“I’m thankful to be alive,” I said. “It was all the motorcycle rider’s fault.”
“There was no bike rider at the scene of the accident.” The Colonel crossed his arms over his broad chest, stood looking down at me.
A charmer, he was not.
“Of course not, he sped off, faster than a speeding bullet,” I added, sticking to my Superman scenario.
“There was a green car, which you hit and which went off the road. The driver was killed.”
My breath caught in my throat. Oh God, oh God, the poor bastard got it, that bike rider got him.… “Jesus,” I said in a small, shaky voice. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. But I did not hit him, I just saw the bike rider go at him and then it was gone … and so was I. There was a truck in the other lane. The driver must have seen what happened.”
“There have been no reports from any truck driver. No one else saw this accident, Madame Matthews. It was just you there, and the green car with its driver. And one of you died.”
I began to cry again. Somehow I could not stop. He harrumphed, passed me the box of Kleenex from the side table, poured a glass of water. My hand shook as I took it from his. Dark hair grew softly on the back of his hand, almost to the knuckles. I glanced up at him, directly into his eyes. His face was so close to mine it was almost as if we were about to kiss.
“We will talk again later,” he said, rising and striding quickly to the door. He opened it, turned to look back at me. “I hope you will soon feel better, Madame Matthews.”
“Oh, please, it’s Mirabella.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Madame Matthews,” he said. “This is a professional matter we are talking about. Allow me to keep it that way.”
Of course he was right, and of course I was in serious trouble.
7
The hospital found Verity and me to be none the worse for wear, despite the fact that the crash totaled the vehicle and necessitated our helicopter rescue, exciting the imagination of the media whose intrusive cameras and mikes followed us all the way home. Actually I thought Verity quite enjoyed it, lifting her chin and smiling shyly despite her bruises and two black eyes that gave her the look of a young panda, plus the over-large gray sweats that overwhelmed her. Her shoes had disappeared in the fall, as had my own, so we were barefoot as we hobbled into the ambulance to be ferried to the anonymous safety of the Villa Romantica.
I directed the driver along the coast road, then up into the hills along the winding lane, which ended at my home.
There was always something about the Villa Romantica, an air of romance. It was built in the 1930s by the beauty, singer, actress, stage personality, and mistress to a famous man, Jerusha, who needed only one name to be known throughout the globe. Many years later, even after her death, the memories and passed-down stories of those who had known her seemed to keep her alive.
It wasn’t surprising then, that to me she would always seem to be there, at the villa, a half-caught glimpse but when I turned to look no one was there; a flash of red hair floating in the breeze beyond the trees, the rustle of a silk skirt … a mirage, I told myself, a trick of the light. Or could it be Jerusha’s spirit still roamed free, restless, unable to leave the beloved home she had built and then lost? Was Jerusha unable to leave “love” behind? Never to move on? I was soon to find out.
There were no other buildings beyond the Romantica, only huge bushes of pink-blooming oleander, and the hill dotted with olive trees, and higher still almond trees which, when in blossom, scented the entire area so you felt you were breathing nature itself. Now, though, in the summer months, old-fashioned roses drooped their heavy heads and fields of lavender drifted to the horizon, while lemons and oranges hung from branches that looked too small to bear their weight. And always in sight through branches and tree trunks and the bushes, was the sea. Blue-green today.
I loved the sea so much because, unlike the garden, it gave a constantly changing image, almost hour by hour, sometimes white-tipped with surf, sometimes dark and green, often gray, but more often blue.
“Here we are.” I indicated the sharp left, though in fact there was nowhere else to go because as I said, this is where the road ended. Indeed there we were. At the Villa Romantica. My home, for better, for worse, just like in marriage. And like a new bride, I was in love.
I shall never forget Aunt Jolly. I still couldn’t believe that she’d left me her beloved home. Somehow she had known I would love it too, that we were the right fit. All I had to do now was to find out why she had died so violently.
But first, what to do with the runaway waif who had become my responsibility? Sure as hell nobody else was about to pick her up from the lowly place she had fallen and take care of her. And if ever a woman looked in need of putting back together it was this one.