Page 54 of The Villa

And that’s when Lara gives another wrenching sob and says, “Mare. I’m pregnant.”

“It would’ve been better not to love him,” I tell her through my tears./

But my sister’s a plain-speaker, voicing all my fears./

“Not better. Just easier.”/

The simplest words I’ve ever heard./

And they cut me to the quick like only she can./

“Not better. Just easier.”/

A silk glove on an iron hand.

—“Night Owl,” Lara Larchmont, fromAestas,1977

CHAPTER TEN

Mari’s papers are burning a hole under my mattress.

Since that afternoon three days ago, I’ve read them at least half a dozen times, hardly believing they’re real.

Or, I guess I should say, I’ve read most of them. I’ve held off on what appears to be the last chapter. I’d skimmed it, of course. That was the first thing I did when I’d realized what I’d found, desperate to read Mari’s version of Pierce’s murder.

But the pages end before that, stopping when Pierce is very much alive. I’d decided to save that last chapter, wanting to experience that summer with Mari, as she experienced it. Wanting to savor this treasure for as long as possible.

Because that’s what it feels like—an illicit treasure, hidden underneath my bed.

If I can prove thatthisis the definitive account of what happened the summer of 1974, as written by one of the main people involved, and that my original idea aboutLilith Risingholding clues to the events of that summer was right…

It’ll be huge.

Which is why it’s vital that Chess doesn’t know what I’ve found.

But I think she’s beginning to suspect something.

We’ve gone back into Orvieto, craving an outing after several consecutive days holed up at the villa. The skies are cloudy today, making the walled city appear more foreboding than the first time we visited. In the heavy heat, the closeness of the buildings is less charming, the duomo more overwhelming.

I sip from one of the bottles of mineral water Chess brought for us as I pretend to gaze into shop windows, my brain a million miles away, back with Mari and Pierce and Noel.

“You have been a very busy bee this week,” Chess says, bumping my hip as I turn away from the window. Overhead, the hanging baskets of red flowers are very bright against all the gray.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you, but I hear you, clickety-clicking all the time.”

I thought I was doing a better job of hiding how much I was working, but clearly not.

For a moment, I struggle with how to answer, and then the perfect excuse comes to me.

Making myself look as sheepish as I can, I say, “I’m actually back on Petal.”

Chess stops, her leather bag swinging on her shoulder. “Wait, seriously?”

I nod. “The book about Mari and the villa wasn’t really going anywhere, and then it occurred to me that just likeIneeded a change of scenery, maybe Petal did, too. So I threw out what I’d been working on before and started a whole new draft. Petal in Italy, solving the case of the poisoned cappuccino.”

“Iloveit,” Chess replies, squeezing my arm, and the obvious relief on her face tells me more than anything how pleased she is that I’ve put the villa project aside.

But why? Is it because nonfiction is supposed to be her thing, and she wanted me to stay out of her lane? Was she worried I might actually write something that eclipsed even the great Chess Chandler?

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