Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis

      I was careful not to ask any more direct questions. I knew he’d only ignore them. Furthermore, I was careful not to say anything too personal, concerning either myself or him.

      “I had no idea my aunt lived so far from the city,” I said as we made a sharp turn off the main road and started up the side of a mountain.

      “We are nearly there,” he said.

      I almost didn’t believe my ears. He had actually volunteered an entire sentence. I felt my verbosity had paid off. I smiled to myself and leaned back in the seat. I was content.

      And we were nearly there. After a few minutes’ drive up a very steep road we leveled off atop a high bluff. I gazed out at the vast Atlantic. Somewhere out there, farther than I could imagine, was the world I’d left behind. I suddenly wanted to rush back to it. Despite the exquisite beauty of Portugal, I had a strange foreboding. I wanted to return to where I knew everything to be secure and safe and friendly.

      As we skirted the edge of the cliff I found myself turning to stare at the back of the man’s head—Neil’s head. Was he representative of what Portuguese men were like? I hoped not.

      Who was he? I wondered. Did he live at Carlotta’s villa?

      As I thought about these questions, he swerved into a driveway, drove between two giant stone posts that supported intricately wrought iron gates, up a gravel drive and into a spacious courtyard.

      I was stunned by the beauty of the villa. It was the lightest of pinks with a peaked roof of a darker hue. A marble terrace ran the full length of the lovely old house.

      The terrace was dotted with potted cyprus trees. Tall French windows blinked at me as I got out of the limousine. Their shutters were open and fastened to the flat façade. I had known that Carlotta lived well, but I had hardly expected such luxury. The lawns were freshly manicured; obviously they received loving care.

      It was an enchanting place. The moment I saw it I completely forgot my feeling of foreboding and my anxiety to return home. Now I was eager to rush inside. The house virtually shouted out a welcome to me.

      Neil took my bags from the back seat and stacked them near the front door. He rummaged around in a flower pot, produced a key and unlocked the door. He pushed it aside for me. I stepped through into the cool luxury of the interior. Neil remained outside. I heard him move my bags immediately inside the foyer. I was so captivated by the beauty of the house that I hardly heard the door close. I was sure Neil was standing behind me, but then I heard the car’s motor roar and speed down the drive and away.

      Quickly I went back outside. The car was just disappearing. I stood there watching it go. I shook my head and turned and started back into the villa. The key, I noticed, was in the latch. I took it out and dropped it into my purse.

      “What a strange man,” I said to the emptiness of the foyer.

      At least he had brought me here, and for that I was very grateful.

      A long sweeping staircase led from the foyer to the floor above. I glanced at my bags and decided I was too weary and hungry to bother carting them upstairs. Anyway, I had no idea where to put them after I did lug them up.

      I crossed the foyer, listening to the echo of my heels on the black and white marble squares. “Anybody home?” I called.

      No answer. I went down several steps that led into what I thought must be the “lair” Carlotta spoke so fondly of. It was a beautiful room, bright and feminine, and not very well organized. Carlotta’s sketches were everywhere, and her award-winning dress designs were framed and hung in a cluster on one high wall.

      An easel and a drawing board stood before one bank of windows, isolated somewhat from the rest of the room and their rough, natural wood contrasted sharply with the highly polished, exquisitely carved French antiques on the deep-pile rug. The “lair” was massive clutter, but exquisite clutter.

      I took my time inspecting the room. Aunt Carlotta, I knew, wouldn’t mind my exploring. I wondered about servants. Surely Carlotta didn’t keep up this magnificent place all by herself. It was much too large, and by the look of it, was cared for quite regularly. Everything seemed in its proper place. Even the fabric swatches were neatly stacked.

      I half-expected a note or message of some kind but I saw none. I crossed the foyer. There I found the living room, which far outshone the lair. Unlike the lair, the living room was exclusively Spanish—Portuguese, I corrected. In spite of its massive furniture, it exuded warmth and intimacy. A huge fireplace dominated one wall. Twin sofas upholstered in an elaborate but tasteful brocade flanked the hearth. It was somehow masculine, yet delicately feminine. It was like Carlotta herself—a paradox, a lovely paradox.

      When I turned I saw the note propped on the refectory table just inside the door. Towering above the slip of paper was a handsome porcelain vase holding a huge spray of yellow flowers.

      Jen, Make yourself at home. Sorry I couldn’t meet you but I asked Philip Alenquer to pick you up. Isn’t he a love? I should be back from Paris around six. Philip will see that you’re entertained, I’m sure.

      Love, C.

      “Philip?” I said aloud to the empty room. The man who met me said his name was Neil. I frowned. I scanned the note again. “Philip Alenquer.” Carlotta had written it quite clearly despite the hasty scrawl of the other words. And I absolutely could not agree that he was a “love” as Carlotta had written. Something got mixed up along the way, I decided, as I folded the note and tossed it into the waste-basket.

      I shrugged my shoulders. Carlotta would straighten it all out when she got here. Six o’clock, she’d said. I glanced at my watch. It was only a little after three.

      The time suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day. I’d take Carlotta at her word. Make yourself at home, she’d said. My hunger convinced me that I would do just that. I went in search of a kitchen.

      I went through a lovely formal dining room, through a serving pantry and finally into a large kitchen, very modern and equipped with the latest conveniences. It was spotless and the refrigerator was virtually bursting with all sorts of good things to eat.

      I slipped out of my suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of my blouse and went to work. It took a while to search out everything—bread, seasonings, dishes, napkin—and by the time I’d fixed myself an omelet and toast, made the coffee and set a place in the breakfast nook, I was truly ravenous.

      As I sat relishing my meal, I noticed another terrace just beyond the window—at the back of the villa. It was white with a pink balustrade and overlooked the ocean from the cliff on which it was perched. At one end was a long flight of wooden steps leading down to a private beach.

      One look at the terrace told me how I would spend the afternoon. The sun was hot and inviting. I could afford some exposure to the sun. My skin was far too pale compared with the dark-skinned natives of Portugal. And there was that book I hadn’t glanced at once on the flight over.

      I finished eating, rinsed the dishes and put away all evidence of my culinary efforts. I felt better. My body ached less, my step was a bit springier as I walked back into the foyer and picked up my small overnight case.

      Upstairs I found three bedrooms. The one with the study/sitting room was obviously Carlotta’s. The one adjoining I took to be mine because there were flowers and a bowl of fruit on a low table.

      I intended to don a swim suit and get some sun, but I remembered that my suit was in the large bag and I didn’t feel much like going back downstairs and lugging it up right now. Instead, feeling a bit daring, I slipped into a shorty nightdress and made my way down to the rear terrace, uttering a silent prayer that no one would discover me in my slightly scandalous attire.

      The sun was as warm and wonderful as I had imagined it. Far below me the waters of the Atlantic lapped and soothed the shore. I was tempted to climb down the wooden steps to the beach, but considering my apparel, thought better of it.

      I pulled a chaise into the direct