Summer in Tuscany (9 page)

Ben

Ben Raphael was enjoying his party. He strolled along the terrace greeting his guests, only some of whom he knew. He knew all the locals, of course, because he’d been coming here for years. He knew Nico, the butcher, and Cesare, the greengrocer, and Sandro at the little Motto station where he filled up his Land Rover. He knew Ottavio, the farmer from whom he bought fresh eggs; he knew Benjamino at the local cooperative where he purchased wine in plastic casks, then took great pleasure in decanting it into bottles himself; he knew Rocco, who had a truffle dog and who always saved one of the precious fungi for him, and from whom he also bought milk. He knew Flavia at the
gelateria
and her three small children; he even had a nodding acquaintance with Renato Posoli, the local schoolteacher, and Don Vincenzo, the priest. So, though he wasn’t exactly a resident, Ben counted himself in with the locals. And that’s why he invited them all here to celebrate his American national day: he wanted to share it with them.

Then, of course, since expatriates were notoriously hospitable and he had been invited to dinner at every one of the local big houses, he’d invited them plus all the local aristocracy to his party, as well as the English holidaymakers who took up residence in rented villas and grumbled constantly about the lack of everything, especially hot water, maids, and plumbers, until he wondered why they came back every year and considered this form of torture a holiday.

But then, when you were sitting on your hill of an evening looking at the sun setting over the valley like a misty ball of red wool wrapped in skeins of sherbet-orange, coral, and turquoise, with a glass of the local red wine in your hand, you never wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Especially New York.

He leaned on the balustrade, scanning the grounds for his daughter. There she was, on the swing, all alone. He wondered whether he should go and get her, bring her back to the party, but then thought no, let her come back on her own. He sighed, watching her swinging slowly back and forth, higher and higher, her long blond hair shimmering as she tilted her head to watch the hot-air balloon sail slowly through the sky.

He’d almost not brought her with him. Usually he came here alone. His home was a spacious SoHo loft, though that’s not where he’d started out. He had worked his way up and out of the Bronx, the hustler from the neighborhood who had cleverly made his way to the top as a property developer. He had started out with nothing, and by the time he was twenty-seven, he’d had, if not everything, then certainly a lot. And it had gone to his head. He’d thought he was cock-of-the-walk, the young tycoon, and he’d hit the bright lights and the big city like the boy from the Bronx he still was, plowing through the clubs and the women as if there were no tomorrow.

But of course there was, and he had been forced to come back to planet Earth and shore up his crumbling little empire. After that he had never wavered. Work was all. Sure, there were women and fancy dinners and chic little private clubs with velvet ropes, but work always came first. Now his empire was secure again, and he was richer than he had ever dreamed of being.

At thirty, he had married “up,” dazzled by Bunty Mellor, the beautiful blond WASP, by her old-money family and the whole ancestral home bit. He was a smart young guy, raw and sexy, and unknown territory for Bunty.
Bunty
. Even her name had enchanted him. Where he came from, girls were called Teresa and Marilyn and Sharon.

He had taught Bunty about sex; he’d introduced her to his old buddies, the ones he’d grown up with and whom he still called his friends, and whom she did not like or understand. And Bunty had introduced him to a life of summer houses in Maine and polo-playing friends in Palm Beach and to charity balls at the Met. It hadn’t worked.

And after the divorce, neither had the models, the PR girls, the actresses, the “available” society blondes. Somehow life did not have the
savor
he’d expected from success. Only his daughter was real—and she was a part of him.

Two days before he was due to leave for Rome, he’d gotten the phone call. It was evening, and he was at home. Alone. Music played softly in the background like a chorus to the argument he was having with his ex. She had just broken the news that she was about to remarry the very next week, and he’d said simply that he was glad and he hoped she would be happy this time. And he had meant it. Bunty was spoiled and selfish and rich, but she wasn’t solely responsible for the death of their relationship. It had been doomed from the start.

Then she had said that she was going on an extended honeymoon and she wanted him to take Muffie to Italy with him. Muffie! Like Bunty, that wasn’t his daughter’s real name. She was Martha (for her grandmother) Sloane (for her grandfather) Whitney (for an even richer great-aunt) Raphael (for him), but Bunty had dubbed her Muffie at birth, and Muffie she would be forever.

He loved his daughter, he saw more of her than her socialite mother did, but their deal was that Bunty was responsible for Muffie during that one month in the summer when he went to Italy. It was the only time of the year he got to be by himself. The only time he got to
be
himself. To paint, to read, to absorb the peace. To try to rewrite his life, in a way.

Privately, he felt it was the only time he returned to the man he might have been if he hadn’t made all that money and didn’t live in that constant head-on battlefield of the business world. And besides, this time there was real work to be done on his vacation. Real getting-your-hands-dirty kind of work, instead of the kind that tarnished your soul. He had been looking forward to it for months.

But Bunty, as always when she wanted something, was firm. So of course he’d taken Muffie with him, and now he was glad she was here. He was enjoying her company, her child’s view of Italy, her pleasure in wild strawberries and real pizza and Italian ice cream, her excitement about being in a different country, and her delight at being here alone with him. “It’s like an adventure, Daddy,” she had said, laughing, and she was right.

He was worried about her, though. Thanks to his ex, Muffie was a spoiled little rich kid, out of touch with ordinary people. Sometimes he thought she seemed to be locked mentally behind the protective stone walls of her grandparents’ estate, and that her mother wielded the key that kept her there, imprisoned in the unreal world of the super-rich.

One thing was for sure, he thought, watching his daughter still swinging, idly trailing her toes in the grass. She would see real life with him on this holiday. It wouldn’t get any more real than this.

His party was in full swing now, though he noticed there was some contretemps over by the hot-air balloon. He might have known it: Maggie Marcessi didn’t want to get off; she wanted another ride and wasn’t willing to take her turn. “The more the merrier,” he heard her yell over the general noise and laughter. He grinned ruefully; Maggie always wanted what she wanted exactly when she wanted it. It was one of her many failings, which also included her dress sense. But despite that, he loved her.

Maggie had been the first person to call on him the first year he’d rented the Villa Piacere, and she had come bearing a gift: a bottle of rare 1890 port from her late husband’s extensive cellar, which she had pressed on him, saying, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy this far more than I would. Just don’t be like Billy [she always called her late husband Billy, though his name was Benedetto] and save it too long—or you’ll be dead like him.” Then she’d driven off at breakneck speed, crammed into a Fiat so tiny her head hit the roof as she bounced over the ruts in the driveway and she had to keep the windows open for elbow room.

A rabbit had darted in front of her wheels, and she’d squealed to a halt, backed up, gotten out, inspected the dead creature, picked it up by its tail, and flung it into the backseat.

The next day, her so-called majordomo came by. Actually, the majordomo was a vagrant from the north whom Maggie had rescued many years ago. She had “rehabilitated” him and now called him her majordomo, butler, or chauffeur, depending on which activity he was taking part in at the time. Anyhow, he had arrived the very next day bearing a ceramic terrine and a little note saying, “I do hope you enjoy this rabbit paté—it’s fresh!”

Well, that was Maggie for you, and even as he watched, she soared aloft again, laughing and waving to the crowd below. Maggie brought life with her wherever she went, and he loved her for it.

He glanced along the terrace and did a double take. Wasn’t that the woman from the Hassler? The enigma in the big dark glasses with the so-what-if-it’s-a-party attitude? She certainly wasn’t mingling; in fact, she seemed barely to be there. She was staring at the green valley stretched below, seemingly lost in her thoughts. And she certainly didn’t give a damn about the way she looked: the crumpled linen dress, the sandals, and the touch of lipstick were an obvious concession to a party to which she had been dragged unwillingly.

He noticed her legs were long and shapely, albeit still pale from an endless New York winter, and that she had a kind of lanky grace. And he also noticed there was a soft look about her mouth, a tenderness as she caressed, with a single finger, the ancient lichen-covered balustrade on which she was leaning.

Somehow he got the impression that this woman was more temperamental than a movie star, more sulky than her daughter, and more unforgiving than even his ex-wife. And besides, she was definitely not his type.

Curious, he strolled toward her. “How d’you like the villa?” he said.

Gemma

I was so lost in my thoughts, the voice from behind made me jump. I spun around, silly as a startled colt, and looked right into the eyes of the Michelangelo from Long Island.

I stared at him for a long, silent moment, as though I were looking to see if the pupils were normal or mere clinical pinpoints. Except this time it wasn’t the doctor in me that was checking, and all I was seeing was that those eyes were an intense dark greenish hazel with tiny flecks of gold.

He was immaculate in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to show tanned arms sprinkled with crisp dark hair. He wore worn Levi’s that fit as though they had been tailored for his narrow butt, and those brown suede loafers I had noticed before, but without socks this time. His hair had a slight wave in it and was brushed back, showing that elegant little touch of silver at the temples. His eyes were narrow under bushy brows, his jaw had a hint of stubble, and his mouth…well, it was nice. Actually, it was
very
nice, kind of firm yet sensual, if you know what I mean. He also looked, I thought, like a man who had got where he was going. I saw all this in a flash, though of course I wasn’t really interested in him. It was purely clinical. A doctor’s reaction, you might say.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted, and knew immediately that I’d blown my cover, because as I remembered from my teen-flirt years, a girl should never let on that she was even aware a man existed.

“Same as you, I guess. Vacation.” He leaned companionably on the balustrade next to me. “So how do you like the villa?”

“Like it?” I put my elbows on the stone rail, leaned my chin in my hands, and sighed. “I think I’m in love.”

He laughed, showing a gleam of excellent white teeth, and I thought how handsome he was. Too handsome for his own good, probably. Men like him just sailed through a woman’s world leaving devastation in their wake. He was so darn full of himself he sent prickles of antagonism up my spine. Yet at the same moment, he made me feel I was the only woman in his orbit.

“That’s the way I feel about it too,” he said. “It sure beats New York when the humidity’s climbing and the heat radiates from the sidewalks and everybody’s angry at the weather and at themselves. But
you
know what I mean.”

“How do you know I’m from New York?”

He gave me a long quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, I guess you just have that New York look about you. Sort of tense, uptight.”

“Oh? And you don’t?”

“Sure I do. I haven’t been here long enough yet to lose it.”

He signaled one of the village girls in her frilly apron for more wine, then handed me a glass. I took a sip; it smelled like warm berries and tasted like dark red velvet.

“What do you do, in New York?” He leaned back against the balustrade, his eyes still fixed on me.

“Isn’t that precisely the kind of rude question you are
not
supposed to ask at a party?” I took another sip, staring challengingly at him over the rim of my glass.

“Probably, but after all, I’ve seen you half naked. I hardly feel like a stranger.”

That stupid hot blush rose all the way from my chest. “So what do
you
do?” I asked abruptly.

“I paint.”

“Then you could work here. The villa could do with a good paint job.”

He nodded ruefully. “Okay, touché.”

Despite myself, I grinned. “That’s all right. I’d heard you were an artist.”

He looked surprised, and I added, “My mother asked the headwaiter at the Hassler. She thought you were Italian aristocracy. In fact, she was devastated when she found out you weren’t. Nonna is, you see. Italian, I mean, not aristocracy.” I was rambling on like a ditsy schoolgirl. “We’re here visiting our roots,” I added lamely.

“Don’t tell me your family is from Bella Piacere?”

“Two generations ago. Momma wanted to come back to see her old village again. Before she dies,” I added automatically.

“Fascinating.” He looked as though he meant it. “But what
do
you do anyway, besides being a mother?”

“Besides that? I work in a hospital.”

“You’re a nurse?”

I swung an upward glance at him from under my lashes, then realized, shocked, that I was actually flirting with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.

“I’m a jack-of-all-trades, really. An emergency room physician. We get everything from the homeless hoping for a bed for the night, to sick babies, to killers cuffed to the gurney, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds.”

He looked impressed. “That’s quite a job, even for a jack-of-all-trades.”

Out of the blue, attraction flickered between us. I dismissed it immediately. Some guys get all goofy when you tell them you’re a doctor; he was probably going through his symptoms mentally and was about to ask me for a free opinion on the state of his health.

Silence hung between us, tangible as cigarette smoke. “Sorry, I’m not much good at party talk,” I said. “The only conversations I have are with a daughter full of teenage angst and semicomatose patients in trauma after an incident. An incident,” I added thoughtfully. “Now there’s a polite euphemism for highway slaughter, street murder, and domestic violence. It covers everything nicely. Like a shroud.”

He whistled softly. “That must be one tough job you have, Doc.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh,
puh-lease
—don’t call me
Doc
. I feel like I’m on a TV sitcom.”

“Sorry, Miss, Mrs…. you know, we haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m Ben Raphael.” He held out his hand.

“Gemma Jericho.” His hand was warm and firm, but not smooth and manicured the way I had expected. The skin was rough, as though he worked with his hands. “Since this is now an even playing field,” I said, “may I ask exactly what you do, Mr. Raphael?”

“Oh,
puh-lease
,” he mocked me, perfect white teeth gleaming in a smile, greenish eyes gleaming with what might have been malice. “You mean you’ve never heard of me?”

I opened my eyes wide in faux innocence. “Are you a
famous
artist?”

He heaved another sigh and took a sip of his wine. “No, I’m not a famous artist, and I’m obviously not as well known as I thought I was.”

“So?” I let the question dangle, and he laughed.

“I’m a failed artist, or at least an artist manqué.”

“What does
manqué
mean?”

“Unsuccessful and unfulfilled.”

“Sounds like the story of my life.” I took another sip of my wine. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I might even like him, just a little bit.

“So,” he said, his arm brushing mine as we leaned over that balustrade again, looking out over that perfect green valley, “you love the villa?”

“Yup, I admit it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way, but I know it’s love all right.”

He smiled. “I know what you mean. Feel free to come visit any time you like.”

“Thank you, I may take you up on that. We’ll need to do a proper inspection, get a valuation before we put it on the market.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, what good is it owning a crumbling villa in Tuscany when you have no money to keep it up? And besides, my life,
our lives
are in New York.”

He frowned. “But I’m not planning on
selling
the villa, to your mother or anyone else.”

“What do you mean—you’re not planning on selling it? The villa belongs to my mother. The count of Piacere left it to her in his will.”

“We need to talk,” he said, and took my arm and led me into the
gran salone
with the apple-green Lucca-silk walls and the cushions placed over the worn spots on the sofas.

I frowned, not understanding. “There’s really not much to talk about. My mother was informed by Don Vincenzo that she inherited the villa in the count’s will. It took several years to trace her, but that doesn’t mean the villa was up for grabs.
Signore
Donati has made a mistake.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get angry, but the mistake is on your mother’s part. She’s obviously been misinformed.”

I thought of Nonna now, of her excitement and her determination to come here, and how thrilled she was to be an heiress; how it had changed her appearance, and how…how
gosh-darn happy
she was just to be here. This was
her
village,
her
family friends,
her
inheritance, damn it.

“Look.” Ben was serious now,
deadly
serious. “
I own
this place. I bought it last year from the count’s estate, signed, sealed, delivered, and paid for via the attorney,
signor
Donati. I’ve applied for planning permission, and I’m turning it into a hotel. In fact, work is ready to start.”

I remembered the heavy equipment in the stable yard. So that was what it was for. My nostrils flared like a horse’s at the gate. “I’ll fight you on this,” I said. “You can’t take my mother’s villa away.”

He shook his head. “Go ahead, but you won’t win.”

“You’ll see. I’ll get this villa back!”

He lifted a warning finger, pointed it at me. “Over my dead body.”

I glared back, lifted my own finger, pointed it at him.
“Maybe,”
I said. And then, not knowing what to do next, I spun on my heel and stalked regally away.

Pity I tripped over the rug; it kind of spoiled the effect. I heard him laughing as I ran fuming and blushing out into the gardens, in search of…of what?