Elena stares at me silently. She’s examining me, picking me apart. But why?
“No, we weren’t very good friends,” she tells me finally. “I don’t know why. I guess I’m not always a nice person. And you never tolerated any crap. That intimidated me.”
I’m an intimidating bad ass?
I’m not sure that I like me very much.
“So you were the mean girl and I was the bad ass?” I guess. She smiles slowly.
“I suppose so.”
“My mother thinks that I should try to be friends with you,” I tell her bluntly. “Because you understand what it’s like to be me—a child of a political family. Do you want to be friends?”
Elena stares at me in surprise. I can tell that she doesn’t know what to say. She wasn’t expecting this from me. But I wasn’t expecting any of this from her, either, so I guess we’re even.
“Well, you’re certainly not any less blunt,” she observes. “You’ve always said exactly what was on your mind. Okay, Mia. We can try to be friends. It should be interesting.”
“Yes,” I answer quietly. “It should be interesting.”
We chat for a little while longer and it seems uncomfortable, but it gets easier toward the end. I finally make my way toward the door and close it behind me. I exhale a long breath and lean against it.
Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?
That’s ridiculous. Right?
Elena might have red hair, but she’s not the devil.
I spend the rest of the walk to my own room trying to convince myself of that.
Chapter Nine
I press my face against the glass of my mother’s car. I leave a nose print, but I don’t care. The hills of Caberra speed past us as my mom winds through the curvy roads toward Giliberti House.
Apparently, our house is uninhabitable and will have to be re-built in order for us to return home. Until then, my mother and I will be staying at Dimitri Giliberti’s family home, Giliberti House. It is located in a huge estate surrounded by olive groves outside of Valese.
Also apparently, I’ve been there a million times before because that is where I work…in their gift shop. I sell gourmet olive oils and whatnot. And I say ‘whatnot’ because I have no idea what else I sell there. Sigh.
“We’re almost there,” my mom says. I know she’s assuming that my sigh was a result of being in the car. “You’ll see the olive groves soon.”
And I do. We round one more curve and I see hundreds of olive trees, their lush green tops touching the sky. The olives look like pebbles on the branches.
“Your father will come out on the weekends,” my mother tells me. “He’s going to stay in the city during the week for work reasons. He’s worried about you, though. He’s hoping that the peace and quiet out here will help you relax and recover more quickly.”
Him and me both.
I’m sick of this whole can’t-remember-who-I-am-thing.
I nod wordlessly, taking in the scenery as my mother turns into a long, long drive. Flowering trees line each side and white blossoms drift through the air, padding the stone lane beneath us with a thick blanket of petals. It looks like a painting. I take a whiff of the sweet-smelling air.
“It’s gorgeous here, right?” my mother asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”
She pulls into a circular drive and we get out of the car. The house is amazingly beautiful, like something out of a fancy fairytale. Warm light floods from the windows onto the manicured lawn around it. It draws me to it and makes me want to run into the house.
A tiny little woman comes out, stooped and elderly. But she moves quickly. She is down the stairs before I can even speak. Her hair is pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck.
“Mia!” she cries out and barrels into me, grasping me up into a surprisingly strong bear hug. She smells like cookies. And maybe sunshine.
I look at her blankly, wish-wish-wishing that I could place her. Because she clearly knows me. She looks at me sympathetically.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” she tells me, taking a step backward. “I forgot that you don’t remember me. My name is Marionette Papou. I run this household for the Gilibertis. You know me very well, little one. I’ve known you since you were in pigtails. But you will remember. I have faith in that.”
She is confident. I like that.
She turns and greets my mother and then her husband, Darius, introduces himself to me before he gets our bags. They both move surprisingly quickly for being older. And I am surprised again when Marionette tells me that Darius is the foreman for the olive groves. They have both worked here for decades, apparently, and they have no intentions of slowing down anytime soon.
They lead us into the massive house and I immediately feel welcomed, like I am home. The house is immaculately furnished, but it is cozy even as it is magnificent and enormous. It is the kind of place where families live and thrive. I feel instantly at ease.
Marionette smiles.
“I have a treat for you,” she tells me with a grin. “Your favorite.”
I have no idea what my favorite is, but I follow her anyway.
I’m trusting that way, I guess.
As Darius takes our bags upstairs to our rooms, Marionette leads us to the kitchen. Wonderful smells surround us and I inhale deeply.
She hands me a saucer and shoves me into a chair.
“Your favorite,” she tells me again as I look at the little fancy plate. There is a forest green G inscribed on the china rim. A flaky croissant drizzled in butter instantly makes my mouth water. “I make them from scratch,” she adds proudly.
I take a bite and instantly am in love with Marionette. I tell her that and she laughs.
“Oh, you fell in love with me long ago, little one,” she grins, before she pats my arm and glides away to wipe off a cabinet. “I’m French. Everyone loves me.”
I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but it makes me smile anyway. I consider that as I look around. This kitchen reminds me of a giant farm kitchen, but is filled with every modern convenience. It’s comfortable in here. I could stay in here forever.