings, signora. Going through papers and notes and things since he arrived. He showed up yesterday afternoon and I put him in Pompasse’s room. It was the only one that was ready, but I’ll move him if you wish.”

  “I’m surprised no one told us he was coming,” Charlie said. The villa was large and rambling, but not limitless. And she’d been planning to put Henry in Pompasse’s room when he arrived. She knew it would please him, and she needed his presence nearby. “I suppose we can move him later if we have to. Tell me, how is the old church? Has it fallen in completely?”

  “It’s falling in, as it has always been,” Lauretta said genially. “Things don’t change much around here.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Charlie said. “It just seems like centuries since I’ve been back, and yet nothing has really changed. Everyone’s still here—Madame Antonella, Gia, you and Tomaso.”

  “Not everyone, Signora Charlie. Pompasse is gone.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, knowing she should weep. Knowing that Lauretta would clasp her to her massive bosom and comfort her. But also knowing she just couldn’t do it. She’d shed her tears for Pompasse in New York. Back in Tuscany, she remembered the bad parts all too well.

  She glanced back at her bed. She was jet-lagged, exhausted, and a midday nap would have done wonders. But the thick damask coverlet was the same one she’d slept under. The same one under which she’d accepted Pompasse’s straining flesh. She wasn’t going to lie down on it if she could help it. “I think I’ll just strip the bed and then take a little nap. Those coverings are too heavy for me—I like something a little lighter. Surely there must be a duvet in the place.”

  Lauretta didn’t blink. “Of course, cara. I was planning roasted chicken for dinner, but if you have any other preference…?”

  “No, that’s fine,” she said absently. “My fiancé will be coming in a couple of days, as well as my mother. I hope that won’t be too great an inconvenience?”

  “It’s what I’m here for, Signora Charlie. Will your fiancé be sharing your room?”

  “No,” Charlie said flatly. She was half tempted to launch into a dozen explanations, of how she and Henry had chosen to wait, how it might be disrespectful to Pompasse’s memory, how she liked her personal space. She resisted her need to explain.

  Lauretta simply nodded, accepting the answer. “Would you like me to strip the bed for you, Signora Charlie? I’ll be happy to.”

  “That’s all right, Lauretta. It’s easy enough for me to do. Do you want any help in the kitchen? I still love to cook, you know. I even have my own restaurant in New York.”

  “I know,” Lauretta said, beaming proudly. “But today is your first day back at home, and you need to rest. Tomaso and I will cook dinner, and all you will have to do is enjoy.”

  Looking at Maguire and Gia across the table, no doubt, Charlie thought. It wasn’t an appetizing thought, but she smiled at Lauretta, anyway. “Grazie,” she murmured.

  “Have a good rest, cara. Sweet dreams.”

  Charlie looked at the bed. For some reason nightmares seemed more likely in a massive old bed that held so many memories.

  But she was back, and Pompasse was gone. There would be no one left who could hurt her, not anymore. All she needed was a little nap and then she could deal with anything, including Pompasse’s angry women and the annoying Maguire.

  Anything at all.

  5

  So that was Madame Pompasse up close, Maguire thought, watching her race out of the vineyard as if the hounds of hell were after her. She wasn’t what he’d expected—he thought she’d be prettier. She was too tall, too thin for his tastes. Years of living in Italy had made him appreciate buxom women, and Charlie Thomas
Pompasse was built like a model. She needed to be fattened up.

  Her face was narrow, angular, with those strange golden eyes that had been so luminous in Pompasse’s paintings. They were less vulnerable now, more guarded, and the tawny hair had been pulled back from her face in a sleek chignon. She looked like what she was—the wealthy widow of a world-famous artist.

  For some reason he thought she’d be different face-to-face. When he’d looked at her from across the crowded church he’d felt an odd connection. Even attraction. He reached in his jacket and pulled out the mangled postcard. He couldn’t figure out why he was carrying it with him—it wasn’t his style to be impulsive or sentimental. But the reproduction of the portrait fascinated him. He’d done a blitz of research before showing up at the villa, and Charlie When She Left was legendary. He stared down into Charlie’s lost golden eyes, so different from the cool gaze he’d just looked into. And then he shoved the postcard back into his pocket, crumpling it further.

  He’d had a busy few days. First the rushed trip to New York, then a flurry of last-minute research when he’d gotten back. For once Gregory had come through with a decent amount of information, including a packet of postcards with Pompasse’s work on them dating back to his early years in Paris. Including three postcards featuring the most well-known portraits from Pompasse’s Gold Period.

  Two of which were hanging in Pompasse’s apartment. One he’d never seen before, and he’d been half tempted to crumple up the shiny print and toss it. He stopped himself, staring down at the tiny rectangle of glossy color.

  Mrs. Pompasse again, older this time. She was wearing some sort of ratty sweater, though he suspected Pompasse had dressed her in designer clothes, and her luminous golden eyes were no longer innocent. Still wary, but by the time this portrait was painted she had known what to be wary of. There was a “to hell with you” twist to her soft mouth, a firmness to her jaw that hadn’t been there before. But he could still see the warmth in her shadowed eyes.