Rosamanti Read Online Free PDF Page B

here, with that marvelous view, she could write with the ghosts of the ancients; her muse could converse with the nymphs; and her books would come alive with the spirits of all who had lived there before. A buzz of excitement coursed through her veins at the prospect.
    Happy with her decision, she wandered back downstairs and through the little hallway, turning into Nonna’s sitting room. In one corner a rocking chair sat forlorn, draped in a multi-colored crocheted throw. She could almost imagine little Nonna sitting there on a cold night. A worn rug covered the slate slab floor. An old stone fireplace took pride of place on the end wall, a pile of freshly cut logs beside it, ready for a windy, winter night. She loved the room. The old settee, its faded tapestry wearing thin, stood along one wall of the room. She sat down, leaning back in its comfort.
    The light coming into the little room was bright, clear, thin. She was drawn to the exquisite watercolors and oil paintings adorning the walls opposite where she was sitting. She recognized images of the rugged Faraglione Rocks and Villa Jovis. Transfixed, she stared at one oil painting depicting an intense blue pool, the phosphorous water seeming to leap off the canvas. Whoever the artist was, they had created something magic when mixing the paints. She stood up and moved over to the painting, peering closely at the scrawled signature on the corner of the canvas.
    She heard Pietro enter the room behind her.
    “Who is the artist, Pietro? I’m in awe of the color they’ve painted the water. It’s as though they’ve depicted some surreal dream.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because it just doesn’t seem natural. No water could be that—iridescent—and such an odd shade of blue.”
    “And does it have to be—natural—to be any good? The artist, surely, can paint water red, or cerulean, if he or she chooses, no?”
    Detecting an odd tone in his voice, she turned to look at him.
    “Oh, absolutely. I think it’s superb. I like what the artist has done.”
    “Would you be disappointed if you found out that the artist has accurately captured the color of the water?” Passion flashed in his eyes. “Sarah, at the first opportunity, I will take you to see the Blue Grotto. Then you can see for yourself that the artist was amateurish in his attempt to capture nature.”
    “The Blue Grotto? It’s really that color?”
    “Si. Nonna loved Grotta Azzurra. She went there often when she was younger, but only when there were no tourists. That’s why I painted it—or tried to paint it—for her.”
    She stared at him, feeling her mouth hang open for a split second. This man had so many layers. She thought she understood now why he should never have studied Law. He was so simple—organic—in his dreams.
    “Pietro, there’s so much of you in this house. This is as much your home as your Nonna’s. Are you sure you want a stranger living here?”
    He rolled his neck around on his shoulders, then looked down at his hands.
    “It is true, Sarah, that I will miss coming here. Not just miss Nonna , but I love the peace here at Rosamanti. If you think you are OK to look after the cats, I will leave you here in peace to write.” He looked up at her. “I understand that you want to be alone.”
    “But what about the chickens and Geraldina? What about your big vegetable patch and the orchard?”
    He shrugged. “I will find a temporary home for Geraldina and will give the chickens to a friend I know who can take them.”
    She had not expected this. Somehow, Rosamanti, without this friendly, undemanding man about the place, didn’t seem quite so attractive.
    “I noticed a number of outbuildings, out beyond the garden. What are they?”
    He looked up, surprised. “Oh, one used to be where we cured our olives. There are several small buildings here. Years ago we had cows and pigs; one was for curing pork.”
    “But from the window upstairs—when I look toward Villa