Her Italian Soldier

Rather than get into a full-blown argument as they’d done too often in those early years, Lucca decided to leave it alone for the time being. All he asked was that his father not do anything about the properties until he came home on his next leave in August, when they had more time for a business discussion.

But since their last meeting, he’d undergone a life-changing experience that had altered his timetable.

Four months ago Lucca had been shot down and it had ended his military career. Guilio didn’t know about the crash that had left Lucca permanently injured, or that he’d been in the hospital all this time.

Aware how his father would have suffered for him had he known about the operation on his leg and the long rehabilitation, not to mention his post-traumatic stress disorder, Lucca made certain no news had leaked out from his superiors or doctors. It was a time he preferred to forget.

Tomorrow he would show up at his father’s house after a good night’s sleep. That’s when he had less pain. He wanted to feel rested when he told Guilio about his future plans to be a full-time farmer. It was possible he’d meet with the same negative reaction of years ago, but Lucca had to try.

Before turning eighteen, Lucca had talked to his father and told him that he wanted to be a farmer, but Guilio had thrown up his hands. “For your mother’s family, farming was fine. But no son of mine is going to do that kind of work! You’re a Cavezzali with a superior brain!

“Our family has been designing and manufacturing cars since World War Two. There’s no distinction in being a farmer who’s always subject to the elements and works all hours of the day and night with little to show for it. No, Lucca. You listen to your father!”

After Guilio’s tirade, Lucca kept the dream to himself. Instead of joining the Amalfi car business after graduation, he went into the military. Not to spite his father, but because he had plans to be a farmer one day and that ambition meant he would have to make some real money at a job that appealed to him first. Being a fighter pilot satisfied that need.

Now that he was out of the service, he planned to work with the soil and revive the farm. Since he intended to be successful and make a substantial profit, he needed more parcels of land. Along with this farm and those two properties to which he’d always been sentimentally attached, he could make a good start and go from there.

He’d had a lot of time to think in the hospital and hoped that when he talked to his father, Guilio’s opinions would have softened enough to really listen to Lucca. But he doubted his father would ever approve of what he intended to do. Already Lucca was bracing for the same kind of lecture his father had given him all that time ago.

However, this time Lucca wouldn’t be dissuaded and he wasn’t going away. And if his father chose not to sell the properties, then Lucca was prepared to buy others. After his inactivity these last four months, he ached to get busy using his hands.

Once he’d checked his watch, he started for the house, struggling to reach it with every step. Before the injury that could have taken off his leg, he would have ambled up the steep incline between the orange and lemon trees faster than any goat.

As he made his way over uneven ground, he noted with disgust that everything growing required attention and pruning. The whole place needed an overhaul. Weeds fought to displace the flowers growing in wild profusion around the base of the deserted house, particularly in front of the terrace, where the railing was almost invisible. So much work needed to be done.

If his mother were alive, she would weep to see the neglect. Maybe it was just as well he’d lost her in his early teens. That way she wasn’t here to see him come home a wreck of a man. Thirty-three years old and he wasn’t a pretty sight. Neither was the farm, but he was about to change all that, with or without his father’s blessing.

Working his way around the side to the only door leading into the house, he pulled out a set of keys and let himself in. Usually when he had a furlough, he met his father in Rome or Milan, where Guilio often did business at the major showrooms. But those days were over.

He was back on the farm, his own small piece of heaven, and he planned to work it.

From what Lucca could tell, there didn’t appear to be any dust. He’d been paying a local woman to make sure the place was cleaned on a periodic basis and was pleased to see she’d followed through. He put the duffel bag down on the tiles in the kitchen with relief. It weighed a ton.

No longer encumbered, he limped past the small table and chairs to the hallway, taking in the living room on the other side. He didn’t need lights turned on to find his old bedroom. Everything was still in place, like a time capsule that had just been opened.

He moved over to the window and undid the shutters, letting in the sound of the cicadas. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the double bed minus any bedding. Unlatching the glass, he pushed it all the way open to allow the scented breeze to dance on through. There was no other air like it anywhere on earth. He knew, because he’d been everywhere.

While he stood there filling his lungs with the sweet essence of the fruits and flowers, the pain in his leg grew worse. The plate the surgeon had put in his thigh to support the broken bone caused it to ache when he was tired. He needed another painkiller followed by sleep. A long one.

Diavolo! It meant going back to the kitchen, but he didn’t know if he could make it without help. Walking the distance from the car had exhausted him.

Somewhere in his closet among his favorite treasures he remembered his grandfather’s cane. His mother’s father had lost the lower half of his leg in the war and had eventually been fitted with a prosthesis.

He rummaged around inside until he spotted it, never dreaming the day would come when he would find use for it. Grazie a Dio Lucca hadn’t lost a limb.

Armed with the precious heirloom, he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen, where he’d put the duffel bag. He’d packed the pill bottle in his shaving kit on top. Once he’d swallowed painkillers, he ran the tap water, then lowered his head and drank his fill. It tasted good.

He eventually shut off the tap. One more stop to the bathroom before sinking into oblivion.

By now he was leaning heavily on the cane. The short climb to the house had done its damage. Only a few more feet … Come on. You can do it! But even as he said the words, the cane slid on the tiles from his weight and he went crashing.

A loud thump resounded in the hallway followed by a yelp and a volley of unintelligible cursing in Italian. Annabelle shot up in bed. Someone—a man—was in the house, thrashing about after some kind of fall. It couldn’t be Guilio. He would have phoned if he’d intended to come over for some reason. Maybe it was the caretaker Guilio had forgotten to tell her about.

With her heart in her throat, she slid out of bed. After throwing on her robe, she hurried over to the door. When she opened it, enough moonlight spilled from the doorway of the other bedroom to outline a figure crawling on his hands and knees.

Knowing the intruder was hurt in some way, she felt braver as she found the switch in the hall and turned on the light. His dark head reared back in complete surprise, revealing a striking face riddled with lines of pain. She grabbed for the cane she could see lying a few feet from him and lifted it in the air.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said through clenched teeth. “You probably don’t speak English, but I’m warning you I’ll use this if you make another move.” With a threatening gesture, she took a step toward him.