Susan Phillips - Breathing Room

Isabel followed her into the garden, then stopped to absorb the view of the farmhouse from the back. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Rest. Solitude. Contemplation. Action. There could be no better place for it.

The old stones of the house glowed a creamy beige in the sharp morning light. Vines clung to the mortar and curled near the tall green shutters at the windows. Ivy climbed a drain spout. A small dovecote perched on the roof, and silver lichen softened the rounded terra-cotta tiles.

The main part of the structure was built in a simple, unadorned rectangle, the typical style of the fattoria, or Italian farmhouse, that she’d read about. A one-story room bumped haphazardly off the end, probably a later addition.

Even the dour presence of the woman digging with her trowel didn’t detract from the shady enchantment of the garden, and the knots inside Isabel began to loosen. A low wall built of the same golden stones as the house marked the far perimeter, with the olive grove sloping away beyond it, and the vista Isabel had seen from her bedroom window behind that. A wooden table with an old marble top sat in the shade of a magnolia tree, a perfect place for a lazy meal or for simply contemplating the view. But that wasn’t the only refuge the garden offered. Nearer the house, a wisteria-covered pergola sheltered a pair of benches where Isabel could envision herself curled up with pen and paper.

Gravel paths meandered through the garden’s flowers, vegetables, and herbs. Glossy basil plants, snowy white impatiens, tomato vines, and cheery roses grew near clay pots overflowing with red and pink geraniums. Bright orange nasturtiums formed a perfect partnership with the delicate blue flowers of a rosemary shrub, and silvery sage leaves made a cool backdrop to a cluster of red pepper plants. In Tuscan fashion, lemon trees grew in two large terra-cotta urns sitting on each side of the kitchen door, while another set of urns held hydrangea bushes heavy with fat pink blooms.

Isabel gazed from the flowers to the bench beneath the pergola, to the table under the magnolia where a pair of cats lounged. As she breathed in the warm scent of earth and plants, the sound of Michael’s voice in her head grew silent, and a simple prayer began to take shape in her heart.

The woman’s dark mutter broke the peaceful mood, and the prayer drifted away. Still, Isabel felt a glimmer of hope. God had offered her the Holy Land. Only a fool would turn her back on a gift like that.

She drove into town with a much lighter heart. Finally something had happened to ease her despair. She stocked up on food at a small negozio di alimentari. When she returned, she found the woman in the black dress working in the kitchen, washing up some dishes Isabel hadn’t left there. The woman shot her an unfriendly look and went out the back door-a serpent in the Garden of Eden. Isabel sighed and unpacked her groceries, arranging everything neatly in the cupboard and tiny refrigerator.

“Signora? Permesso?”

She turned to see a pretty young woman in her late twenties with sunglasses perched on top of her head standing in the arch between the kitchen and the dining area. She was petite, and her clear olive skin made an unusual contrast with her fair hair. She wore a peach blouse, a slim, biscuit-colored skirt, and the killer shoes favored by Italian women. The beautifully curved heels tapped on the old tiles as she approached. “Buon giorno, Signora Favor, I am Giulia Chiara.”

As Isabel nodded in response, she wondered if everyone in Tuscany walked into strangers’ homes unannounced.

“I am the agente immobiliare.” She hesitated, searching for the English words. “The real-estate agent for this house.”

“I’m glad to meet you. I like the house very much.”

“Oh, but no… is not a good house.” Her hands flew. “I tried to telephone you many times last week, but I could not find you.”

That was because Isabel had disconnected her phone. “Is there a problem?”

“Si. A problem.” The young woman licked her lips and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a small pearl stud in her lobe. “I’m very sorry to tell you, but you cannot stay here.” Her hands moved in the graceful gestures Italians employed for even the simplest of conversations. “Is not possible. This is why I try to call you. To explain this problem and tell you I have another place for you to stay. If you’ll come with me, I will show you.”

Yesterday Isabel wouldn’t have cared about leaving, but now she cared very much. This simple stone house with its peaceful garden held the possibility of meditation and restoration. She wasn’t giving that up. “Tell me what the problem is.”

“There is…” A small arc with her hand. “Work needs to be done. Is not possible for anyone to be here.”

“What kind of work?”

“Much work. We must dig. There is problems with the sewer.”

“I’m sure we can work around it.”

“No, no. Impossibile.”

“Signora Chiara, I’ve paid two months’ rent, and I intend to stay.”

“But you would not like it. And Signora Vesto would be most upset to have you unhappy.”

“Signora Vesto?”

“Anna Vesto. She would be very displeased if you were uncomfortable. I have found you a nice house in town, yes? You will enjoy it very much.”

“I don’t want a house in town. I want this one.”

“I’m so sorry. Is not possible.”

“Is that Signora Vesto?” Isabel pointed toward the garden.

“No, that is Marta. Signora Vesto is at the villa.” She made a small gesture toward the top of the hill.

“Is Marta the housekeeper here?”

“No, no. Is no housekeeper here, but in town there is very good housekeepers.”

Isabel ignored that. “Is she the gardener?”

“No, Marta keeps the garden, but is not the gardener. There is no gardener. In town is possible for you to have a gardener.”

“Then what does she do here?”

“Marta lives here.”

“I understood I’d have the house to myself.”

“No, you would not be alone here.” She walked to the kitchen door and pointed at the one-story addition at the back of the house. “Marta lives there. Very close.”

“But I’d be alone in the middle of all those people in town?” Isabel said, taking a wild guess.

“Si!” Giulia beamed, her smile so charming Isabel hated to put a damper on it.

“I think it would be best if I spoke with Signora Vesto. Is she at the villa now?”

Giulia looked relieved to pass the ball. “Si, si, that would be best. She will explain to you why you cannot stay, and I will come back to take you to the house I have found for you in town.”

Isabel took pity on her and didn’t argue. She’d save that for

Signora Anna Vesto.

She followed the path up from the farmhouse to a long, cypress-lined drive. The Villa dei Angeli sat at the end, and as Isabel caught sight of it, she felt as if she’d been transported into the film version of A Room with a View.

Its salmon-pink stucco exterior, as well as the wings that sprouted here and there, were characteristic of grand Tuscan homes. Lacy black grillwork covered the ground-floor windows, while the long shutters on the upper floor had already been closed against the heat of the day. Nearer the house, the cypress gave way to the rigid formality of clipped box hedges, classical statues, and an octagonal fountain. A double set of stone staircases with massive balustrades led to a pair of polished wooden doors.

Isabel climbed the stairs, then lifted a lion’s-head brass knocker. While she waited, she gazed down at a dusty black Maserati convertible parked near the fountain. Signora Vesto had expensive tastes.

No one answered, and she knocked again.

A voluptuous middle-aged woman with discreetly colored red hair and tilted Sophia Loren eyes gave Isabel a friendly smile. “Si?”

“Buon giorno, signora. I’m Isabel Favor. I’m looking for Signora Vesto.”

The woman’s smile faded. “I’m Signora Vesto.” Her plain navy dress and sensible shoes made her more likely to be the housekeeper than the person who owned the Maserati.

“I rented the farmhouse,” Isabel said, “but there seems to be a problem.”

“No problem,” Signora Vesto replied briskly. “Giulia has found you a house in town. She will see to everything.”

She kept her hand on the door, clearly wanting to hurry Isabel away. Behind her a set of large, obviously expensive suitcases sat in the entrance hall. Isabel was willing to bet that the villa’s owners had either just arrived or were about to leave.

“I signed a rental agreement,” she said, speaking pleasantly but firmly. “I’m staying.”

“No, signora, you will have to move. Someone will come this afternoon to help you.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I’m very sorry, signora, but there is nothing I can do.”

Isabel realized that it was time to get to the top of the chain of command. “I’d like to speak with the owner.”

“The owner is not here.”

“What about those suitcases?”

She looked uneasy. “You must leave now, signora.”

The Four Cornerstones were made for moments like this. “Behave politely, but decisively.” “I’m afraid I can’t leave until I speak with the owner.” Isabel pushed her way into the entrance hall and received a brief impression of high ceilings, a gilt and bronze chandelier, and a grand staircase before the woman jumped in front of her.

“Ferma! You can’t come in here!”

“People who try to hide behind their authority do so out of fear, and they need our compassion. At the same time, we can’t let their fears become our own.”

“I’m sorry to upset you, signora,” she said as compassionately as she could, “but I must speak with the owner.”

“Who told you he was here? No one is to know this.”

The owner was a man then. “I won’t say anything.”

“You must go at once.”

Isabel heard Italian rock and roll coming from the back of the house. She headed toward an ornately carved archway with green and red marble inlays.

“Signora!”

Isabel was tired of people messing with her-a crooked accountant, a faithless fiancé, a disloyal publisher, and her fair-weather fans. She’d lived in airports for those fans, taken the podium through a bout of pneumonia for them. She’d held their hands when their kids did drugs, curled her arms around them while they struggled with depression, and prayed for them through desperate illnesses. But the minute a few dark clouds had shown up in her own life, they’d run like rabbits.

She charged through the house, down a narrow gallery where ancestral portraits in heavy frames juggled for space with baroque landscapes, across an elegant reception room wallpapered in brown and gold stripes. She whipped by grim frescoes of hunting scenes and grimmer portraits of martyred saints. Her sandals left scorch marks on the marble floors and singes in the fringes of the kilim rugs. A Roman bust trembled on its pedestal as she rushed by. Enough is enough!

She came to a halt inside a less formal salon at the back of the house. The polished chestnut floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and the frescoes showed harvest scenes instead of boar hunts. Italian rock music accompanied the shafts of sunlight spilling in through long open windows.

At the end of the room an arched doorway much grander than the one in the farmhouse opened to a loggia, the source of the blaring music. A man stood inside the arch, his shoulder resting against the frame as he gazed out toward the sunlight. She squinted against the glare and saw that he wore jeans and a rumpled black

T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. His profile was so classically chiseled it might have belonged on one of the room’s statues. But something about his rebel’s slouch, the liquor bottle tilted to his mouth, and the pistol dangling from his free hand told her this might be a Roman god gone bad.

With a wary eye on the gun, she cleared her throat. “Uh… scusi? Excuse me.”

He turned.

She blinked against the sun. Blinked again. Told herself it was only a trick of the light. Just a trick. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t…

But it was. The man who’d called himself Dante stood slouched in the doorway. Dante of the hot, glazed eyes and decadent touches. Except this man’s hair was shorter, and his eyes were a silvered blue instead of brown.

“Son of a bitch.”

She heard American English-movie-star English-spoken in the deep, familiar voice of the Italian gigolo she’d met the night before last in the Piazza della Signoria. Even then it took a moment before she understood the truth. Lorenzo Gage and Dante the gigolo were the same man.