Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (28 page)

“Yes.” She smiled at him through the darkness. “Yes, that was the image. That was how I felt. Like a mermaid held prisoner in a cold, forbidding
world and then, one night, lured into warmth and love by a voice, a smile, the love of a stranger, by someone offering me a fragrant garden, and sunlight.”

“You never said!” He tried to remember, tried to recall if this had ever come up.

Naomi shrugged. “It wasn’t important. It was good enough that you liked it and could relate to it; what I thought did not matter. I let the song go when you chose to make it yours.”

A shiver ran through her when he touched her, let his hand glide down the curve of her waist and hip.

“Yes,” Jon said slowly, thoughtfully, “the song is mine, and the poet. And I’ll make sure she wants to stay mine.”

Her lips were so soft, so warm and welcoming, and her embrace the only thing he wanted.

C
esare came to pick them up while they were having breakfast on the terrace.

He wanted to take them up to the olive groves and show Jon the trees and the mill and introduce him to his son, Ferro.

“Where is he?” Jon asked. The bread was a disappointment. It was nowhere near what they had eaten the night before, at the family home. This was limpid, tasteless; it didn’t even seem fresh. He could see, from the deep furrow between Naomi’s eyes, that there was trouble in store for the manager.

“He is working up in the hills. I will take you to him.” Cesare gazed at their table, his brows raised critically. “Why don’t you come and stay at my house? It may be farther from the beach, but I promise, the food will be better. That bread looks very sad.”

“Maybe we should.” Naomi laid down her knife. “Maybe we really should accept your offer, Uncle. If I stay here I’ll end up getting involved. But this is my father’s place. If he is okay with the way this hotel is run, then it’s his business. I’m glad we haven’t unpacked yet.”

Her movements when she rose and went inside were sharp and impatient, her steps brisk; and Jon, watching her, had to hide a grin. He knew her so well. He knew that despite her words she would have a talk with the manager, and he would come out of it sweating and unhappy.

“She is just like all the others.” Cesare dropped into the chair Naomi had vacated and took one of the apricots from the bowl of fruit. “Just like all the other DeAngelis females. Short-tempered, impetuous, beautiful. Believe me, you are well off. You have only one. I have an entire house full of them to deal with. I have eight nieces, and they are all the same.” He bit into the apricot. “Not many boys in this generation. Raul, my brother Lorenzo’s son, has quite a bit of responsibility coming his way. But the girls will do their part. They like working for the family business.”

“And your son?” The coffee was strange. Jon liked his black and straight, no fuss; and this was only bearable with milk. It had a nutty, bitter taste, not at all like espresso; and he had no idea what to do with it. Italian breakfast, he decided, would never be one of his favorite meals.

“Ah, my son.” Cesare smiled. “My son is different. He goes his own way. The farms and the vineyards are not for him.”

T
hey drove up the winding, narrow roads, the steep, terraced hillsides on both sides, their verdant green luxurious in the bright sunlight. Pastel-colored houses were nestled between the orchards like eggs hidden in the grass, protected by the umbrellas of the pine trees. From time to time a Vespa came dashing down the road, wobbling around the loops of the serpentines like a drunken beast, engine sounding like a dying sewing machine.

“I want one of those!” Naomi pointed when a flaming red one hurtled past them. A young girl was riding it, her skirt hitched up on her thighs, her hair blowing in the wind.

Cesare laughed. “You can use Gemma’s, I’m sure. She has one just like that. She is like a devil on it.”

The car turned off the road and onto a dirt track that took them up a steep incline under the dense canopy of trees. For a while they drove in the fragrant shadow of the pines until the grove dropped away and they entered a wide meadow sloping gently toward a cliff that dropped dramatically into the ocean. A single building, an old church, stood in
the center of this open space. It was more of a chapel, built of the ocher stone so common here, with Gothic windows and a sturdy bell tower.

“Here we are.” Cesare held the door open for Naomi. “You will meet my son, Ferro, here.”

Naomi took a few steps away from them, into the high grass, and stood looking around, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers, listening to the hum of bees and the silence surrounding her. Far below, the sea twinkled in the sun, the boats no more than white specks on the azure expanse, the town of Positano a collection of bird’s nests plastered to the mountainside. Behind her, the mountains rose into a sky white with heat.

The door to the church was open. After the glare of the sun, it seemed dim and cool inside, the air heavy with the aroma of incense and burning candles and a slight mustiness from the old stone. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams that fell through the colorful panes onto the mosaic floor.

Behind the altar, a man was sitting on a scaffolding, a lamp by his side, painting. He was so lost in his work that he hadn’t noticed them, so they watched for a while as he carefully touched the wall with his brush, adding another dab of light to his work.

Naomi heard Jon beside her breathe out a sigh, and she took his hand.

The girl in the mural was wearing a shawl or cape covering her head and shoulders, flowing over her arms; and she was holding an oil lamp in her hands. Her face was turned away from the spectator, looking toward something or someone unseen, her lips slightly parted, her eyes open. Her entire attitude was one of pause; she was caught in the moment between surprise and acceptance, as if she was listening closely in an attempt to understand.

“The Annunciation,” Cesare said softly, but Naomi had already understood.

The Virgin, wrapped in that light blue gown, the clay bowl with the oil like an offering in her palm, shone from the darkness of the surrounding wall like a quiet candle. Ferro was even now applying more of the yellowish white to the flame of the lamp, the only thing to highlight that young, pure face.

“Come, look at this one.” Naomi turned to follow Cesare to the side where there was another mural, another image of Mary, this time with the child on her lap. This one made her smile. The infant was no serene and angelic Christ; here was a feisty baby struggling away from his mother, trying to reach for the gifts being presented to him while she had her arms wrapped around his chubby, naked middle and tried to keep him from falling.

“Loretta and her baby were the models for this one. Little Tonio squirmed all the time. To think, he’s a teenager now.” His low laugh echoed through the vault.

“Ah, Papa!” Ferro climbed down the ladder. “Sorry I could not make it last night, but that color just drove me crazy. I went to Naples to buy something else. See? Now the light shines!” He wiped his hands on a piece of cloth and stuffed it into his belt before he stretched out his hand to Naomi. “Hello, cousin. You have grown into a beautiful woman. You’d make a good model for the Virgin.” Critically he looked her up and down. “You have the right figure; the others are all too well fed, too ample. Mary should be ethereal, dainty. Not an Italian peasant wench.”

“I’ve brought you lunch,” Cesare interrupted. “Come outside and sit in the sun with us and take a break. How long have you been working?”

Ferro grinned sheepishly at his father. “Oh, you know, after I got the new paint and tried it out, I couldn’t just stop. She needed that light in her hands.” His gaze wandered back to his painting. “Couldn’t leave her alone in the darkness of the night.”

chapter 26

“
M
ost of the paintings in the house were done by Ferro,” Cesare told them. “He is becoming famous, having exhibitions all over Europe. It is a great gift being so talented, and it is an honor to have an artist in the family.”

“An honor?” Naomi took the glass of wine he held out to her.

“Yes, a great honor. An artist, someone with the gift to create, is a blessing, a child kissed by an angel.” Carefully, Cesare opened containers with pasta and salad and offered them to his son. “Yes, a blessing. The moment we realized Ferro wanted to do nothing but paint and draw, we saw to it he got the right teachers and the space to develop his talent.”

“But the farms? The vineyards, the olive mills?” The wine was sweet and cool, and tasted of almonds and honey.

“What of them? There are others, and even if there wasn’t, one can always hire managers. The earth was here before us, and it will outlast us. We can’t take any of it with us when we die. The true value…” Cesare patted his chest with the tips of his fingers. “The true value of a person isn’t in how much he owns. It’s in what he has given to the world, how much joy he has brought to others.”

Jon was looking at her, his gaze silent and steady.

“And if you come into the world with a gift, like your mother with her voice or Ferro with his paintings, then you owe it to others to share it, because that is why it was given to you. The arts—music, song, painting, or poetry—these have to be given to others. If you keep them to yourself it’s like committing a sin.” With a smile, Cesare held out a container to her. “Here, try these. Angelica makes them; they are filled with cheese and herbs.”

She held the piece of pastry in her hand but did not eat it.

“So you—” Cesare turned to Jon—“you, I hear, are a great musician. There was some talk about a movie soundtrack?”

“I know who you are.” Ferro shook his head at his father. “Everyone knows who you are except my old man. They are only too well mannered to show their excitement. Naomi, how did you catch the famous man? The competition must have been tough.”

Ferro was a tall man in his midthirties, with broad shoulders and muscular, deeply tanned arms. His hair was longish; it curled around his shoulders, but he was clean shaven and well groomed, and had the same black eyes as the rest of the family.

“I don’t know,” she replied, lowering her head. “I didn’t catch him. He ran after me from day one.”

Jon laughed. “That’s true; and after coming here and seeing your family, all these lovely women, I know why. It had to be one of the DeAngelis women or no one at all. And she was the only one I could catch.”

“You compose all your music yourself, don’t you?” Hungrily, Ferro was taking huge bites of the cold pizza.

“Yes, and I used to write my own lyrics when…while…during my time without Naomi. But she is the writer in this family, and her words are far superior to mine. Now, I don’t touch the lyrics anymore.” He reached for Naomi’s hand. “She says everything that needs to be said.”

Embarrassed, she pulled away from him and knotted her fingers in her lap. “It’s only writing. There’s nothing special about it. Everybody writes in one way or the other. It’s nothing.”

Cesare squinted at her against the sun. “You think? You think there’s nothing special to putting things into words? That painting in there—go on; describe it to me. Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw…” Naomi broke off. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, I’m serious! Tell me what you saw!”

“She is seeing the angel of the Lord,” Naomi said. “She is seeing the light of heaven, and she realizes something momentous is about to happen. She’s not afraid, not even really surprised. Awed, yes. But there is a stillness to her as if she’s listening both to the words the angel is speaking and to her own soul. I think the angel’s voice sounds like a mandolin: sweet, mellow, soothing. She is drawn to it, enticed.”

A smile on his face, Cesare leaned toward her. “You are a writer,” he told her, “because you see. And because you can put into words what you see. If you scrape all the meat from the way you perceive art, it comes down to this: artists are people who look deeper, see more than the upper layer of existence, and who feel a need to communicate that to the world. It’s that basic, and that simple. You use words, your husband melodies, and Ferro egg tempera.”

Abashed, she settled back against the cool wall of the church and popped the cheese pastry into her mouth and listened to Ferro asking Jon about life in Hollywood and the music business. She watched Jon as he poured more wine, broke off a piece of the bread, and talked about their life and work, describing a day in the studio, a show night, the quiet hours spent composing.

“And the fans? What about the ladies?” Ferro gave them a dazzling smile, his white teeth flashing.

Jon grinned. “Oh, you know. Many offers, a lot of opportunities.” He pursed his lips. “Not all of them bad, some actually quite enticing. But you know how it is. Deep down, you are always searching for the one, the only one, the girl that will make your heart stop every time she walks into the room, the one who holds your heart.”

Naomi held out her hand to him. “Give me your handkerchief, please.”

Bemused, Jon dug into his jeans pockets and handed it to her. She got up without another word and went into the church. Just as she entered, he could see her unfold the linen, then she vanished into the darkness. With half an ear he listened to Ferro talking about brushes and pigments, about the project he wanted to tackle next, and to Cesare’s rumbling voice replying, suggesting they go to Rome and try to find the right stuff there.

Jon, distracted, rose and slowly wandered toward the open door of the chapel.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom.

She had covered her hair with the handkerchief, and she was kneeling, facing the Madonna and Child. In her hand was a thin, tall candle that she had taken from a box near the altar, and she was busy lighting it. Slowly, every movement a ritual, Naomi placed the candle in the rack with the others burning there and raised her face to the image. Jon could see her lips move, could hear her soft whisper. Sunbeams, colored from the windows, fell on her and bathed her in an amber glow that made him think of the unfinished painting over the altar, the same woman, the same black eyes and gentle mouth, the same profile.

Careful not to disturb her, Jon retreated.

“I’d like to ask you,” he said when Ferro looked up at him. “Would you do a portrait of Naomi? Would you paint her for me?”

S
he complained a bit, more about the setting than about having to sit still for the sketches.

Cesare had taken them up along the coast to a small beach that was part of a private property belonging, he said, to a friend who wouldn’t mind them using it. Half the family had chosen to join them. They brought along a picnic and spent the day watching Ferro make the sketches for a new painting.