From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 3-3

The crossing was very quick but my heart is still beating like I have a cavalry inside it. The wind on my face is invigorating.

Crowds of people are loading and unloading from the ferry and saying hello and goodbye to their loved ones and after I quickly scan the departing crowd to avoid at all costs the blond man. I am relieved to not see him anywhere. I walk across the ramp and after all the nights I’ve fantasized about this moment, it is finally here. I am in Sicily! I stand still in amazement and just look around at the land, the buildings, and the people.

The fashion is completely different.

But so is the weather. It's hot here but the breeze is fresh. A blessed, balmy Mediterranean climate.

And the water. What amazing color… Crystal turquoise and teal water, so transparent I can see the bottom and the fishes.

If I weren’t on a mission, I could stay here, just gazing at it all day.

Sultry Sicily is a heady mix of decadence and splendor. With a rich history and architectural heritage dating back to the Phoenicians, by way of the Arabs and Normans, it is a place like no other.

No wonder Salvatore escaped back to his beautiful country.

“We made it!” Collette remarks as we wait for our luggage to be delivered to the driver waiting for us. “What a beautiful city. I cannot wait to explore.”

I look around, unable to see any error in her words. The sheer loveliness of the island that Salvatore calls home enchants me, even though after all these years, you can still see houses and areas that were badly damaged during the Second World War.

There is a strong smell of the salty ocean air as we climb into the waiting car to take us to Colette and Jean’s friend’s villa.

Jean had reached out to his old school friend to see if we could stay in his villa while here in Sicily, instead of a hotel.

As the car speeds up, my eyes take in the gleaming, brightly colored palazzi standing next to crumbling ruins; bustling, ancient lanes and markets opening on to seemingly abandoned squares. A treasure trove of architecture just waiting to be discovered.

In the distance, I can see the rolling hills of green, everything lush and beautiful. I wish we had more time to spend in this city.

But alas, we do not. After all, I have already been separated from Salvatore for longer than I care to be and after that disastrous train ride, I want nothing more than to be done with this journey.

Maybe I can visit Catania with Salvatore. Get him to show me the places he likes. Now, that’s a thought.

The driveway is lined with trees, leading to an amazing whitewashed villa nestled against the backdrop of the blue sea.

“C’est superb,” I say as I climb out of the car.

“Perhaps we should move to Italy,” Collette sighs as she links arms with me. “I feel as if the weight of London is only a distant memory.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself. There is something about this place, something about this country that makes me feel so relaxed, without a care.

“Come,” Jean says, as the driver unloads our luggage. Collette and I both follow him to the door that opens nearly immediately. A tall, dark-haired man steps out, his arms open wide. “Ciao e benvenuto in Italia!”

“Mario, my friend!” Jean laughs as he embraces the man.

“He talks of Mario incessantly,” Collette murmurs, her eyes on the embracing men. “I can see why now.”

“Beau,” I reply with a laugh. Indeed our host is handsome in his own way. Not very tall or muscled, but his bright smile is his highlight. It probably turns many a head wherever he goes.

“This is my wife,” Jean finally says, leading Mario down to where Collette and I are gathered. “Collette, this is my dear friend and classmate, Mario.”

“Ciao, bella,” Mario murmurs, taking Collette's hand and raising it to his lips. “What has this man done right to deserve such a blooming flower as you?”

Collette blushes. “Apparently a great deal of things.”

Mario drops her hand, grinning. “I can see why you have chosen her, mio amico. She is fiery. French women keep you on your toes, do they not?”

“That she does,” Jean laughs again, looking over at me. “And this is our dear friend, Fleur.”

“Ciao, bella,” Mario repeats the same greeting, his eyes on mine as he kisses my hand. “Two lovely roses. I am at a loss of what to do with myself.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Monsieur,” I answer, inclining my head.

“French as well!” Mario announces, arching his brow. “A refreshing change indeed to be graced with two exquisite French women in my home! Welcome to my casa, bella.”

He winks at me, causing me to blush. Are all the Italians like this? If they are, I am doomed. Or…perhaps should I say I am in paradiso.

“Come,” Mario claps his hands. “My servants will gather your things. I have snacks prepared for you.”

We follow the Italian inside and I am surprised at the openness of his home, every wall seemingly open to a view of the outdoors. A gentle breeze from the sea flows through the air as we are shown into the main room, the furniture plush and welcoming. Before us is a table set up with various display of fruits and cheeses and my stomach rumbles happily. Not wanting to be sick again after the train ride, I forwent breakfast.

At this rate, Salvatore will not recognize me if I continue to eat—or not eat—like this.

“Your home is very lovely,” I remark.

Mario smiles at me, his eyes warm. “Sì, I am very proud of it. I hope that you find it comfortable.”

I give him a smile, not remiss to see the heat in his eyes as they roam down my body.

Men. They are all the same.

Of course, I have no intentions of staying under Mario’s roof for long.

Though it is a lovely place, I hope to be in Salvatore’s home soon. Just the thought makes me giddy with excitement, the hope of what is to come flowing through my veins.

After being cooped up in the manor for years, I enjoy the comfort of friends, of people who knew my plight and those who didn’t.

I have no reason to hide my true feelings, nor need to whisper Salvatore's name as if the ears of the manor were listening.

Though I am still the baron’s wife, it’s easy for me to think of myself otherwise in this company, in this setting.

After a quick repast, I ask Mario if I can make a phone call. I was sure I could arrive at Salvatore’s house uninvited and unannounced, but Collette advised me that it could lead to various shady scenarios and convinced me to call first.

I dial the number and feel my heart beating faster and harder after each number. I resent the higher numbers because they take so long to dial. It rings!

“Pronto,” a woman’s voice says.

I’m frozen in place by her speaking Italian—which is totally idiotic—and because she is a she. But she sounds like an older woman. I hold on to hope that my Salvatore has not taken up with a woman that the private investigator failed to take note of.

“Pronto, pronto!” the woman almost yells into my ear.

In a panic, I hand the phone to Jean. “Ask for Salvatore!” I plead.

“Potrei parlare con Salvatore, prego?”

I don’t know what he said, but I love the sound of my lover’s name in his native language.

“Questo è Jean e…” he turns to me. “Do you want me to say that you are calling?”

I shake my head rapidly. What if he refuses my call? It’s better if he comes to the phone without knowing it is me calling.

“Grazie, signora. Dispiace disturbarla,” Jean says, then hangs up the phone.

What?

“He is not there, but will return to Italy soon,” Jean says, giving me the bad news gently.

He is not in Italy.

A heat of worry settles in my bones and makes me start to sweat although there’s a delicious breeze coming from the open windows. It’s the same worry that has kept me awake the last three nights. And now it is growing and can become real.

I might be making this trip for nothing and go back home empty-handed.

And broken-hearted. “Did she said when?”

Jean grimaced. “A week, at least.”

I take a deep breath and center myself. Non, I won’t be going back empty-handed or heartbroken. That will not happen.

This is just a bad coincidence and a week is just seven days. What are seven days when compared to the more than one thousand days I have waited? Nothing.

I am letting this…small thing turn itself into my full blown worst fear.

I will not fail.

We were separated by insurmountable circumstances—my married state, the death of his father, and his responsibilities—but they are falling away each step I take to get closer to him.

Or so I hope.

I calm myself by taking a deep breath and focusing my mind on how good our reunion will be.

I want to ask Jean questions about where Salvatore has gone and when exactly he will be back, but I know I am being foolish. The phone call was very brief. He did not get details. Although I am trying to think positive, the fear of the negative unsettles me.

I need a moment or two alone.

After excusing myself, I walk unevenly to the bathroom. I am not drunk, non. That would be undignified on my part but there’s a lazy tiredness turning my bones into mush. It might have been the two glasses of wine I had during lunch, coupled with the extended time I spent without eating.

Alone for a moment, I gain control of my undisciplined mind. I smile at myself while refreshing my nape and face. It feels good to be free of all the rules set by my husband: morning walks, no drinking, and a lot of other rubbish. I resume my positive thoughts about the future.

Everything is going to work out.

I leave the bathroom feeling as if I am floating.

But when my foot turns on itself, it doesn’t feel so good anymore. “Oh.”

A strong pair of hands catches me before I stumble and fall. “Signorina, do you need assistance?”

I grip muscled biceps to steady myself and my eyes slowly climb up a muscled torso, broad shoulders and oh, mon Dieu. I’m breathless with the magnificent man in front of me. He’s tall, so very tall, I have to crane my neck to see his face. And handsome too, with aristocratic features and wavy hair, black as night, with a bit of gray on the temples.

And then I stare into his intense, brilliant deep blue eyes, like pools of Mediterranean sea water, shining on a tanned, rugged face. That breathlessness tightens my lungs for a painful moment and lets them expand as I take an aching, desperate breath.

He reminds me of someone but I can’t quite pinpoint who. Or do I know him from somewhere?

Strange.

It’s as if I have met him before, as if we have a spiritual connection, perhaps? It is not only that he’s one of the finest specimens of male beauty I ever encountered, non.

There’s something more floating in his gaze and I can feel it—a similar loneliness, a longing for more—whatever it is, it’s shimmering in the air between us.

“Mi chiamo Enzo.” He gives me a smile as he tells me he’s called Enzo and stretches out his hand.

I grab his large, calloused hand in mine and a weird frisson hums in my veins. “Piacere, Fleur.”