As Marissa gripped the handhold above the door in the car, they raced through Strada then past the magnificent Castello di Uzzano, then Greve and into the sparser region south of Panzano. This was beautiful country — but there was an eeriness about it. Not too many kilometers north, the Monster of Florence had butchered more than a dozen people from the late sixties to the mid-eighties and here, south, two other madmen had not long ago tortured and slaughtered several women. These recent killers had been captured and were in prison, but the deaths were particularly gruesome and had occurred not far from where they were at the moment. Now that she’d thought of them Marissa couldn’t put the murders out of her mind.
She was about to ask that Antonio turn the radio on, when suddenly, about three kilometers from Quercegrossa, he turned sharply onto a one-lane dirt road. They drove for nearly a kilometer before Marissa finally asked, her voice uneasy, “Where are we, Antonio? I wish you’d tell me.”
He glanced at her troubled face. Then he smiled. “I’m sorry.” He abandoned the mystery and solemnity he’d been displaying. The old Antonio was back. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just being dramatic. I’m taking you to my family’s country home. It was an old mill. My father and I renovated it ourselves. It’s a special place and I wanted to share it with you.”
Marissa relaxed and placed her hand on his leg. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t cross-examining you…. There’s just been so much pressure at work… and trying to persuade my father to let me have a few days off — oh, it was a nightmare.”
“Well, you can relax now.” His hand closed around hers.
She lowered her window and breathed in the fragrant air. “It’s lovely out here.”
“It is, yes. Pure peace and quiet. No neighbors for several kilometers.”
They drove five more minutes then parked. He retrieved the gray bag he’d collected at that ramshackle place in Florence and then removed the suitcases and a bag of groceries from the trunk. They walked fifty meters along a path through an overgrown, thorny olive grove and then he nodded toward a footbridge over a fast-moving stream. “There it is.”
In the low light of dusk she could just make out the house on the opposite shore. It was quite an impressive place, though far more gothic than romantic — an ancient, two-story stone mill with small windows barred with metal rods.
They crossed the bridge and he set the suitcases down at the front door. He fished for the key. Marissa turned and looked down. Black and fast moving, the stream seemed quite deep. Only a low railing separated her from a sheer, twenty-foot drop into the water.
His voice, close to her ear, made her jump. He’d come up behind her. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?” she asked, her heart beating fast.
He put his arm around her and said, “You’re thinking about that urge.”
“Urge?”
“To throw yourself in. It’s the same thing people feel when standing on observation decks or the edge of a cliff — that strange desire to step off into space. No reason, no logic. But it’s always there. As if—” He released her shoulder. “—I were to let go there’d be nothing to stop you from jumping in. Do you know what I mean?”
Marissa shivered — largely because she knew exactly what he meant. But she said nothing. To change the course of the conversation she pointed at the far shore, at a small white, wooden cross, surrounded by flowers. “What’s that?”
He squinted. “Again? Ah, trespassers leave them. It happens often. It’s quite irritating.”
“Why?”
After a moment he said, “A boy died here. Before we owned the mill…. He lived up the road. Nobody knows exactly what happened but it seems he was playing with a soccer ball and it rolled into the water. He fell in trying to get it. The water’s very fast — you can see. He was sucked into the sluice there and was wedged upside down.”
Marissa was claustrophobic. This thought terrified her.
“It took him a half hour to die. Now his relatives come to leave the memorial. They claim they don’t. They say the crosses and flowers just appear out of nowhere. But of course they’re lying.”
Her eyes were riveted on the dark, narrow intake, where the child had died. What a terrible way to end your life.
Antonio’s loud voice startled her again. But this time he was laughing. “Now, enough morbid stories. Let’s eat!”
Gratefully, Marissa followed him inside. She was relieved to see that the interior was very comfortable, actually cozy. It was nicely painted and on the wall hung expensive paintings and tapestries. Antonio lit candles and opened prosecco. They toasted their first long weekend together and began to prepare dinner. Marissa whipped up an antipasto platter of marinated vegetables and ham but Antonio did most of the cooking. He made linguine with butter and the white truffles for the first course and trout with herbs for the main. She was impressed, watching his assured hands cut and mix and whisk and assemble. Enjoying his skill, yes, but she was saddened slightly too, regretting that her long hours at the shop prevented her from spending as much time as she would have liked in her own kitchen, making meals for friends.
Marissa set the table while he went downstairs to the wine cellar and returned with a 199 °Chianti from a famous local vineyard. A lover of wine, Marissa lifted an eyebrow and remarked that it was a wonderful vintage, hard to find; even the labels were collectors’ items. “You must have a wonderful wine cellar. Can I see it?”
But as she stepped toward the door he pulled it shut, wincing slightly. “Oh, it’s a mess down there. I’m embarrassed. I didn’t get a chance to straighten it. Perhaps later.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
He set the food out and, in candlelight, they ate a leisurely dinner, talking the entire time. He told her about the crazy neighbors, a bad-tempered tomcat that thought he owned the property, the difficulty he and his father had had in finding period accessories to restore the mill.
Afterwards, they carried the dishes into the kitchen and Antonio suggested they have grappa in the parlor. He pointed it out to her. She walked into the small, intimate room and sat on the couch, then heard the squeal of the wine cellar door and his footsteps descending the stairs. He returned five minutes later with two filled glasses. They sat together, sipping the liquor. It seemed more bitter than most of the grappas she’d had but she was sure that, given Antonio’s good taste, it was an expensive distillation.
She was feeling warm, feeling comfortable, feeling giddy.
Leaning back against his strong shoulder, she lifted her face and kissed him. Antonio kissed back, hard. Then whispered, “There’s a present for you in there.” He pointed to a nearby bathroom.
“A present?”
“Go see.”
She rose and, in the room, found an antique silk robe on a hanger. The garment was golden, with tiny flowers on it and lace at the edging.
“It’s beautiful,” she called. She debated. Should she put it on? That would be a clear message to him…. Did she want to send it or not?
Yes, she decided, she did.
She stripped her clothes off, slipped the thin robe on then returned to the parlor. He smiled and took her hand, stared into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful. You look just like… an angel.”
His words echoed the line he’d used when they met. But there was something slightly off about his tone, as if he’d intended to say that she looked like something else and caught himself just in time.
Then she laughed to herself. You’re used to your father — parsing everything he says, looking for double meanings and subtle criticisms. Relax.
Marissa sat down beside Antonio once more. They kissed passionately. He pulled the clip out of her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders then took her face in both hands and stared into her eyes for a long moment. He kissed her again. She was very light-headed from his touch and the liquor. When he whispered, “Let’s go into the bedroom,” she nodded.
“It’s through there.” He pointed to the kitchen. “I think there’re some candles beside the bed. Why don’t you light them? I’ll lock up.”
Picking up some matches, Marissa walked into the kitchen. She noticed that he’d left the wine cellar door open. She glanced down the steep stairs and could see much of the room. It wasn’t messy at all, as he’d said. In
