They Gave Me a Monthly Allowance, So I Took Back My Building novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Casa Bellandi

Her father's carvings are being thrown out of the hill house under a new club sign; a neighbor carries them away and offers her a cottage, and her lawyer says the headquarters building is hers.

I took a taxi up to the hill house.

My father had bought it before any of the other vineyards.

It sat halfway up the ridge, with an olive tree in the courtyard.

I drank my coffee under that tree every spring.

Two trucks blocked the gate.

The old wooden gate lay in pieces on the gravel. A new sign had been bolted to the stone post.

DONATA PRIVATE CLUB.

I paid the driver and got out.

Workers were carrying boxes down the front steps. Nobody had wrapped anything.

Two of them lifted a crate of my father's carved wooden animals.

The hand-painted cups I used every spring sat loose on top.

A carved horse slid off the pile and hit the stone.

The leg snapped.

"Put that down," I said. "Both of you."

They stopped and looked toward the fountain.

Ruggero stood there with a roll of plans under his arm. His car was parked beside the steps.

"Everything old goes to the dump behind the barn," he told the foreman.

Then he saw me.

"Cat. What are you doing here?"

I picked up the horse and its broken leg.

"I came home. Who told you to throw my things away?"

"We're renovating. The old furniture doesn't suit the design."

He tapped the plans against his hand.

"Donata wants a private club for buyers. A house this size shouldn't sit empty fifty weeks a year."

"You didn't think to tell me."

He shrugged. The crew had an opening, he said.

A drill started up inside.

Through the open door I could see the study curtains crumpled on the floor.

The paintings over the fireplace were gone.

Pale squares marked where they had hung.

"Stop the work," I told the foreman. "This is my house. I haven't approved any changes."

"They have a contract," Ruggero said. "Don't make it hard on these men."

The two workers were still holding the crate.

"Put it down," I said again.

Ruggero gave the foreman a short nod.

Then he lowered his voice.

"There's no reason to make a scene. Keep the old things in storage if you like. We've already arranged your housing."

He took a ring of keys from his pocket.

"A one-bedroom apartment in town, near the shops. Six months' rent is paid. You can move in today."

I didn't take them.

"Why do you get to decide where I live?"

"Someone has to make decisions. You can't hand us everything and then object to each one."

Workers had stopped to watch. He made no effort to be quiet.

"Donata has enough to worry about. Learning to look after yourself won't kill you."

I waited until he was done.

"The house and the land are in my name."

I kept my voice level.

"Running the wineries doesn't give you the right to turn my home into a club."

"We have authorization."

He pulled papers from his folder.

"A long-term lease and permission to alter the property. Signed yesterday afternoon. Your aunt approved them."

I read the first page. My name was on it as owner.

Below it was my aunt's signature, with the words "attorney-in-fact" printed after it.

"Did she know it meant making me leave?"

"She knew what the house would be used for."

"Did she know you'd throw out my things?"

He glanced at the crate.

"We can't ask her about every chair."

I photographed each page with my phone.

"You never withdrew her authority after you turned eighteen," Ruggero said. "Isn't it a little childish to object now?"

He set the apartment keys on the stone ledge beside me and walked back toward the fountain.

I left them where they lay.

A truck horn sounded from the road.

A black pickup had stopped behind the others, and a man stood at its open door.

He crossed the gravel to me without hurrying.

He was tall and wore a canvas work jacket, with grey coming in at his temples.

He looked at the horse in my hands, then at the crate, then at the house.

He looked at the house a little too long.

"Ottavio Ferri," he said. "My vines run along your east fence. Can I take that crate off your hands?"

I knew the name from the labels. Ferri Vineyards, two hundred acres on the next ridge.

"I don't have anywhere to put it."

"I have a dry barn and nobody in it."

He took the crate from the two workers himself and carried it to his truck.

He set it down gently in the bed and came back for the cups.

I held out the horse. The leg was in two pieces.

"My father carved this."

He took the pieces from me and fitted them together. The break was clean.

A pale scar ran across the heel of his palm.

He held the leg in place with his thumb.

I pressed my fingers over his to keep it steady.

His hand was warm.

Neither of us moved for a moment.

"Glue will fix it," he said.

"I know."

I took my hand away.

"I need somewhere to stay tonight," I said. "Not the apartment."

"There's a cottage behind my house. Two rooms. It's yours as long as you want it."

"I'll take the roof," I said. "Nothing else."

"The roof is all I'm offering."

I looked at the keys on the ledge, and I climbed into his truck.

My phone rang before we reached the road.

It was my lawyer.

"Caterina, I found something else. The headquarters building is still yours personally."

"And the company?"

"It uses the executive floor under a license, and you can cancel that with written notice."

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