by Julie Sarff
(Rainy)
chapter 1
ENRICO HAS NEVER been my first choice in Italian men. Never. And now, if I just close my eyes and wish hard enough, if I just click my glittery red shoes together three times, he just might be gone. Like that. Poof. Divorce.
Only, of course, there are still Matteo and Luca, my two young boys, to think about. Which is why I am here in the first place, ringing the intercom at the gate, and staring through the rain and the fog at one of the most famous houses on the lake.
The truth is, I’m about to start a fabulous new job. Although some may not think my new job as a maid deserves the word ‘fabulous.’ But a young professional has to do what a young professional has to do. Especially a young professional with a pending divorce, two small children and mounting debt. Cash flow for the last three years has been a bit tight, to say the least.
But anyway, that’s not the point. The job is still fabulous because…
I’ll be working here, at the incredible Villa Buschi. I’ve seen it a million times in picture postcards sold all over Lago Maggiore in the summer. It’s a stately two-storied, cream-colored affair, with dark blue shutters and ornate iron balconies. With a terra cotta tiled roof and gorgeous Mediterranean gardens that spill their way down the bank to the shore, it’s simply divine.
Or at least in the postcards, with the pictures taken from the lake side, it looks divine. But right here, right now, from where I am standing at the entrance gate, Villa Buschi looks rather overrun. It’s impossible to even see the house given the thick, tangled mess of pine, cypress, poplar and heaven knows what else.
I ring the intercom again, wondering if I need a machete, or perhaps something larger like a scythe, in order to forge a path ahead for my car. I stand there a few more minutes. Again there is no answer. Which strikes me as curious because, you see, Alice (that’s al-lee-chey in Italian) knows I’m arriving at eight. That was our agreed upon start time. Given, I was five minutes late. But after the minor miracle I pulled off just to be here this morning, I think I’ve done pretty well. So why isn’t she answering? I ring again. The intercom makes a loud buzzing sound. Now I’m starting to get more than a little cold. My cheap boots were just meant to look the part. They actually have no insulation in them to speak of and, after five minutes of standing in this downpour, I’m losing feeling in my toes.
Of course, I did bring an umbrella. Of course I did. It’s still folded up neatly in the back seat of the car. Because, obviously, I thought Alice would ring me right through. I thought I would hop out of my Fiat Panda, hit the intercom button, and hop right back in. That’s not the case though, because now I’m about to hit that same button for the tenth time.
I listen to the sound of the buzzing intercom once again. Still no answer. Just to make sure it works, I hit it three more times in rapid succession.
“Pronto?” a harassed-sounding Alice finally answers from the other side. Her words sound all tinny as they come out over the loudspeaker that is affixed to the stone gate wall, right next to some badly chipped blue and yellow tiles that say ‘Ca’ Buschi No. 47’.
In response, I bend down and press my lips right up to the speaker to make sure she hears me clearly.
“Alice, sono io,” I state profoundly. I am me. Let me in. Immediately there is a snap-snap sound as Alice electronically releases the lock from inside Villa Buschi. Then the massive iron gate creaks slowly inward. As it moves, the winged lions that perch up top begin to wobble so badly from side to side that I’m quite sure the entire metal contraption is about two seconds away from falling in on itself.
No matter, if it collapses, the Panda can just drive over it. Hastily I jump back in my car, rub my hands together and shake like a dog to shed water. Then I wait. I swear, after five minutes, the gate has moved about six inches. Maybe I should use the extra time to check my makeup. With one eye still fixed on the gate, I swivel the rearview mirror around so I can see myself. I am pleasantly surprised to find that my makeup still looks reasonably good. As if it were applied by a sane, rational person as opposed to a mother of twin three-year-olds, one who spent the pre-dawn hours of the morning dashing about, barking orders and trying to get everybody to their first day of school on time.
Yes, I think firmly. My makeup definitely says sane. I kept the colors within the lines and everything. But then I look harder into the mirror—at the face beneath the makeup—and I let out a sigh. While the makeup looks fine, sadly, the face underneath is still the same: far too many freckles to say “cute,” more like “peculiar,” nose way too wide to be considered delicate, eyes way too small to be considered beautiful. But the lips—now there is something to be proud of—nice and full. “You have the biggest lips I have ever seen on a Caucasian woman,” a bald, black man in white cords and a muscle t-shirt once told me as we both pushed our way through the crowds of a January sale at the GAP. That was long ago—back in Colorado, where I grew up. And although I knew he was gay and NOT trying to hit on me, I still took the compliment and ran with it. Indeed, ever since that day, I have deemed my lips to be ultra-sensual, a weapon really –sort of like a secret power. Maybe a mother should not dwell on such superficial things as her own facial features, but I am about to be divorced and I don’t relish the thought of spending my life alone. My new status as single has caused me to be paradoxically both insecure and vain at the same time.
With another sigh I check out my secret power again in the rearview mirror and decide to reapply gobs more bright pink lipstick. After all, you never know who might be in residence at Villa Buschi.
Finished with the lipstick, I am dismayed to see that the gate is still not open wide enough to drive through. I look at the dashboard clock and feel a slight rush of panic. Now I am officially fifteen minutes late. There’s nothing I can do. I hunker down in the driver’s seat and begin to watch the gate intently.
And drum my fingers nervously on the dashboard. I swear as I drum that the gate actually begins to slow down even further.
But that’s okay. That’s alright. I need to remain calm. Take a deep breath. Yes, I will be late, but I should take the extra time God has given me and use it wisely. What else can I do?
I know. I will go over my outfit. Check it for professionalism.
Faux Gucci bag? Check!
Cheery red umbrella still neatly folded up in back seat? Check!
Faux Prada trench? Check!
Faux Fendi shades totally unnecessary on such a rainy day and currently serving as a hairband? Check! Check! Check!
Not bad. Not bad at all. If I do say so myself. An outfit that says—no wait a minute—an outfit that shouts, “I am not a maid. I am a totally pulled-together, twenty-nine-year-old professional who understands the value in fashion label knock-offs.” Which is exactly the message one wants to send to one’s new employer. Hopefully the owner of this fine villa will be impressed, I think, as I look at the gate again. Then, as if I am completely in sync with the universe, I find that the gate has swung open a good four feet. If I edge over far enough to the right, I just might be able to steer the Panda through. With determination, I pluck my sunglasses off my head, plop them in my handbag, smooth out my hair and shift the car into first gear. A half a second later I drive through the gate with purpose, like the confident Italo-American woman that I have become!
chapter 2
EXCEPT I AM not an Italo-American. Exactly. I am an American who has spent a third of her life in Italy. And, I have to say, living in a foreign country, one tends to pick up things. For instance, I have picked up the local driving habits. Even now, as I come through the gates of Villa Buschi, I try to gun it—and do a bit of slalom-like action trying to avoid all the vines, bushes and other forms of flora that are quickly overtaking the driveway.
Funny thing is, gunning it isn’t going to be an option here. I can barely see five feet ahead of me, let alone make out the next curve. The fact is, the driveway does not appear to be a “driveway”—it’s more like a glorified
path for oxen. It’s so rutted and pitted that it jostles the Panda up and down. I let up on the gas pedal. Deliberately I guide the Panda over to the middle of the driveway so as not to risk the wrath of all the tree branches. All the while I am thinking, lovely place; really top notch. The whole jumbled mess of the grounds definitely adds a je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere. There are camellias, azaleas and rhododendrons that have jumped their beds and run amok, as well as all manner of tree, bush and flowering shrub vying for space and sunlight. There are thick, coarse vines which cling choke-like to anything in their path as they snake their way up the tree in a frantic bid for sunlight.
Looking around, I get the feeling something is wrong. I may not be an expert, but I am pretty sure that rich people’s grounds shouldn’t look this bad. The state of the grounds cause me to wonder; why does the new owner put up with such a mess? Perhaps he likes his privacy? He is a movie star after all, a hot and famous one. I know because I’ve seen almost all of his films.
Thinking about a gorgeous movie star causes me to lose concentration and I hit something large and log-like in the middle of the road. My car lurches forward. For a terrifying moment the Panda is airborne. It lands a second later with a bone-crushing jolt.
“What on earth?” I stand on the brakes and check my rearview mirror. Behind me on the road lies the thickest, darkest, most virulent green vine I have seen in my entire life. It’s just lying there, right across the driveway.
“Only a vine,” I laugh nervously.
But as I am staring at it in the mirror, I swear it appears to undulate. The primitive alligator part of my brain shouts “Snake! Huge snake! Possibly an anaconda!” I slam the gas pedal to the floor, inadvertently sending the car into a small ditch. The impact tosses me so far forward in my seat that I bump my head hard against the windshield. At the same exact instant as I hit the windshield, my seat belt makes a sharp snapping sound and jerks me back into my seat. I sit upright in shock.
Lily, I tell myself a minute later, it will be alright. Everything will be fine. I am bruised and breathless but I am fine. Once again there is no need to panic. Clearly that wasn’t a snake. Clearly it was a vine. There are no anacondas in Northern Italy. They live on some other continent—South America or somewhere. It’s just that it’s raining so hard everything is starting to look distorted, that’s all.
I take a big breath in, let it back out, and decide the important thing is to drive prudently. Yes, that’s it. I need to drive prudently and not daydream about the new owner of Villa Buschi. Gently, I tap on the accelerator and the Panda and I crawl forward. I drive with great prudence, picking my way cautiously through the flora like a Green Beret, or a Navy Seal, or something of that sort. Eventually, I make it to a clearing in the trees where, if I crane my neck just right, I can make out the backside of the villa. I circle around to the front of the building and feel a sense of relief because the villa itself looks fine. In fact, the villa itself still looks like the well-kept manor of the picture postcards. Sadly I can’t say the same for the gardens that lead down to the lake—the ones featured so prominently on those infamous picture postcards.
“Sweet heavens, they look as if they have been shelled,” I say to nobody but myself. Here the land is all tattered and cluttered, in a state of disrepair—with all manner of weed growing, and not a dainty bloom to be found.
I stare at the gardens a moment longer and then I remind myself that they are not my concern. What is my concern is the fact that I am late to work, so I tap on the accelerator once more and follow a small arrow-shaped sign that reads Parcheggio to a stand of cypress trees. Once there, I nose my Panda into a tight spot, right between Alice’s ancient C-class Mercedes on one side and a bright yellow Ferrari on the other. Briefly I wonder why anyone would leave a bright yellow Ferrari sitting out here in all this rain. It’s as if the rich don’t even care, do they?
And how the heck did that Ferrari make it up that driveway anyway?
I have no idea. I really don’t. I turn the key in the ignition, shut off the engine and exit my car. Hurriedly, I reach into the back seat to pull out my umbrella and my enormous sack lunch. I have to admit, I am so famished that for one brief second I stop and consider the possibility of sitting on a tree stump and having a snack. I know that sounds like complete lunacy given that I am running late, but there was simply no time for breakfast—what with me starting a new job and it being the boys’ first day of nursery school and all. Honestly, it was all I could do to make it out the door. And once I did finally make it to the school, Matteo clung to my leg like a human sandbag the whole 25 yards from the car park to the front door. It took forever to reach his classroom where the headmistress gently tried to unwrap him. But when that didn’t work, the woman flat out had to pry Matteo loose. Then she told me to run. With all that drama, I didn’t even have a chance to stop at a café and grab a cup of coffee. But, as stated before, now is not the time to be thinking about food or coffee or the disastrous state of the grounds or anything else for that matter. Now is the time for starting my new job. Shoulder straight with determination, I tuck all my things under one arm, slam the back door to the Panda and begin the march up the pathway that leads from the parking to the villa. I swing along, realizing with a pang of excitement that I am feeling really good about my new job. I feel the “maid” part is just temporary. Why, with this job, the sky could be the limit. How wonderful to get to meet famous people like Brandon Logan and his guests. I’ll show them all over town; take them to my favorite café or the Borromean Islands or maybe shopping. Indeed, with their wealth and my local knowledge, we can peruse the flagship stores of Via Montenapoleone in Milan and shop at Prada, Fendi and Versace. In turn, of course, the rich and famous will be so gratified that they will help me find a new and even better job.
Unless I get fired first, which is a distinct possibility since my watch now says half past. I pick up the pace and practically sprint the rest of the way to the house. Then I huff up the great stone steps, almost tripping over an enormous cobalt-blue planter that sits abandoned on the top row with one forlorn stalk in it. I stare at that dead stalk for a moment until my gaze flits to the gargoyle knocker mounted on the massive front door.
Hmm, grounds in chaos, dead stalk in the planter and gargoyle knocker? It’s all very Tim Burton-esque. I decide it best not to touch the knocker and look around for a doorbell. As I am doing so the front door swings wide open and there she is, standing with her hands on her hips, looking scarier than anything out of a horror movie: my soon-to-be-ex-aunt-in-law Alice Bettonina, head of household here at Villa Buschi.
chapter 3
“BUON GIORNO!” I beam at her.
“You’re late,” she replies in rapid-fire Italian.
Damn. Obviously Alice is going to be a bit of a stickler to work for.
“Permesso?” I plead.
She doesn’t flinch or move or breathe. She just stands there looking fearsome, dressed, as always, in her black wool sweater with matching wool skirt and wool leggings. (And probably wool underthings as well.)
“Permesso?” I raise my voice louder, asking again for permission to enter.
Like a hundred–year-old sycamore rooted to the very spot, Alice blocks the center of the doorway. Her face is all puckered and twisted in a look that says, “I’m just flat-out disgusted, Lily. This is, after all, your first day at work. And what time did we agree to start? Eight o’clock, that’s right. Eight o’clock.”
Hmm, no arguing with that angry face. The best tactic, I believe, is to try and sidestep her. So I twist my body and flatten myself out—and I scoot past her, falling through the door.
“Wow! This place is so… so…,” I sputter as I regain my balance.
Alice shuts the massive wooden door behind me, and it makes a loud “wump” noise.
“Help me, Alice, what’s the word I’m looking for?” I ask as I stare into an enormous entry way.
Alice prickles with silence.
“Old m
oney, that’s what it is!” I gush in full-on Italian. Alice doesn’t speak English. She thinks she does, but trust me, her egleesh eessa notta so gooda.
“You promised you wouldn’t gawk,” Alice snaps crossly.
“Oh, I know. I know. I did promise that. But look at this place! And this is just the foyer, for heaven’s sake. How could I not? I mean, this room alone is five times the size of my apartment. Do you realize that?”
Alice winces. Apparently, my Italian is also notta so gooda. “I thought I told you to enter through the side door,” she says shortly.
“Well, I…,” I stop gawking at the entry hall and stare at her instead. It’s the funniest thing, but when she furrows her brow like that she looks just like an angry Queen of England.
“Promise me, Lily, that under no circumstances will you use the front door ever again. Remember you are staff.” She grabs my elbow to denote the seriousness of my mistake.
Heck no, I assure her. I won’t ever come through the front door again. Now if she could just be good enough to show me where the side door is…
She says something in reply as I gently try to pull my elbow out of her vice-like grip. She is saying something about a map she gave me with the side entrance to the staff’s cloakroom clearly marked. And what did I do with this map? Huh?
A map? Let me see. I don’t really remember that. Oh wait, now I remember. Luca spilled something in the car the other day and I had to use it to sop up some juice or some water or something.
Shrewdly, I decide not to share this anecdote with Alice.
“Oh Alice, I just love the champagne-colored walls!” I drool, changing the topic as I drift to the middle of the foyer where I begin to spin slowly in an effort to take it all in. I can’t help it. I continue to spin like a fairytale princess enraptured by the sight of her forest friends. The place is just that gorgeous. And so pristine! Completely opposite of the mess outside—the shrubs, the trees, the shelled gardens, the undulating vines.
