by Liz Newman
“What?” Skye said.
“I woke up in the darkness, and walked out here to watch the sun rise,” Tabitha panted. “I heard the water and just wanted to sit beside it for a little while. I listened to my messages. Jonas left me about a hundred. He loves me.” She paused to catch her breath. “I think he really does love me. Then I looked to the left and there he was. The old man. Lying there. Dead.”
Skye looked toward the edge of the brook. There lay a figure that looked like a giant penguin wearing a pauper’s clothes, knocked over onto his side like an overturned bowling pin. His back faced her. They crept toward him. It was Giuseppe, still and motionless, eyes closed. Skye nudged his upward shoulder with her foot. He didn’t budge.
Sal walked up behind them. He threw a bucket of hose water on the old man.
Giuseppe sprang to his feet soaking wet, his fingers waving like plump sausages as Tabitha jumped and gasped in fright. “Gesù Cristo! Che è la questione con lei!” Giuseppe shouted.
“It’s the only way to wake him when he’s like this,” Sal said. His lips curled in apology.
“Ay.” Giuseppe ran his hands up and down his lower back. He squeezed the dripping water out of his clothes. He spoke in Italian as Sal translated for him.
“Forgive me, ladies,” Sal said on Giuseppe’s behalf. “I sleep. Always trouble with sleeping. In the cafés, in a car, anywhere, everywhere. Sometimes, I cannot help it. Now look at me.” Giuseppe pointed to his wrinkled, parched face. He laughed, his body jiggling merrily. “Look,” Sal translated. “Life has passed away.”
“I’m going home,” Tabitha said. She enveloped Skye in a huge hug. “I’ve been sleeping all this time, like this fat man, for too long.” Giuseppe frowned at her, gripping the rolls of his belly in denial. “Sorry. You’re just plump. Sal, how do you say that in Italian?” Tabitha shook her head. “Anyway, I need to go home to my husband and work this out. He loves me. He’ll do anything for me.”
“What about Tazim?” Skye asked.
Tabitha paused. She stared down at the ground. When she looked up, her eyes moistened. “I lied about Tazim. I suspected, but I knew in my heart of hearts he wasn’t cheating on me. He didn’t leave me.” She recounted the story of the surprise party while Sal listened and nodded thoughtfully, propped up against a tree, and Skye’s brow furrowed. “It’s funny, how we believe the lies our bodies tell us. We’re so sure we’re right. I’m going to go home, quit drinking. Quit the drugs. Feel the pain. Welcome it, even. Maybe it isn’t as bad as I think.”
“It never is,” Skye said. “Trust me.”
“Wisdom from the woman who knows everything,” Tabitha said. “Sorry, Skye. I must razz you. You’re an easy target, because you’re lonely and traumatized. Will you fly back with me?”
Skye glanced at Sal. Sal’s eyes quickly changed to hide his reaction. “Only three days left in paradise and I’ll be on my way back to the hell of New York City. I’ll help you pack.”
In the first floor guest room, Tabitha haphazardly threw clothes into a suitcase. Skye attempted to fold a linen shift as Tabitha tossed more into the pile. Tossing the dress into the suitcase in resignation, Skye stuffed the remaining garments in as the pile grew larger.
“Good god, how did you ever fit all of this in?” Skye mused.
Tabitha spoke as if she didn’t hear a word. “I won’t lose him with this…stupidity. I’m ready to sacrifice everything for love. I know this much, that what I have with Jonas is very rare. I’ve ridden the gravy train far too long with him. Now it’s time for me to pay up and give some in return, and I’m ready to give it all. I love him. I really do. I know this sounds strange, but he would be so much easier to love if he were simple. Untalented. Poor. Why? Because I wouldn’t doubt myself when I was with him. I would know that I have as much to offer to him as he has to offer me.”
“You have your heart,” Skye said. “That’s what he married you for.”
“I hope so. I’m going to do my damnedest to find out.” Tabitha squeezed her suitcase closed.
Giuseppe, now dry and in fresh clothes, showed up at the door and strained to roll Tabitha’s heavy bag. Both Annabelle and Giuseppe grabbed the long handle and pulled it through the door. Skye gathered up a tote bag while Tabitha rifled through her purse for her cell phone. “Jonas,” Tabitha crooned. Skye walked through the front doors to load the tote bag into the car while Tabitha chattered away.
“What’s that, love?” Tabitha said into her cell phone as she alighted with a spring in her step through the front doors and settled into the waiting town car. “I miss you so much, too. I can’t wait to get home.” The banter of the conversation ended for Skye as the chauffeur closed the door. Skye held up her hand to wave goodbye, unseen. Tabitha chatted obliviously into her phone. The car turned onto the sloping driveway when it suddenly stopped.
Tabitha emerged from the car, her perfectly manicured fingers still holding the cell phone to her ear. She waved to Skye vigorously. Call me, she mouthed the words. Skye nodded and waved back. Tabitha got back into the car, still talking on the phone, and the car pulled away toward the opening gates and beyond the grounds onto the smooth dirt road.
As the morning sun curved into the sky, bringing the day to noon, Skye lounged on a chair in the garden, showered and dressed in a form-fitting cotton top and a breezy skirt. A shadow fell over her. She looked up from the magazine she read.
“I am leaving,” Marcellus said, “for my estate on the isle of Capri. I’d invite you and Sal to accompany me, for we have much to talk about, but he has already declined. Since I am already aware of what your answer will be if I ask you to come alone, I will simply say goodbye and good luck. There is one more thing I must address. May I sit down?” He motioned to the chair next to her with his Montecristo hat.
“Please,” Skye said. She placed her magazine down on an end table.
“Sal is…” Marcellus began. He paused and shifted, turning his body toward her. “Unsure of his path. He has—”
“Marcellus,” Sal interrupted as he appeared behind them. “What secrets are you divulging now? In the name of true friendship.”
“Fratello. Fratello di annoiare.” Marcellus shook his head in defeat. “I am simply saying goodbye to the Signorina Skye. Best wishes to you, my Skye.” He kissed her hand gallantly. “Non partire finché abbiamo una probabilità per parlare,” he muttered to Sal. “Call and tell them I am on my way,” he barked to no one in particular. He fixed his hat until it fit perfectly tipped to the right on his head, spun on his heel and marched toward the villa.
“So, brother. As Marcellus put it, boring brother. What exactly have you done?” Skye asked.
“It is a private matter. Some people care not about the secrecy of such things.” Sal gestured in the direction where Marcellus had stood. Tiny clouds of dust plumed around Sal’s black boots as he strutted down a sloping hill. Once the creaking of the black gates at the end of the driveway became silent by immobility, the villa returned to a haven of tranquility. The song of the birds and the rustle of the breeze through the trees carried on without distraction.
Skye peered over the hill and watched Giuseppe and Sal toil on terra firma in the hot sun. She called on Annabelle, and minutes later, meandered to their location with glasses of ice, sliced fresh limes, and a bottle of sparkling water. Giuseppe politely declined as he pointed to his stomach. “Sconvolgere di stomaco,” he said sheepishly. Sal took a glass, thanked her, and sipped it. Giuseppe went back to his digging, softly singing in Italian.
“I’m having dinner in the city tonight,” Skye said to Sal. “Would you like to join me?”
“Gratsi, Signorina. I must decline. It is not proper for me to dine with the guests.” Sal upturned weeds with a gardening tool.
“Maybe tomorrow night? These are my last nights here.”
“Forgive me, Signorina. No.”
Her smile became crestfallen. He looked like he would change his mind at the disappointed thinning of her l
ips. He quickly looked away.
“Are you a man of honor, of your word?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“You promised me stories. You promised to do anything to make me comfortable here. I find it unpleasant now to be in this city alone. To dine alone. As a guest of Signora Luciana’s, I was promised that all my needs would be met. I need company at dinner. I’ll be ready to leave at seven.” She turned and walked away before he mustered an answer.
Giuseppe laughed and prodded Sal with the handle of his shovel. Sal leaned the weeding tool against a tree and followed her.
“If Signorina Skye so insists on dining with the help, then the help insists on taking her to the places he feels she will enjoy the most. With a great deal of variety. I think you will enjoy it. Tonight, dondolarsi la cena.”
“Apologies. Could you translate?” Skye asked.
“A swing dinner.” He turned from her and headed back to finish his work.
Skye returned to her room and rummaged through the closet. “A swing dinner…” she muttered. A New York style swing dinner is something to steer clear of. It can’t be that type of gathering, Skye thought as she tried on an army green shirt dress and brown high-heeled platform sandals. He doesn’t seem like that type of guy. The bawdy, loose type. He seems very uptight. Then again, after Tabitha, who knows what the easily impressionable will do after a few drinks?
A few years ago, early in the morning, Skye interviewed a star player of the New York Knicks in his living room. She turned on a tape recorder, taking note of the shark tank installed into the wall behind him as she asked questions and he answered. The baby hammerhead shark swished and swayed its tail in a hypnotizing fashion. The double doors to presumably a bedroom opened and closed frequently, and men and women in various stages of undress emerged, giggling.
“What’s going on in there?” Skye asked.
The basketball player leaned forward, his silk pajamas creasing. He switched off the tape recorder.
“Little trip to the playground,” he replied. “We like to slide, wrestle, swing. You like to swing, honey? You want to join us, you’re welcome anytime.”
Skye politely declined. He motioned to a woman clad only in a red peignoir to come and sit beside him. She obediently perched on the edge of the sofa, picked up a pair of thickly framed glasses from the coffee table and opened a laptop.
“This is my attorney,” the basketball player said. “She’ll sit in from this point on.”
The woman fixed her glasses on her nose and crossed one leg over the other. The feathers on her red stiletto mules waved with the motion of her foot. She switched the tape recorder back on. Her long fingernails gleamed with fake jewels.
“Let’s go over our disclosures,” the attorney began.
Skye shuddered at the memory. She pulled a pair of granny panties and a matronly bra from the armoire. “What alcohol will permit, standards shall decline. Standards and some boring underwear.”
The clock in the hall struck one in the afternoon. Skye decided to go into town and buy a new dress.
Chapter Twenty-Six
She rode the rickety bicycle through the yawning gates of the villa. In the distance, with the sun shining through her wavy hair, Adriana the flower lady trudged, her hands wrapped around the handles of a push cart overflowing with pink, red, and white roses. Skye pedaled over to her, putting a foot down to balance and stand upright.
“Buono pomeriggio,” Skye said.
Adriana greeted her cheerily. She lowered her arms to put down the push cart and exhaled with a sound of relief. The palms of her hands were chafed from the handles. “La borsa. Lei non l’ha aperto, corregge?”
Skye thought hard remember the bag Adriana had given her. She had placed it in a drawer in her guest suite and had completely forgotten about it. “No. Non…opened. I have not opened it.”
“Buono. La mia vita è in quella borsa.” Adriana smiled and coughed.
“Vita? Your life. In the bag?”
Adriana nodded. “Si. Occuparsi di esso.”
Skye thought Adriana practiced witchcraft, certainly not a malicious practice but the whole idea of associating with the unconventional art unsettled her. She made a note to herself to bury the bag in the garden when the opportunity arose. “Si. Mi occuparsi.”
“Gratsi. Non per me ma per lei, sì? Rosas?”
The bundle of purchased roses were left propped beside the gates of the villa as Skye rode the bicycle into town and pondered the old woman’s meaning. My life is in that bag. Take care of it. Not for me, but for you. She shook her head quickly, unable to determine what significance a small burlap sack could have to her life.
Emerging from a stylish boutique on the Via de Corso, Skye clutched a shopping bag filled with a pair of strappy silver sandals and an exquisite blue dress with a V-neck and flowing chiffon cap sleeves. The window dressing of a lingerie shop caught her attention. A plaster torso adorned with a light, airy baby doll set caught her eye. Butterflies made of glitter and sheath lit on the rows of lacy panties, brassieres, and slips displayed. Skye purchased a few items for tomorrow night, just in case.
She almost skipped out of the store with the paper handle bag. A boy in pants that were too small with frayed hems leaned against her rickety bicycle. He looked around nervously, his last glance stealing opposite Skye’s direction, before he threw his leg over the bike to straddle it. Skye walked forward and grabbed him by his upper arm.
“Well, well, who do we have here?” she sang. “Roberto Gusanti. Ready to take a ride on someone else’s bicycle. You really are aiming low these days, aren’t you? I suppose us bleeding heart tourists are on to you now.”
His eyes grew wide with fear at the sight of her. “Voglio solo prenderlo a prestito. I would bring back. I swear.”
“Get off.”
He obediently swung his leg back over and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“What happened to the money?” Skye asked his dejected back. “You’re a filthy mess.” She leaned close to him and sniffed. He smelled of the poor; that sweet, bedraggled smell of sweat and a faint odor of urine. No alcohol or smoke. She lifted a lock of hair above his forehead. A shiny black and blue lump protruded underneath. “Who hurt you?”
“Mia madre. L’ha speso. L’ha dato al suo ragazzo. Her boyfriend. He plays dice. Wins sometimes. Loses more.” He shrugged and pulled away.
“Follow me, kid. Capire?”
He nodded his head as she turned the bicycle toward the villa. As the miles passed, she glanced behind her. He ambled a short distance away, following her, his hands stuffed in his pockets all the while. When they reached the gate, she pointed to the roses on the ground.
“Wait here,” she said in shaky Italian. “For the rose woman. When she comes, tell her the American visitor needs to speak with her. Then come inside the gates and ask the gardener to find me. She will be coming back around this way.”
“Signorina?” Roberto asked.
“What?”
“Ho fame.” He pointed to his stomach.
“I will have food brought out to you.” She gathered up the roses and left him sitting there, propped up against a vine-trellised wall.
Skye handed her dress to Annabelle and instructed her in shaky Italian to steam the wrinkles out and to first bring a plate of food out for the boy. As she climbed the stairs, she heard Annabelle bustling about in the kitchen. The stove clicked as the gas fire underneath it ignited, followed by the rattle of pots and pans.
Ensconced in her suite of rooms, Skye breathed deeply as the steam from the bathwater floated around her face. The rose petals in the bath smelled fragrant and heady. Her toes peeked out from the water as she dipped them back in again and popped them out once more. Dip. Pop. Dip. Pop. The luxury of this bath is the lack of purpose in the action. Dip. Pop. No purpose at all. She closed her eyes. With her head propped on an Egyptian cotton towel, she fell asleep.
She awoke at the lukewarm feel of the bathwater, which
grew cold. Turning a hot shower on in the stall, she let the water run over her head and down her body. Going from the feeling of cold to hot brought goose bumps out on her flesh, and as they softened and disappeared in the heat, a sensuous shiver ran down her spine toward her thighs. “Sal,” she whispered.
A knock sounded at the door, as if on cue. She turned the shower off.
“Scusarsi, Skye,” Sal called. “The boy and the flower woman are waiting to see you.”
Skye ran a comb through her wet hair. Dressed in a robe, she met Roberto and Adriana at the gate, trailed by Sal whom she asked to accompany her. “Please translate,” she said to Sal. Sal nodded. As Skye spoke, Sal repeated her words in Italian. “This boy needs a job, and Adriana needs an assistant. I will pay his wages through Sal.”
As Sal translated, he omitted his name and inserted Giuseppe’s. Skye paused and gave him a questioning look. He looked back at her, waiting for her to go on. “Every week, the boy will be paid for his work until he becomes an adult.” She named a substantial weekly salary. The boy’s eyes widened, and he thanked Skye profusely. Skye waved his words away. “If he does not show up, if he steals, if he spends the money unwisely, or if he does not use the money to learn a trade, our contract is finished. Do you understand, boy?” Roberto nodded, thanking Skye again. Skye handed Adriana, Sal, Giuseppe, and Roberto each her business card. “If you run into any trouble at all, call me. I will do everything I can to help.”
Adriana spoke rapidly in Italian. Her blistered hands reached out to take Roberto’s. He flinched at first, perhaps used to violence and not a motherly touch. She took his hands gently in hers and after a minute he relaxed.
“She says he is around the same age as her daughter, before she died,” Sal translated. “Same look in the eyes. Like an angel confused by his surroundings. She says he will do. She is happy. She also says you may open the bag when you find something to fill it with. Her daughter was her reason to live, and now it is gone. The bag is empty. She asks you to fill it with something meaningful. Your life will be treasured more for it.” Sal leaned closer to Skye and whispered into her ear. “Country women are very superstitious.
