by J. M. Stengl
“What a handsome statue!” I said after guzzling my own water. “Most of them have weak chins or too large of eyes.”
“Not him.” She looked up and patted its muscular marble leg. “This is Giano,” she said, sounding almost friendly. “My husband bought him for me many years ago, an original Giachetti, the rough copy for a larger piece. He is good company.” Her eyes took on a distant look. “Sometimes I can hear his pipe playing.”
Right. The haunted, people-eating house wasn’t the only weird thing about this place.
While the old lady fell into a silent muse, I stood on the other side of the statue—Giano—and enjoyed the shade. His marble pedestal was cool, so I leaned against it, resting my cheek on his marble leg.
The little dog ran freely on the lawn among the flower beds, barked his fool head off at some birds, and rolled in the grass until his white coat turned a delicate shade of green.
Lady Beneventi cooed and gushed over the creature. “Darling boy! Now don’t dig holes in the . . . Oh, you silly boy, look what you’ve done!” Not once did she admonish or discipline the destructive beast. His muzzle and paws were soon black with dirt and mud from digging up several small plants, and he sneezed convulsively.
“You, girl, put those plants back where they were,” Lady Beneventi ordered, pointing at them with a gnarled finger.
“Do I look like I’m dressed for gardening?”
“Do I look like I care how you’re dressed?” she shot back. “Do it.”
Score one for the old hag. I squatted, careful of my skirt and shoes, tucked the plants back into place, and gently patted soil around their roots. The gardeners would not be impressed, but I was no farm girl.
“Now clean off my dog.”
I straightened, holding my dirty hands away from my skirt. “Using what?”
Her eyes gleamed with . . . anger? Humor? Madness? “Your fingers?” she snapped. “Your skirt? Make do.”
I was tempted to toss the pompom-infested rat into the pond for quick, efficient cleaning but thought better of it. He might not be able to swim, and I was in no mood to go wading. “Come here, dog.” He would not come to me, no matter how I snapped my fingers and called. I tried to grab him, but he was quick on his feet and evaded me every time. By this time, I was ready to hop into the pond myself, I was so hot.
After observing my efforts for a time, Lady Beneventi said, “Bacio!” The dog immediately ran and jumped into her lap. Holding him with his nose inches from hers, she fawned over the dirty fuzzball, making kissing noises at him. The idiotic pompom on his tail vibrated, and his tongue flicked in and out like a snake’s as he tried to lick her on the mouth. “That’s my little Bacio,” she crooned.
Lady Beneventi glanced up in time to catch my grimace. “That horrid girl doesn’t appreciate your kisses, little man. You are too smart to trust such a shallow, hateful human.”
“Letting a dog lick your mouth is disgusting,” I stated, unable to remain quiet.
Lady Beneventi sat upright, her back straight, her pale eyes narrowed. “Bacio is worth a dozen of you, girl. I wish I had a hundred of him.”
In the blink of an eye, the garden was filled with dirty white toy poodles.
I froze in horror. The dogs dashed about, yapping, digging, chewing, and making messes. All morning I’d feared another crazy event, but nothing could have prepared me for this: The old woman had made a wish that literally came true.
Bacio tore himself out of the lady’s hands and fell upon his likenesses in wrath. But he was no real fighter—the growls and snarls quickly shifted into shrill barking and running. I could only stand and watch in horror as waves of poodles swept past. One little dog wasn’t terribly intimidating, but one hundred toy poodles? That was a nightmare.
I turned upon the lady. “You’re an enchantress! Nobody warned me!”
“Don’t be a blithering fool,” she snapped. Two clumps of her hair were waving about as if caught in a windstorm.
Dogs kept trying to jump into Lady Beneventi’s lap, their claws catching on her pant legs. Even for her, their number was overwhelming. “Take me back to the house, girl. This is all your fault!”
I would have preferred to climb up on the plinth with Giano, but I couldn’t leave that old lady at the mercy of one hundred pompom-tailed monsters. “Get back in your chair,” I ordered, my voice shaking almost as hard as my hands, and hurried to hold the wheelchair for her, shooing dogs off the seat so she could sit down. As soon as she was seated, I turned it around and headed up the path toward the villa.
Servants came running—no doubt the shrill clamor filled the entire villa. None of them even stopped to ask questions. I heard the handsome gardener-man suggest they herd the poodles into the pool enclosure, and soon people were snatching up dogs and shoving them through the gate. But the toy poodles were small enough to slip through or under the fence rails and smart enough to figure this out immediately.
Lady Beneventi began shouting at the dogs to get away, and they obeyed her, tails tucked, eyes sorrowful, following along behind us. We had just reached the level walkway past the swimming pool when one of them—I could swear it was the original Bacio—turned on me and started attacking the ties and straps on my sandals. I nudged him away with my foot, but he charged right back, growling while he wrestled one of the leather ties. Then at least a dozen others got the same idea, all of them attacking my designer shoes!
Right about then, I totally lost it. Sure, they were just tiny balls of white fluff, but they jumped and barked and tugged, and their sharp teeth flashed. One of them leaped up, latched its teeth into my skirt, and started flinging its head back and forth while it hung there, as if it planned to tear the dress off me.
By that time, I was dancing around and screaming—I honestly don’t remember much of what I did, but I know Lady Beneventi was laughing so hard she doubled over in her chair. More dogs jumped up to bite my skirt and dangle there, shaking their heads and growling, their little claws scratching my legs.
I took off running blindly, screaming and dripping with poodles. I tripped, fell on my hands and knees, and was nearly buried in yapping dogs biting my hair and sunhat. One of them pulled off the hat and started a game of tug-of-war with at least ten rivals. Others went for my hair, growling and tugging until it fell over them. I barely scrambled to my feet and sprinted on around the corner with dog-chewed hair streaming over my face and behind me.
Just as I approached the gate to the drive, it opened, and a male figure stepped through. I threw myself at him—pretty much climbed him like a tree—and clung around his neck and shoulders, my legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked together. Far below, dogs ebbed and flowed around his feet like ocean foam on the green grass.
My rescuer staggered to regain his balance, then wrapped one arm around my back. His other arm flailed at first to get on the outside of my skirt, but then it supported me securely from below. All that time, I’m afraid I was incoherently yammering, “Keep them away from me!” Over and over. Hysterical doesn’t express the half of it.
It was not one of my prouder moments.
“Gillian! Are you all right?”
It was Manny.
He tried to loosen my grip around his neck and head and ease me downward while I struggled to get higher. “It’s okay. Shhhh. Hold still. I’ve got you.” His muffled voice shook a little with . . . what? Laughter? But the dogs were still leaping around us, barking in shrill chorus, and I could not calm down.
By shaking his head, Manny escaped my tangle of hair long enough to command, “Bacio! Down.”
Every dog near us obeyed, and the noise level dropped dramatically. In the relative hush, I loosened my grip, raised my head, and looked around. The lawn and path were dotted with panting, grinning little dogs, their pompom tails waving cheerily. A few rolled on their backs, pawed the air, and snorted.
I looked down at Manny, and our noses almost touched. I saw his eyes go wide, and his grasp on me weakened, then tighte
ned.
“I think you’re safe now,” he said, his voice gruff.
Now that the terror receded, awareness of my current position dawned, and humiliation swamped me. “I’m s-so sorry!” My voice was scarcely a breath and kept catching on dry sobs. I unwrapped my legs from around him, and he slowly lowered me to the ground, his hands under my ribcage. When my feet touched, I flinched, expecting another wave of dogs, but they remained down, some flopped on their sides for a nap.
Manny kept one arm around me, helping me turn toward the path to the kitchen. For a man who’d hated me on sight, he was being remarkably chivalrous. “You’ll be all right, Gillian. Tell me: Where did all these poodles come from?”
I let him urge me into taking a few steps, clinging to his other arm with both hands. “Lady Beneventi wished for a hundred of her dog,” I managed to communicate between violent hiccups. “Is she an enchantress?”
“Not as far as I know.”
We picked our way through the poodles, but then more dogs rounded the corner of the house and charged at us, barking like crazy, and those lying down jumped to their feet. I freaked all over again. This time Manny tried to pick me up in a more conventional manner, and I clung to him like a boa constrictor—one arm around his neck, the other around his back—with no thought of what he or anyone else might think. He wore a dusty work shirt and smelled slightly sweaty, but I didn’t care. With my face flattened in his shoulder, I couldn’t see the dogs. He represented safety.
Again I heard him order, “Down, Bacio.”
Once more, the noise abated. I knew without looking that the dogs had obeyed.
Manny was silent for a long moment, just holding me. “Gillian, do you want me to carry you around the corner with everyone watching?” When he shifted his grasp, I realized how heavy I must feel to him.
Humiliation produced courage. He was right: Gossip tended to spread, and the last thing I needed was rumors on the Internet of a romance between me and a construction worker. “I can walk.”
He carefully set me down, making sure I had my balance before he let go. But as soon as I pushed hair out of my face and looked around at all those dogs, I latched both hands onto his arm. “You’re safe. They won’t get you again,” his deep voice murmured. Like a child, I let him lead me on, step by step.
We rounded the corner, and there was Lady Beneventi in her wheelchair, exactly where I’d left her on the path, with a lap full of squirming, fawning poodles. She was even chuckling . . . until she saw us.
Her cold gaze fixed on Manny. “My so-called companion ran off, signor, leaving me here alone and helpless. Now I see she was chasing after you!” Her cool eyes fixed on me. “You’re fired.”
My mind was so dazed that her words didn’t sink in. Manny’s arm was my anchor to reality just then.
He answered for me, his tone kind but firm: “The dogs chased your companion, tearing at her shoes and clothes.” He indicated the shredded hem of my sundress. “The family will be lucky if she doesn’t give notice. With all due respect—you, my lady, do not have authority to discharge your companion from her duties.”
He was defending me?
Lady Beneventi bridled. “Young man, you, a commoner, have no right to talk to me in such a manner! I will speak to my sons about this . . . this effrontery!”
“It will make no difference, madam. You must have a companion, and they have chosen Gillian.”
Interesting. Manny must hold enough status in the family business to keep him from getting sacked for speaking truth to the family matriarch. Despite his rudeness to me on Sunday, I felt something akin to gratitude.
The handsome gardener-man—or whatever he was—jogged up to us. “What do we do with all these dogs?” He glanced from me hanging on Manny’s arm to the scowling Lady Beneventi. “We’ve already rescued three dogs out of the swimming pool, and dozens of them dug holes in the flowerbeds.” Then he looked me up and down, and I saw his amusement shift to concern. “Is that blood? What happened to you, Gillian?”
I let go long enough to look at my hands, surprised to see that I had left red stains on Manny’s sleeve. I hadn’t felt the sting until I saw the blood. My knees hurt too.
Manny spoke first: “She’s pretty scraped up. Will you take Lady Beneventi inside? Just leave the dogs out here. The real Bacio will reveal himself at sundown. Meanwhile, they can all run wild in the gardens. I doubt they’ll run away. Bacio never does.”
“Sure.” Handsome sent another glance my way. “Sorry you got hurt, Gillian.” Then he looked from me to Manny, waggled his brows with a grin, and took charge of the wheelchair. I could hear Lady Beneventi telling him everything he was doing wrong as he opened the side door.
Manny urged me onward. “Come on, let’s head straight to the kitchen.”
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t stop shivering.
“Elena,” he said as we entered through the glass-paned kitchen door, “would you find a first-aid kit? Gillian got a shock and some bad scrapes. They’re expecting me down at the outbuildings. I was supposed to be there twenty minutes ago.”
The cook hurried off to do his bidding. Did all builders demand this much respect? I stared up at his tanned face as if seeing him for the first time, especially those big brown eyes with thick black lashes. Seeing more dried blood smears on his chest and shoulders, I felt my face go hot. Talk about throwing yourself at a guy . . .
He glanced at me a few times but kept looking away. “Sit down here, Gillian.” He directed me to a chair, and I sat obediently.
The cook returned with a white box. “I’ll tend her scrapes,” she offered gruffly.
There was a pause before he took a step back. “Take care,” he said, and ducked out the door.
Sundown restored my sanity. Mostly.
From the outward look of things, the doggy disaster had never happened. Bacio was singular again and seemed relieved, the gardens were pristine, and all injuries to me and my clothing had vanished. That evening, after Lady Beneventi was in bed and the poodle put away, I washed my face at the bathroom sink and reviewed what I could recall of the day.
The only thing I could remember with clarity was Manny.
What must I have looked like, rushing at him, screaming, with my shredded dress, wild-woman hair, and tear-streaked makeup? A freak, no doubt. I could still hear his deep voice calming me as if I were a terrified child instead of an adult. He had behaved with respect and caution after I literally threw myself at him—through all the blur, I knew exactly where his hands had touched me, how he had tried to peel me away . . . There could be nothing attractive about a girl in a maniacal fit.
I met my own gaze in the bathroom mirror and frowned as an unwelcome thought popped into my head: What if he was married? Had he gone home and told his wife or girlfriend about this crazy woman who’d scaled him like a tree? How they would laugh together! And he would assure her that I was a hysterical harpy with limbs like octopus tentacles.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
That night, while lying in bed, I scrolled through my friends’ pages on social media, commenting and “liking” their posts and photos. I even liked one of Prince Max’s updates including a photo of him holding a string of dead birds.
But the knot in my chest wouldn’t go away. If I stayed another few days in this place, I wouldn’t know myself anymore.
Another morning dawned, and I cringed at the sight of my reflection on the ceiling. What calamity might happen today? If every morning of the coming year brought such dread of impending disaster, I would have gray hair and a nervous tic by spring—maybe before winter!
I went for a quick run in the gardens, hoping to clear my head of questions: Was Lady Beneventi to blame for the cocktail party, the bathroom prison, and the one hundred toy poodles? Was the house cursed, or did some malevolent magical being dwell somewhere in its halls?
Well, not too terribly malevolent—no lasting harm had come about.
No answers came to me, but the exercise di
d lift my spirits. I quickly washed and dressed (wary of that bathroom), brought the dog upstairs, and collected the breakfast tray from the dumbwaiter as soon as it arrived. Then I paced the floor and waited, with Bacio getting underfoot.
Lady Beneventi was usually out of her room by this time. I could hear Maria talking in the other room, so they must be moving about. At last they emerged, but I instantly knew something was wrong. Lady Beneventi moved like an old woman, leaning heavily on Maria’s arm.
As they approached the table, she looked up, her expression blank. “Who are you? Where did that dog come from? Get it out of here!” Even her voice quavered.
Maria was impassive. No help from that quarter.
“He’s your dog,” I said, but then got a clue. “Um, I’ll shut him out on the balcony.”
As soon as I closed the door in Bacio’s confused face, Lady Beneventi started in again. “Girl, do you know where Giovanna is? This ugly woman says she’s my personal maid, but I’ve always had Giovanna.”
Without a word, Maria helped Lady Beneventi settle in her chair at the table. That task complete, she carried her own cup of coffee into her room and closed the door.
Lady Beneventi didn’t seem to expect an answer to her questions, so I served her breakfast. She ate and drank silently for a time, then abruptly rediscovered my presence. “Who are you? Where is Giovanna?” she asked again.
I’d been warned about her occasional drops into the past, but my stomach still quivered. “I’m Gillian, your companion.”
The old lady’s wispy brows lowered, and her hands trembled. “Giovanna is my companion. I don’t know you or that ugly woman.”
I refilled her coffee before I spoke again: “I am terribly sorry, Your Ladyship, but Giovanna passed away last spring. They say she died in her sleep and didn’t suffer.”
