by Wendy Tyson
“Is this the hotel?” she asked.
“It’s where we’re staying, sweetheart.”
“I want to live here forever.”
They were waiting at the iron gate for someone to grant them access. Allison, awed by the size and aging grandeur of the castle, nodded. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Sometimes things aren’t what they seem,” Jason said. He sounded testy. “Don’t be seduced so quickly.”
“It sure looks like a special place,” Allison gave Jason an exasperated stare. Under her breath, she muttered, “Scrooge.”
“Better to set her expectations now.”
“Better to let her have some joy.” Allison looked back at her niece, remembering the wounded little soul who’d joined them six months prior. She whispered, “She’s had so little of it in her life.”
Just then a short, white-haired older man in green pants and a lighter green button-down shirt stepped out of the shadows of the gate house, a circle of keys grasped in gnarled knuckles. He unlocked the gate, then pulled it forward. It screeched loudly against the stone drive.
“Bonjourno,” he said.
“Bonjourno,” Jason replied. He told the man in tortured Italian that they were there for Elle Rose.
“Si. She is expecting you,” the man replied in English. He nodded toward a circular drive in front of the largest of the castle structures, a grand rectangular building capped with dental molding. The castle wall, crumbling in spots, curved around its backside. At least a dozen cars—from ancient Peugeots to brand new BMWs—lined the drive. Jason glanced at Allison. She shrugged—she had no idea who those cars belonged to—and Jason pulled into an empty space between the wall and the building.
“What now?” Jason asked.
“I guess we knock on the door. Elle is expecting us.”
Allison climbed out of the car, relishing the stretch in her thighs and calves. The air, so humid and warm in Milan, felt cool and damp. Tall conifers lining the castle wall swayed in a stiff breeze. Allison slid a hand over her hair, conscious of the more than twelve hours since she’d seen a shower stall. Elle had paid for first class plane tickets and offered to put them up in a hotel the first night, but Allison was anxious to get to work. While she welcomed a break, she needed to be disciplined about her schedule. Work with Elle, book-writing, and wedding planning—and, of course, time with Grace. Then back to her clients. Jason, who needed to be in Austria in a few days, had agreed.
“Looks like there’s a party going on in there,” Jason said. He nudged Allison’s arm and pointed toward the front entranceway. Bodies could be seen through the arched windows. Bodies—and not much else. “It’s a little early in the day to start drinking.”
Allison glanced back at Grace. She wasn’t sure what was happening inside Castle San Pietro, but she’d rather find out alone. She was about to say as much when the older white-haired man called to her.
“He wants us to wait,” she said to Jason.
It took a few minutes for the man to reach them. His legs were thin and bowed. Up close, his weathered brown skin hid somber eyes in a folding patch of wrinkles. “Come with me,” he said. “Leave your bags. I’ll bring them to you.”
Allison grabbed her briefcase and purse; Jason took his computer bag. They each held one of Grace’s hands. They watched the man amble around the rectangular building, toward a lined path that vanished between two outbuildings. The air was laced with the scents of burning wood and peat. Allison couldn’t shake a feeling of being watched.
“Where do you suppose we’re headed?” Jason asked as they walked past a flock of tiny lambs in an enclosed field. Grace squealed with delight, causing the old man to turn around and frown. He muttered something under his breath, something that Jason translated to Allison in sign language: They’re our dinner.
Allison frowned. Lovely.
Another fifty yards and the path turned to soft dirt and wood shavings. It curved around another stone wall, past what looked like a well house, and toward a row of five adorable cottages. Each had a slate roof, a smooth stuccoed exterior, and forest green window boxes overflowing with tiny red, purple, and white flowers. Small stone verandas extended next to and behind each cottage; a tall wooden gate next to each provided privacy.
Jason said, “Check it out.” He extended his arm in the direction of the mountains on the horizon.
There, down a grassy slope, stood another enclosure and three swimming pools: a large figure eight-shaped pool, a small square spa, and a long, thin rectangular pool. Wooden lounge chairs and umbrellas surrounded the pools. Behind the pools sat another building. In sharp contrast to the rest of the property, this one looked starkly modern, a glass and metal work of structural art.
“The spa,” the old man said, following Allison’s gaze.
Another meadow rolled out beyond the spa. Wildflowers in a rainbow of colors waved their stalky necks in the breeze. Tiny pastel butterflies buzzed from flower to flower. And past the pasture, the Dolomite Mountains stood tall and imposing, their granite-colored caps jagged reminders of nature’s awesome brutality.
Grace squeezed Allison’s hand; Allison squeezed back, breathless.
The man led them to a cottage. He opened the unlocked door. Allison tore her gaze away from the view and followed him inside.
The inside of the cottage was cozy and spotless—and surprisingly modern. The walls were whitewashed, the ceilings and floors gleaming pine. A couch and large upholstered chair, both a tasteful brown print, graced one corner of the room. A forty-inch television was attached to a wall over the fireplace mantel. In the other corner was a round table with four ladder-backed chairs. The table sported an elaborately embroidered tablecloth: red poppies in a sea of biscuit and cream linen. The chairs wore cushions to match. A small but well-equipped kitchen sat on the other side of a broad counter. Three wooden stools stood under the counter.
“There are two bedrooms and two en suite baths,” the man said. “And a small garden through here.”
Again, Allison followed him. This time, he went out a back door and into a small outdoor enclosure. Above, flowering vines provided shade for an elegant dining set. Under the table, hexagonal stones were set into the dirt; grass grew between the stones, giving the effect of a patterned carpet. More flower boxes lined the back of the picnic bench. These, too, were full of flowers—geraniums and ivy that trailed over the light-colored wood and onto the patio. A small herb garden lined one side of the patio; a tall wooden archway, low shrub, and fruit trees lined the other. The patio looked out onto the pasture and spa, toward the breathtaking view of the mountains. The result was a private oasis. Allison agreed with Grace. She never wanted to leave.
“Please, sit out here where it is cool. Use the facilities. This home is yours.” His words, while warm, were chopped and forced, as though he hadn’t communicated this much in a while. “I’m Dominic. If you need anything, I’ll be able to help you.” He gave Allison his number.
“And Ms. Rose?” Allison asked.
Dominic blinked. “She’ll be here soon.” He glanced out at the mountains, at the sun, now high in the sky. “There is tea in the cabinet. And soft drinks and fresh grape juice from the local vineyards in the refrigerator. And wine too. You might want to have something,” he said. It came out some-ting, and Allison heard the hint of apology in his gruff voice. “It may take Miss Elle a few minutes to arrive.”
“Do you have a key to the cottage?” Jason asked.
Dominic looked surprised by the question. With a firm shake of his head, he said, “You don’t need one, sir.”
“I’d prefer if Allison was able to lock the cottage. Especially with the child here.”
Silence stretched. Allison thought the caretaker was about to refuse, but he nodded curtly and said, “As you wish. I will find a key.”
It took Miss Elle many minutes—o
ne hundred and twenty-six to be exact—to arrive at the cottage. Waiting was not a terrible hardship. Allison and Jason sat on the back patio under the trailing vines, eating the cheese, figs, and olives they’d found in the well-stocked refrigerator and cooling themselves with ice-cold Prosecco. Grace drank grape juice, nibbled on fresh figs (oh, these are good!), and wandered around the small enclosure, marveling at the mountains and asking to go to the pool. She seemed enchanted, completely oblivious to the foreignness of the country and the estate.
Jason was just getting up to fetch another bottle of wine when a husky “Hel-lo!” startled them both. Before they could react, a figure drifted through the door and onto the patio, her movements slow and languid.
Allison had done her research before accepting Elle’s contract. She knew Elle’s parents went through a nuclear divorce that left Elle emotionally fragile, that she was as famous for her relentless partying as her spotty acting career. Allison also knew that Elle’s ethereal beauty and self-deprecating personality appealed to the public as much as it did the camera—a sort of edgy Darryl Hannah.
Elle was mostly famous for being famous, but she’d dropped out of the limelight nine years ago after marrying Damien Duarte. Since then, the only picture of Elle that Allison could find online was one of her at Damien’s funeral, wearing a shapeless black dress and a dramatic black veil that hid all but her distinctive fire-red mouth.
And here she was: all six foot of her. The research had not prepared Allison for the reality.
“Allison.” Elle held a limp hand out. “And you must be her fiancé, Jason.” Elle graced Jason with a smile before bending down to get closer to Grace, who had stopped drawing a picture of the mountains long enough to stare at their host.
Allison glanced at Jason. “Close your mouth,” she whispered.
He did, but he couldn’t hide his wide eyes or the blush that had crept along the edges of his skin. He was as mesmerized by Elle as Grace seemed to be. Allison didn’t blame either of them. In fact, she shared their astonishment.
Elle was unkempt—there was no mistaking that: long, blonde hair knotted and frizzy, mascara smeared beneath rheumy-looking eyes, an orange bow hanging from an orange ribbon around her neck. She looked like a hippy throwback with a thing for clowns. Behind Elle stood three other people who she’d failed to introduce, and they shifted from foot to foot behind her, watching their host with practiced patience. But strangest of all was Elle’s lack of pants. And as she knelt down in front of Grace, her ivory tunic rode up, displaying her bare derriere to Allison, Jason, and the as yet unnamed guests behind them.
The plaintive stare Jason threw her way screamed “do something!”
Allison cleared her throat. When Elle continued squatting in front of Grace, Allison clapped her hands and said, “Elle, can you spare a few minutes? I thought maybe we could chat alone.”
Elle stood slowly. She looked down, appeared to realize what she’d done, and tugged on the hem of her tunic, covering herself. She smiled ruefully. “Where are my manners? Of course we should talk.” Still ignoring the three people behind her, she moved toward the door that led into the kitchen and disappeared inside.
One of the strangers spoke first. He was a dark-complexioned man wearing suit pants and a t-shirt. “You’d better follow her,” he said. “There’s no telling what my sister will do.” One of his companions yawned.
With a look of delighted amusement on his face, Jason raised his eyebrows. He picked up Grace, and with the child against his hip, said, “Elle is all yours, Al. Have fun. We’ll be taking a walk.”
FIVE
The beginning and ends of Elle’s words slid together like an auditory finger-painting. Given the odd cadence of Elle’s speech, Allison had to concentrate to place hard edges where there were none. In the moment it took her to decipher Elle’s initial sentences, Elle had settled into the couch in the cottage living room, her crossed legs hiding—thankfully—most of her naughty bits.
“Do you like the castle?” Elle asked.
“I do. It’s beautiful, as is the cottage. Thank you.”
“Damien’s family restored the castle.” She swung a long, pale leg back and forth, tapping her foot against the fabric of the couch. “I hate it.” She looked at Allison. “I need to get out of here.”
Allison stayed silent, waiting for Elle to say more. In the intimacy of the cottage, she got a better look at Elle. The socialite looked sickly, more heroine-chic than girl-next-door. Long blonde hair hung flat and kinky against her skull, black roots contrasting sharply with blizzard-white skin.
The dripping mascara lent her a haunted appearance, an effect exacerbated by hollow cheeks and blood-red lips. She was skinny, her silhouette that of a number two pencil rather than the hourglass that had made her famous. Pointy collar bones, sharp elbows, and clearly delineated ribs showed through the thin metallic beige material of her Asian-inspired tunic. A flower-shaped stain blossomed above her right breast. She wore no discernable bra—not surprising, all things considered.
“Delvar says you fix people.” Elle sat back, smiling coyly. “He says you can reinvent me.”
Allison’s eyebrows shot up. “Those were his exact words?”
Elle bit her bottom lip. “Not exactly. He said you can help me reinvent myself.”
“That’s an important difference.”
“How so?”
Allison didn’t respond immediately. She knew Delvar well, and he in turn knew her services as well as anyone. There was no way he’d misrepresent First Impressions or Allison, which meant Elle was testing her. After fifteen hours of travel and two hours of waiting, Allison was in no mood for tests. She stood.
“I think you’re well aware of the difference.”
Allison was four steps from the back door before Elle shot up. “I get it, I get it. Don’t go.”
Allison paused. “You get what?”
“That I need to be a partner. That this isn’t a makeover session. That we’ll work together.”
Allison nodded slowly. “It will take work on your part.” She glanced down. “And appropriate attire. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wore undergarments when you’re around my family.”
Elle bit her lip again, a look flashing in her eyes—but only for a moment. “Okay.” She shrugged, and Allison saw again how painfully thin she was. “Can we start tomorrow? I’ll give you this afternoon to rest. You can use the pool, nap, whatever you want. I’ll have Dominic bring you some lunch.” She placed her hand against the wall and stood straighter. “Dinner is at the castle at eight. It’s not formal.”
Allison nodded. “And we’ll meet tomorrow, in the morning? What time?”
Elle seemed to consider this. She started to speak, then stopped, searching for the right answer. Finally she blurted, “Eleven?”
Allison got the feeling that to her host, eleven was dead early.
Elle was true to her word. The older man who’d met them at the gate, Dominic, brought them a feast of cold meats, more cheeses, fruit, fresh bread, and a lush salad of romaine lettuce, olives, peppers, feta, and red onions. They stuffed themselves, napped, and spent an hour with Grace at the pool. By seven o’clock they felt rested and somewhat revived. Allison changed into a black maxi dress and strappy black Jimmy Choo sandals, and she put Grace into a pink floral sundress and white linen cardigan. Jason—who’d decided that he wasn’t shaving or dressing up until he arrived in Austria for his new job—looked casual in shorts and a Patagonia button-down shirt.
“Ready?” Allison asked.
“As I will ever be.”
They strolled up the long walk that led to the castle, hands entwined. Grace skipped ahead, stopping to wave to the sheep and pick wildflowers in the meadow. Allison reminded herself that this was all so new to Grace, who had spent the first five years of her life bouncing between motel rooms, cramped apartments, and shelters.
She could only imagine how overwhelmed the child must feel. But if Grace was scared, she wasn’t showing it. In fact, she seemed more at ease in this strange environment than either she or Jason.
The front entrance of the main building was manned by a tall, willowy blonde wearing traditional Austrian dress. Her hair was wound in braids, encircling a perfectly-formed skull. Wide, chiseled cheekbones lent structure to a small, upturned nose and full mouth. One lip pouted, hiding a slight, beguiling overbite. She smiled. Cornflower eyes took in Allison, swept over Grace, and landed on Jason. Her smile widened.
“I’m Karina,” she said in German-accented English. “Elle is expecting you. Come with me.” She managed to make even that simple command sound seductive. While her words were meant for Allison, her gaze remained on Jason.
Allison glanced at her fiancé before following Karina through the double doors and into the castle. If he was fazed by the younger woman, he was hiding it well. He reached down and took Grace’s hand, his attention on the child.
“I’m Elle and Sam’s personal assistant. Elle has several dinner guests tonight, some of whom are staying at the castle.” Karina spoke matter-of-factly, a secretary efficiently ticking off the items in a to-do list. “Mazy Coyne, the author. Surely you have heard of her?”
Allison had not and she said so.
“An American.” Karina said the words primly, as though reprimanding Allison for not knowing a fellow countrywoman. “An expat. She lives in France and writes historical fiction. One of her novels is being made into a major motion picture.”
Allison wondered if Elle was posturing for a role. “Who else?”
They passed two open rooms with marble floors and ornately frescoed ceilings. The furniture—Baroque pieces in gold, red, and ecru—seemed dwarfed by the cavernous space. Allison wondered whether the frescoes were restored originals or new additions.
