Her Italian Soldier

Annabelle didn’t mind being compared to a daisy. Not at all. The beautiful ones she’d picked earlier that morning had called to her. She’d experienced a euphoric moment until she’d gone back in the kitchen and found the dark Italian owner scrutinizing her with all the intensity of his brooding soul. She wished she still didn’t quake when she thought about it.

Meeting him in the flesh in the middle of the night had, to some extent, altered her vision of the picture his father had portrayed of a strong, powerful man. But obviously that was her fault for endowing his hero son with certain admirable virtues. Maybe his good qualities were there, but they were disguised by pain and his participation in a war where no one ever came home the same as before they left.

She admitted to being worried about his insistence on not letting his father know he was back yet. Though it wasn’t any of her business, as Lucca had said, she did care. More than she should. It made her impatient with herself.

“Annabelle?”

Her head jerked up. “Yes?”

The shorter, overweight man Basilio—one of Guilio’s assistants, who’d driven her this morning—provided the interpretation for the pose he had in mind. “We want you to get in the driver’s seat now and lean to the passenger side, putting your right arm here. Remember you’re out beneath a midafternoon sun, driving for the sh

eer thrill of it. Then you see the water below and you have to pull over to get a better view. React the way you would naturally. Forget the camera.”

Easy for him to say. But this was an adventure she wouldn’t have missed.

Without needing more urging, Annabelle climbed in the black Amalfi convertible. She could almost believe this was Mrs. James Bond’s car. The rich black-leather interior provided the ideal foil for the white outfit she’d put on before leaving the farmhouse. So far she couldn’t fault Marcella’s superb fashion taste.

Annabelle couldn’t decide which sports car she liked better. The other one in Rome parked in front of the fighter jet had been white with light pearl-grey leather. Lucca would look sensational speeding around in either of them, but the thrill probably wouldn’t be the same after the years he’d flown above the clouds at supersonic speeds.

Once she’d gotten into her role, Giovanni put the straw hat back on her head, studying the angle for a minute and doing a rearrangement of her hair before he started taking one picture after another.

The car had been parked next to the wall of the steep highway below Positano. When she looked down, she gasped at the sheer drop to the water, forgetting everything else. Such gorgeous scenery—reputed to be the most fantastic in this part of the world—defied verbal description and became a spiritual experience with nature. This kind of beauty actually hurt.

With the help of the police, hundreds of cars going both ways had to pass single file where the photo shoot was taking place. Though there were a few angry shouts and horn honks, by far more tourists whistled and shouted “squisitas” and “bellissimas”, throwing her kisses as they passed by.

Yet the view was too mesmerizing and she was barely cognizant of anything else going on around her. If the truth be told, her mind was preoccupied with an image of the wounded Italian pilot who’d finally fallen asleep last night, relaxing his hold so she could escape. Talk about a beautiful man…

When Giovanni announced he had all the shots he needed, she hurried back to the van to remove her makeup. She’d brought her own change of clothes in the straw bag and quickly slipped on her jeans and a blouse. Once she was dressed, she left everything else in the van and stepped outside clutching her own purse.

Besides the sports car and the van, there was the third car Basilio had driven when he’d picked her up at the farm. It was an older model blue Amalfi sedan. He gave her the key, telling her it was now hers to use while she was in Italy.

The police directing traffic indicated they needed to get rid of the roadblock as fast as possible. With the agreement that she’d meet the film crew tomorrow at noon in the town of Amalfi for another photo shoot, she got in the car and followed the policeman riding a motorcycle out into the stream of cars. He helped her get her place in line with the other vehicles headed back toward Ravello.

Through the rearview mirror she saw him blow her a kiss. Annabelle smiled. Italian men. Always open in their enjoyment of women. They were hilarious. Except for one Lucca Cavezzali. She frowned, needing to arm herself ahead of time for a dour reception from him once she returned.

She’d seen his bottle of pills. He was almost out of them. They were the strongest painkillers one could take after surgery without going back to the hospital for a morphine cocktail. His fall in the hallway last night had been doubly unfortunate for him. It came from returning home the hard way, but it was his call after all, and his house. The injured man had every right to expect it would be empty.

Before she arrived at the farmhouse, she made two stops on the outskirts of Ravello. One to a pizzeria for a light meal. The other to a gelateria that was a few doors down from a charming-looking bed-and-breakfast. She checked it out and found out there was a vacancy. With easy access to the main road, she couldn’t find anything better and held the room with a credit card for two weeks occupancy.

Now that Lucca was back home, she couldn’t stay at the farmhouse and would check in after she’d gone back to pack. While she ate a delicious lemon ice, she returned her parents’ phone call, letting them know she’d left Rome and was now settled in Ravello.

Considering the time difference between Italy and California, they’d already gone to work some time ago, so she left her message on their answering machine. Being the last of three children, she knew they worried about her and wanted her to be happy. The prerogative of parents.

A familiar ache passed through Annabelle because the experience of having a baby had been denied her. But then she quickly brightened, refusing to dwell on it, and assured her folks she was having a wonderful time. How could she not after the sights she’d seen today.

She left out mention of the owner of the farmhouse, who’d come close to giving her a heart attack last night when he’d decided to come home without telling his father. Guilio worshipped his son, but clearly there was some history between them that caused Lucca to hold back.

Annabelle didn’t pretend to understand the family dynamics known only to the two of them, but she respected them. Nothing could be worse for her than to be caught smack-dab in the middle of father-and-son issues.

Whatever Lucca decided to do or not do, tomorrow she would tell Guilio that the farmhouse was too isolated after all and she’d found a place with eating establishments next door that suited her. She wanted out of this precarious situation. It was up to Lucca to contact his father. He’d had a day to think about it.

A minute later she pulled into the drive at the side of the farmhouse and parked the car.

Twilight was fast fading into darkness. Combined with the soft, fragrant air, it was a magical time of night. But when she opened the door to the kitchen, reality intruded because she was met by a man holding on to the kitchen counter. His facial features were taut with pain. Even his knuckles were white.

Without thinking she said, “You need to go to an emergency room.”

“What I need are more pills,” he corrected in a gravelly voice.