The Knotty Bride (18 page)

September

(Aglow with Autumn)

Three months later, I drive my new Mini Cooper (blue with white racing stripes) up the horrible oxcart path of a driveway towards Villa Buschi.

Today I don’t park in the
parcheggio
. Instead, I drive around to the converted barn that is a five-car storage garage. I hit the button on my remote control and wait for the door to open. Once I safely stow my car, I move Brandon’s wedding present in the little garage office. You see, since I didn’t know we were getting married, I never got my husband a gift.

“Be good,” I say to the present before exiting the garage and closing the door behind me. I make my way up the hill to the villa and duck through the side entrance. With any luck, Brandon hasn’t returned from his business meeting yet. I enter the main hall and a conversation wafts out of the kitchen. I can hear Elenora say, “It’s so good to have a family in this house. I wonder when the last family lived here. It must have been before Carlo Buschi bought the place.”

She’s absolutely right, it is good to have a family in this villa again. It’s only been this way for a week because Brandon, me, and the boys have just returned from two months in America. The first thing Brandon and I did after we got married was go on a honeymoon to the J.W. Marriott in Capri. We were there for a week among the sunshine and lemon trees. The hotel overlooked the town, and they allowed me to put my lounge chair right in the pool. After that, we spent time in Paris and London, while my mother and father stayed on at Villa Buschi to watch the boys. Thankfully, Anna and Jason used the time to find a place of their own, a condo in Baveno, not far away.

Brandon and I spent an entire month on our own and then the six of us flew back to the states. It was so great to be home in Colorado. Although, I’m not sure how much Brandon liked sleeping in my old room with all my stuffed animals on the bed. We stayed a week before renting an R.V. and doing the grand Colorado tour with the boys. Then, it was off to Malibu to see Brandon’s beach house. There I finally met Brandon’s head of household in the flesh. Horatio apologized a million times for having been so rude to me when I was a maid working under his tutelage at the villa. I told him not to worry, it was all water under the bridge. Finally, we returned to Italy, after staying a week in Brandon’s flat in Manhattan.

Thinking about it now, it seems like a dream. The last few months have been the best of my life.

But I have to say, Arona is my home and it was good to return. Today we’re having a family luncheon as soon as everyone arrives. The great news is that we get to keep the villa. Any day now, Signor Fini should be coming over with the paperwork that says the Italian state recognizes Brandon’s purchase of the estate as legal and above board. You see, Ada Brunetti turned out to be Buschi’s heir. A DNA test proved it. Tragically, they had to exhume Carlo Buschi’s body to do the match, to make sure they really were father and daughter.

Anyway…

The important thing is that Ada didn’t want the house after all. She wanted the 21 million euros. And the first thing that Ada did with her money was take Signor Tacchini on a world cruise. They’ll be gone for almost a year. 

So all’s well that ends well,
I think, as I hear voices from the game room. I head down the hallway to find Beatta Cavale, and my boys whiling away time in the game room. Rocket is here as well, stretched out in a patch of sunshine. Xerxes, Brandon’s cat, is in hiding, not sure what to think of his new feline housemate.

“Good morning, Beatta,” I call out. (What? You didn’t think we would leave her down there in Civita with a house that’s going to slough off into the abyss, did you? I hired her as a nanny, and she’s superb.)

“Good morning,” she replies with an easy smile.

The sound of a powerful engine maneuvering its way along the ox-cart path drifts through the open door.

“Ah, sounds like Brandon’s finally home, if you’ll excuse me.”

Beatta and the boys nod and I hurry away. I have to catch Brandon before he finds his present on his own.

But I’m too late. When I reach the garage, I find Brandon looking curiously at the office door.

“What’s in there, Lily?”

Woof
, comes the sound from the opposite side of the door.

“It’s my wedding present to you!” I say happily, and turn the doorknob. Phil is standing there, looking a little dejected and confused as always. All these months of being stuck in a kennel have been so hard on him. It’s time he has a place to call his own, with a family to love him.

Brandon smiles slowly. “My wedding present is a dog? You know you’re not supposed to gift animals. What if I return him?”

“You’d never do that!” I smile confidently.

“So, you think you know me that well?”

Woof,
cries Phil again.

“Of course I know you that well. I know you extremely well. You’re my husband. Don’t be silly.”

******

The End

Lily Bilbury and friends will return in a new series:
Lily Bilbury, Ace Detective.

Books by this author:

The Sweet Delicious Madness Cozy Mystery Series

1. The Hope Diamond
   
2. The Heir to Villa Buschi
   
3. The Treasure of Croesus
   
4. The Knotty Bride
   

The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series

1. The Prince and I
   
2. The Princes’ Secret
   
3. The King of Scotland (coming late fall 2015)
   

The Witches Pendragon Cozy Mystery series

1. The Witching Hour (coming October 2015)
   

Magda Pendragon: Heir to Arthur (coming Spring 2016)

The Classic Cozy Mystery Series

1. Murder at Mudswell Manor (coming late Winter 2015)
   

Thank you dear reader, for taking the time to read about Lily’s misadventures. I have a particular brand of humor and my characters may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I understand that. If you liked this book please take a few minutes and leave a review. Indie authors do it all on our own from start to finish, and unlike indie films, we are generally not celebrated. Having delved into the world of indie books I have found some truly amazing authors and it has enriched my life. I recently read something that said ‘promote what you like, rather than bash something you don’t.’ I think these are good words to live by and I leave good reviews for books I truly enjoy.

Special thanks to my editors who keep me on the straight and narrow. If you are interested in knowing when future works release please join my newsletter. Please note I don’t spam anyone. I only announce giveaways, free promotions or new releases.

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What, no recipes? No, I’m sorry no recipes this time. Life has been crazy! So how about a blooper reel? The rough draft of The Hope Diamond was 130,000 words long. It was originally released as Sweet Delicious Madness and the Many Mysterious Deaths of Silvio Berlusconi, and the word count was cut to 95,000. When it was re-released as The Hope Diamond, it was cut to 84,000 so here are the outtakes.

Sweet Delicious Madness 
and the Many Mysterious Deaths of Silvio Berlusconi

Julie Sarff

Late September

(Rainy)

chapter 1

E
NRICO HAS NEVER been my first choice in Italian men. Never. And now, if I just close my eyes and wish hard enough, if I just click my glittery red shoes together three times, he just might be gone. Like that. Poof. Divorce.

Only, of course, there are still Matteo and Luca, my two young boys, to think about. Which is why I am here in the first place, ringing the intercom at the gate, and staring through the rain and the fog at one of the most famous houses on the lake.

The truth is, I’m about to start a fabulous new job. Although some may not think my new job as a maid deserves the word ‘fabulous.’ But a young professional has to do what a young professional has to do. Especially a young professional with a pending divorce, two small children and mounting debt. Cash flow for the last three years has been a bit tight, to say the least.

But anyway, that’s not the point. The job is still fabulous because…

I’ll be working here, at the incredible Villa Buschi. I’ve seen it a million times in picture postcards sold all over Lago Maggiore in the summer. It’s a stately two-storied, cream-colored affair, with dark blue shutters and ornate iron balconies. With a terra cotta tiled roof and gorgeous Mediterranean gardens that spill their way down the bank to the shore, it’s simply divine.

Or at least in the postcards, with the pictures taken from the lake side, it looks divine. But right here, right now, from where I am standing at the entrance gate, Villa Buschi looks rather overrun. It’s impossible to even see the house given the thick, tangled mess of pine, cypress, poplar and heaven knows what else.

I ring the intercom again, wondering if I need a machete, or perhaps something larger like a scythe, in order to forge a path ahead for my car. I stand there a few more minutes. Again there is no answer. Which strikes me as curious because, you see, Alice (that’s al-lee-chey in Italian) knows I’m arriving at eight. That was our agreed upon start time. Given, I was five minutes late. But after the minor miracle I pulled off just to be here this morning, I think I’ve done pretty well. So why isn’t she answering? I ring again. The intercom makes a loud buzzing sound. Now I’m starting to get more than a little cold. My cheap boots were just meant to look the part. They actually have no insulation in them to speak of and, after five minutes of standing in this downpour, I’m losing feeling in my toes.

Of course, I did bring an umbrella. Of course I did. It’s still folded up neatly in the back seat of the car. Because, obviously, I thought Alice would ring me right through. I thought I would hop out of my Fiat Panda, hit the intercom button, and hop right back in. That’s not the case though, because now I’m about to hit that same button for the tenth time.

I listen to the sound of the buzzing intercom once again. Still no answer. Just to make sure it works, I hit it three more times in rapid succession.

“Pronto?” a harassed-sounding Alice finally answers from the other side. Her words sound all tinny as they come out over the loudspeaker that is affixed to the stone gate wall, right next to some badly chipped blue and yellow tiles that say ‘Ca’ Buschi No. 47’.

In response, I bend down and press my lips right up to the speaker to make sure she hears me clearly.

“Alice, sono io,” I state profoundly. I am me. Let me in. Immediately there is a snap-snap sound as Alice electronically releases the lock from inside Villa Buschi. Then the massive iron gate creaks slowly inward. As it moves, the winged lions that perch up top begin to wobble so badly from side to side that I’m quite sure the entire metal contraption is about two seconds away from falling in on itself.

No matter, if it collapses, the Panda can just drive over it. Hastily I jump back in my car, rub my hands together and shake like a dog to shed water. Then I wait. I swear, after five minutes, the gate has moved about six inches. Maybe I should use the extra time to check my makeup. With one eye still fixed on the gate, I swivel the rearview mirror around so I can see myself. I am pleasantly surprised to find that my makeup still looks reasonably good. As if it were applied by a sane, rational person as opposed to a mother of twin three-year-olds, one who spent the pre-dawn hours of the morning dashing about, barking orders and trying to get everybody to their first day of school on time.

Yes, I think firmly. My makeup definitely says sane. I kept the colors within the lines and everything. But then I look harder into the mirror—at the face beneath the makeup—and I let out a sigh. While the makeup looks fine, sadly, the face underneath is still the same: far too many freckles to say “cute,” more like “peculiar,” nose way too wide to be considered delicate, eyes way too small to be considered beautiful. But the lips—now there is something to be proud of—nice and full. “You have the biggest lips I have ever seen on a Caucasian woman,” a bald, black man in white cords and a muscle t-shirt once told me as we both pushed our way through the crowds of a January sale at the GAP. That was long ago—back in Colorado, where I grew up. And although I knew he was gay and NOT trying to hit on me, I still took the compliment and ran with it. Indeed, ever since that day, I have deemed my lips to be ultra-sensual, a weapon really –sort of like a secret power. Maybe a mother should not dwell on such superficial things as her own facial features, but I am about to be divorced and I don’t relish the thought of spending my life alone. My new status as single has caused me to be paradoxically both insecure and vain at the same time.

With another sigh I check out my secret power again in the rearview mirror and decide to reapply gobs more bright pink lipstick. After all, you never know who might be in residence at Villa Buschi.

   Finished with the lipstick, I am dismayed to see that the gate is still not open wide enough to drive through. I look at the dashboard clock and feel a slight rush of panic. Now I am officially fifteen minutes late. There’s nothing I can do. I hunker down in the driver’s seat and begin to watch the gate intently.

And drum my fingers nervously on the dashboard. I swear as I drum that the gate actually begins to slow down even further.

But that’s okay. That’s alright. I need to remain calm. Take a deep breath. Yes, I will be late, but I should take the extra time God has given me and use it wisely. What else can I do?

I know. I will go over my outfit. Check it for professionalism.

Faux Gucci bag? Check!

Cheery red umbrella still neatly folded up in back seat? Check!

Faux Prada trench? Check!

Faux Fendi shades totally unnecessary on such a rainy day and currently serving as a hairband? Check! Check! Check!

Not bad. Not bad at all. If I do say so myself. An outfit that says—no wait a minute—an outfit that shouts, “I am not a maid. I am a totally pulled-together, twenty-nine-year-old professional who understands the value in fashion label knock-offs.” Which is exactly the message one wants to send to one’s new employer. Hopefully the owner of this fine villa will be impressed, I think, as I look at the gate again. Then, as if I am completely in sync with the universe, I find that the gate has swung open a good four feet. If I edge over far enough to the right, I just might be able to steer the Panda through. With determination, I pluck my sunglasses off my head, plop them in my handbag, smooth out my hair and shift the car into first gear. A half a second later I drive through the gate with purpose, like the confident Italo-American woman that I have become!