Whispering Bones. Rita Vetere
anxious to learn your expectations for the hotel on Poveglia. What do you envision for it?”
Paolo delved right into what the firm was hoping to achieve, a structure that would combine classic design with state-of-the-art amenities, a place that would appeal to both seasoned and first-time tourists.
“I’m curious,” Anna said, “about what prompted your firm to enlist an American company to design the hotel with so many outstanding design firms in Italy.” The question her grandmother had raised the other day was one she had wondered about herself.
Paolo’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “As with everything else, it came down to a question of money,” he said. “Your firm’s bid was economically feasible. And besides, we have hired an Italian. LaServa is not an American name, is it?”
“I’m second generation,” Anna explained. “I don’t even speak the language, except for what I remember from my grandmother.”
“Ah. But you are still Italian, Anna. It’s in the blood.”
All through the sumptuous dinner—angel hair pasta, a large platter of seafood served with fresh vegetables, and a scrumptious selection of tiny pastries for dessert, Anna listened as Falcone set out his company’s vision for the hotel, interjecting a question here and there and growing more excited by the minute at the prospect of designing the building.
Before she knew it, they had finished their espresso. Only a few people remained on the elegant terrace. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to discover it was nearly midnight.
“Well,” Paolo said, “I’m afraid I’ve talked your ear off. You must be tired from your long flight. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow at my office. I’ll have a package ready for you to review then. Would nine o’clock suit you?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll look forward to it. And I meant to thank you earlier for the wonderful accommodations—and for dinner tonight. I enjoyed it very much.”
Falcone rose. “You are most welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Anna.”
Anna noticed his hazel eyes roamed briefly up and down her body as she rose to shake his hand. Thankfully, she managed not to spill anything this time. “Yes, goodnight.”
She watched him leave, noticing his strong shoulders and the confident way he carried himself. She had to admit, Falcone was extremely attractive, and it had been a long while since Anna had taken a man to her bed. The last time had been Ed, more than a year ago. She shuddered, remembering what a disaster that had turned out to be. She had no intention of making a mistake like that again. Brushing her erotic notions aside, she reminded herself that, for all intents and purposes, Falcone was her employer. She was here on business, and intended to keep things that way.
Chapter 6
Venice, Italy
1576
Isabella hurried inside the house and quickly latched the door behind her. Despite the ordeal of her hazardous journey home, she felt no relief, only a sense of guilt at having arrived safely. Roberto, she reminded herself, at this moment languished near death in the nightmarish conditions at the Lazaretto.
She entered the kitchen to find her mother moving listlessly about as she prepared the midday meal. Her eyes, Isabella could see, were swollen and red from crying. She placed the satchel of food on the table, and Mamma turned her sad gaze on her. “Did you encounter anyone?” she asked anxiously.
“No, Mamma, no one,” Isabella lied, not wanting to upset her mother further. “When will Papa return?” She wanted desperately to talk to her mother about Roberto, but Isabella sensed it would be better not to. She had never seen Mamma look so wretchedly sad.
Her mother only shrugged in response and turned back to her work, although fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Isabella retreated to her bedchamber, where she could shed her own tears for Roberto without upsetting Mamma.
As it turned out, her father did not arrive home until late that night. After watching her mother wander around the house like a wraith all day, Isabella had gone to bed early. A few hours later, she heard the latch at the front door lift, and Papa’s heavy footsteps as he entered.
Silently, she crept out of bed and cracked open the door to her bedroom so she could listen as he spoke to her mother in the kitchen.
At first, she could hear only the sound of Papa’s muffled crying. Somehow, the idea of her strapping, broad-shouldered father weeping seemed far worse than the grief she’d seen in her mother’s eyes earlier.
“Is there hope for him? Will he be taken care of?”
Papa didn’t answer, and Mamma raised her voice. “Tell me. I must know.”
“The Lazaretto—it is worse than hell,” came Papa’s strangled voice. “Thank God I thought to take his mattress with us. The sick are three and four to a bed, others lying on the bare ground. Some of them have gone insane, roaming about naked, tearing at their own flesh. The place is filled with foul odors and the cries of the dying. The dead are taken from their beds and thrown into the pit, or their bodies burned on the other side of the island.” He stopped and Isabella heard him crying. When he spoke again, he said, “After witnessing this, I knew I could not leave Roberto in such a place and tried to take him back with me, but I was not permitted to, upon threat of death. I stayed for as long as I was able, until I was told to leave at dark. Some of the dying—God help them—some were not yet dead when they were taken to—”
Here her mother let out a desperate wail. “Stop. No more... No more.”
The mental picture conjured up by her father’s words filled Isabella with unspeakable horror, even as her heart broke for Roberto. She scrambled back to bed, pulling the covers over her head, not wanting to hear or know anything more. She cried for what seemed like hours, hugging herself in the dark until her tears were spent. At some point during the night, she fell asleep.
* * * *
Isabella awoke the next day to silence. The angle of the sun entering her room from the window looked wrong, and she realized she’d slept through most of the morning. Why had Mamma not awakened her? She listened, but did not hear her parents moving around. It’s because of Roberto, she reminded herself. The thought immediately caused sadness to rush back.
She rose and moved to the basin of water in her room, washing only her face. Her family heeded the advice that bathing increased the risk of contamination. Still in her nightgown, she traveled to the kitchen. Her mother was not there, nor her father. As she was about to go wake her parents, who must be still sleeping, she heard the distinct sound of a rasping cough coming from behind the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Isabella stopped in front of the door and listened. More coughing, followed by the sound of a low moan.
Intuitively, Isabella knew what she would find when she opened the door, and the knowledge rested heavily on her. Even so, she hesitated only a moment. Worry for her parents overrode her fear. She opened the door and entered. Her mother and father lay next to each other in bed. Both of them looked flushed with fever. Papa’s eyes appeared watery and frightened as he did his best to stifle the cough that wracked him.
Her mother spoke to her in a weak voice. “Isabella.”
She turned to her mother and saw it, the tiny lump that had begun to form on Mamma’s neck, just below her ear. Isabella’s gaze travelled up to her mother’s eyes, which no longer seemed grief-stricken, only desperate.
“Mamma...”
“Isabella, listen to me.”
“Mamma—”
“No. Do not speak, only listen, and do exactly what I say. Gather what you need, and leave. Now. You must go to Zia’s house and remain there.”
“No!” The thought of leaving her parents and asking her aunt to take her in terrified Isabella.