Chapter 5
Hanna
I pull up on the gravel forecourt of the grand estate. If I had realized earlier I was heading in the wrong direction, I would have arrived long ago. But my confusion after the embarrassing moment with the stranger by the roadside cost me at least forty minutes.
I can't let something like that happen again.
Florian is counting on me, and I can't disappoint him. As long as I'm here, I have to wear the mask of a serious investor. Determined, I swing open the car door, step out, and look around.
The stone facade of the main house rises with impressive calm against the pale blue sky. The square windows are hidden behind shutters whose white paint has mostly peeled off. The greenery obviously has been taking what they want in the courtyard for years. Ivy tugs at the rusty rain gutters, and bright purple heather proliferates on the wall ledges.
The more closely I look, the more dilapidated the estate appears. The metal chairs of the seating area in the sheltered corner are adorned with intricate ornaments, but they look so crooked as if they must withstand an eternal storm.
I stroll on and discover a pool sunken into the ground. Where deep blue water should invite for a splash, there's a green soup swirling, its surface covered with pine needle nests. A brown-spotted frog clings to a small branch, eyeing me skeptically.
There is probably still a lot to explore here. Up ahead, for example, where the stone staircase seems to lead to a higher terrace. Lined with herb beds that are hardly recognizable anymore, the steps wind around a bay window. As I approach, the intense scent of thyme fills my nose.
I glide onto the stone border. Barely has my backside touched the stones when the edge suddenly gives way. I lose my balance and land on the ground with a few pieces of rock. Cement, the consistency of fine quartz sand, trickles onto my head.
Ouch.
I massage my wrist, which cushioned the fall. Hopefully, nobody saw how clumsy I was again. Embarrassed, I look around—and freeze.
Over there, leaning against the house wall, is the attractive surfer guy who woke me up in the car earlier.
Oh no. Please, not him.
Embarrassed, I shrug my shoulders. He doesn't grin, but he should. Anyone else would make fun of my mishap, but he seems lost in thought, distant.
What is he doing here? And why is he looking at me with this strange mix of sadness and nostalgia?
He appears different from before.
Closed off.
But something about him also makes it impossible for me to look away. Even from a distance, I can feel that confusing effect he had on me in the car.
Someone should do something. Or say something. And that someone, of course, is me. Because what my senses are tricking me into is nonsense. I'm just disoriented because he caught me in an awkward situation.
Focus, Hanna. Don't forget, you have to play the businesswoman!
What now?
That he's not Camilla, whose contact details Florian wrote down for me, is obvious. Still, he might be able to help me, so I push myself up from the ground, shake off the cement dust from my hair, and walk toward him.
"Hello, I'm Hanna," I say in Italian, trying to act as if I hadn't just made a complete fool of myself. "I'm waiting for Camilla. She was supposed to show me the estate, but she's not here."
His eyebrows rise. "You're the buyer?"
"Yes, I am," I answer, and because my Italian isn’t perfect, I directly lose control of my tongue, making it clear that he has no idea what I just said.
His intrigued gaze prompts me to try again. Slowly, I repeat the words.
"Va bene. Welcome, Hanna," he says, suddenly smiling at me, although his eyes remain guarded. "I'm Vico, and I'll show you everything."
Camilla should have been the one showing me around, as agreed. Should I be suspicious? Would Florian be suspicious? I have no idea. Who knows if he even has anything to do with the estate? Maybe he's just following me and playing a prank. "Where is Camilla?" I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
With a perplexed expression, he mimics my gesture. "My sister is occupied." He indicates a belly the size of a stability ball. "She can't see her feet anymore and shouldn't put any weight on them for more than half an hour."
I want to believe him, but I can't afford to make any mistakes here, as my future depends on this estate. "What's your last name?" I inquire, trying to keep my focus.
With a bewildered look, he copies my movement again. "Olivetta."
He seems to genuinely belong here. And if this Camilla really is his sister, I will soon meet her too. His lie will be exposed then. Maybe I should just let it go, right? A businesswoman would probably focus on her mission, wouldn't she? "Alright, Vico Olivetta, let's get started," I say, trying not to let his odd behavior affect me.
Briefly, a strange flash flickers in his eyes, then they close off again. "Follow me," he says, waving his hand.
Is he trying to throw me off balance? I can't let him succeed, no matter how strange he behaves. With my shoulders hunched back, I march beside him across the courtyard and enter the estate through the creaking double doors.
The first glance inside gives me no reason to rejoice. The plaster crumbles in some places, and I spot a damp stain in the corner of the wide hallway. A crack runs across the ceiling.
Before I can bring up the condition of the building, he opens a door. "This way, please."
I step in hesitantly. The room looks like an abandoned teenage bedroom. Tape residue and tiny holes cover the wall behind the white-painted bed. The wide dresser next to the window is empty, just like the wardrobe with its doors open.
At least I find a bottle of water and a bowl of grapes and oranges on the nightstand.
"This is your room," he says in a strangely controlled tone. "The tour will start tomorrow. Rest up, you must be tired."
Is he alluding to our first encounter?
"Not at all," I reply quickly, not wanting him to notice how much he's unsettling me. "I'll just settle in quickly, and then I'll be ready." Florian's checklist is frighteningly long, and I only have three weeks before Natalie's internship at our inn ends. Even though the sky outside transforms to a pale pink, it would probably be better to start right away.
Suddenly, he looks as if he has a stomachache. "Everything in due time. The bathroom is across the hall, and the kitchen is next door," he says, turning to leave. "It's better if you don't go anywhere else alone. See you tomorrow."
He leaves the room so quickly that I can't respond. What about dinner, for example? Or when do we start tomorrow?
He closes the creaking door behind him, and then it becomes conspicuously quiet. He must be on the other side. On tiptoes, I sneak around the room. When I reach the door, I hold my breath.
Yes, he's still here. Just a few inches away, I hear his shallow breath, followed by a rustling sound.
Is he brushing his shoulder-length hair away from his face? Or is he wiping his palms on his worn-out jeans?
Is he considering coming back to me?
"Cursed," he mutters in despair, and then footsteps follow.
I have no idea why, but I start running too. Straight to the window that overlooks the courtyard. With a pounding heart, I peer outside.
"See you tomorrow," I murmur.