The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1)

by M A Clarke Scott

  Yesterday, when he'd driven down for the weekend to check a few details on the villa, he hadn't anticipated the mid-summer thunderstorm that followed him out to the country. Though unexpected, it was not atypical for the late July season, since the weather had been exceptionally hot and humid the past week, temperatures hitting a high of thirty-seven degrees Celsius yesterday. Rain already fell in the city as he drove south, fat warm drops sending up clouds of dust from the dry cobbles, dark clouds rolling over the hills in pursuit.

  It was a good thing he was here during the downpour. The sudden flood of water during the hot dry season, when wood and stucco were shriveled and sere, made the building envelope especially vulnerable to leaks, breaks in seals and cracks in membranes. Fortunately, he'd been standing in the large salon when the water started seeping through the frescoed ceiling, and he'd been able to respond quickly by dragging huge tarps out of the garage and covering the vulnerable areas.

  It was over as soon as it began. A couple of hours of hard rain, dust and steam rising into the hot dry air, and it was done. Now it remained for him to assess the damage, and analyze the source of the problem, which entailed removing the metal cap flashing and poking around in the membrane. So far, it was clear that the whole assembly was at the end of its lifespan and needed replacing, even though the failure was confined to a small area at present, as far as he knew. It added another significant expense to the budget. It couldn't be ignored.

  "Grazie, Marcella." He dusted his hands on his trousers and took the phone from Marcella. "Pronto. Sono Guillermo."

  "Memmo."

  "Lapo! Cosa c'è?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure our plan will work. They're on me like wolves, fratello. The next session of parliament starts Thursday. I applied to the Speaker for a special place on the agenda, but he says he cannot accommodate me this time."

  Guillermo's chest tightened, his pulse drumming against his ribs. They needed the element of surprise, but they also needed sufficient time. "Did you tell him what you plan?"

  "No. Of course not. I can't give myself away. It would defeat the purpose."

  Of course. A moment of silence passed between them.

  "What time are you up?"

  Silence.

  "Lapo?" This had to work. There was no other way.

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "Do it anyway. È necessario fare ostruzionismo."

  Jacopo's voice was low, murmuring, as though someone else in the room might overhear. "No.It would cause a riot. I don't dare."

  "You must Lapo! What hope is there if you don't?"

  "I don't know Memmo. I'll have to see how it goes."

  "If they won't give you time, you have to take what you need."

  "I can't do that."

  "You can. Write it out and read it if you must."

  "No. I'm in too much shit already."

  "You're in so much shit a little more won't even stick."

  Jacopo groaned. "Even if I try, I'm not sure I want anyone watching. It's bad enough going live. What if–?"

  "What if what? Be serious. The whole point of this is to get attention. I've spoken to people already. The press who are sympathetic will be there."

  Jacopo moaned.

  "Don't back out now. Per favore. We have to do this, Lapo."

  "It can't possibly succeed."

  "It's our last chance. And we get points for trying. Remember that, fratello."

  Jacopo sighed. "I can't promise."

  Guillermo jiggled his foot on the marble and gritted his teeth. "If I could do it myself, Lapo, I would. But this is something only you can do. Even if it means you can no longer be a politician. It will be okay. It's the right thing to do. The rest we can figure out, together. We'll be okay."

  He planted his feet wide, his gaze locked on the marble staircase leading up from the entry foyer. In his mind's eye, he could still see Mama there, descending, on any given day, her dark curls shining, her smile broad and warm. He could envision Papa emerging from the doorway of the study over there, his eyes on her, his brow lifting in understated appreciation of her beauty. The hall still echoed with the sounds of his family throughout the seasons and the years. "They're depending on us." He didn't know if he meant the living or the dead.

  Lapo said nothing. He understood.

  Yes, it could blow up in their faces. But at least they were trying. And they were in it together. Pia and Paulo and Bianca had to be watching. And Valentina. And… Clio. His gut twisted like a knot of rope. He'd never been so certain of anything.

  Guillermo set his jaw. "Come on, Lapo. The stakes have never been higher, fratello. Of course there will be an uproar. But we'll surely lose everything if we don't act!"

  Jacopo grunted. "I don't know. I just don't know if I can do it. If I get an opportunity to raise the matter, it will be around seven. That's the best estimate I can give you, assuming nothing unexpected comes up before me. Gotta go. Ciao." He hung up.

  As Guillermo hit 'end' a sudden crash reverberated through the house.

  "Stronzo!"

  Marcella reappeared, twisting a tea towel between her brown hands. "Cos'è successo?"

  "I don't know."

  Martino's voice, garbled, carried to them. "Signore Memmo! Come quickly!"

  Guillermo raced to the salon.

  The air was thick with swirling fine plaster dust billowing towards them in a white wave, obscuring everything, including Martino's whereabouts.

  "Maria madre di Gesù."

  Guillermo fought his way through the dust, coughing and squinting. He stumbled over a chunk of rubble as he approached the far corner of the room, and he waved his arms to clear the air enough to see. Peering upward at the vaults, he could see a dark section had cracked and fallen away, like missing puzzle pieces. Martino stood under it, caked in white plaster like a garden statue, an expression of panic frozen on his creased old face.

  "Oh, Signore," Guillermo whispered. He needed to get tarps and scaffolding up there immediately. "I'm driving to Montechiello. Don't touch anything!"

  Clio wondered if her father would stop payments on her new Fiat500 now that he'd virtually disowned her. The insurance had paid for the replacement, but they still had a way to go on the original loan. If she were proud, she'd give it back anyway, on principle. But she was also practical. Trains were fine, but there were many places one could not go without a car.

  She pulled into the gravel courtyard at Villa Cielo Incantato, her stomach tight, and her heart thumping nervously against her ribs. Guillermo's assistant had told her he'd come down here yesterday to finish up some work. She hadn't seen him for over a week. If she didn't speak with him right away, she would surely lose courage.

  She hated fighting with him. Despite their fundamental disagreement about management of the villa's new entities, she didn't want to fight. It felt wrong. And she missed him. She needed to talk to him about the blow up with her parents. No one else would understand.

  If only she could feel his comforting arms around her, see the situation with his characteristic joie de vivre and sense of the absurd, she knew everything would be alright. But maybe he didn't see himself in that role in her life. But it didn't matter. In any case, she had to go away. She had to find temporary employment so she could resume her thesis, once she found a new advisor at a different university. And he would be left alone to deal with the villa.

  She needed to explain about her thesis, and apologize for baling, but also, she wanted to thank him. She would not be embarking on this new adventure if not for him and the work they'd done together, without the courage and self-knowledge his friendship had given her. She imagined he would be pleased that she was taking control of her life. She hoped so.

  A fluttering against the azure sky drew her attention as she stepped out of the car, and she squinted up against the glare of the hot summer sun. There was a huge green tarp draped over the side of the portico on the piano nobile, hanging partway down the wall to the ground, ropes st
retched from its corners this way and that like a tall ship's sails collapsed. Its edge fluttered in the breeze. A long ladder leaned against the side of the building. What is that about?

  She looked around, expecting to see Martino engaged in some routine maintenance. Painting perhaps. But no one was outside. The front door stood open.

  "Buon giorno!"

  She paused in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer interior light, listening for voices or movement. She heard scraping sounds from the large salon and turned.

  Marcella appeared in the doorway. "Clio! È che voi?"

  "Ciao, Marcella!"

  Marcella swooped in and embraced her. "Scuzi, scuzi. IO sono sporco."

  Behind Marcella, the salon was in chaos. Plaster dust covered everything, and Martino was in the process of sweeping it into piles, stirring up clouds. Marcella released her and stepped back with her hands up. "Ah, I got dust on your clothes." She held rags and a duster in her hands, and several of the paintings, busts and statues were draped with sheets. There was no sign of Guillermo after all.

  "What is going on here? Cosa è successo?"

  "Ay-ay," Marcella moaned and twisted her rag in her hands. "Un disastro! A sudden rain two days ago leaked into the roof. And now this!"

  "Oh, mio Dio! Do the family know?"

  "Si, si." Marcella led her across the foyer to the kitchen. "Come. I make for you a caffe. I need to rest a bit."

  Clio sat at the kitchen table while Marcella washed her hands and made them each a caffe latte.

  "When did it happen? What is being done?" She lifted the cup to her mouth and sipped the foamy crema from the surface.

  "Just this morning. Memmo was looking at the roof when–"

  "He's here?" She set her caffe down on its saucer with a clatter, coffee sloshing over the rim.

  Marcella shook her head. "He has gone to Montechiello to find the contractor. He's very worried about the fresco."

  Clio's breath hitched. "Is it damaged? I didn't notice."

  "It's not too bad yet. Just a corner. Not yet the figura."

  "Yet?" Clio's heart kicked. "He thinks more will come down?"

  Marcella shrugged, and her dark eyes met Clio's as she crossed herself.

  Clio inhaled deeply.

  Marcella wrapped both hands around her cup and drank.

  "Is Guillermo very upset?"

  Marcella nodded. "He wants to prop it up. He needs help. But the contractor did not answer his phone."

  "He's coming back?"

  "Si. He did not take anything, just tore out of the driveway like the hounds of hell pursued him."

  Their eyes met. Clio offered a wistful smile. That was Guillermo - always running. Always in motion.

  "It will be alright. My Memmo will fix it. He always does."

  Warmth enveloped Clio. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of safety and gratitude, as though she were cocooned in love. Her chest expanded and filled with it. It was a feeling she wanted to hold close to her and keep with her forever. Not being part of its rebirth would be a great loss.

  "Grazie, Marcella."

  "Per che cosa?"

  "For taking such good care of this beautiful villa for so long. You really love it, don't you?"

  "It is my only home." She shrugged with a resigned air. "But yes, it is more than that. They are my family, too."

  A moment of silent understanding expanded out into the quiet warm atmosphere of the kitchen, a place so welcoming and secure Clio felt as though she too had grown up and spent her life there in its embrace.

  "Desidero ringraziare voi, anche, cara mia."

  "Thank me? For what?"

  "For bringing my boy back to me. I never saw him before, until you arrived. He was always running– running away. Now he is here all the time, singing, and he has stopped running." Marcella's wrinkled face folded up, and she lifted her apron to cover her face. Her shoulders shook.

  Clio reached out and cupped a hand over Marcella's bony shoulder. Her voice came out in a whisper. "He loves you, Marcella. You know that, as much as he loves this place. He's been busy with his career and his life, of course. But he, I think, has felt frustration in the past… and fear."

  Marcella nodded. "He loves you too, Clio. As much as you love him." She paused. "Don't look so surprised. You feel it. Even though he may not yet be ready to acknowledge it."

  Clio's head shook back and forth minutely. She knew it was not true. But did she hope it was true?

  Clio cleared her throat. "I have to get going, Marcella. I need to get back to the city." The kitchen felt suddenly hot and stuffy.

  "What? You just arrived. You aren't going to wait for Memmo? He'll be back soon."

  All the more reason for her to leave immediately.

  Clio stood up and carried her coffee cup to the kitchen sink, her spoon clattering noisily to the tile floor before she bent to retrieve it, almost upsetting her cup in the process. She lurched to stabilize it, and set it down clumsily. "Ah, no. I really have to go."

  "But what did you come for if not–?"

  She paced back to the table and picked up her bag, almost upsetting its contents on the floor, cursing softly under her breath.

  She couldn't tell him she was leaving now. He had enough problems. She would write a letter.

  "It was nothing important. That was before I learned of the fresco. He has enough to deal with." And she was determined to leave before he returned. She wasn't sure she could face him, and needed time alone to think.

  Chapter 29

  Guillermo raced to Montecchiello, praying the construction workers he knew that were closest were available to quickly stabilize the ceiling. He'd left a message, but tried again, dialing them on his cellular phone as he drove.

  He desperately needed to get this situation under control. Although he'd minimized the amount of water that got in, there was no knowing what it had already dislodged, or the extent of the damage that had occurred.

  No answer. Stronzo!

  A sharp pain pinched in his chest, and he tapped his ribs with the edge of his phone, trying to loosen the tension, dislodge the pain. He grimaced. Maybe he was having a heart attack. He wouldn't be surprised if this was it. That's what had killed Papa. His time had finally come.

  It would serve him right if his heart gave out and he drove off the road right now. If he'd paid better attention to maintenance of the villa over the past few years, instead of burying his head in the sand, he would have caught this decay before now. Jacopo couldn't be relied upon for this. Guillermo knew about these things. This was his business, his profession. Isn't this why he'd studied architecture in the first place? How could he be so negligent? Now the priceless fresco was falling apart and it was too late!

  His second attempt to get through resulted in a busy signal. At least someone was there.

  "Aargh!" He tucked his phone into the console and switched hands on the steering wheel. He'd be in Montecchiello in another fifteen minutes. It didn't matter.

  He worried his brow, tugging and tugging, while he chewed his chapped lips. Catching sight of his reflection in the rear view mirror startled him. His hair was disheveled and streaked with plaster dust. His eyes rimmed with dark smudges from stress and lack of sleep. The wild, frantic look in his eyes terrified him. He was a wreck. What had become of him this summer? He'd gone from being relaxed, well-groomed, successful, totally in control of his life, to this. A madman. A raving lunatic.

  All he could do was grip the steering wheel tighter and press on the gas pedal, taking each twist in the road tighter and faster in his effort to get there quickly.

  He needed to solve this latest technical problem, but this was just the last in a long series of crises that had piled up, and not even the most challenging one. So many things to take care of. So many people to care for. Guillermo felt the load on his shoulders like the weight of the whole world, crushing him.

  Jacopo and his bungled political career, all tangled up with his failing
marriage to Valentina. Pia and Paulo with their financial worries, and now Pia counting on the new foundation to kick-start her business and supplement their income. Bianca and her fledgling design practice, so excited to help out and get her start in life. Marcella and Martino, anxious about losing their home of thirty-five years, the only home they'd ever known, in the twilight of their lives. He felt responsible for them all.

  Acid burned his throat as the pain in his chest pulsed again. He pulled in deep, ragged breaths, trying to calm himself.

  And Nonno, wasting away in that nursing home, his life spent trying to rescue the villa and family from ruin. Expecting that this generation –that he, Guillermo– would carry on the good fight. Nonno, who he loved more than anyone. Nonno who had nurtured and inspired him, guided and taught him, loved him for himself, while Papa molded Jacopo in his own image. And for what? How could they let the estate be lost to the family after so much sacrifice? I can't. I just can't.

  But now there was the foundation and institute, the plans and applications, the directorship issue, and Clio. Now there was Clio. Clio who needed to break free from her controlling parents and create a life for herself. Brilliant, beautiful, passionate Clio, who would make the best director of a Renaissance art institute. And with whom he'd fallen hopelessly in love.

  For all his running away from stress and responsibility his entire adult life, this was the first time that he really felt it. He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes burning, and he blinked and blinked away the tears that welled up. I don't know if I can do this. I just don't know.

  His phone rang, making him jump. He grabbed it. "Pronto!

  "Senior d' Aldobrandin? It's Luca Tomassi, in Montechiello. You left a message."

  "Si, si. Are you at your office? I'm just around the corner. I need to talk to you right now."

  "Si. I'll be here."

  Guillermo hit 'end', and jumped again when the phone rang in his hand. He assumed it was the contractor calling again. "Si. Luca?"