The Savage Garden

    It's good to see you've put it behind you.

    Maurizio and Chiara have arrived.

    Did they come by the villa?

    No, I saw their car over at the farm.

    We should invite them to dinner.

    Antonella already has.

    Oh, has she?

    I like Chiara.

    So do I, Maria. Where's Adam?

    He went for a bike ride.

    In this heat?

    I was wrong about him.

    Don't go soft on me now.

    Signora?

    In all the years we've known each other, I've never once heard you admit to being wrong about anything.

    He's no fool.

    No. But he's young, and therefore naive.

    He's twenty-two next month.

    He told you?

    I saw his passport.

    I'm not sure it's acceptable to go rifling through the guests' belongings.

    I was cleaning his room. It was on the sideboard.

    Then you're forgiven.

    I think I'll bake it.

    Excuse me?

    The fish, Signora.

     DINNER WAS A TRYING AFFAIR.

       It didn't help that the meal was billed as being in his honor. He had always struggled with that kind of thing. Some children glowed with self-importance at their birthday parties; others blushed, even when they managed to blow all the candles out.

    It didn't help that he was seated directly opposite Maurizio down one end of the table. It didn't help that Harry and Antonella had returned from Florence the worse side of two cocktails each, giggling like love-struck teenagers. And it didn't help that he now knew for certain that someone—someone at the table, or the someone serving them—had been going through his papers in the study.

    He knew, because he had laid a trap, stacking his notebooks in an apparently careless (yet very particular) fashion, laying his ballpoint pen on a pile of loose papers so that its tip pointed directly to the upper left-hand corner of the top sheet. Simple yet effective. The idea of lacing the bait with something had only occurred to him at the last moment. He had slipped a sheet among the papers.

    On it was written in big bold capitals: i know you're looking through my things.

    Whoever it was had done a good job of covering their tracks. Not good enough, though. The notebooks were too neatly stacked, the pen slightly out of alignment. Fortunately, Antonella was beyond suspicion. He had set the trap after her departure for Florence with Harry, and it had been sprung before their return.

    The ruse with the sheet of paper served him less well than he thought it might. In fact, about the only thing he learned was that it's impossible to second-guess someone who knows you're trying to second-guess them. He saw signs of guilt wherever he turned.

    Maurizio and Chiara had moved into the house above the farmyard earlier in the day. They wanted to be around to help with the final preparations for the party, just two days off now. In an uncharacteristic display of selflessness—brought on, no doubt, by the brace of gin fizzes—Harry offered to vacate his room so that they could sleep in the villa.

    Signora Docci sweetly acknowledged his noble gesture, while pointing out the obvious: that a lack of bedrooms was rarely a pressing concern at Villa Docci. No, it was a question of principle. 'It's their farmhouse, and they hardly ever use it. It's good for them to use it.

    'My mother's right. It's good for us to use it,' said Maurizio tightly.

    'It'll be one of their last opportunities.'

    Everyone looked to Signora Docci. She savored the moment before continuing.

    'I plan to be living there myself next month.'

    'Mamma . . . ?' frowned Maurizio.

    'That's right, I'm moving out of the villa. And you and Chiara are moving in, I hope.'