Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [118]
The fishermen at the next table nodded in greeting and she eavesdropped on their conversation of sea conditions and the weather farther north, and the possibilities of lobster that night. India felt perfectly at home, though she knew no one. She was, she realized suddenly, happy here, happier than she could remember having felt for a long time. She had arrived at the palazzo to find that Aldo Montefiore had been called away to Milan—on family business, they said. He had been expected back in a week but so far he hadn’t shown up. India had been welcomed by his mother, Paola, the Contessa di Montefiore, a small, frail lady whose deep, booming voice had come as a shock. “Treat this place as yours, my dear,” she had said. “Do what you need to do. Aldo suggested that you might start by inspecting the pictures and the furniture. Then, as you familiarize yourself with the palazzo, you’ll see what can be done to convert it. I’m afraid I won’t be much help to you. It’s hard for me to imagine any changes, but I expect we’ll need more bathrooms. Maybe it won’t cost too much after all?” She had smiled hopefully at India and India had known it would be painful for the Contessa to part with any of the palazzo’s treasures—harder than for her son, because he already had one foot in another world. For the Contessa di Montefiore this place was her life and had been since she was married at seventeen.
The Palazzo di Montefiore was set like a jewel in the crown of a wooded hillside overlooking the sea, and India ached to paint its creamy stone-walled courtyards, its arches and fountains, the crumbling statues and the jasmine and trailing bougainvillaea that surged untamed over every surface. And if the outside of the palazzo was a gem, inside it was packed with treasures. No major ones—those had been sold long ago, and the spaces on the faded silk wall-hangings protested their removal. But there was a pair of large oil paintings in the dining room that, if she wasn’t mistaken, were by a minor Italian master, and there was some excellent furniture, particularly in the “French drawing room” in the east wing. The Montefiores would have to make the sacrifice, but they would be able to raise money.
India ordered another espresso and studied the plans she had spread out across the table. The palazzo was built around a central courtyard and the object was first to convert two of the wings, and then later, if the venture proved successful, a third, retaining the south wing for the family. She could see no structural problems in the conversion; the old building had the high-ceilinged spaciousness of a bygone era that would adapt beautifully. The only difficulty came in preserving the Montefiores’ privacy. She pored over the plans, trying to figure out the best place for the new entrance to the family apartments. Whichever way she went, it meant the driveway would have to be extended all the way around to the south side. That would cost a bit, but you couldn’t expect them to have to park at the front and then walk all the way around, could you? It would defeat the whole exercise, which was to keep them quite separate from their guests.
Aldo Montefiore spotted India at the table outside Ricardi’s as he drove by. Her head was bent over the papers in front of her, but he would have recognized that marvelous hair anywhere. Her pigtail swung across her shoulder and she wore a yellow flower tucked into the spiky curls over her ear. He swung the car around and pulled up beside