Free Rosamanti by Noelle Clark Page A

It was perfect. Build a leafy pergola out the front so people can dine al fresco. In winter, drop down plastic café curtains—or maybe grow a hedge… Her fertile mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. She sat down in the shade of the wall and ticked off a list of what needed to be done. Expand the vegetable patch; employ a local to tend it; introduce pigs and cows back to the property; re-fit the kitchen and bathroom. The ideas were flowing like a river in springtime. Pietro could grow or produce every ingredient here at Rosamanti and cook it for discerning diners who wanted good quality, organic, fresh, ingredients. Heck, they even had their own wine.
    In her mind, she could see the building, soft yellow lights from candles glowing in the windows, little tables set with bright red table cloths, people sitting there chatting or taking in the amazing view, and sipping the Lombardi wine.
    She lay on her back in a clearing where the grass wasn’t so spiky, daydreaming, looking at the sparse white, fluffy clouds skip across the cobalt sky. Images and sketches skimmed through her thoughts, exciting her. The avalanche of ideas felt familiar, somehow. Almost how it used to feel when the writing muse was virtually sitting on her shoulder, compelling her imagination to write wonderful stories. It felt good to be so free of worries, so free of cluttered thoughts. From where she was right now, nestled into a patch of yellow straw-like grass on the side of a mountain on this beautiful island, everything was good with the world.
    It was hours before she finally left the forlorn little cottage and slowly made her way back up the hill to Rosamanti. She looked up, seeing the sun almost directly overhead. Well, there goes my writing morning, she thought. She noticed that the same old guilty feeling wasn’t gnawing at her, chastising her. Instead, she felt uplifted, excited, thrilled. She couldn’t wait to talk to Pietro, to tell him of her fantastic idea. A small stab of concern entered her mind, threatening to pour cold water on her enthusiasm. What if Pietro said no?She knew he didn’t have money for repairs for Rosamanti, let alone funds to renovate a run-down building stuck on a hillside. A small, impish grin formed on her lips. But she did.
     
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    She entered the cool, dark kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, and took out a carafe of cold water, poured it into a glass, and drank thirstily. Her stomach grumbled, complaining that she had not yet had breakfast—only coffee. Deciding to take a break from Felicity French for a while, she made a sandwich and headed for Nonna’s drawing room. Her discovery that morning had made her curious to examine the book of maps of the island more closely.
    She found the large, leather-bound book of maps of Capri still lying on the little table where she had left it. Carefully turning each page, she finally found the map of Villa Jovis and its surrounds. She squinted, trying to see the tiny details. With one finger on the track to Villa Jovis, she traced back down until she found a small black dot which was marked as Villa Rosamanti Lombardi. She searched the ornately drawn margin of the map, looking for its creator or a date. Nothing. Remarkably, when she let her eyes relax from the intensive search, she saw a squiggle in the right hand vertical border, down near the bottom corner. With difficulty, she saw written what looked like Milo MDCLXXVIII. Her heartbeat quickened as she realized she had found the date of this book. Each map was an original. This was no mass produced atlas. She ran upstairs and got a notebook and pencil, then ran back to the drawing room. She wrote out the Roman numerals, calling on her childhood school memory to work out the year of creation. Eventually she had it—1678. Tingles of excitement and awe swept through her.
    She sat back on the comfortable sofa and thought about what this place would have been like back then. She remembered Pietro