The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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they’d have been stunned. Rio D’Aquila, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and work boots? Rio D’Aquila, standing in a trench and shoveling dirt?
Impossible.
But Rio had dug ditches before, not that anyone in his world knew it. And though he sure as hell hadn’t expected to be doing any digging today, it was better than standing around and getting more ticked off by the minute.
Especially when, until a couple of hours ago, he’d had a damned good day.
He’d flown in early, piloting his own plane to the small airport at Easthampton where he’d picked up the black Chevy Silverado his property manager had left for him. Then he’d driven the short distance to Southampton.
The town was small, picturesque and quiet early on a Friday morning. Rio had parked, gone into a small café where he’d had breakfast with the guy who was putting in the infinity pool at the house he’d recently had built. The pool would extend over the dunes from the second floor terrace, and they’d talked about its size and the view he’d have. The conversation had been pleasant, almost as pleasant as being able to sit in a restaurant without being the unwilling center of attention.
That was part of the reason he’d decided to build a weekend home here, on six outrageously expensive acres of land that overlooked the ocean.
For the most part—and there were always exceptions to the rule, of course—nobody bothered celebrities in these small eastern Long Island villages. And Rio, God help him, was a celebrity, according to the crazy media.
Here, he could be himself. Have a meal. Take a walk. It was like an unwritten code. Build here, become, for the most part, invisible.
For a man who sometimes had to travel with a phalanx of bodyguards or with a limo crawling along at the curb so he could duck into it, fast, and be whisked away, it was a minor miracle.
So Rio had enjoyed his bacon and eggs, strolled the streets for a while, even checked the hardware store as if he really were going to need to buy hammers and saws.
In fact, there’d been a time he’d owned such tools and used them to earn his daily bread. A little wistfully, he thought about maybe putting in some shelves in his new house, if he could find a place in it that needed them. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that working with your hands gave you special moral status but there was something to be said about leading a simpler life.
At midmorning, he met with the security specialist who’d installed an ultrasophisticated system in and around the house. They sat at a table on the flagstone patio of a little ice cream shop, the sun blocked by a big blue umbrella.
Rio tried to remember the last time he’d had a strawberry ice cream sundae and couldn’t.
He felt … what? Lazy. Content. He almost had to force himself to pay attention to the conversation.
There was a malfunction of the security system at the gate. The intercom wasn’t working right. His caretaker had told him voices coming over the intercom were almost indecipherably drowned in static, and the gate’s locking mechanism didn’t always work.
The area was pleasant, there was nothing but a discreet plaque on the gate that said Eagle’s Nest, but Rio wasn’t a fool. A man like him needed security.
“Not to worry,” the security guy assured him. “I’ll come out Monday morning and deal with it, first thing.”
At noon, Rio had driven to his house. The long driveway had not yet been finished and the tires bounced along over small stones and deep ruts but nothing could dim the pleasure he already took in the place.
The house was just as he’d wanted it. Light wood. Lots of glass. It would be his retreat from the dog-eat-dog world he inhabited 24/7.
The guy he’d hired as his contractor was waiting. They had some things to discuss, nothing major, and then, together, they’d interview three applicants for the job of landscaping the rear terrace and two decks.
No. Not three applicants. Four. Damned if he didn’t keep forgetting that. Rio had some definite ideas about what he wanted. Whomever he hired would have to understand that he’d be an active participant in the plans he drew up, just as he’d been an active participant in the design of the house.
The caretaker was there, too, but just leaving. He told Rio he’d taken the liberty of filling the freezer and fridge with a few things.
“Breakfast stuff. You know, eggs, bacon, bread. And steaks, some local corn and tomatoes, even a couple of bottles of wine. Just in case you decide to spend the night.”
Rio thanked him, though he had no plans to spend the night. As it was, he’d canceled a couple of meetings so he could get here but it had turned out to be the only chance for all three landscaping candidates to show up for interviews on the same day.
Four. Four candidates. How come he couldn’t keep that in his head?
Probably because he wasn’t hot on interviewing that fourth one, he thought, and gave a mental sigh. It was never a good idea to mix friendship and business, but when one of your pals asked you to at least talk to his cousin or uncle, or whatever in hell somebody named Izzy Orsini was to Dante Orsini, well, you bent the rules and did it.
After a few minutes, Rio took a picnic hamper from the Silverado’s cab. His housekeeper in Manhattan had packed lunch at his request. It turned out to be an elegant one. Thinly sliced cold roast beef on French baguettes, a chunk of properly aged Vermont cheddar, a bottle of chilled prosecco, fresh strawberries and tiny butter pastries.
Plus, of course, linen napkins, stemware and china mugs.
Rio and the contractor grinned at each other. They were both wearing jeans, sitting on a pair of overturned buckets on the unfinished terrace, their meal arranged on a plank laid over a sawhorse.
Cold beer and a couple of ham and cheese on rye might have been more in keeping with things, but the lunch was good and they finished every mouthful.
The landscapers started arriving not long after that. They showed up one at a time, exactly as scheduled, Rio buzzing them in through the gate, which seemed to be working perfectly. They were local men, each efficient and businesslike and politely eager to win what would be a substantial contract.
All of them came equipped with glossy folders filled with computerized designs, suggested layouts, sketches, photos of prior projects and spreadsheets of mind-numbing detail.
Each listened carefully as Rio explained what they already knew. He wanted the perimeter of the terrace planted in as natural a manner as possible. The decks, as well. Greenery. Shrubs. Flowers, maybe. Or flowering shrubs. Rio was willing to admit what he knew about gardening could fit into a teaspoon with room left over, but he made it clear that he knew the overall effect he was going for.
“What I want,” he told each applicant, “is to have the terrace seem to flow out of the fields behind the house. Does that make sense to you?”
Each man nodded earnestly; each roughed out some quick ideas on a sketchpad and though none of the sketches had been exactly what Rio intended, he’d known instantly that he could choose any of the three guys and, ultimately, be satisfied.
Three excellent landscapers.
But, of course, there was a fourth.
The contractor said he understood. A friend of a friend. He knew how that was. The friend of a friend was late but the two men settled in to wait.
And wait.
After a while, Rio frowned.
“The guy should know better than to be late,” he said.
The contractor agreed. “Maybe he had a flat. Or something.”
“Or something,” Rio said.
Another ten minutes went by. Damnit, Rio thought, if only he hadn’t gone to that party, he wouldn’t be waiting to interview another landscaper at all.
The