She walks to the one who’s carrying my duffel and gives him instructions on where to put it before turning her gaze to me.
“Gabriela,” she says with an unexpected American accent. “I’m Miss Millie. I manage Mr. Sabbioni’s Palermo home.”
She speaks in clear English and when she extends a hand to me, I take it.
“You’re American?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. Although, more Italian now. I’ve been living here for the last forty years.”
I guess her to be in her early sixties and her smile appears genuine.
“Come inside, you’re probably tired from the travel and the heat out here is stifling.”
“I like it, actually. And it’s nice to smell the sea.”
She smiles warmly and leads me into the house.
I try not to gawk at my surroundings as I step into the marble entrance. It’s big, not as big as our house in Rome, but it is more beautiful with windows and French doors open wide to let the bright Sicilian sun in. I was right, the entire back of the house overlooks the sea and the doors are wide open with beige linen curtains billowing in the soft ocean breeze.
“This is so beautiful,” I say. Absolutely not what I’d expected at all.
“Mr. Sabbioni has impeccable taste.”
I watch the man who has my duffel disappear up the wide marble stairs and into one of the rooms there.
A woman in a maid’s uniform comes in carrying a tray on which I think may be a tall glass of lemonade.
“First thing’s first,” Miss Millie says, handing the glass to me. “Have something to drink. Are you hungry?”
I drink most of the lemonade in one go. It’s delicious and I wonder if it’s homemade.
I nod. I only picked at the food on the flight.
“Didn’t those boys feed you?”
Boys.
My smile flounders and my stomach feels funny. She speaks about them with affection. What does that say about her?
“I wasn’t hungry then,” I say.
“All right. Let me show you to your room and you can freshen up while I make you some panelle.”
“Panelle?”
“A local street food. One of Mr. Sabbioni’s favorites so we make it often.”
I follow her up the stairs and look around for him all the while. Is he here already? No, he wouldn’t be. He’d have been on the same flight as me otherwise.
I don’t have a chance to count all the doors up here before she opens one. I step inside and look around at the beautiful, luxurious space with its large four-poster bed in the center draped with a linen canopy that matches the softly blowing curtains at the open French doors.
Outside on the balcony stand two pots of Bougainvillea with their bright fuchsia flowers. I put my hands on the intricately designed iron railing and look out at the vast sea, everything blue for miles and miles.
“This is beautiful,” I can’t help but say.
Miss Millie doesn’t reply, and I look down to see that directly below my room is an infinity pool with large chairs shaped out of stone, cushioned with white and blue pillows in various patterns, shapes and sizes. Potted plants in brilliant colors stand on every pedestal and stairs carved into the rough cliffs lead down to a beach, disappearing into the shallower turquoise water.
In the distance, I think I see Palermo proper.
“Mr. Sabbioni called this morning to be sure you had the basic things you’ll need.”
He did?
“If you’d like to go for a swim after you eat, you’ll find a bathing suit in the dresser and some other things in the closet.”
“This isn’t his room?” I ask.
“No, dear. Of course not.”
I blink away rapidly, embarrassed that I’d asked. I’d just assumed he’d want me in his room. I remember what my father said about sleeping in the beast’s bed, but quickly push the thought aside, ignoring the uneasy feeling in my belly.
“I’ll leave you to freshen up. Just come downstairs and out to the patio when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
She walks to the door and just as she’s about to leave, I clear my throat. She stops, turns to me.
“Is he…Mr. Sabbioni,” Christ, will he expect me to call him that? “Is he coming back today?”
“He’s expected for dinner.”
I nod, try for a smile which vanishes as soon as she does.
I find the bathroom and it’s as luxurious as the bedroom. I splash water on my face and comb through my hair with my fingers. I find a toothbrush and toothpaste in one of the drawers. Opening the package, I smear toothpaste on it and brush my teeth, grateful he has provided this because in the five minutes I had to get ready, I didn’t think to grab mine.
Back in the bedroom, I open the drawers of the dresser and rummage through, trying not to think about the lacy underthings. I check the labels and they’re all new and all my size. How did he know and when did he order all these things? When he was giving me my five minutes after he spanked my butt?
Embarrassed at the memory, I busy myself with opening the next drawer. There, I find multiple bikinis. I close that one. I won’t be swimming.
I go to the walk-in closet and find about two dozen sundresses hanging in a neat row.
Without another thought, I strip off my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, both too warm for this weather and sticky after the long flights, and put on one of the dresses, a pretty turquoise strappy thing.
I slip my feet into a pair of flip flops and walk out of my bedroom. On my way to the stairs, I count the eleven doors in addition to mine on this floor.
Downstairs on the large round table in the foyer, a huge bouquet of fuchsia Bougainvillea is the only splash of color in the otherwise white and beige house. It’s striking and elegant and fits perfectly.
I’m quiet as I descend and once I’m on the first floor, I see Miss Millie right away. She’s outside by the pool pouring lemonade from a pitcher into a tall glass.
When I step outside, I stand in the sun and stop for a moment to listen to the quiet stillness, to the distant sounds of the sea. Once again, I take in the beauty of it, the unending blue.
“There you are,” Miss Millie says. She looks me over. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.” I look at the table, at the food, enough to feed half a dozen people.
“Come and sit down,” she says.
I take my seat, grateful for the umbrella shielding me from the bright sun. I place the napkin on my lap. She describes everything then leaves me to eat alone.
The panelle is delicious. It’s a fried chickpea patty that shouldn’t taste nearly as good as it does. I devour two sandwiches and eat a generous portion of tomato salad before finally getting up and walking to the edge of the pool to dip my toe in. The water is cool and inviting and I’d give anything to swim. To feel weightless in water again.
But it’s been almost ten years since I last went swimming, so I pull my foot out, remembering the stairs leading down to the sea. I walk toward them, picking my way around the bushes and potted flowers and plants until I get to them. This is clearly not a path often used.
Opposite the house, they’re not maintained, and I wonder how many years ago they were carved into the sheer face of the rock as I carefully make my way down.