Rosamanti Read Online Free PDF Page A

small amount of his good humor creep back into his voice.
    She held out her hand to him. “Come on then. Help me up this steep old goat track. I’m worn out already.”
    His white teeth flashed in the sunlight, setting off the deep tan of his complexion. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
    Hand in hand, they climbed slowly to the top of the next ridge. They stopped and Pietro pointed down to a square green patchwork of thriving vegetables. Deep red tomatoes hung in trusses from spindly plants, staked and tied to hold the weight. Shiny green zucchini and dark green heads of broccoli grew in abundance. Pietro pointed to the strong chicken wire fence surrounding the garden.
    “That is to stop my girlfriend Geraldina from eating everything.”
    “The garden is so big. Surely Nonna wouldn’t have needed this much food.”
    “I supply some of it to Zia Maria for the restaurant. If we have too much, I give it to friends.”
    Sarah was impressed. The little farm was delightful, and so lovingly worked. Pietro and his grandmother had obviously been a close pair.
    “It’s hot now. Come up to the villa and I’ll get you a cold drink.”
    They walked back in a comfortable silence, stopping at the chicken coop to pick up the basket of eggs. When they reached the villa, Pietro took her to a cool and inviting garden covered with a wooden pergola smothered in thick bougainvillea, the blossoms forming a purple canopy and casting shade over the area. A little white wrought iron table and matching chairs sat on some grey flagstones. The breezeway caught a small, cool puff of air, fanning the droplets of perspiration on her brow. She sat transfixed by the beauty of Rosamanti, its gardens, and by the stunning view. It felt surreal to be sitting here in this idyllic spot. She suddenly wished she’d had the opportunity to meet the lady who called Rosamanti home .
    Just then, Pietro appeared with a tray, upon which was a large jug of lemon drink, with slices of lemon and cubes of ice floating in it.
    “Why the sad face?”
    The ice clinked merrily as he poured out two glasses.
    “I was just regretting that I didn’t get to meet your Nonna. She sounds like a wonderful lady.”
    Pietro nodded his head. “I too regret that, Sarah. You would have liked her.” His smile returned. “I made this from our own lemons. It is my Nonna’s recipe.”
    She tasted it. “Mm! Oh, seriously Pietro, that is delicious!”
    His smile told her he was pleased. They sat and cooled off in the exquisitely beautiful garden. After a while, she turned to look at him.
    “The reason I wanted to come here—to leave my daughter and my friends—is complicated. But I know it’s the right decision. You see, I’m an author—detective novels. But once Ted—my husband—got sick, I wanted to devote my time to nursing him. The trouble was, after everything that happened, I lost the drive to write. Broke a few contractual commitments.” She reached out and touched the condensation on the jug with the tip of her index finger. Immediately, a tear formed and rolled down the side of the jug. “My daughter, who means well, begged me to see a psychiatrist or someone, to help me get back to writing. My well-meaning friends started treating me like I was sick.
    “Then, one day I received an email from a fan. She was writing to thank me for all the books. But she asked me a favor. She said she’d been diagnosed with cancer, and she’d read about my husband’s plight. She said that people who were sick loved the escapism that my books gave. She asked me to dig deep and see what was needed in my life, to help me get back to writing.”
    She looked up at Pietro. He was staring out to sea, his face a mask.
    “You know what? I’ve never told anyone else any of this. Not my daughter—no one. You’re a really good listener, Pietro.”
    He turned, his eyes adjusting focus so that they seemed to look deep into her soul. He reached over and