“Mrs.

Varela is expecting you.”

The thirty-two guests walked through the gate in a tight, silent group, their leather shoes crunching softly on the stone flags of the inner courtyard.

In the middle of the courtyard stood a three-tiered carved stone fountain, throwing clear water ten feet into the cool mountain air.

Beyond the fountain stood the main villa, built of solid cream quarry stone with double clay tile roofs and wide arches carved from local pine.

I walked slowly down the stone front steps of the villa in an elegant burgundy dress that fell past my knees.