“Don’t be silly,” she said sleepily. “Come to bed.” Then she giggled into the pillow. “It is your bed after all. The Buffalo would be appalled.”
“Ah,” said Fitz, puzzled.
“You’re not going to turn me down again, are you?”
“Of course not, I just thought…”
“Don’t think, for God’s sake. Thinking never got a man anywhere. Least of all into my bed. Do be quick, I’m cold. Your pajamas are under the pillow.” She yawned loudly.
Fitz slipped hastily out of his clothes and, when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he pulled his pajamas out from under the pillow, put them on, and got into bed. He was just deliberating his next move when Alba spoke.
“If you hold me, Fitz, I promise I won’t bite.” He shuffled over and pulled her toward him. Her body was slim and warm beneath a brushed cotton nightshirt that had ridden up her legs. He felt his blood grow hot, but he controlled his impulses and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed happily. “What did you find out, darling?” She had never called him “darling” before.
“That your mother was the legendary beauty of Incantellaria. That you are just like her.” Alba turned over and tucked her head under his chin. “Your father thinks of her every time he looks at you.”
“What else did he say?”
“That the mention of her name still hurts him.”
“Is that why he won’t talk about her?”
“It’s not that he wants to exclude you, Alba, but that it’s too painful. You should have seen his face. It was gray with sadness.”
“Poor Daddy.” She yawned.
“You, my darling, long for someone you never knew. Your father longs for a woman he knew and loved. His pain is far greater than yours and if he wants to keep that pain to himself, you must let him.”
“Oh, I will, Fitz. Because now I can do the rest.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and after a while her breathing became regular and heavy.
Fitz lay awake, wondering where they would go from here. It didn’t occur to him that he was already different from all the rest. Alba had never shared her bed with a man without making love. For the first time she derived comfort without feeling the need to offer her body as recompense. Alba didn’t even know it herself; she was too deeply wrapped in his arms to ponder her actions.
When Fitz had gone Thomas walked unsteadily to his desk. He put down his glass and stubbed out his cigar, then he opened the drawer where he had placed the scroll. He picked it up and ran his thumb over the paper, deliberating what to do next. So many years had gone by and, little by little, those years had changed him, so that now he barely remembered the young man he had been when he had first lost his heart: carefree, insouciant, audacious. Like a caterpillar he had shed his skin but emerged a moth, when once, if things had been different, he might have emerged a butterfly. He was aware of what he had become and yet he had been powerless, or perhaps unwilling, to change. It was easier to build a shell and hide in it.
He sank back into the chair and opened the scroll. The sight of Valentina’s face caused his heart to stumble and he took a sharp intake of breath. He could feel her. His eyes began to mist and he blinked to clear them. What unrestrained beauty. What mystery. His head swam as the recollections burst forth after such a long incarceration. He closed his eyes and pictured her smiling face. How beguiling that smile had been. And those dark eyes that hid so much. Eyes that drew a man in with an enchantment not of this world. As the tears ran down his face he knew that she still hadn’t let him go. Alba’s torch had illuminated the dark space in his heart that he had shut down and, yes, it was still as devoted as it had been. Then that familiar scent wafted in again. At first it was barely perceptible but, as he traced the sketch with his eyes, he began to discern that sweet smell of figs, now enveloping him in a miasma of memories. Then a light shone through the mist and there she stood, on the quayside dark, beguiling and achingly beautiful…Valentina Fiorelli, la bella donna d’Incantellaria…
7
Italy, Spring 1944
L ieutenant Thomas Arbuckle steered the motor torpedo boat into the quiet Italian harbor of Incantellaria, an unexpected jewel hidden within the red cliffs and caves of the Amalfi coast. The sea was clear, the color of sapphires. Gentle ripples caught the pale morning light and twinkled like diamonds. His eyes swept across the horseshoe bay that was port to this quaint, medieval town where gleaming white and sandy pink houses basked in the sunshine, their open windows and wrought-iron balconies adorned with red geraniums and carnations. The mosaic dome of a church rose up to Heaven and beyond, the hills soared steeply into the distance, from where the scent of pine now reached him. Sky blue fishing boats were pulled up onto the sand, like beached whales waiting for the tide to come in and wash them out to sea. He squinted and adjusted his cap. There was a small group of people on the quayside, waving.