The House in Amalfi (23 page)

“Where else could you eat like this?” I asked, helping myself to another plateful, and Nico laughed at my hearty appetite until I was too embarrassed to eat any more.

“You’re very sexy when you eat,” he said.

“I’ve never thought of food as being sexy.”

“But of course. What could be more sensual than food and wine? Even simple bread and cheese with a glass of Chianti at a picnic under the trees is sensual.
Carina
, you are too used to McDonald’s and fast foods and eating only to satisfy immediate hunger. Good food is also there to satisfy the senses.”

I almost felt my bones melt as we gazed into each other’s eyes. This man could charm birds out of the trees and women out of their minds. But not me, I thought, dragging my eyes away and my head back to reality.

We drove, slowly this time, thank God, back down the mountain to my parking spot by my guardian saint. Nico switched off the engine and we sat listening to the wind in the trees and the crickets chirruping. I felt like a high school girl out on a date with the hot guy with the red convertible. Nico’s eyes were on me. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face to him. He leaned into me, eyes half-closed, his mouth seeking mine. I felt his breath soft on my cheek, smelled his light citrusy cologne. . . . I was falling . . . falling. . . . I snapped to my senses just in time. I put a finger on his lips, stopping the kiss.

He sighed. “You’re a very contrary woman; you know
that, Lamour. You give a guy all the right signals . . . and then you pull back. Why,
carina
? It’s only a kiss between friends.”

“In that case, you may give me a friendly kiss right here,” I said, tapping my cheek. And he did and we both laughed.

“I’ve had such a good time tonight, Nico,” I said, meaning it, because he had made me forget all my problems.

He wanted to walk me to my front door, but I wouldn’t let him. I wondered later whether it was because I wasn’t sure that if I did I wouldn’t succumb to that kiss after all and maybe another . . . and then . . . It was better this way.

The next morning I came to my senses and admitted there was a possibility that Lorenzo was not lying and Jon-Boy had not bought the house. I mulled this over with my morning coffee while watching a small flotilla of sailboats skim the bay, bowled along by a brisk little wind that fluttered the leaves of the olive trees and sent my hair flying.

My only way out would be to offer to buy the house. I’d tell Lorenzo he could set the price and there would be no haggling. I sighed. I knew he would refuse. Lorenzo did not want me here and I was sure it had something to do with Jon-Boy, and much as I hated the idea, I knew the only way to find out might be through his diary.

It took another hour and a lot more caffeine before I could bring myself to mount the stairs, go to his room, and unlock the drawer with the diary. Even then, I couldn’t sit at the desk where he’d written it. Instead I took it into the garden, hoping that sunlight and the fresh breeze would dispel any “ghosts.”

In the peaceful belvedere, shaded from the sun, I ran my hand over the fine dark blue leather, imagining my father choosing his diary in some smart Roman shop. He’d always loved shopping for expensive things. Even when we were poor I remembered him buying the travel clock. “It’s not simply what you buy,” he’d told me as we hovered over Cartier’s gleaming glass counters. “It’s the whole shopping experience.
Look how they treat us. Here you are always a
tesoro
, a little treasure, and I am automatically a ‘gentleman.’ ”

I’d absorbed his words, the way I always did, smiling politely at the sales assistant, a gap-toothed “little treasure,” chewing nervously on my pigtail, hoping Jon-Boy had enough money to pay for the clock. I suppose that day he must have, because that clock became ours. It’s on his night table today, and I never forgot his lesson in the fine art of shopping.

Ruffling through the diary’s gold-edged pages, I found that the entries became sparse after the first month, where he’d written about being swept off his feet by the beautiful “C” and about poor “I,” the woman scorned. It picked up again with a single entry in April.

My life has changed
, Jon-Boy wrote.
I’m like a man in a dream, a lover waiting for his woman to call. When she does not I’m cast into despair. How can this be? How can I allow her to rule my life? The answer is simple. I want her. I need her. I need to be around her, to catch her eye across the room at a party the way I did that first night, when we recognized each other and sought each other out. There was no hesitation, no waiting; we simply left and walked through snowy Rome holding hands until we came to the apartment and the bed where we could make love.

I’ve always considered myself an honorable man, the kind who never chased after another man’s wife, but this time I had no choice. This was destiny and my fate was already sealed. Of course “C” has her own busy social life with her rich husband that she will not give up, and so I am condemned to wait until she can see me. I prowl my apartment, imagining her with other men, flirting, seducing as only she can. My mind no longer functions in that separate way it did when I wrote my novel, when I could switch off reality, forget my surroundings, and simply immerse myself in the lives of the characters I was creating. There are no longer any fictional people in my head for me to make “real.” They are gone, along with all rational thought.

My poor “I” is worried. I see it in her eyes, in the tiny frown constantly between her brows, in the way she tries too hard to be quiet when I’m sitting at my desk. She creeps around like a little mouse afraid of being stepped on by the big bad cat. And that’s exactly who I have become. Do I still love her? I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times since January, and I believe the answer is yes, I do. I hold her in my arms, comfort her, sometimes we even make love, but it is over. I am helpless before the force that is “C.” God help me, I think soon I shall have to face “I” and tell her good-bye, but I do not want to hurt her. Somehow it will be easier to take the coward’s way out and let her come to the conclusion that it is finished, allow her the dignity of making the decision to leave.

Meanwhile, “C” has just called and I will see her tonight. She’s throwing a party for a famous Italian author she would like me to meet. I asked why, since she obviously knew there was to be a party, she hadn’t invited me earlier. Without saying that the author was a prizewinner and far more distinguished than I, she merely told me she hadn’t thought I would enjoy it. And besides, her husband was giving the party, not her. Would I still go? Lured by the promise of what might come after, of course I would.

My father was obviously madly in love with “C,” though I wasn’t sure it was reciprocated. That is, until I read the entry for the following day:

“C” acted so jealous last night, hanging on to my arm and keeping me carefully away from other (beautiful) women, in spite of the fact that her husband was there, observing as always. I suspect this is not the first time “C” has strayed, though she swears that’s not true. The famous Italian author was lionized, praised, applauded, while I kept to the background with my constantly filled glass of vodka (“C’s” drink, to which she has now turned me on), getting quietly smashed. I felt ashamed to show my face because I’m not working at my craft, not pursuing my dream, not going anywhere. . . . I asked myself how this could go on, told myself it would have to end, that
tomorrow I would be back at my desk with all thoughts of “C” banished, with only work and the still-to-be-created characters of my next novel awaiting their souls. There is definitely something godlike in what I do, birthing people whose destinies only I control. Would that I had the same control over my own.

In the end, when people finally began to leave the party, “C” caught my eye across the room, the way she always does. She nodded and smiled, and taking my cue, I said my good-byes and walked quickly through the rainy streets to the small apartment I’d rented nearby. An hour later, she arrived in a rustle of silk taffeta and a scatter of raindrops, her luscious mouth already smiling. Cole Porter was playing on the radio and her scent invaded the room and candles flickered. She was in my arms and I could ask for nothing more. Everything was forgotten except “C” and the moment.

I closed the diary, keeping my finger in the page, because I knew I needed to read more. My sigh came from the depths of my heart. Jon-Boy had been lost to love or infatuation or whatever the emotion was he’d felt for the mysterious woman “C.” His mind was fragmented. His work had been the most important thing for him. Writing was what he did, who he was. Without it he’d become a pawn in “C’s” grasping and beautiful hands. And what of the poor “I,” the woman who was about to be dismissed from his life? She was no longer important. Only “C.”

I flicked through the other pages, most of them empty. It seemed Jon-Boy had not been able to write his journal, either. But yes, here was another entry. In October, the month he had died. And in it, I was startled to see my own name.

If it were not for Lamour
, he wrote,
I could say that happiness has completely deserted me. But I get her letters, or I hear her familiar voice on the phone, I get that old tug at the heartstrings and I find myself smiling. Perhaps I was wrong to leave her. I never asked
her
how she felt; I thought she was okay with the Mortimers, who love her like
their own. What I never fully understood was, no matter who else loves her, I am her father and my love counts most. All those early years, it was just Lamour and me against the world. With success I moved out of that world, and now I regret it. How simple life was then, how easy and rational. Now I’m confused, unable to write. . . . I’m only able to find a remnant of that old happiness when I remember being with her at the house in Amalfi. Maybe next week, or the week after . . . or the one after that . . . I’ll call and say, “Hey, Lamour why not come out and join me? Let’s catch up on our lives; let’s be the way we used to, just you and me together, here at our house.” For a while at least, that is, because I know ultimately I’m going to lose her to some handsome young guy who’ll make her a whole lot happier than her fucked-up father. And so be it.

It was the final entry. I closed the diary and went back upstairs and locked it away in Jon-Boy’s desk. I was devastated that he had never made that call. How different our lives might have been if he had.

I decided to send a polite note to Lorenzo, via Mifune, apologizing for being rude and explaining that I’d been shocked and upset. I said that I hoped it might be possible for me to buy the house where my father and I had been so happy and that it would mean a lot to me. Then, remembering Lorenzo didn’t seem to want me around, I added that I would have to be in Chicago several months a year, for my business. Fingers crossed, I waited for his response.

A week passed. Mifune told me Lorenzo was not at the Castello and Nico didn’t seem to be around, either. I missed him dropping in to see me, taking me out of myself and out on the town, making me laugh.

Meanwhile, I was in house limbo. But I wasn’t defeated, and to prove it to myself I drove to the marina in Sorrento recommended by Mifune and bought myself a boat. She was ten years old—a mere child in boat terms, I told myself confidently, and just big enough to hold me and one passenger and the shopping. The outboard motor was a bit balky when first tried, but then it sprang to life with a satisfying noise and I positively flew across the crowded marina, receiving warning honks and glares from other sailors. I commissioned my little boat to be painted my favorite shade of blue, with the name “The Lady Lamour” in gold shadowed in black so it would stand out.

I had burned my financial boats, but remembering Jon-Boy’s shopping tips, I enjoyed every moment of the transaction. I even enjoyed paying for it. I told myself I’d just have to go to work again and make more money. Meanwhile, I had my nest egg from the sale of the apartment, which I hoped would cover the cost of the Amalfi house. That is, if Lorenzo Pirata would ever get back to me and agree.