Rosamanti (23 page)

Next, Pietro opened the second, larger package. It was heavier than the ring. As he pulled off the sheaths of soft cloth, heavy coins clunked onto the metal of the wrought iron table. There were six bright gold coins and some dirty brown ones. Pietro picked up one of the gold ones.

“There is the Italian crest. Then it says twenty lire.” He turned it over, revealing the head of a man sporting a thick, bushy moustache. Turning it around in his fingers, he read, “Umberto I. RE d’Italia. 1879.” He passed it around the table, then began looking at the other gold coins.

“This would have been a lot of money back in 1928. Especially to a young, sad girl of twelve.” His voice was soft, sad.

They looked at each of the coins, each one very similar, with varying years of minting, dating from the oldest at 1879, up to 1882. Then they turned their attention to the dirty, misshapen coins. They looked, to Sarah, a lot like the coin Pietro gave her when they first went to the Blue Grotto.
Could they be Roman coins?

Pietro picked each one up, weighing it in his hand. Then he passed them around the table for all to look at.

“What do you say, Teresa? These look to be bronze, and this one here,” he touched one with his finger, “copper?”

“Are they from Tiberius’ rule?” Sarah was astonished that these coins were so old.

“Si, most certainly. Nonna would have found them as a child, as most of us did when we were young. They are harder to get these days—too many people here, too many tourists. And the ban on swimming in the grotto means that we locals have to sneak in when it’s darker.”

After they had inspected the treasure, Pietro went into the kitchen, returning soon with a loaf of bread, some cheese and olives, and two bottles of wine. He poured out four glasses and handed them to each one.

“A toast to my Nonna. May she rest in the peace she deserves. Salute!”

Glasses clinked, and the chorus of
salute
was resounding.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object in a black leather case. Handing it to Carlo, he said fondly, “Carlo. This is a thank you gift from me, to you.”

Carlo’s eyes widened with curiosity. He took the item and studied it. As he realized what it was, his face changed from one of inquisitiveness to sheer unbridled joy.

“
Mio telefonino!
” He jumped up and wrapped his arms around Pietro’s neck, hugging him tight, the new cell phone clutched firmly in one hand.

Pietro fished a small piece of paper out of his pocket. “Here is your number.”

Carlo took it, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Next time there is an emergency, you will be able to call for help, no?”

Pietro picked up his wine and took a sip, then inhaled deeply before exhaling a happy sigh. His gaze found Sarah’s. He nodded his head to her. She reached over and kissed his cheek.

Chapter Sixteen

The high tourism season was nearly over, and as the cooler weather began, so did the rain. Workmen came every day, transforming Alberto and Nonna’s little love nest into another type of love nest—one that would lure people for exquisite, fresh, organic food in the traditional Caprese way. The race was on to get as much work done before November, when the big rains would come. They painted the exterior of the old cottage pink—like it used to be when Nonna and Alberto were alive—and installed a new roof of red terracotta tiles. They erected a large outdoor dining area out the front to take advantage of the stunning view down through the valley of Matermánia and on to Faraglione Rocks.

A new paved pathway led from via Lo Capo into the Lombardi property, bypassing the villa itself. A sturdy arbor covered the pathway, and Sarah planted wisteria and bougainvillea all along it. By next summer, it should have completely covered the walkway. Teresa sewed up bright red tablecloths with matching napkins and helped Sarah paint the interior of the new restaurant. Pietro supervised the kitchen area, watching on with pride as his shiny new gas range arrived and was fitted into place.

Sarah often sat at her laptop, gazing at the work happening at Alberto’s cottage. Far from distracting her, it inspired her. Felicity French—the tough, ball-breaking, single sleuth—fell in love. It softened her as a person, but did nothing to lessen her powers of deduction. Somehow, Felicity seemed more real. Work on the novel progressed well, and six months after arriving on Capri, she had the first draft finished, ready to send off to her patient publisher.

She pushed her chair back and leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her entwined hands. High up on the slopes that form the base of Monte Tiberio stood a tall ilex tree, surrounded by rosemary bushes, their soft blue blooms, from the distance of her vantage point, causing a cornflower blue haze, like an aura, to hover above the top of them. She thought of a young girl who sat at that very window, staring at the fresh earth around her Mamma’s body. It upset her to think how desperately sad and frightened the child was as she wrote the letter to someone who might come after her. The newly installed white cross under the ilex stood out starkly against the muted greens of the low shrubbery. Saddened by the words the young Nonna wrote the day her mother was buried, Pietro had crafted the cross, wanting to mark the spot to honor the memory of both women.

She jumped as two hands gripped her shoulders from behind and a kiss was dropped on the top of her head.

“Caught you daydreaming?” His voice never failed to send warmth rushing through her entire body, settling in her heart. She spun around on the chair, stood up and hugged him close.

“Allora. What’s this for?”

Words wouldn’t come out. He pushed her away from him and stared intently into her moist eyes. Seeing she was crying, his voice was full of concern.

“Bella. Cara mia. What is wrong?”

She sniffled. “Nothing’s wrong. That’s just it. Everything’s perfect.” She brought one hand up and used the back of it to wipe her eyes. Looking up into his confused eyes, she melted. “I love you so much, Pietro.”

He hugged her. “Do you love me enough to stay here forever?” His face, buried in her hair, muffled his voice.

She pulled back and looked up to see his dark eyes smoldering.

“Yes. More than enough.”

Their lips met—sweet, loving and passionate. Sarah let out a deep sigh. This is what complete happiness felt like. She clung tightly to the man she loved, never wanting to let him go.

* * *

Christmas came and went, the locals of Capri enjoyed having their beloved
Isola di Capri
to themselves. Only a few hardy tourists braved the rocky island during the winter months, its biting winds and high rainfall not attractive to anyone looking for blue skies and warm days.

On the second week of January, Sarah climbed onto her little red bicycle and rode to the library in Capri township and wrote a long email to her daughter back in Australia. With apprehension, she wondered how Scarlett would take the news of her mother finding love again so soon after the death of her father. Sarah knew that she and Ted, although happily married, had grown apart over the years. While there was still love, caring and affection in their marriage, it had never bubbled with the abundance of love that lit up the air whenever she and Pietro were within ten feet of each other. She told her daughter that this wasn’t a rebound, lonely widow, vacation romance. This was the real deal.

A week went past before she repeated her journey to the library. She was aching to see Scarlett’s response, but yet afraid. Her whole being wanted to know straight away Scarlett’s reaction to the news, but she forced herself to wait, hoping to put off what might well be a not so good response.

The day she opened her inbox and saw a reply, she sucked in her breath with apprehension. She double-clicked on the link and opened her daughter’s reply. As she read, tears stung the back of her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks unchecked. Not noticing the curious looks from others in the library, she sobbed, blowing her nose noisily with her handkerchief. After a while, she logged off and left. Climbing onto her electric bicycle, she wound up the hilly paths to Rosamanti.

As she always did, she nearly fell over as she pulled up in the courtyard, still lacking confidence in stopping. Pietro, bent over some plans on the pergola table, looked up as she came in. He took one look at her tear-stained face and thought the worst. She ran over to him, her arms outstretched. He stood and caught her.

“Bambino. Are you OK?” He looked worriedly at her.

She extracted her face from the warmth of his chest and looked up at him, a broad smile slowly spreading across her face.

“She’s coming!” Her voice broke. “She’s coming for the opening of
Alberto’s
! She said she is over the moon with happiness for us and can’t wait to meet you.”

Pietro took her hands and swung her around and around, doing a little dance of happiness.

“Bravo!” His eyes too were shiny.

* * *

That night over dinner, Pietro told her that Teresa had agreed to work in the restaurant, doing anything from cooking, to waiting on tables.

“She will be a real asset. She can teach me a lot too, as she knows many of the traditional dishes and is used to making hearty and tasty meals out of local produce.”

Sarah was pleased. She’d noticed that Teresa and Carlo had never had much money. They could use the wages, that’s for sure. She’d also noticed that Bruno and Teresa often exchanged secret little looks, their faces radiating happiness.

“I have some more news. Zia Maria has sold her restaurant to Paulo. She is well past retirement age and is tired. She has worked hard to run that place ever since Zio Giuseppe passed away.”

Sarah’s brows lifted at the revelation. “Where will she live?”

“She has a son in Napoli. We used to stay with him when we did our shopping excursions. He has asked her to live with him.” He reached across the table and took her hand in is. “So, it seems as though all is as it should be. Now we just need to hear that you have finished your book and watch as
Alberto’s
becomes a resounding success. Does life get any better than this, bella?”

She placed her other hand on top of his and looked deeply into his eyes. “I don’t believe it does.”

* * *

April arrived, heralding blue skies and warm days. It also marked the one year anniversary of Sarah’s arrival in Capri. Her new novel was in bookshops and online all around the world.
Felicity French — Book 1 of the Mysteries of Tiberius
series, was a bestseller already. The reviewers had been kind, finding the softer, more human Felicity French a refreshing change. The fans were ecstatic that Felicity had also met a gorgeous man and fallen in love. Quite out of the blue.

She surveyed the crowd sitting at the little tables under the pergola of
Alberto’s
. A local violinist walked from table to table, playing local folk music. Candles glowed, sending warm yellow light out and bathing everyone with a happy glow. Teresa brought out dishes of steaming food from the kitchen and placed them on the tables, a broad grin across her face, making her look so pretty. Carlo, now a good six inches taller and looking very grown up in his black trousers and white shirt with red bow tie, walked from table to table topping up wine glasses. Bruno, dressed in kitchen whites and wearing a cloth cap on his head, came out briefly from where he’d been washing dishes, to see what was happening.

As though holding court at a royal wedding, Zia Maria, dressed to the nines in a shimmering gold frock, talked animatedly with the others at her table. She looked beautiful and serene, the relaxing life in Naples obviously doing her good.

Luigi too was there, old and frail, but happily sipping the Lombardi wine, which he said was always the best in all of Capri.

“Signora, how is the little red electric bicycle?”

Sarah’s laugh rang out and she hugged the old man. “Luigi, it’s wonderful. I love it.”

“Remember to pull on both front and back brakes at the same time.”

Her face heated up. She’d had several accidents where she had stopped too suddenly and gone flying over the handle bars.

He tilted his head to one side and looked at her. “You bring the bike to me tomorrow. I’ll adjust the brakes for you. Make it better.”

She hugged him and planted a kiss on each cheek. When she let him go, his faded old eyes were moist.

“Thanks, Luigi.”

The old man nodded and turned back to his meal.

As she turned to speak with people at the next table, an arm slipped through hers, and she turned to see her daughter.

“Mom, you’re just glowing with happiness. You look young enough to be my sister.”

Sarah could feel it. She wondered what normal people felt, but surely others couldn’t possibly be as happy as she was.

“Dad would be happy for you too.” Scarlett’s hand reached for hers and squeezed.

Cheers and applause burst from the gathering of invited friends and guests for the opening of the restaurant, as Pietro came out from the kitchen. Holding his hands up, he pleaded for silence. A hush spread over the crowd as he cleared his throat.

His speech, in rapid Italian, brought tears from some, cheers from others, and a rousing applause at the end, when everyone turned to look at Sarah. He strode over to her and disentangled her from her daughter’s arm. He bent and kissed her, everyone cheering and laughing. When he finished, he turned back to the crowd. He then spoke in English.

“Nonna brought us together. She hand-picked the love of my life. I am so happy I could cry!”

Whoops of joy and shouts of
Salute! Salute! Bravo! Bravo!
echoed off the hillsides and rung through the valleys of Rosamanti. Above the restaurant, the white ruins of Villa Jovis stood imposingly as if overseeing the happiest party in all of Capri.

Pietro bent his head and kissed her lips. Then he turned to the crowd, picked up a glass of wine and held it high in the air.