Chapter 5 #2
“Yes, this is standard for many projects you will have in smaller locations.”
“Don’t they need that revenue?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized that Lady Ozie was paying the museum for
any lost revenue.
“Miss Reale, you will become accustomed to all doors being opened without any worry about money.”
Aida wasn’t sure she would ever be accustomed to that, just like she didn’t think she’d ever feel comfortable with Trista
refusing to use her first name.
“I have a lot of paperwork to sort through, so I’ll leave you to finish up your work.
” She stood and drew in a deep breath. After a long pause, she said, “I trust your time with Mr. Goodman went well today. I must remind you that although he has signed an NDA for his work with us, that does not mean he is privy to the true nature of the projects you are working on. Please be thoughtful of that when you are visiting with friends. And make sure to leave your phone on.”
She turned on a heel and hurried out of the room and into her office, leaving Aida stunned at what was clearly a stark warning.
When Aida wasn’t recording Goethe or correlating information between his various works, she explored the palazzo, the entirety
of which was open save the quarters where the staff lived. Walking through the rooms filled Aida with wonder, and every pass
through one, she delighted in finding something new, whether it was a detail on one of the palazzo’s many frescoes, a previously
unnoticed tile pattern, or an antique of exquisite quality. She was exploring the grand ballroom when her phone buzzed. It
was Graham. Settling onto a velvet-covered bench, the plush fabric brushing against her palms, Aida answered.
She smiled when she saw his bed-head hair. “I see you just got up. Oh, I miss waking up with you.”
He gave her a sleepy grin. “But it won’t be long until I’m there.”
The day after she’d arrived, she’d called him on her personal phone during a walk outside the palazzo. She’d explained that
they shouldn’t discuss her plans to leave after the trial period over the MODA phone, suggesting instead that they pretend
he might move to Rome after the trial and the wedding just to keep everything smooth with MODA’s expectations.
“You are really going to love it here. I’ve been walking every morning, wandering the streets and getting lost. There’s something amazing around every corner!
Right now, I’m at the palazzo, in a majestic ballroom.
Imagine ornate frescoes and crystal chandeliers.
I can almost hear the echoes of centuries-old waltzes. ”
Graham chuckled. “Only you could be so poetic about a room. But honestly, how’s the job? And the people?”
“The job is . . . unique, more than I expected. And the people . . . they’re different, but that’s just part of adjusting
to a new place. But, oh, Graham, you will love Rome. There’s so much history, and I keep imagining what it would be like exploring
it together,” she said, maintaining their agreed-upon pretense.
“I’ll be happy anywhere you are,” he said.
Aida brightened. “How is the wedding planning going? Have you figured out the limo yet?”
“Yep, we’ll travel in style in a 1959 Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. Oh, speaking of the wedding,” Graham said enthusiastically.
“I ran into Erin yesterday at the grocery store. She’s offered to help us figure out the favors and gift bags. We’re going
to meet up this weekend and put something together to show you.”
A mix of gratitude and relief filled Aida. “Oh, that’s so sweet of her! I’m so glad she’s back in town. I know wedding planning
isn’t exactly your favorite thing.”
“It’s not too terrible. The outcome is what matters . . . that walk down the aisle.”
Just as Aida was about to respond, she heard the faint clearing of a throat and turned to see Trista at the door. The woman’s
expression was unreadable.
“Oh, I have to go,” Aida said quickly, a surge of discomfort tightening her voice. “We’ll talk soon.”
“What? Wait—” Graham’s voice crackled with confusion and a hint of disappointment.
“I’m sorry, really, I need to take care of something for work.
I love you.” Aida hurriedly ended the call, pressing the disconnect button.
She set the phone down, her thoughts swirling uneasily.
She didn’t like cutting Graham off, but something about the way Trista had been standing there, overhearing their conversation, left her with a gnawing feeling of unease and foreboding.
Turning her attention to her assistant, she tried to steady her voice. “Is there something you needed?”
“I’ve left some new information on your desk to prepare you for tomorrow’s visit to the museum.” She gave Aida a curt nod
and then departed.
Aida stared at the empty doorway, confused and irritated that her aide thought something so trivial was worth interrupting
her call with Graham. She considered calling him back, but the thought of MODA listening in was so unsettling that she decided
against it.
That night, Aida lay awake, unable to sleep. Finally, a little before midnight, she threw on a robe. Hearing voices, she wandered
to the kitchen, where she found Ilario and Pippa sitting at the little table in the corner, sharing a glass of wine. They
both stood quickly when they saw her.
“Signorina, tell us how we may help you.”
“Please, please, sit. I don’t need anything. I just couldn’t sleep and thought I’d take a little walk. I heard someone else
was still up.”
“Ahh, then you must sit and let me . . . what do those Brits say . . . make you a nightcap.” Ilario left her with Pippa and
headed toward the interior of the kitchen.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your conversation.”
Pippa shook her head. “Nahh. It’s al’ right.” Her cockney accent was thick.
“Where are you from?” Aida asked, curious.
“Essex originally, but me fam moved ’ere when I left school, and I thought I’d come too. This—” she waved her arm expansively
“—place is way better than any borin’ university back in England.”
Aida had to chuckle. “I suppose it is.”
Chef Ilario returned with a dark bottle of something and three glasses.
“My nonna’s nocino,” he said proudly. “My grandparents were from Modena and owned a walnut orchard. It’s tradition that every year on the night
of San Giovanni, you harvest the walnuts all night by hand, by the light of the moon, or by the light of torches if there
is no moon. I loved being able to stay up to help pick the walnuts.” He poured the thick brown liquor into the glasses and
passed them around. “One of my last few bottles.”
“I’m honored,” Aida said, taking a whiff of the aromatic mixture. “But I thought only virgins could harvest the walnuts,”
she teased, remembering her history of the drink.
Ilario waved a hand in dismissal. “Virgins are hard to come by.”
“You know this ain’t Italian,” Pippa said before she took a sip. She closed her eyes to savor it. “This comes from me people.
The druids were gettin’ blotto on this stuff long afore you Romans come in and pinched it.”
“But, we Italians, we perfected it.”
Aida drank in the mahogany-colored liquid. “Mmm. Cloves, cinnamon, vanilla, and . . .”
“Juniper and coffee too,” Ilario said. “I know what goes into this bottle but have never figured the recipe out. I think there
is something else, something special that she never told anyone about. We will never know, since she is long gone.”
The drink warmed Aida’s insides. “It means our enjoyment is that much stronger, because it is special.”
“Esattamente,” Ilario said. “You understand.”
“How long have you worked for Lady Ozie?” Aida asked.
“Not even six months yet for me,” Pippa said. “I was workin’ as a chef in a li’l restaurant in the Campo de’ Fiori. Mo found
me and made me an offer I couldn’t say no to. Even if I gotta work under this rompicoglioni.” She raised an eyebrow at Ilario.
“I am not a pain in your ass,” Ilario said in Italian, lightly smacking his sous-chef on the arm. “You are the pain in mine.”
Aida loved their banter and comfort in teasing each other so roundly in front of her.
“Mo found me in much the same way. I was working in Bologna as a sous-chef at a Michelin restaurant.” Ilario smirked at Pippa,
who stuck her tongue out at him. “That was two years ago. It is nice to be paid so well to not work so hard and still do what
I love.”
“Who is Mo?” Aida asked.
“You’ll meet him soon enough . . .” Ilario began before Pippa interrupted him.
“He’s a bit smarmy, that Mo. Too bleedin’ cheeky for me. Somethin’ ain’t right about ’im.”
“But he found you the job,” Aida pointed out, puzzled.
“Don’t mean I trust ’im.”
“Mo works for Lady Ozie,” Ilario explained. “You’ll understand what Pippa means when you meet him. He can be . . . a little . . .
how do you say, sarcastic. You’ll get used to him.”
Pippa shook her head and gave Aida a contrary look.
“Trista never mentioned this person,” Aida said.
Pippa snorted. “That girl keeps to ’erself. Don’t know what rock they dug ’er up from under. She never shows emotion. Even
when that poor sod Johannes died. Thought I might see ’er face crack, but nah.”
Johannes—the man who had held her position before Aida arrived. “I heard he died of a heart attack?” The nocino was already making her sleepy, but she wasn’t about to lose out on the gossip.
“That’s what they told us,” Ilario said. “It was quite a shock. That man was . . . how do you say, era sano come un pesce?”
It took Aida a moment to translate the idiom, healthy as a fish. “We say healthy as a horse.”
Ilario rolled his eyes, causing Pippa and Aida to giggle. “He was like this healthy horse of yours. Always going jogging.
Ate mostly vegetarian and only rarely let me make him something with meat.”
“And just a month before ’e died, he was rabbitin’ on to us about the clean bill of ’ealth his doctor give ’im,” Pippa added. “All ’is blood work was good, ’is blood pressure was bleedin’ perfect, barely a bit of body fat on ’im.”
“I thought he smoked,” Aida said, recalling Disa’s words at that first meeting in Boston when she had asked about her predecessor.
Pippa snorted. “Absolutely not. Johannes could ’ardly manage to sit on a rest’rant terrazzo with someone smokin’ near ’im.”
“If someone like him can die from an attack on the heart, what hope do we have?” Ilario said. He lifted his glass. “We have
this.”
“Liquid ’ope,” Pippa agreed, raising her glass to his.
Aida clinked her glass against theirs and downed the rest of her nocino, unsettled by the conversation about Johannes. Why had Disa lied to her? She excused herself afterward, thanking them for
the drink and the company.
On the way back to her room, Aida passed by her library office, and next to it she saw that the light was on under Trista’s
door. She paused outside to see if she could hear her assistant and was met with only silence. But as she continued on, Aida
heard Trista’s voice, hushed, low, talking as though there were another in the room with her. She could only catch snatches
of the conversation and couldn’t make out who the other speakers might be.
“Easier than him . . . don’t worry . . .”
A man’s voice. “So slow . . . tired of . . .”
Another voice, a woman’s but not Trista’s. “Patience . . . centuries. Patience.”
There was a whoosh of air, like the release of someone standing up from a vinyl cushion, then silence. The light went out.
Aida rushed away before Trista could open the door and find her standing there. But who on earth would she have been talking
to at 1:00 a.m.?