“Lawyers?” Katie asks, gathering her bags. “What did you do that you need lawyers?”
My heart kicks up a notch and I glance at Jack. I feel an answering squeeze—a warning.
Malcolm shot the intruder.
“It’s just wedding stuff. There are a number of hoops we have to jump through for the marriage to be legal here in Italy.”
Katie gives me a salacious wink. “Oh. Of course. Go sign your prenup. I’m going to drop my stuff, grab a bite and crash, so I’ll find you when I wake up. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I notice a tall, gray-haired, dark-eyed woman in a black silk top and slim black pants standing unobtrusively by the front door. Has she been waiting there all along, hidden in the shadows? Her voice is gently accented, calm and sweet. “I’d be happy to show Signorina Elderfield to her room, Signore Jack.”
“Thank you, Fatima. This is Claire, by the way.”
Fatima inclines her head graciously. “A pleasure to meet you, Signorina Claire. I have looked forward to this moment for many weeks.”
“The pleasure is mine, Fatima. And Claire is fine.”
“Let’s get a move on, ladies,” Jack says, overly cheerful. “Lots to do.”
Katie gives me a knowing look, clearly feeling dismissed. She steps carefully around the dogs and follows Fatima into the house. I hear her start chattering, asking about the Villa. I want to call after her, apologize for Jack’s brusqueness, reassure her, but stop myself. I love them both, but they must figure out their relationship; power struggles aren’t my thing.
Jack snaps his fingers and the dogs melt away around the side of the courtyard.
“Follow me, soon-to-be Mrs. Compton.”
It must be my imagination, but I swear his eyes linger on my throat, at the pearls draped there, before he offers me his arm.
The interior of Villa la Scogliera is as surprising as the exterior. I’ve seen pictures, of course, and the spreads in Condé Nast and Architectural Digest are well thumbed. Jack has shown me some from his childhood. We’ve lain in bed, his iPad between us, looking at the photos, historical and current.
I try to act cool, like I belong here, but nothing has properly prepared me for the actual splendor of the Villa.
The entry, through two massive olive wood doors, as wide as it is deep, has whitewashed limestone walls offset by a warm terracotta tile floor. Modern art stretches the length of the interior, elemental and striking. I itch to break free of Jack’s hand and step back, taking them in one by one. I spy a Pollock, a Mondrian. Joan Miró.
“Is that a Matisse?” I blurt.
Jack glances over his shoulder at the blue on white canvas we’ve just passed. “I think so. You’re the expert, darling. I know the painting in our bedroom is a de Kooning—I’ve heard mother talk about it with guests before. And there’s a Picasso somewhere around here, from when he and my grandfather were catting around. He painted it here, in the colony, and left it behind as thanks. Don’t worry, you have the rest of your life to take inventory of our family’s artwork.”
Our family.
I feel a bit faint. I’ve been in galleries worldwide. I’ve seen great art. I’ve met great artists. I’ve even made some great work of my own. But the knowledge that all of this will essentially belong to me one day is overwhelming.
I can’t help but wonder when I’m going to wake up from this dream of the handsome prince and his faraway castle, but for now, I satisfy myself with one last glance at the Matisse and keep walking.
At the far end of the house, at least thirty yards away, three sets of tall wooden French doors give the illusion of a wall of glass, and beyond, the lush emerald of the garden and aquamarine of the sea. I want to run to those doors, fling them open and scurry outside, capturing the colors on a canvas. I can see myself standing there already, grinding my pigments and blending, blending, blending, until my palette is ready, and I can capture the scene forever. I’m not much for plein air work, but this view might sway me out of my studio. My fingers actually twitch into the form I use when holding a paintbrush. It is so fresh and open, so welcoming. I shake my head in wonder.
“What?” Jack asks, looking at me curiously.
“Oh, you know. You can take the girl out of the country...”
“My little country mouse. Just you wait.”
“Seriously, it’s so much...happier than I expected. Especially since the outside is so old.”
“Oh, Claire. What were you expecting, cobwebs and a hunchback to greet us?”
“Well, maybe just the hunchback. Elliot could audition for the role. He’d be a shoe-in.”
He laughs, his head tipped back and throat moving with the effort, and I join in. There is nothing more joyous in my life than watching Jack laugh.
He finally gathers himself. “I told you my grandfather stayed in some Hollywood starlet’s Villa in Tuscany and came home full of ideas. He and my grandmother renovated the place back in the seventies. They wanted it to be open and airy, welcoming, a good place for kids to run and scream. We took advantage, trust me. The entire Villa was redone, but this is the most modern area and yes, I can see what you mean, the happiest space.”
“It has great energy. I can’t wait to explore every corner.”
“We will explore it all, darling, I promise. But for now, let me show you our room.”
10
Venus Calling
We start for the stairs—this place is a rabbit warren, a maze of corridors and hallways. It’s going to take me weeks to learn my way around. Jack points out rooms—dining room, breakfast room, parlor, billiards, the path down to the kitchens, another to the gardens—but he’s in a hurry, and my mind is spinning too much to comprehend anything except the massive grand staircase that winds up and up and up to the residential floors of the Villa.
The staircase: thick semicircles of marble with a dove gray runner up the center. Columned on both sides, it sweeps up seventeen steps before the landing diverges into two formal curves, one left and one right. The banisters are made of dark polished wood and iron spindles. A balustrade runs the length of the hall above, the parapet giving a magnificent view of the foyer below. I halt, craning my neck backward to take it all in.
“Oh, wow.”
“You like?” Jack asks, smiling.
“I do.”
They make such a statement; I feel drawn to them. I can see a painting forming in my mind, swirls of gray, roiling in fury, limned in spectral white on the edges. There is a sense of the uncanny to this, of ghostly presences scurrying in our wake. A metaphorical ascent to the unknown. A foreboding journey. I’ll call the painting Cassandra.