The House in Amalfi (27 page)

“I know they were designed by an Englishman, a Lord Grimthorpe, in the early nineteen hundreds,” I said. And they’re said to be the most beautiful in Italy. Though of course personally I’m prejudiced in favor of the Castello’s gardens.”

“Ravello has been a refuge for many famous people,” he told me. “Greta Garbo ran away here with the conductor Leopold Stokowski. Jackie Kennedy took private vacations at the Villa Rufolo, and many writers came here, Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal—”

“And Jon-Boy Harrington?”

He threw me a quick glance. “And no doubt Jon-Boy Harrington,” he added.

We walked up a hilly pathway and stopped at an old wooden door set into a high wall. Lorenzo rang the bell and an ancient attendant let us in. We stood for a minute, looking at the lovely fifteenth-century Villa Cimbrone, restored by the same man who’d designed the gardens, and now a small, quiet hotel.

We took in the beautiful vaulted cloisters and the ruined chapel, allowing the peaceful atmosphere to soak into our souls. There was a special stillness to the air here that seemed
to cut out the rest of the world. Impulsively I took Lorenzo’s hand, wanting to share the moment with him, the feeling that anything might be possible and the ghosts of the past might appear to show us around their earthly paradise.

The Cimbrone gardens were a half-tamed wilderness that combined the exotic with the charming. There were climbing roses and palm trees, cyclids and cimbidiums, pools and tea pavilions, wild grasses and towering cedars. Perfumes hung in the air, butterflies alighted on perfect blossoms, and hummingbirds sipped an abundance of nectar. We strolled down the Grand Allée, a majestic tree-lined path scattered with fountains and statues, through the garden to the Belvedere of Infinity, a grand terrace, breathtakingly suspended over the turquoise sea.

Limp with pleasure, I leaned my head against Lorenzo’s shoulder. He put an arm around me and we stood silently absorbing the staggering vista, breathing in the perfumes, hearing the stillness. Other visitors wandered by, but it was as though we were alone.

Being in the Villa Cimbrone gardens was like being in a great museum: there was so much to see it was only possible to get an overview. Overwhelmed, we strolled back down the shady
allée
, admiring the towering forests of chestnut and ash on the hillsides above and the terraced groves of lemon trees and vineyards. The man whose lovely vision these gardens had been had lived only twelve years to enjoy them, and out of respect we paid a visit to his grave. Lord Grimthorpe is buried beneath a temple of Bacchus, and I thought that this garden, suspended between sea and sky, was the perfect final resting place.

We strolled back down the steep footpath, ending up in the charming little Piazza Duomo, at the Villa Rufolo. Boccaccio wrote about it, that it was built in the thirteenth century in
the Moorish style then fashionable from trading with the Moors and the Saracens. There was a Norman tower thrown in for special effect, as well as lush flowery terraces and another view of the Bay of Salerno beautifully framed by twin cupolas of an ancient church shaded by an enormous old umbrella pine.

To our delight we stumbled upon a chamber music concert in the courtyard below the Norman tower and we sat for an hour listening to Bach played exquisitely in a magical setting. Afterward we wandered back through the little town.

“Did you enjoy your day, Lamour?” Lorenzo asked.

I was so happy I wanted to hug him. “I loved every minute of it,” I said. “And thank you.” I laughed. “It seems I’m always saying thank you to you these days. I’ll have to do something for you in return.”

“Then have me over for dinner one evening.” He was serious. “I’d like that very much.”

I told him I was a terrible cook, but he said it didn’t matter. “I just like watching your face when you’re really interested in something,” he said.

“Next Friday. At seven. We can catch the sunset,” I said.

“And now we’ll have dinner here,” he said.

At the Palazzo della Mare, over Bellinis and plates of red-pumpkin seafood risotto, cooked with sage leaves, he told me about his wife.

“We were both so young,” he said, smiling as he remembered. “She was the sister of a good friend. He invited me to stay at their house near Genoa. I found three sisters there, each more charming than the other, but Marella was special. There was a simplicity about her that was endearing. She’s the only woman I knew who never coveted anything. Not jewels, not clothes, not yachts, not cars or houses. All she wanted was children.

“She loved the Castello and insisted we be married there and not at her family home. We liked all the same things, music, food, our dogs.

“In a way, we grew up together,” he said. “I am who I am today partly because of Marella. She tempered my youthful wildness. I always say she civilized me, but she said she wasn’t so sure she’d ever quite achieved that.”

“Were you like Nico?”

He lifted a surprised eyebrow. “No, never like him. I fell in love young and I stayed that way. Nico is wild. He needs a woman capable of taming him. Right now he’s dissipating his talents, his intelligence. Nico is wasting his life. He doesn’t understand that youth disappears all too quickly. It’s time he started thinking about the future, but I can’t get him to change.” He shrugged. “Once children are grown, they make their own choices. I have no more say in the matter.

“But Marella and I had an idyllic life together, centered around the Castello. We had a small yacht and in the summer we’d take the children and our friends and sail along the coast, to the south of France, or over to Capri or Ischia.” He smiled regretfully. “I count myself lucky to have such happy memories.”

He asked me about my life and I told him how I’d lived with the Mortimers and that they were my true family. We talked about music, my work, and his, about food and wine. Time flew by and before we knew it the waiters were hovering, anxious to close.

Lorenzo and I drove back down the mountain to Pirata in comfortable silence. There was an ease between us now that I liked. When we arrived, impulsively I reached up and touched his handsome face. “Good night, friend,” I said, and I kissed him lightly on the cheek.

As I ran down the
scalatinella
, I heard him call after me, “Good night, friend.” I felt that little thrill, the signal that tells a woman she’s interested.
Oh my God
, I thought,
could I be falling for both of them?

The friday morning of my dinner with Lorenzo, I sailed
The Lady Lamour
to Amalfi. I was pleased with my simple little blue boat; it was basic, but to me it spelled freedom, and unlike Jon-Boy, I loved being on the water.

I purchased a couple of small sea bass right from the fishermen. I bought a melon and raspberries and some fresh cannoli that were so tempting I ate one walking down the street. I bought thin peppery
grissini
and cheeses, Arborio rice, and a bunch of small-leaved arugula. Loaded down, I hurried back to my boat and home.

Jon-Boy had never been much of a cook, and I had inherited his lack of talent. Besides, as a working woman I’d eaten out a lot; there was never time to shop and prepare meals. I found only two knives in the kitchen drawer: a large, serious one and a small serrated one. I took the serious one and attacked the sea bass. I cut it up its stomach and laid it out flat in the butterfly position I vaguely remembered from Mrs. Mortimer’s Julia Child cookbook as the best for filleting a fish. I picked tentatively at the bones with the tip of the knife, then impatiently shoved it under the spine. To my astonishment, it slid smoothly out. I never knew what a messy business scraping scales off a fish could be, but I did it, then washed the fish under the tap and patted it dry. I thought it looked quite professional, like fish in a restaurant.

I put the arugula in a pretty cobalt glass bowl I found at the back of a cupboard. I cut the melon into cubes and doused them in Amaretto liqueur; then I added the raspberries. I sautéed the rice in sweet butter, added white wine, then stock, stirring often as the recipe instructed.

In between stirs, I hurried to set the terrace table with my collection of mismatched plates and glasses, pausing only long enough to take in the view. I rushed back to give my risotto more stirs. I read the recipe again. At the last minute, stir in more butter and fresh-ground Parmesan cheese, it said.

I galloped upstairs, took a quick shower, flung on a loose white linen shirt and pants, tied up my hair in a ponytail, put on lipstick and mascara, and was ready for action. Oh, I forgot something. I dashed back for a dab of honeysuckle scent.

Promptly at seven, Affare, bouncing down the steps with happy little yelps, announced Lorenzo’s arrival. He handed me an enormous bunch of pink peonies. They were already opening in the heat and promised to be as big as saucers. I thanked him and we smiled, delighted with each other.

I put the flowers in a big blue china bowl—the only thing I could find big enough to hold them—and set them on the table. I had champagne chilling in a galvanized iron garden bucket—Jon-Boy never had fancy silver and I hadn’t yet gotten around to buying such luxuries.

Lorenzo popped the cork and poured the wine and we toasted each other, clinking our glasses. I beamed at him. “I’m not a cook,” I warned. “This will not be like dinner at the Castello.”

He didn’t care. “I’ll enjoy it because I’m with you,” he said.

We wandered down to the belvedere to watch the sunset in its usual fiery glow, which was always followed by a tranquil pink haze; then we came back to the terrace.

He sat at the table and Affare settled next to him on the
yellow cushion. I rushed back to the kitchen just in time to snatch my sea bass from the oven before it became completely charcoal. Dismayed, I sprinkled it with fresh lemon juice and the local dark green olive oil. I stirred butter and Parmesan into my risotto, but somehow it had all stuck to the bottom of the pan, so I just scooped it into a yellow serving bowl and hoped for the best. I dressed my salad with the same oil and a little balsamic, added salt and black pepper, and carried my culinary attempts out to the table.

Lorenzo laughed when he saw me, hot from the stove, hovering nervously over my first home-cooked dinner.

“There’s no one I’d rather be sharing it with than you,” I said honestly. “I can never thank you enough for . . . all this. . . .” I flung my arms wide. “For my own little paradise.”

“No more thanks,” he warned. “All that is behind us. We have the future to look forward to.”

He poured more wine as I wondered what he meant by that. Then I watched anxiously as he tasted the risotto.

He raised his brows, looking surprised. He said it was as Italian as any Italian could have made it. But when I tried it, it stuck to my teeth. I knew he was only being polite. And my sea bass had burned to death.

I groaned, embarrassed. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“Just a little overcooked. Nothing to worry about. Perhaps next time you should try leaving the bones in,” he said. “Fish stays moist that way.”

Humiliated, I carried the plates back to the kitchen, and I came back with the cheese and fruit and the cannoli. “I didn’t cook any of this, so it’s all edible,” I said despondently, making him laugh.

“You’re an honest woman, Lamour,” he said.

I said, nibbling on a cannoli, “Don’t you know a woman can’t be all things to all men?”

“
Lamore
is a very evocative name.” He pronounced it the Italian way. “Tell me how you got it.”

So I told how I was named for Jon-Boy’s great-grandmother, a beautiful but flighty woman with an iron will and very little money. “She lived alone outside New Orleans,” I said, describing the big decrepit old house with its filigree balconies and trellises covered in passionflowers. After she died, the house and land were sold off for what amounted to peanuts. Now there’s a middle-class development there, filled with young marrieds, three-car garages and baby strollers. All that remains of her is her name. Thanks to Jon-Boy, who called me after her.”

“I can think of no other woman who deserves it more,” he said.

The little hurricane lamp I’d lit flickered on the table between us, and the deep blue night settled all around. Crickets tuned up, and small flying creatures, tiny bats, pretty little things with webbed wings, whizzed fast through the air. The scent of damp earth wafted up from the garden, mixed with the sweetness of jasmine and the sharp odor of lemons. And as always, there was the scent of the sea.

“I’m back in Paradise,” I said. “Do you think Jon-Boy would approve?”

“I believe he would want you to be happy.”

“All fathers seem to want their daughters to be happy.”

“I suppose with our sons, we feel they are able to take care of themselves. With our daughters, a father always feels it’s up to him to make sure she is happy.”

“Until the right man comes along and takes her away from you,” I said, and he nodded and agreed that was true.

I fixed coffee and we played a few games of backgammon, which I purposely lost because I felt so bad about the ruined dinner. I don’t think Lorenzo noticed, though, and besides,
men always like to win. We played in silence, concentrating on the game, but it was the comfortable silence of friends.