13. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
Rosalia calls while I’m eating breakfast, before her shift begins. My bag is already beside the door, empty except for the folder I brought when I left.
“Are you still coming for the journals, signora?”
“For one day.” I push the eggs around my plate without eating them. “To collect them and see the damage to the gardens. That’s all.”
“Do you want me to meet you at the house? I can spare a few minutes before I start.”
“No. Thank you. I want to see whether he lets me do what I’ve come for.”
“You can find me if you need me.”
“I know.” I set down my fork. “He finally wrote down what he did, Rosalia. That doesn’t make it all right, but I’m not going to pretend he didn’t tell me. And those journals are mine. I don’t need to trust my husband to go and get them.”
“Of course, signora.”
“I’ll be back here this afternoon.” I take a piece of toast for the drive, then send Lorenzo the message I drafted before breakfast:
I’m coming for my journals and the records. One visit. I’ll leave after lunch. His reply arrives while I put my empty canvas bag in the car. I’ll have everything ready.
I leave the cottage before dawn.
The roads are quiet, and I have too much time to think about the last time I drove this route, with my suitcase behind me and my husband somewhere in the opposite direction.
Yesterday, Lorenzo sent me the written account of his instruction to the investigators. I forwarded it to my lawyer myself.
The language is plain and damning: he instructed Ferro and Mancini to exclude Livia from active inquiry the same morning they confirmed the sabotage was deliberate.
By the time I brought him the receipt and Rosalia’s testimony, he had already narrowed the inquiry to protect the person I was asking him to investigate.
I think about the journals waiting on my nightstand.
Seven months of work, documented in those notebooks. Soil amendments and drainage improvements and the experimental cover crop that was supposed to be my proposal for helping the estate.
All of it left behind when I packed my suitcase and drove away.
I couldn’t take the gardens with me when I left. The estate had staff and resources. I had a suitcase to close and a limit I’d finally reached. Leaving didn’t make the neglected beds my fault.
The estate gates appear in the gray morning light, and I slow to enter the code. The familiar crunch of gravel under my tires makes my chest tight in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I’ve been gone less than two weeks. It feels like months.
Lorenzo is waiting in the courtyard when I park. He’s dressed for work, not for receiving guests, his boots already muddy and his sleeves rolled up despite the cold. He doesn’t move toward the car, just stands there watching as I gather my bag and step out into the morning air.
“You came.” He takes one step forward, then leaves the space clear beside my car. I can see that he wants to come closer.
“You got my message.” I close the car door and sling my bag over my shoulder. “I meant the part about leaving after lunch.”
“Thank you.” He gestures toward the path that leads around the house. “The worst damage is in the herb beds and the trial strip. The groundskeeper has been working on the drainage, but there’s more than we expected.”
“Show me.” I start walking before he can offer to carry my bag or touch my arm or do any of the small courtesies that would make this feel like something other than what it is. “I want to see everything.”
The herb garden looks worse than I imagined.
The rosemary that I spent three months coaxing back to health is yellowed and drooping, its normally fragrant needles dull and limp. The winter covering I rigged from burlap and stakes has torn loose in several places, leaving entire sections exposed to the cold.
Freshly cleared debris lies beside the main outlet, but there’s still standing water in the lowest corner. The sage there looks worse than the plants along the path.
I crouch beside the rosemary and touch one of the damaged branches.
There’s green beneath the bark when I gently scratch a damaged stem. I’ll lose some growth, but I may not lose the plant. For now, I need to stop the water sitting around its roots.
“When did you notice?” I don’t look at Lorenzo, keeping my eyes on the plants. “When did you realize something was wrong?”
“Yesterday morning.”
He sets the rolled-up replacement covering beside the bed. There’s mud on it already; he has done more than stand here waiting for me.
“I walked through here on my way to the kitchen and saw the yellowing. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it wasn’t right.
” He moves the covering clear of my feet.
“I didn’t notice your work while you were here either.
I didn’t think about you nearly enough, Chiara.
Not about what you were doing out here, not about what it cost you, not about any of it. ”
Yesterday he told me he had stopped his own investigators from looking at Livia. I’m not going to stop being angry because he has learned to admit another failure. But these plants can’t wait for us to finish arguing.
“The water needs a way out.” I point beneath the loose covering. “We’ll start here.”
Lorenzo fetches the tools while I pull on my old gloves. He takes the rake I offer him.
“I want to direct this, Lorenzo.”
“Tell me where to start.”
I lift the burlap while he clears the leaves packed beneath it.
When he loosens a stone lining the channel, I show him where it belongs. He replaces it without arguing and works around the others.
Water begins to move.
“And the rosemary?” he asks.
“Leave it alone once this drains. I need to see how it responds.”
He writes that in a small notebook of his own, then puts his hands back in the mud. By the time we finish, he has it up both sleeves. I lead him toward the arbor.
The groundskeeper has propped the loose support away from the wall, sparing most of the healthy growth. Two canes have split, though, and another will scrape against the stone unless we secure it before the wind picks up.
“Can you hold this steady while I retie it?” I put my hand against the support so he can see where it needs to sit.
Lorenzo takes hold of the wooden stake and holds it firm while I work the twine into a better configuration. His hands are close to mine, and I’m aware of his warmth even through the cold morning air.
“Tighter.” I guide the twine around the stake. “It needs to hold through wind, not just hang there looking decorative.”
He adjusts his grip and pulls the stake more firmly into position. I tie off the twine and test the support, satisfied that it will hold.
I cut away the broken ends. Lorenzo gathers them, catching a trailing stem against the bed as he turns.
“Use the tarp. You’ll damage the plants dragging them like that.”
He stops and spreads the canvas beside me. A few jasmine leaves cling to his sleeve. I pick them off, and for a moment neither of us moves. Then I take my hand away and reach for my shears.
By the time we’ve disposed of the cuttings and finished checking the rest of the arbor, the sun is high enough that the piece of toast I ate on the drive is no longer enough to keep me going.
Lorenzo asks whether I’ll join him for food, and we stop in the kitchen. The cook puts bread beside my plate before I can ask for it.
After sending meals through Rosalia and asking whether I was eating at the cottage, she seems pleased to see for herself.
“Are the records ready?” I take my gloves off the table before they leave mud beside my plate. “I still want to see them before I go.”
“In the study.” Lorenzo pushes the bread within my reach, then returns to his own food. “And I left a box beside your journals if you want it.”
“I’ll look at the trial strip, then collect everything.” I eat while the food is warm instead of pretending I don’t want to sit here for a few minutes. He lets me finish without asking what Rosalia has said about him.
The trial strip is a mess, but most of it has survived. The clover and field peas are still green above the waterlogged lower section.
“Can we replant that part?” Lorenzo asks.
“Not while it’s this wet.” I walk the edge, then mark a line with my boot. “The drainage needs extending here. But leave the comparison patch alone. I still need those results.”
He opens his notebook. “Show me which part.”
I point it out. There is still a trial here, including what the storm has taught me. I want to finish it and take those records wherever I go next.
“I’ll come tomorrow to mark the drainage route with the groundskeeper.” I close my bag, making the decision before Lorenzo can ask for another day. “Once that’s done, we can arrange the checks I can’t be here for.”
“I’ll have him meet you here.” He writes the arrangement on his own page. For once, the next step doesn’t depend on me remembering it for both of us.
***
The study is quiet when Lorenzo leads me to the evidence files.
The cellar records and laboratory findings are waiting on a side table, along with Lorenzo’s written reversal of the order protecting Livia. I open my folder beside them and compare the dates. This time, nothing is being held out of my reach.
“Where is Livia?” I look toward the open study door. We’ve been outside all morning, and I haven’t seen her.
“I’ve suspended her from cellar duties while they investigate.” Lorenzo leaves the handling records in front of me instead of taking them back as he speaks. “She has returned her keys. The staff know she isn’t allowed into the wine storage areas.”
“That doesn’t answer whether she’s here.” I close my own folder, keeping my hand on it. I’m not spending the afternoon wondering whether every footstep behind me belongs to her.
“She’s still on the estate. I’ve told her to stay away from you, and the staff responsible for security know.” He stops when I don’t relax. “If she approaches you, you don’t have to deal with her. They will.”