The House in Amalfi by Elizabeth Adler

Author:Elizabeth Adler
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781429901222
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

THIRTY-SEVEN

I threw off my new sandals and ran down the scalatinella to the house. From now on I would go barefoot, the way I had when I was a kid. The soles of my feet would become tough again, and so would I.

I ran into the house, flinging off my smart lunch-party clothes as I went. Upstairs, I dragged on a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. I glared around.

This was my room, my house, my home. Nobody would ever get me out of here. As if to prove it was mine, I pried open the can of apricot paint, grabbed the roller, and started on the walls.

It was seven o’clock before I took a break and a hot shower to get the aches out of my back. I wandered restlessly in the garden, making mental notes of things that needed to be done, promising I would delay no longer and that tomorrow I would begin its rescue.

I heard the rooster crowing—too loudly as always. Of course, dinnertime. The chickens were crouched on the ground, feathers fluffed, looking huffily back at me and Mr. Rooster flew threateningly at the wire fence. I took a quick step back. Did I really need a rooster? I still hadn’t figured out if you got eggs without one, which just goes to prove how ignorant I am about the sex lives of poultry.

I opened the gate and flung in the feed. They leaped on it like starving prisoners, making me feel guilty. I realized, not for the first time, that I knew nothing about chickens. And nothing about cows either, come to that. Yet weren’t cows supposed to be placid, peaceful creatures? Maybe I should have started with Daisy instead of these wild birds!

With the chickens at least temporarily quiet, I went back to my painting, determined to at least finish something I’d started. It was after one o’clock in the morning when, with my arms one big ache, I finally did.

The room smelled of paint, so I showered, then went downstairs.

The old sofa fit my weary body as though it remembered me, and I dropped off the edge of the world for a few hours, not even thinking about Lorenzo Pirata. But he was with me when I woke up, right there at the forefront of my mind.

I wondered what Jon-Boy would have advised me to do. I hated to peek into his diary again, but I needed to know if he’d written anything about buying the house and where the deed of sale might be.

I threw on a robe, went to his room and took a seat at his beautiful desk. It was carved with pretty scrolls and shells and so perfect for a seaside villa. I imagined him finding it in some dingy antiques-shop window in Naples. Perhaps in one of those cobbled alleys where insolent mustached men lingered menacingly in the shadows ready to take on the unwary tourist who’d strayed off the prescribed route. Of course, Jon-Boy wouldn’t have given a damn about them.

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