Lake Como Page 9

  Hallie paused at the bottom step and turned to thank him. He touched her cheek, and then he pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. Hallie froze, watching the paper lanterns sway above them. She broke away and slipped through the double glass doors.

  “Hallie, wait.” Alfonso ran ahead, blocking her path.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Hallie sputtered. Her knee throbbed and there was blood on the hem of her dress.

  “You are so beautiful,” Alfonso pleaded. “I thought we could make music together.”

  “I have a boyfriend.” Hallie glanced around the room to see if Sophia or Pliny were watching. She didn’t want to make a scene but she was anxious to get away from Alfonso.

  “Across a wide ocean.” He put his hand on her arm.

  “Leave me alone,” Hallie whispered. “Or I will tell Sophia.”

  “It will not happen again. Keep the handkerchief.” Alfonso slipped the silk square into her hand. “A token of friendship.”

  Hallie wanted to run upstairs and close the door to her room. She wanted to get away from the women displaying high, round breasts and the men whispering endearments. But she saw Sophia ringing the dinner bell. She followed the guests into the dining room and sat at the long table, staring at the naked cherubs painted on the ceiling.

  chapter seven

  Hallie sat at an outdoor café in the Piazza San Giacamo, sipping an orange soda. It was early afternoon and the town was alive with tourists. They were everywhere: prowling the designer boutiques, flipping through postcard stands, buying glass hedgehogs and stacks of silk scarves. Hallie hadn’t moved in an hour but the scene kept changing like a kaleidoscope.

  Hallie had suffered through last night’s feast and stumbled up to bed at two in the morning. She managed to avoid Alfonso and made small talk with the count and marquis, who were seated on either side of her. By the time the waiters had served five courses—goat cheese salad drizzled in olive oil, salmon served on a bed of rice, figs in a sweet wine sauce, and hazelnut gelato for dessert—Hallie thought she was going to fall asleep at the table. She slipped upstairs and tumbled into bed. When she woke, she didn’t know what day it was.

  Hallie stayed in bed for a long time, listening to the silence. There were no taxis honking their horns, no cars screeching to a stop, no Muni buses chugging up Russian Hill. Hallie touched her lips, remembering Alfonso’s kiss, and thought how easy it was to find oneself in an awkward situation.

  She picked up her phone and called Peter, smiling at the familiar ring tone.

  “How is my molto bella girlfriend?” Peter answered on the second ring.

  “You don’t have to speak Italian.” Hallie grinned.

  “I bought a phrase book,” Peter replied. “I’m thinking of coming over there.”

  “I thought you had to hold Jim Johnson’s hand,” Hallie said.

  “I heard about a think tank outside Paris. They put five gifted teenagers in a house for two years and teach them computer programming. It’s an incubator for geniuses.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Hallie replied.

  “They’re about to graduate their first batch; I might check it out.”

  Hallie hesitated. “I’ll be home in a month.”

  “How is Lake Como?” Peter asked. “Have you met many princes and princesses?”

  Hallie gulped. She wanted to tell Peter about Alfonso but she couldn’t do it over the phone. She had to see his face so she knew he believed her.

  “I’ve only been here twenty-four hours,” Hallie said, sighing. “The food is amazing and the scenery is breathtaking.”

  “We’ll return next year on our honeymoon,” Peter replied.

  “Peter.” Hallie’s stomach suddenly felt queasy. “I’m still thinking.”

  “I love you,” Peter interrupted. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Hallie hung up and watched the sailboats cut across the lake. She pictured Kendra peeling off Peter’s tux jacket. She thought about the diamond-and-ruby engagement ring, and realized her brush with Alfonso didn’t make the scene between Peter and Kendra any clearer.

  * * *

  By the time Hallie walked downstairs, wearing a Lilly Pulitzer dress and leather espadrilles, the breakfast dishes had been cleared and the main rooms were empty. Lea told her that Pliny had taken the boat to Verenna, and Sophia was upstairs writing letters. Hallie asked if Lea had seen Portia but Lea shrugged, as if suddenly her English failed her.

  The last time Hallie had seen Portia she was sitting on Riccardo’s lap, sipping a glass of sambuca. The last guests were clustered on the balcony; men smoked cigars and women curled up against their partners like kittens. Portia had shot Hallie a look that was part victory and part anguish. Hallie wanted to pull Portia aside, but Riccardo’s hand gripped Portia’s waist as if she was his property.

  Hallie had tapped on Portia’s door in the morning but there was no answer. She imagined Portia and Riccardo lying under the silk canopy, or perhaps Riccardo had driven Portia back to their villa in Menaggio. Hallie decided to walk into town, thinking Portia hadn’t looked like a woman in love, she looked like someone who was desperate.

  * * *

  Sitting in the piazza, nibbling a plate of bruschetta with olive oil, Hallie didn’t think about Peter or Portia or Riccardo. She watched the women passing by: fashion plates wearing Pucci dresses and sandals by Prada and Gucci. After lunch she would explore the shoe boutiques and pick up something for Francesca and Constance.

  “Lake Como makes the best olive oil in Italy,” a voice said behind her. “Tourists think Como is just spectacular gardens and villas, but it is also a center of manufacturing.”

  Hallie spun around and saw Alfonso. “What are you doing here?” He held a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a plate of polenta in the other.

  “I am eating lunch. May I join you?”

  “I have a boyfriend.” Hallie started to get up. “I don’t have lunch with strange men.”

  “I would never chase a woman who did not want to be caught.” Alfonso placed his plate on the table.

  “Then why are you here?” Hallie demanded.

  “To apologize.” Alfonso put a linen napkin in his lap and ate a spoonful of polenta. “The Tesoro family is important to me, I do not want friction between us.”

  Hallie watched Alfonso eat. He took large bites, wiping his mouth with the napkin and washing it down with mineral water.

  “I accept your apology,” Hallie said finally.

  “Bennissimo!” Alfonso’s black eyes sparkled. “We will be great friends. Try the polenta, it is the best in Bellagio.”

  Hallie ate a few spoonfuls of polenta and they chatted about the feast.

  “I think Portia left with Riccardo,” Hallie mused. “I was too tired, I went to bed.”

  “He better treat her well or I will slit his throat.” Alfonso’s eyebrows drew together.

  “I thought you said the Tesoros had bad tempers,” Hallie said, laughing.

  “Marcus gave me my first silk order years ago,” Alfonso replied. “And you? Do you have a career like all American women?”

  “I’m an interior designer,” Hallie replied. “I work at an exclusive design store in San Francisco.”

  “Today I deliver silk to the finest private villa in Lake Como.” Alfonso rested his elbows on the table. “You will come with me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Hallie asked.

  “Because you will see rooms more beautiful than Versailles. The gardens are finer than any in England, and the view will make your heart shiver.”

  “I’m not sure I trust you,” Hallie murmured.

  “I gave you my word,” Alfonso said seriously. “The villa is in Lenno, we will take a motorboat.”

  “My grandmother said I should go to Lenno to see the Villa Balbianello,” Hallie mused.

  “The Villa Balbianello is like a servant’s quarters compared to where we are going.” Alfonso stood up.

  “Okay.” She
nodded.

  “You will not be sorry.” Alfonso beamed. “And you can tell me about your work. Perhaps I will export my silk to America.”

  * * *

  “Does everybody in Lake Como commute by boat?” Hallie asked.

  Hallie sat next to Alfonso in a royal blue speedboat. From the middle of the lake, the villages looked like a collection of dollhouses and the mountain was a sleeping giant.

  “It is faster than driving.” Alfonso used one hand to navigate and the other to point out landmarks. “By boat, Lenno is ten minutes from Bellagio. By car, we would have to drive around the whole lake.”

  Hallie closed her eyes and let the wind blow through her hair. Suddenly the boat slowed and the water grew completely calm. Hallie opened her eyes and saw a villa sitting on its own promontory. It was at least four stories with stained-glass windows set high in the walls. There were several separate buildings covered in ivy. It looked like a castle in a fairy tale.

  “The Villa Luce.” Alfonso steered the boat to the landing. “It was built in 1654 by Cardinal Donato as a monastery. In 1792, it was sold to a French nobleman and his wife who escaped the French revolution. They brought all their furnishings from France and lived in complete seclusion. Lenno is the most private village, it does not have the bustle of Bellagio.”

  “Who owns it now?” Hallie gazed at the tall turrets, the stone crosses on the smaller buildings, and the green hill studded with olive trees.

  “An American billionaire.” Alfonso hopped out of the boat. “I have never met him, but he has excellent taste in silk. He has ordered silk curtains for the whole villa.”

  “I feel like I’m in a James Bond movie.” Hallie grinned, following Alfonso up a flight of stone steps.

  Alfonso paused at the top step and motioned for Hallie to turn around. “Look.” He pointed. “The most beautiful view in Lake Como.”

  Hallie could see the whole lake from Como to the northern tip. Bellagio was directly opposite them, its steep streets and narrow houses like a child’s sketch. The village of Tremezzo lay to the north and Aregeno to the south, cradling Lenno like an infant.

  Inside, the house was vast as a museum. While the Tesoro villa was decorated in rich brocades, the Villa Luce was almost austere in design. Hallie followed Alfonso from one long room to another, awed by thick plank floors and beamed ceilings. The furniture was dark and heavy and religious paintings covered the walls.

  “You said it looked like Versailles,” Hallie said, frowning.

  “The French nobleman thought this part of the house was unlucky and closed it up,” Alfonso explained. “This is the original monastery furnishings. Wait till you see the main wing.”

  “There’s more?” Hallie asked, feeling like Alice in Wonderland.

  “I must go upstairs and take some measurements,” Alfonso replied. “Wait here and I will give you a tour.”

  Hallie walked through a narrow hall lined with figures on the cross. She opened an oak door and suddenly felt like she had slipped into another century. The chandeliers looked so heavy; Hallie wondered how the ceiling supported them. The floor was gold parquet and gold statues lined the room, like guests at a cocktail party.

  “You goddamned paparazzi never stop! How did you get in here?” a voice demanded. “If you have a camera I’m going to smash it to bits, and then I’ll toss you into the lake.”

  “I’m not a photographer,” Hallie stuttered, afraid to move.

  “Journalist?” The man strode toward her. “If you’re hiding a tape recorder, I’ll shake you till I find it.”

  “I’m an interior designer,” Hallie replied meekly.

  “An interior designer?” The man stopped. He was tall with reddish brown hair and almond-shaped hazel eyes. He wore cotton shorts and leather sandals and he had a broad American accent.

  “I’m here with a friend, Alfonso Diamante,” Hallie explained. “He went upstairs to take some measurements. I was supposed to wait in the monastery.”

  “Instead you barged in here,” the man spluttered. “No one is allowed in the hall of mirrors.”

  “It is exactly like Versailles,” Hallie whispered, glancing at the huge mirrors that stood against the walls.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Are you sure you’re not from OK! or HELLO!”

  “I don’t even read OK!” Hallie opened her purse and took out an embossed card. “Here’s my business card. I work for a designer in San Francisco.”

  “Hallie Elliot,” the man read aloud. “I still don’t know what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m staying at a villa in Bellagio,” Hallie explained. “Alfonso insisted this was the finest villa in Lake Como. He said I had to see it.”

  “He’s right.” The man nodded. “But visitors aren’t allowed. He shouldn’t have brought you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hallie walked toward the exit. “I can wait outside.”

  “You’re here now.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Angus Barlow.”

  “Are you the owner?” Hallie asked.

  “I’m Max Rodale’s estate manager.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My job is to keep out people like you.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Hallie said, frowning.

  “Mr. Rodale is in Florence,” Angus said. “The Uffizi Gallery is interested in his Renaissance art collection.”

  “I studied Renaissance paintings at UCLA,” Hallie breathed. “Can I see them?”

  “Are you sure you don’t have a camera in your buttonhole?” Angus asked.

  “I don’t even have a button hole.” Hallie grinned. “You can search me.”

  “You have an honest face,” Angus relented. “I better not be wrong, or I’ll get fired.”

  * * *

  Hallie followed Angus through a succession of rooms with polished floors and stately furniture. Every piece was exciting: the authentic Louis XIV chairs, the lacquered cabinets, the gold candelabras. Hallie glanced at the ceiling and saw planets circling the solar system.

  “Mr. Rodale has one of the finest private Renaissance collections in Italy.” Angus directed Hallie to a small room past the library. “It includes one of Botticelli’s earliest works and several little-known paintings by Bellini.”

  “These are original?” Hallie asked.

  Angus nodded. “It’s been his life’s work for the past decade. Mr. Rodale keeps a very low profile. I’m the only person who sees him.”

  “The only one?” Hallie repeated.

  “He buys his art through dealers and I take care of his personal life,” Angus explained. “One of the hardest things is keeping the paparazzi away. You’d think they’d stay busy with George Clooney, but when they smell money they attack like vultures.”

  “I’m sorry I barged in,” Hallie apologized.

  “It’s nice to have company.” Angus smiled. “I only see the gardener and the cook and the butcher every Thursday.”

  “Can I see more of the villa?” Hallie asked tentatively.

  Angus paused, scratching his forehead. “Just the first floor,” he said finally. “But please don’t touch anything.”

  Angus showed Hallie the indoor fountains, the grand circular staircase, the bathrooms with marble floors and gold-plated bidets.

  “How long has he lived here?” Hallie asked when they stepped onto the balcony. There were a series of terraced gardens leading down to the lake, and a grove of apple trees.

  “Four years.” Angus leaned on the railing. “He wanted a place where he could build his collection in private. Sometimes I think I should carry a stick and pepper spray. I once found a photographer hiding in an apple tree. He almost landed on my head.”

  “Collecting priceless art isn’t the best way to avoid attention.” Hallie grinned.

  “I guess it’s hard to escape one’s passion.” Angus shrugged. “I should ask you to leave. Mr. Rodale could return at any time.”

  “He should display the paintin
gs in a better space,” Hallie said as they retraced their steps. “Each painting should have its own wall and be flooded with light.”

  “Hallie!” Alfonso rushed down the hall. “I thought you vanished.”

  “I did a little sightseeing on my own,” Hallie replied, glancing nervously at the floor.

  “I found her in the hall of mirrors,” Angus explained. “I thought she was paparazzi. I was about to throw her into the lake.”

  “I apologize.” Alfonso bowed his head. “I wanted to show her the beauty of Villa Luce.”

  “Don’t bring anyone again,” Angus replied, suddenly abrupt.

  “You have my word,” Alfonso mumbled. “But so much beauty should be shared.”

  “That’s not for us to decide,” Angus said gruffly. “I’ll let you show yourselves out.”

  * * *

  Hallie and Alfonso were silent on the trip back to Bellagio. Alfonso was angry that she wandered off, and Hallie’s head was spinning at the villa’s grandeur. She sat backward in the boat, watching the Villa Luce disappear across the lake. She wanted to call Constance and tell her about the paintings. She opened her purse to take out her phone and realized Angus had kept her business card.

  chapter eight

  Hallie sat in the front parlor flicking through an Italian Architectural Digest. She hadn’t seen Portia since the feast and she was worried about her. Portia’s phone went straight to voice mail and her room was empty, the bedspread unruffled.

  Hallie’s phone buzzed and she answered it without checking the caller ID.

  “Hallie, darling,” Francesca said. “How is Italy?”

  “I thought you were Portia.” Hallie frowned. “I haven’t seen her in two days.”

  “Portia’s missing?” Francesca replied. “I thought you were going to keep an eye on her.”

  “Sophia held a feast to celebrate my arrival and Portia left with Riccardo. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Well, if she’s with Riccardo.” Francesca hesitated. “That’s great news.”