Widow - Anne Stuart [8]
“You’re an expert on Italian law, Henry?” Olivia demanded.
“Are you?” Henry shot back.
“I’ve got a headache,” Charlie broke in, trying to keep calm. For five years she thought she’d managed to break free of Pompasse, only to discover that he’d never let her escape, after all. She should have known. He never let anyone leave, not willingly. Those few who had managed to leave him had simply disappeared with no warning, wise enough to sneak away before he could stop them.
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Henry murmured. “You’ll just put off your trip to Italy until I can come, and we’ll settle this very smoothly.”
“Pompasse needs to be buried.”
“He doesn’t need you there.” Henry’s voice took on a brittle tone.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Charlie said.
“I can’t possibly be ready by then,” Olivia broke in.
“You can both join me when you’re able. In the meantime the funeral is set for Saturday morning, and I intend to be there.”
And “be there” she was. By the time she stumbled off the small commuter flight in Florence she was beyond exhaustion and into a strangely dreamlike state of denial. All that mattered was that she got back to the villa, to the warmth and sunlight.
And then maybe things would begin to make sense.
It was a perfect autumn day in Florence. The sun was shining down, gilding the Duomo, and the Arno River moved through the city like an elegant serpent, twisting and turning in the light. It was the scented air that got to her first, though. The unmistakable fragrance that was Italy, even with the smell of the city. Charlie took in a deep breath and closed her eyes in momentary pleasure.
Renting the right car had proved more difficult than she expected. She deliberately hadn’t let the people at La Colombala know when she was arriving. She knew from Henry that Pompasse’s servants were still in residence, including Tomaso, the combination handyman and chauffeur, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he still drove Pompasse’s beloved Rolls-Royce.
But she didn’t want to return to La Colombala in a Rolls. For some reason it was important for her to come back on her own terms. Besides, she’d learned to drive on the narrow roads leading to the villa, and she wanted the rare pleasure of traveling them again.
She hadn’t wanted to come back in a stodgy old Fiat, either. She’d wanted a sports car, something fast and dramatic, and it had taken her too much time to find one. But the Alfa was perfect, fast and sleek and powerful. The way she wanted to be.
She put the top down on the small Alfa, and the radio blasted passionate Italian pop music. She tied a scarf around her head, Audrey Hepburn-style, and put on her oversize sunglasses. She drove fast and well, out of the city, into the countryside, heading northeast to the tiny town of Geppi. La Colombala, Pompasse’s sprawling estate, lay just beyond the town limits, and Charlie had always loved it there. In truth, it may have been harder to leave Tuscany than to leave her difficult husband.
She was in a hurry to get there. The roads were empty, winding through the hills, and she knew all the shortcuts. Tomorrow, or later, she would go out again in the car, taking her time, revisiting the countryside that she’d loved so well. For now it was La Colombala that mattered, and the people there who depended on her.
The town of Geppi hadn’t changed in the years since she’d turned her back on it, but then, why should it? It had stayed the same for hundreds and hundreds of years—why should she think it would fall to pieces because she’d abandoned it? It was midday when she drove through the perfect little medieval town, peaceful in its serenity. All was still and quiet. The people of Geppi still observed the ancient custom of the midday rest, unlike their more cosmopolitan brothers.
The long, twisting road up to La Colombala hadn’t changed, either. The ancient cypresses must have grown taller, the stone fences must have crumbled further, but if so she couldn’t tell. The road was bumpy, rutted, with weeds growing in the middle—that was a