CHAPTER NINE

Villa Lachowski

Positano, Italy

Lucie closed her eyes and savored the mist from the waves against her face as the boat sped along. She had a sudden, vivid flashback to the times her father took her sailing in his catboat. They would drive down to the little dock on a hidden inlet off Springy Banks Road and sail out of Three Mile Harbor into Gardiners Bay, and Lucie would sit at the bow, holding tight on to the leather strap nailed into the deck like he taught her to. Out on the bay, rogue waves would crash against the bow, splashing her all over, but she would laugh and laugh, just like her father did.

Her father was always happiest on the water, and he would bound barefoot along the edge of the wooden boat like the nimblest acrobat, expertly maneuvering the sail and the rudder, always in those scuffed chinos and his faded orange anorak. Lucie wondered whatever happened to that anorak. Was it still hanging in the closet in the mudroom at East Hampton? She would have to look for it when she was back. As they rounded the bay, the village of Positano came into view, rising into the cloudless blue sky like an apparition. Lucie stared up in awe at the gleaming white buildings hugging a vertiginous cliff like an enchanted wonderland straight out of a Tolkien novel. No wonder everyone called it the jewel of the Amalfi Coast.

Beyond Positano’s crescent beach, the Villa Lachowski commanded its own rocky promontory, and Mordecai’s boat was the first to arrive at the villa’s private dock. A cluster of men in topaz-blue polo shirts and crisp white shorts stood ready to assist the arriving guests, and the Sultanah was the first to climb out of the Goldfish, giggling like a schoolgirl. “That was amazing! I haven’t had this much fun since I went with my granddaughter to Burning Man!”

“I’m g-g-glad you enjoyed that, Your Ma-Majesty,” Mordecai stammered as he wobbled out of the boat, trying to steady himself on dry land.

“What a beautiful day for a boat ride! Did we lose the others?” the Sultanah wondered.

“I think the others took the scenic, arrive-alive route,” Charlotte remarked, looking rather green herself.

Soon, the second Goldfish could be seen approaching at a leisurely speed from around the cove, and its passengers alighted on the dock looking more relaxed and far less windblown than the early arrivals. Mordecai did a quick head count of his flock, genuinely relieved that the whippet-thin Ortiz sisters hadn’t been blown off-deck.

“Excellent, excellent, we’ve all made it here in one piece, more or less. Now, if everyone’s ready, we shall be received by Tom and Geraldine Murphy, the owners of this magnificent villa,” Mordecai said, as a tall gentleman dressed entirely in black came strolling down the dock toward them.

“That’s the estate manager,” Mordecai told everyone. “Ah, Stephane! Comment allez vous? Are Tom and Gerri up at the villa?” Mordecai was a bit perplexed that his friends hadn’t appeared at the dock to greet their royal guest.

“Monsieur Murphy is in London, and Madame Murphy sends her regrets. She was called away to Sardinia on urgent business this morning,” replied Stephane with a courtly bow.

“What a pity! Sardinia—she must have taken the yacht then?” Mordecai inquired.

“No, she took the Wally.”

Mordecai looked puzzled. “So … why didn’t you send us the yacht?”

“Monsieur le Baron, you insisted that your group had to be picked up at eleven fifteen sharp and back in Capri by three p.m. The Goldfish was the quickest way to get you all here. The yacht would have taken an hour each way,” Stephane patiently explained, clearly accustomed to his persnickety guest.

“Brilliant move, Mordecai,” Olivia remarked.

Ignoring her, Mordecai silently cursed himself for insisting on the time restriction. They missed their opportunity on the yacht, and now they would miss seeing the main salon, where there was a fabulous framed photograph of him posing with Geraldine Murphy and Princess Diana that he was dying for the group to stumble upon.

“Now, I have to go into town, but Allegra is ready to give your party the tour,” Stephane offered.

“That won’t be necessary—I can lead the tour. After all, I know this place like the back of my hand,” Mordecai declared, feeling a bit more himself again. He led the group to the staircase carved out of the rocky side of the cliff, and they began the leisurely climb up. The property consisted of six pristine white villas situated on a series of spectacular terraces that cascaded down to the sea, and each terrace was a distinct wonderland devoted to the indulgent whims of its privileged owners.

On the first terrace, they encountered a manicured lawn where a row of four-poster Balinese beds faced the sea, with white linen canopies artfully draped above each bed.

“This is where Geraldine gets her shiatsu massage every afternoon,” Mordecai noted. “The lower level of this villa is a state-of-the-art spa where the Murphys maintain a battalion of therapists.”

“Their personal Aman resort!” Charlotte commented.

Paloma Ortiz shook her head in dismay. “I look at those sun beds and all I can think of is melanoma.”

Arriving at the next terrace above, the group passed a magnificent koi pond that meandered along the curves of the cliff. Water lilies floated on the surface, while hundreds of exotic carp undulated hypnotically in the waters below.

“These are Tom’s prized koi. He has a full-time marine biologist who makes sure that these koi are fat and healthy. See the white-and-orange one over there with the head that looks like a deformed tangerine? A representative for the imperial family of Japan offered the Murphys $1.5 million for that fish,” Mordecai proudly announced.

“I sure hope it doesn’t get picked off by a seagull,” Olivia commented.

The Sultanah peered down at the fish, looking unimpressed. “My grandfather loved koi and kept them in gigantic urns back at the old palace, but I prefer golden arowanas.”

Undeterred by the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for the decorative koi, Mordecai stood on the steps in front of a pair of massive carved bronze doors, cleared his throat, and raised his voice: “Your Majesty, ladies, and gentlemen, we are about to enter one of the greatest houses on the Mediterranean coast still remaining in private hands. In fact, it can be argued that along with La Leopolda in Villefranche-sur-Mer, once the residence of my dear friend Lily Safra, and the Château de l’Horizon in Vallarius, once owned by Prince Aly Khan, who was a dear friend of my father’s, Villa Lachowski is arguably the finest historic waterfront villa in the world. The original structure was built in 1928 by a local family, and it was far more modest—a beach bungalow, really. But when the legendary director Francesco Lachowski acquired it in 1957, he greatly expanded the property. With his discerning eye and access to some of the finest artisans working on his film productions, he was able to create his private Xanadu here.”

“Didn’t Graham Greene stay here?” Auden asked.

“Yes, the villa is indeed famous because some of the most legendary people visited—Greene, Callas, Nureyev, von Karajan, they were all guests here.”

Olivia murmured into Charlotte’s ear, “I wish we had some tequila. We could take a shot every time Mordecai says the word ‘legendary.’”