He stepped outside, the scent of jasmine still heavy on the air. In the garden below, the vineyard and rose bushes were shrouded in shadow, but the morning sky was pink and vanilla, dotted with small bean-shaped clouds. A murder of crows burst from the cedar tree. Angelo drew back in surprise. It was they that had entered his dream, awoken him from his nightmare.
Chiara’s French doors clicked and rattled. One of the servants murmured about the coffee being ready and asked whether Chiara would take her breakfast outdoors or in the dining room. He rubbed his face. He’d not yet seen his wife, having returned from Milan long after midnight. She would expect him at breakfast.
He went to the mirror and scowled at his beard. He was in need of his barber and then some normal clothes. The suitcase was still on the mahogany stool, his vest and trousers discarded at the edges. In this heat, the vest now seemed remarkably ridiculous, but it had been a necessity up in Milan. He glanced at the dresser, at the notes from the conference on check dams and packed them for the office. He’d have to look at the details again. Consolidating banks and streams into dams was something applicable to the Reschen Lake. It was time to put more pressure on the small group of protestors Stefano had pulled together, fewer than Angelo had expected his chief engineer could draw on the side of the ministry. Stefano had sworn under his breath the last time the topic came up.
“They’re just so suspicious, Boss. I’ve done everything, and still I only get a handful of men who are prepared to do anything decent.”
“Is there a Steinhauser in that group?”
Stefano scratched his head, pressed his glasses up his nose. “No. Should there be?”
It was too soon. Angelo had clapped Stefano on the shoulder. “Just keep at them. It takes time, these things, but we don’t have much of it. We have to raise a stink about it, or money will win in the end.”
Then last night, when he’d come home and gone to fetch himself a drink in the parlour, he spotted a bottle of wine next to the phonograph, and a small folded card. The wine was French Bordeaux, grand cru. He lifted the card and opened it. Welcome home, Boss. Don’t drink it all at once. In fact, let me know when you uncork it, and I’ll join you. Stefano. Angelo had gone to bed, certain his chief engineer had worked his magic.
After washing up, Angelo studied his room again, pleased with the renovations he’d made last winter. The wallpaper a burgundy-and-saffron-striped pattern. A Persian carpet in rich reds and blues covered nearly the entire floor. He’d replaced the canopied bed with one that was open, bigger, and sleeker. From Milan, he’d ordered the dresser in mahogany, with matching chairs in gold edging and dark-blue and hunter-green upholstery. It was his room, his sanctuary.
Silver and porcelain chimed from outdoors. Chiara had ordered breakfast on the terrace. When he heard Marco greeting his mother, Angelo slipped on his house shoes and headed out to join them. He and his son had hardly spoken more than a few necessary sentences since the Reschen Valley. They’d parted ways in Merano, Marco going back to Bergamo to continue his studies, and Angelo back to Bolzano. Whilst Angelo had been at the conference, Marco had returned home for the summer.
Angelo still did not know how to broach the topic about the business with the girl. Angelo had chastised his son’s conduct as ungentlemanly, but Marco had remained unconvinced, and why wouldn’t he? Marco had not done anything that any young man his age would not do. He was discovering and exploring lust, maybe even considered it love. It had not deserved a beating. Yet an apology would mean an explanation, and Angelo had none he could willingly give.
On the terrace he found Chiara and Marco. Chiara was dressed in her morning gown in pale green, her red hair done up loosely. Marco was dressed up but had left his tie undone. His son barely glanced up when Angelo stepped outside. He went and kissed his wife first, then passed behind Marco’s chair, ruffling his son’s hair but beneath his hand. Marco stiffened.
“Did you come in all right?” he asked Marco.
Marco nodded.
“Aren’t you going to greet your father?” Chiara asked.
He barely glanced up. “Good morning, Father.”
Angelo sat down and poured himself a coffee.
“How was the conference in Milan?” Chiara asked.
“Fine. Interesting.” Across from him, Marco looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“What have you two planned for the day?” Angelo asked.
Chiara wrapped her hands around her cup. “I’m meeting with the Ladies’ Society this afternoon. I thought I would visit your sister beforehand.”
Angelo nodded. “Francesca would like that. And you, Marco?”
“Work.”
“Work? Where? You’ve just arrived.”
“At Grandfather’s company.” Marco shrugged.
Angelo set his cup down. “I thought we were going to talk about you coming to the ministry.”
Marco looked at Chiara when he answered. “If Reschen Lake was going to become a government project. But it’s not, is it?”
“Nothing’s been decided.”
Marco glared at him. “Yes it has. I decided to work for the Colonel.”
Chiara raised an eyebrow.
“Right,” Angelo said tersely. “Then I wish you good luck.” He turned to his wife, letting it go, not wanting to have to explain a damned thing to her. “Anything in the paper?”
She glanced at Marco, then at him. “No. Nothing really. Oh wait. Yes, there is. General Conti passed away the day before yesterday.”
Angelo put his knife down, careful to keep his face blank. “That’s a shame.”
Gina Conti. A widow.
“The funeral is Friday,” Chiara said.
Angelo reached for a slice of
