Sicilian Spring

By Dave Wilcox

When writer Roger Culberson consents to tour Sicily and create a travel guide for a tour company, he believes it is his last opportunity to recover his life. With the tragic death of his wife, he is lost in guilt and remorse.
In the ancient mountain village of Amida, Sicily, he encounters Angelina Molintorie, a teacher half his age. A fire is lit that engulfs them but the moment is fleeting since Roger must move on.
Fatefully they meet again. He learns she is the daughter of a once powerful Aristocrat and is engaged, through a traditional wedding contract, to Gino Aiellio, the son of the local Mafia leader.
In defiance of tradition, her family and Ginos objection, Angelina agrees to assist Roger by doing research on the sites to be included in Rogers travel guide. With that decision the harmonious existence of the village is interrupted, and Ginos ambition to follow in his fathers footsteps and his marriage to Angelina is threatened.
As the relationship develops, their families attempt to dissuade them and Ginos jealousy turns into vengeance to recover his honor. At the same time Gino begins a plan to obtain control of his fathers Mafia Family, and to also fight the Mafia Commission in Palermo. Rogers intrusion into their lives results in betrayal, violence and murder.
Gino threatens Angelina with Rogers death if she does not honor their marriage arrangement. Fearful for Rogers life Angelina ends the relationship without any explanation to Roger and a wedding date is set to marry Gino. Roger, back in America, recovers his career. And though time passes, he doesnt give up hope of hearing from Angelina. His patience is rewarded. In a daring undertaking he attempts to rescue Angelina from the Mafias grasp and, in so doing, initiates the final confrontation with Gino.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452091761

Dave Wilcox

David Wilcox is a retired banker, author, and travel writer. He has traveled extensively, and his travel articles are published locally. In Sicilian Spring, his second novel, he melds a stirring love story into a travelogue and suspense/thriller. Set primarily in Sicily he captures the beauty, contradictions, tragedy, and historic strength of its people and presents the role and influence of the Cosa Nostra.  The story deals with the conflict of culture.             Dave is a graduate of Ohio University and majored in Government. He presently resides in Fort Myers Beach, Florida.

Book preview

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

SIXTY-FIVE

SIXTY-SIX

SIXTY-SEVEN

SIXTY-EIGHT

SIXTY-NINE

SEVENTY

SEVENTY-ONE

SEVENTY-TWO

SEVENTY-THREE

SEVENTY-FOUR

SEVENTY-FIVE

SEVENTY-SIX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To Cindy

May the wind fill your sails

May the sea remain calm

May your boat never fail

May the sun keep you warm

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For tackling the first draft I wish to thank Steve and Jackie Schwinn, Cathy Calloway, Barb Quigg, and Kevin Wilcox. Most of their suggestions are included in the final manuscript.

Especially helpful in providing criticism and encouragement were the Fort Myers Beach Library Writers Group and the Green Valley Writers.

I want to express my appreciation to my editor, Michael Garrett, not only for his professionalism and editing, but also for his instruction which greatly improved my knowledge and my writing.

My wife, Mary, bore the brunt of this work through eight complete revisions in which she was critic, editor, and motivator. It was she who challenged me to write a love story and then inspired me to keep at it until it was complete.

ONE

Country music blasted from the bar when Jim Bob Whitney opened the door. Silhouetted by the interior light that washed onto the parking lot, he swayed uncertainly and grasped a railing. A baseball cap was low over his eyes, workman’s boots, smudged blue jeans, and a grimy red tee shirt comprised his ensemble.

The humid southwestern Florida air slapped him in the face like a damp bar towel, and he shook his head as though trying to get his bearings. In the middle of the parking lot his new Ford F-350 pick-up truck rested impatiently.

Jim Bob and his construction crew celebrated Friday evenings by drowning their week in beer at Shorty’s Bar and Grill. Like an inebriated miniature army his crew staggered after him into the parking lot to admire the truck and witness his departure.

I named her Big Mama. I’m going to put the name right there on the sides, just under the Whitney Construction Company sign, Jim Bob said, slurring his words. His usual swagger was infused with unsteadiness, and the odor of stale beer conflicted with the freshness of the sea breeze.

Fatefully, he climbed into the cab, honked the horn, and waved out the window while burning rubber and sped into the night. The sound of the pipes pierced the stillness before fading into the distance.

Jim Bob relished the rumble of the motor, the smell of the leather seats, and the easy way she handled. Perched above lesser vehicles, he felt powerful.

For several miles he exceeded the speed limit before slowing to cross the draw bridge over Estero Pass, where water from the Gulf of Mexico squeezed into the bay. When the road straightened, he pressed the accelerator and tried to stay in his lane. As he sped toward Naples, a blind curve was half a mile ahead, followed by a narrow bridge.

After careening around the curve, the truck left the road when it crested the incline onto the bridge. The thrill of being airborne was interrupted by a sobering moment of panic as the lights from an oncoming Mercedes blinded him.

In the Mercedes were Judith Culberson, and Joan and Charles Thompson. Judith’s husband, Roger, was not with them because at the last minute, he had to cover an important meeting. It was their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration, and the Thompson’s had invited them to a concert in Naples.

Judith had elected to join them without Roger. She was upset with him for accepting the assignment. Their evening had been planned months ago.

They were returning to Fort Myers Beach, and she expected to meet him later at an intimate hang-out where they’d enjoy a cocktail. Already she was thinking of how she’d describe the concert.

Beyond the bend on the other side of the bridge the meandering lights of a rapidly approaching vehicle pierced the night sky with the intensity of a wild animal searching for prey. Judith felt the Mercedes slow, and noticed Charles cautiously maneuver toward the right edge as they entered the narrow bridge. Roger would have enjoyed the concert, she thought. Mozart was his favorite.

Suddenly, the truck was upon them. It was a behemoth, a roaring black monster suspended in mid-air.

Their screams were lost in the screech of brakes and the impact of steel and glass that shattered the innocent quiet like an unexpected crash of thunder on a tranquil evening.

The front of the truck smashed the hood, sheared off the roof, and forced the car backwards until the entwined vehicles finally came to rest. The ensuing silence was only interrupted by the gurgling tide swirling beneath the cluttered bridge.

The Mercedes was a mass of scrap metal. It took the jaws-of-life and a crane to untangle the wreckage. Body parts were collected and carted away.

Jim Bob Whitney was delivered to the emergency room. Big Mama spared his life.

TWO

After a year of mourning Roger Culberson, a respected journalist and travel writer, reluctantly agreed to meet with his best friend and agent, George Willets. His daughter Courtney had finally persuaded him to accept George’s calls and listen to what he proposed.

Since her death he had avoided people and spent most evenings wallowing in self-pity with a bottle of cabernet on his penthouse balcony. Maybe his daughter, Courtney, was correct to force him to try to get back his life, he thought. Maybe his old college pal was the elixir he needed. It was worth a try, for nothing else had worked.

Her death had destroyed his career and his life. One day he was on top of the world, his career blooming like a beautiful rose bursting from its bud. Through his writing and his advocacy, he had become the voice of southwest Florida’s movement to revitalize the Everglades. That was the reason he was not with her for their twenty-fifth anniversary.

George Willets, his agent and best friend, needed him to cover an important meeting in Fort Myers about Everglade revitalization that night. The sheriff found him there and informed him of the accident.

What a coincidence, he thought now. The son of the wealthy developer, who tossed around his influence to rape the Everglades, had killed his wife.

Meeting at the Beach Coffee House & Café on Fort Myers Beach was Roger’s preference. He knew Willets preferred the elegant country club in Naples with its snazzy restaurant and manicured golf course. That was too pompous for Roger. Although it was the middle of tourist season, the cafe’s informality provided a safe atmosphere to resume a neglected friendship.

When Judith was alive it was a place to be alone, sip cappuccino, and write. It occupied the first floor of a small two story building located at the busy end of Estero Boulevard.

In the courtyard were plastic tables, chairs, and two trees, one of which was an impressive banyan tree whose tendrils dripped from its branches like an unearthly creature.

Allison sat at a table with a pen and a legal pad. Except for a man seated at one of the computer stations inside, the place was deserted.

Allison was twenty-five and looked sixteen. She wore a black long sleeved blouse tucked into black pants, black sandals, and black finger nail and toenail polish. Her face was ghostly white and highlighted by black lipstick and black eye shadow.

Large circular earrings dangled from her ear lobes and small silver earrings swept up each ear. Her straight black hair was shoulder length. She looked like something from the hippy era of the nineteen seventies. Allison made the coffee and managed the café.

Roger was almost unrecognizable. He was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and his blue eyes were cloudy. He’d lost weight and appeared emaciated and older than his forty-eight years. Inches were gone from his six foot frame.

She looked at him suspiciously, apparently not recognizing him after a year absence. After a moment a smile spread across her face. Roger, she exclaimed and noisily pushed back her chair, bounded toward him, and gave him an engulfing hug.

Roger thought she fancied herself a fellow writer and soul mate. She’d sit with him and discuss writing when the café wasn’t busy.

I was so sorry to learn of Judy’s death, she said softly. On the few occasions when Judy had accompanied him, Allison paid more attention to her than to Roger.

We’ve missed you around here. I’ll bring you a double, on the house.

Thanks, he said. That’d be nice.

He selected a table and a wobbly wrought iron chair with a faded red cushion under the banyan tree. He wanted to absorb the atmosphere and fortify himself with a double shot of Allison’s brew before meeting Willets. The last time they met was Judith’s funeral. Everytime Willets had tried to contact him, Roger had ignored him. He didn’t know how Willets would react.

Allison placed a foaming cup on the table and retreated. He grasped it with both hands, felt its warmth, and savored the aroma. Splashes of sunshine flicked across his face as the banyan tree’s branches swayed in the sea breeze.

His mind drifted to times he’d spent with Judith under this tree, discussing an idea, making plans to travel abroad or visit their children in Cleveland. These thoughts seemed pointless without her. Nothing mattered anymore.

THREE

When they met Judith was a waitress at a restaurant called Skidmore’s on Court Street in Athens, Ohio, not far from the arched entrance to the Ohio University college green with its tall maple trees and surrounding buildings of Williamsburg architecture.

Skidmore’s had scruffy hard wood floors, fifteen tables, three booths along the rear wall, and a long counter with tattered revolving stools. The front windows were plastered with posters of athletic events, and announcements of various meetings of campus political activities and social causes. It smelled of coffee and hamburgers.

Each class day Roger visited Skidmore’s between morning classes, occupied the same seat in the same booth, ate a glazed doughnut, and consumed several cups of black coffee while he studied or scribbled an article for the school newspaper.

One fall morning when the leaves were glorious, he found his way to his booth and began studying for a test. This morning there was a new waitress. He was conscious of her presence but took no notice until he heard her voice.

What would you like this nice morning? It was a distinct, unhurried voice with a pleasing melody, a smile in it, and a slight southern Ohio accent.

He looked up and there was Judith, wearing a green polo shirt, jeans, and white tennis shoes. Her blond hair was in a pony tail, tied with a green ribbon that matched the color of her shirt and her eyes. She held an order pad in her left hand and a pencil in her right, and her lips where drawn into a broad smile. She wore only a minimum amount of makeup. There was no need for it, she was beautiful without it.

A black coffee and a glazed doughnut, please.

Coming right up, sir. No one had ever called him sir. She turned and walked behind the counter.

Roger was fascinated by how well her jeans fit. He watched as she poured the coffee into a large cup and took the largest glazed doughnut from the stack of them in a case. When she moved toward his booth, he looked away, too shy to make eye contact.

For a week he visited the restaurant at the sametime every day. Their conversation had added Hi but otherwise followed the same course as the first day. On the following Monday she was not there. By then he anticipated seeing her. The next day, when she was absent, he asked the cashier about it and was told she had a class change and didn’t work until three in the afternoon.

On Wednesday he went to Skidmore’s at three fifteen. She saw him enter and met him at the usual booth.

My name’s Judy.

I’m Roger.

Another week passed and when she brought his coffee and doughnut, she sat in the booth with him. He discovered she was a government major and hoped to go to law school. He told her his major was journalism.

I write for the campus newspaper, he said. I want to be an investigative reporter, and someday write a book.

For the next two weeks she sat with him when she wasn’t busy. On a chilly afternoon she found out he was going to the library after leaving the restaurant. After finishing work she found him there, and they studied together until late. He walked her to her residence. The next day he gave her a red rose.

Without much conversation on the subject, they became a couple as though that was the way it was intended to be; and several years later, after graduation, after they both had jobs in Cleveland, and they were ready and could afford it, they married. He couldn’t recall the first to mention it. It was understood. That was thirty years ago. He had never contemplated life without her.

Their marriage was magical. Judy believed it was fated. Some force had determined they should be together. She felt that way because everything they touched after they met turned out well, like something was directing them for a purpose they had yet to discover.

The only time they were separated was when he felt compelled by patriotism and duty to join the military. As in all things, he threw himself into it by joining the air borne and the green berets along with his fraternity brother George Willets. She accepted it. He was not a man to sit on the sidelines.

Though shy when they’d first met and never ostentatious, Roger nevertheless was a crusader. She admired him for it. Journalism and writing gave him a voice and a vehicle to become involved in causes he deemed worthy. George, a natural salesman, became his agent after Roger was able to leave the newspaper in Cleveland where he had learned his trade.

Operating out of the stable of independent writers that George had developed, enabled Roger to do what he wanted, up to a point. When George needed him to cover a news story for a national news agency, Roger complied. That’s how Roger developed his interest in the Everglades Restoration Project. And that’s where he was on the evening of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, much to Judy’s chagrin.

In addition to his crusading, Roger was a consummate world traveler. Judy traveled the world with him, finding those small romantic places sought by the traveling public. She provided unique insights of the things they observed. He wrote about them, and The Thompson Publishing Company printed his travel stories and a couple of travel books. Thompson suggested he try a novel. He was too busy, but the thought lingered. It was Charles Thomson who drove the Mercedes that night.

Roger could afford his independence. His father invested wisely, and when he died, shortly after the death of his mother, Roger received a substantial inheritance.

Judy pursued her own career. After graduating from Ohio University in government, she entered law school and graduated at the top of her class. She became a prosecutor in the District Attorney’s office in Cleveland that was dominated by men, and she found herself underutilized.

George Willets lived in Florida in Fort Myers and suggested there was opportunity for her. They moved to Fort Myers Beach. Both their careers and life seemed destined for perfection.

FOUR

A red Mercedes-Benz SL550 Roadster with the top down turned into the Café’s small parking lot and parked at the low wall that separated it from the courtyard. Roger waved to the bald driver.

George Willets’ shirt was as red as his car and hung over his belt. Beneath khaki shorts, two spindly legs appeared too delicate to support his weight.

With the flourish of a French chef, Allison created another cappuccino, while Roger and George hugged and patted each other’s back. When the brew was completed, she brought it to their table and gave it to George.

Slapping a folder on the table, he said, How do you tolerate this insane traffic? It took me half an hour to cross the bridge. A hot dog sized cigar jutted from the side of his mouth. It wobbled as he spoke. His right wrist displayed an eighteen karat gold bracelet. A Rolex adorned his left.

Gregarious with large deep set brown eyes that were rarely still, he had a salesman’s audacity and an unswerving loyalty to his friends, especially Roger.

Thanks for meeting with me, he said. For a few minutes they discussed their families. It was as though they had spoken yesterday. Roger relaxed. He needed to talk about Judy.

She had a premonition, you know, Roger began.

What was it?

You remember that anniversary trip you arranged for us in St. Lucia at that resort up in the mountains with those cabins with the views of the bay and the Caribbean?

Sure, it cost me a fortune. What was it your tenth, or fifteenth? I’ve always wanted to go there myself. Never got around to it. Never had the time. Not like you writers who have to go some place to get inspiration. I have to work you know. He chuckled and wiggled the cigar in his fingers. Its odor overwhelmed the smell of flowers and brewing coffee, drawing a glance and frown from Allison.

Roger ignored his friend. She told me she thought our relationship, our marriage, was too perfect to endure for long on this chaotic planet. Those were her exact words. She said that, if she died first, I must get over it and get on with a life without her, and that she’d always be with me no matter what.

They sat silently, watching traffic on Estero Blvd.

Finally, Roger continued. You know what else she said?

No.

She said that our love wouldn’t die when one of us dies. It’ll continue, only in a different way. Do you believe that, George?

For myself. . . No, No, I don’t. When Nancy left me, there was no love left. Your relationship was much stronger. I’ve admired that.

That premonition was ten years to the day of the accident. Roger was conflicted with whether life’s events were the result of fate or accident or of foreseeable consequences of behavior. His difficulty in dealing with Judith’s death was an inability to accept any of those alternatives. Her death seemed such an act of injustice that it made human life meaningless. It’s been hard to go on. You know what I’m saying?

I think so.

I’ve thought about it, you know. Roger was going to speak of it because he could no longer hold it back. He’d felt he’d lost control of his life, like a battery that’s discharged, lost its power, and tossed aside.

George squirmed. Thought about what? He appeared to be afraid of the answer. The conversation was unexpectedly personal, something that would have been impossible if they hadn’t been close friends.

Suicide! I wish I’d been with her that night. But I can’t even do that. I don’t know, I guess I’m a coward.

Willets straightened and held up his hand. Whoa there, brother! Don’t give me that coward stuff. You won a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. You jumped out of airplanes for Christ’s sake. Tough is a word others talk about. You live it.

George, I’m not courageous. It was a whisper.

Listen to me! You took on the Whitney Development Company. They think they control everything here. Maybe they do. But you’re a pain in their ass. Everyone else genuflects before them. Just don’t give me that crap. George thumped his hand on the table.

Roger slowly swirled the wooden stirrer in his cup. His hand shook as he brought the cup to his lips. The cappuccino was bitter, not as soothing as he’d expected. It matched the way he felt. I can’t imagine doing what she said about going on and all. I mean it’s not just like picking up the pieces. How do you do that; just carry on when your reason for living is gone?

Roger, no matter what, you must carry on. She expects you to. You said so yourself. You just can’t ignore your success and talents. That’s what you’d want her to do if it had been you in that car instead, right? I mean, you’d expect her to go on with her life, maybe find someone else, wouldn’t you?

I haven’t thought about it.

"Well, think about it.

They were quiet. The sound of the wind through the trees, and the bustle of tourists passing nearby were a display of life. He noticed. The coffee tasted and smelled better.

He knew George was right. She’d expect him to move on, to always remember her, and to love her. He should be grateful for the wonderful life they had together.

I passed where the Beach Restaurant used to be, continued George. That last hurricane was a humdinger. You can still see the damage, but everyone is rebuilding and putting their lives together. You know, Roger, you have to do the same. You’ve got to get on with it. You’ll soon be a grandfather. Jason and Courtney and their families need you. No one expects you to forget Judy, but you’ve got to get on with your life.

Roger finally agreed, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy.

I have a proposition to discuss if you’re ready, George said. Roger nodded. Are you familiar with Admiralty Vacation Tours?

Roger knew it was a large tour company that catered to older travelers. Willets explained they wanted a series of travel guides, starting with Sicily.

Willets opened the folder and spread the paperwork on the table. A brochure contained pictures of tourist sites, descriptions of hotels, and a short history of Sicily.

As Roger read the itinerary, the name of a town sparked his interest. In Corleone you’ll meet two young men who will tell you about the Sicilian Mafia. The characters in the Godfather movie came to mind. It’d be a treat to see the town made famous by the movie.

He saw pictures of mountains and blue water, a large cathedral, and Greek and Roman ruins.

Two pictures caught his imagination. One was the volcano, Mt. Etna. The second displayed children and an attractive young woman. The caption reported she was a teacher.

He recalled their trips to Italy, the romance of Venice, the grandeur of Rome, the intellectual artistry of Florence, and their romantic cliff top hotel in Positano.

Maybe he could write about Sicily and the Mafia. After all, you can’t have one without the other. Perhaps he’d find the inspiration to write the novel Charles Thompson had suggested.

He imagined himself in a mountain village. Its cobblestone streets,