by Liz Harris
Nick laughed. ‘Don’t you mean, where’s Howie-darling? That woman!’
This time, Clare didn’t attempt to hide her amusement. Stephen glanced across at her, and then looked down at the ground.
Jenny felt an increasing irritation with Nick. He was proving to be rather too full of himself, and getting more so with every passing minute. If he continued to poke fun at other members of the group in their absence, she’d have to take him to one side and tell him that it wasn’t appropriate. She didn’t like the idea of coming on at him in a teacherly sort of way, especially as he wasn’t much younger than she was, but there’d be no avoiding it.
As for the Nick and Clare thing, there was really nothing she could do about that at the moment. Much as she’d like to see a smile return to Stephen’s face, and much as she didn’t want Max to blame her for Stephen’s low mood, she couldn’t really do more than hope that Clare, who seemed very nice, would begin to get fed up with Nick’s behaviour and gradually gravitate towards Stephen.
Initially, she’d tarnished Stephen with the Castanien brush, but he was coming across as very sweet, and in all honesty he couldn’t be held responsible for something his father and uncle did when he was very young.
‘I’ve not seen them for a while, either, Stephen,’ she replied. ‘When we came out of the museum, they went back down the hill. They said that they were going to walk round the perimeter of the town and stop at the churches of each of the eight saints who were born here.’
‘Good grief,’ Nick exclaimed, exaggerated horror on his face. ‘Sooner them than me. What a boring way to spend a honeymoon.’
Stephen stared at him in open dislike. ‘So looking at what a town has to offer is boring for you, is it? Well, at least that explains why you suggested leaving the museum when you did. Mind you, you were ready to leave before we’d even gone into the place. Why come out this afternoon if you didn’t want to see anything? You might as well have stayed back at the house and gone swimming or read a book. Assuming you’re literate, that is.’
‘Ouch!’ Nick gave a wry laugh. ‘There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to trawl around church after church, is there? In fact, it’s perfectly normal. At our age, anyway. If exploring churches is your bag, Stephen, then you’re the oldest nineteen-year-old I’ve ever met.’ He turned to Clare. ‘I bet you’re no keener on a load of old stones than I am, are you, Clare?’
‘So where did the three of you go after you left the museum?’ Jenny cut in quickly.
She glanced at George Rayburn and was relieved to see that his head had fallen forward on his chest and he was fast asleep. It wouldn’t have been very enjoyable for him, listening to Nick and Stephen having a go at each other at every available opportunity.
‘We had a look around the place,’ Nick said. ‘Then we went to the internet café and e-mailed home. It’s just as well that there were instructions in English on the wall – the man in charge of the café didn’t know a word.’
‘I said they could use Uncle Max’s internet, but they didn’t want to.’
‘That was a kind offer, Stephen,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I think they were right to opt for the café. We must try not to disturb your uncle – the accommodation for the art course is totally separate from the main house. Ah, look. There’s Howard and Paula.’
They all glanced towards the piazza and saw the Andersons hurrying towards them, holding hands.
‘I can’t wait for the first marital tiff,’ Nick muttered under his breath. Clare giggled.
‘I do hope we haven’t kept you waiting,’ Paula simpered with an apologetic smile as they came up to the table. ‘Howie and I walked all the way around the outside of the town. It was wonderful, wasn’t it, Howie?’
‘Yes, it was. But it was hot work. We didn’t even stop for an ice cream,’ Howard added, exaggerated woe in his voice. ‘Would it be OK if we got one now, or are you all dying to get off?’
‘Go right ahead. There’s plenty of time,’ Jenny said. ‘The ice cream’s delicious. I can vouch for it. I had the vanilla.’
‘What about you, Clare? Would you like an ice cream?’ Stephen asked, standing up. ‘I’m going to get one.’
‘Ooh, yes, please; that sounds really nice. Strawberry, if they’ve got it. If not, I’ll have the vanilla, like Jenny.’
‘I think I’ll have one, too.’ Nick got to his feet.
Paula started to lead the way to the door of the café, but then suddenly stopped. ‘Silly me,’ she said with a giggle. ‘I don’t know the Italian for ice cream. What is it, Jenny? Howie and I don’t know a single word of Italian.’
‘I should just stick to gelato, which means ice cream, and per favore, which means please. That should do the trick,’ she laughed. ‘Stephen, you’ll need fragola, strawberry, or you can just point at whatever’s pink.’
‘OK, then. Off I go. Be prepared for anything, Clare.’ Stephen grinned.
Clare smiled warmly up at him. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll hit the spot.’
Chorusing gelato and per favore, they went into the shop, leaving George, his eyes still closed, Clare and Jenny outside.
Clare jumped up. ‘You know, I think I’ll go after them. This could be quite amusing.’ And she followed the others into the café.
George Rayburn stirred, opened his eyes and looked around him.
‘They’ve gone for an ice cream, Mr Rayburn. Are you tempted to join them? It’s a hot afternoon.’
‘I am not, dear lady. The pleasure of the wine that I tasted is still with me, and I have no wish to corrupt it.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s not the easiest of situations, I fear.’
She stared at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Two men and one young lady. The mathematics don’t really work, do they?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’
He lightly tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘It seemed the easiest thing to do. You didn’t want to be worrying about what I might be thinking.’
She coloured slightly. ‘That was very considerate of you, Mr Rayburn. Thank you. And you’re right – I was relieved when I thought that you were asleep. I’m going to have to stamp on the situation before it goes any further, but it won’t be easy. To be honest, I’ve no idea what to do.’
‘I fear that Nick’s a very determined young man, who’s not used to heeding the advice of others. But Clare seems a sensible young lady. It wouldn’t surprise me if she soon finds our Nick a little too abrasive for her taste. We can but hope so.’
‘You’re very observant, Mr Rayburn.’ She smiled at him. ‘In fact, you’re quite the dark horse, aren’t you?’
‘Advanced years do bring with them some advantages, albeit not that many. You, on the other hand, are very young for such a responsibility. There isn’t much that I haven’t seen, dear lady, and if I can be of any help at all, at any time, you mustn’t hesitate to call upon me.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Rayburn. That’s a very kind offer. I hope I don’t have to take advantage of it, though.’
‘As I say, I think you’ll find that Clare will solve the problem for you. She seems a perceptive young woman. But my offer will remain on the table. I believe that’s the expression.’
There was a noise in the doorway, and Howard and Paula came out with vanilla ice creams, closely followed by Clare, who held a strawberry cornet. Jenny saw that Stephen had bought the same flavour for himself.
‘I see you remembered fragola,’ she told him, laughing. ‘And not once, but twice.’
He smiled shyly, glancing at Clare out of the corner of his eye.
She beamed back at him, and his smile widened.
They decided that they would eat their ice creams whilst they walked slowly back to the minibus, and they set off across the piazza with Jenny and George leading the way, and Howard and Paula bringing up the rear.
Halfway down the hill, Clare suddenly called out to the group to stop, as the Andersons weren’t behind them a
ny longer. They all turned round and looked back
Paula and Howard were standing outside the car hire office, next to a pale grey van that was parked up against the wall of the narrow lane. A man in mechanic’s overalls was talking to them. Whatever he was saying, Paula didn’t look too happy about it, but she glanced at Howard and then nodded agreement. The man spoke again, pointed to the van, made a frustrated gesture and went back into the office.
‘That’s strange,’ Clare said in surprise. ‘Didn’t Paula say she doesn’t speak Italian? She clearly understood what that man was saying. How could she, if she doesn’t even know enough Italian to ask for an ice cream? Bit of a weird thing to lie about.’
‘We must be mistaken,’ Nick said, and started walking down the hill again. ‘No one would say they couldn’t speak Italian if they could. There’d be no reason to lie about it. In fact, they’re more likely to say that they can speak the lingo when they can’t, rather than the other way round.’
‘Could you hear what they were saying?’ Stephen asked.
‘Not really. We were too far away,’ Clare replied.
‘Well, that’s it, then.’ Nick smiled in triumph. ‘The computer instructions were in English, weren’t they? And so were the details on the wall outside the car hire office. We know the man in the internet café doesn’t speak English, so I bet it’s the car hire man who does.’
Stephen nodded in agreement. ‘What Nick says makes sense, Clare.’
Clare’s face cleared. ‘You’re right, it does.’
A moment later, Paula came clattering behind them on the cobblestones.
Chapter Five
Jenny lingered beneath a mulberry tree at the side of the terrace and watched them.
Max was standing at the edge of the terrace, looking cool and relaxed in well-cut chinos and a pale grey open-necked shirt. He had a glass in his hand and was staring out at the garden. Stephen hovered at his side, clearly restless, his back to the view, his eyes riveted to the patio doors. Every so often, Max looked around at Stephen and said something to him. Each time, though, he had to nudge Stephen and repeat himself before Stephen was able to answer him.
It was pretty clear what Stephen was thinking about.
But it wasn’t so easy to know what went on inside his uncle’s mind, she thought.
Max came across as open and uncomplicated, but no matter how genuine he seemed, it must all be a veneer. Unfortunately for her, it was a veneer that seemed to be firmly in place. From the small amount she’d seen of him, she knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to discover what lurked beneath the easy charm.
And she didn’t have unlimited time, which made it all the more difficult.
As far as she knew, he was only going to be joining them in the evenings. It was true that when the end of the week arrived, all the members of the class would go home and she’d be alone for the rest of the summer, doing the paintings that he wanted, but he might decide to leave for England soon after the others. If he did, she wouldn’t have had sufficient time to find out why he and his brother had behaved so cruelly towards her father, and that meant the part that they’d played in his death could forever remain a mystery.
Of course, she might always have another chance the following summer, but there was no guarantee that Max would want to see art classes there again, much as he might think now that he would. And even if he did, there was no certainty he’d ask her to run them for him.
If he did … the thought of waiting another whole year before she could try to find out the truth … well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
She’d have to take advantage of every opportunity she was offered, no matter how slight, to encourage him to stay on in Italy for at least some of the time that she’d be there on her own. If he did so, she’d see him occasionally and she’d have to make the most of that time.
They’d probably not get much beyond exchanging platitudes and discussing her drawings. There wasn’t enough time to build more of a friendship than that, but exchanging platitudes would be better than nothing, and might just lead to something more. It was vital that she worked on their friendship in the few evenings that they had together that week, and she couldn’t afford to waste a single precious minute.
The patio doors suddenly swung open and Clare came through them, wearing a short yellow cotton dress, her hair a mass of lustrous red curls that gleamed in the light. Nick followed closely behind her.
Stephen made a beeline for Clare. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, positioning himself in front of her.
‘Ooh, yes, please.’
He went over to the table at the side of the terrace, where several bottles of Prosecco lay on a bed of ice alongside a glass jug of peach purée, picked up one of the bottles and opened it. When he’d finished mixing two Bellinis, he carried one of the drinks carefully across to Clare.
Jenny moved swiftly to the table and helped herself to the other drink. Raising her glass to Stephen, she laughingly thanked him as she hurried across the terrace to Max’s side.
Max glanced down at her, smiled briefly, then looked back at the view. She followed his gaze across the spotlit garden to the feathery tips of the olive trees, their fragile leaves a deepening grey in the fading light of the day.
‘This is truly an artist’s paradise, Max. The view from up here is inspirational.’
‘It is, isn’t it? It looks different in every light, but with the sun setting over the plain, this is a particularly beautiful time of day. It’s my favourite, in fact.’
‘I think it’s mine, too,’ she said. ‘It’s so calm. But a place like this always holds something for an artist, no matter the time.’
‘You’re absolutely right about that. I don’t remember if I told you in London, but I collect paintings in a small way – nothing terribly grand – and whilst I obviously enjoy looking at my pictures, nothing surpasses the pleasure I get from a view like this. There’s always something new to be discovered.’
‘I’m guessing that there’s a connection between your fondness for your art collection and the fact that you’ve set up the courses here.’
‘I’m sure that’s true, but it also owes a lot to my total lack of artistic skill. I really admire anyone who can paint – perhaps because I’m so useless at it myself – and if I can do anything at all to help those interested in art to improve, then so be it.’
Jenny gave him a sly smile. ‘And of course, it’s nothing to do with the profitable use of pre-existing facilities.’
Max laughed. ‘Well, maybe just a little bit. I am a businessman, after all. But it’s a bit of a worry, you being able to read me like a book,’ he added in amusement.
‘Perhaps “like a painting” would be a better comparison in the circumstances,’ she said with a smile. She tore her eyes away from his face, and forced them back to the view ahead of her. ‘Whatever the reason, it’s a wonderful place to have an art course and I’m glad that you decided to go down this path.’
‘Me, too. But you wouldn’t believe how many people were against it.’
‘Against it?’ She turned to him in surprise. ‘Why on earth would they be against it? It’s a brilliant idea.’
‘You should put on cookery courses, I was told by anyone I mentioned my plans to. It’s the in thing. But imagine being indoors all day, tied to a hot stove, peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, when there’s all this going on in the world outside.’ He gestured to the garden. ‘Nope, I told them, it’s got to be art classes.’
Who had he discussed his plans with, she wondered and took a sip of her drink. She was pretty sure he wasn’t married. There hadn’t been any mention of a wife in the articles she’d read online. But there could be a girlfriend back in England, and, thinking about it, there probably was. The fact that he ran a successful company and had property abroad was more than enough to make him highly eligible.
She glanced up at his strong profile, and a sudden heat rushed to her face.
And so was the
fact that he was very, very good-looking. Even if he didn’t have a single penny to his name, he would still have been in great demand.
But not by her. Even if she wanted to fall for him, her feelings about what had happened to her father would stop that happening.
Also, she was in danger of assuming that because she found him so attractive, he might want something more from her, too. But there was no reason to think that just because he’d offered her a job he’d start to look at her in a romantic way. And if he didn’t, it’d be so much easier for her to keep her focus.
A thought suddenly hit her, and she felt a sharp stab of panic. If he did have a girlfriend, she might be planning to join him at some point over the summer. It wasn’t something he would have mentioned at the interview in London – his plans for the summer were none of her business – but just in case a girlfriend was coming out, it was all the more urgent that she develop a friendship with him as quickly as possible.
Inspiration struck.
‘You’re right,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘Art classes are much more suitable for this location than cookery would have been. But you’re wrong about something you said earlier, or rather you’re wrong about something you implied.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said that you didn’t have any ability for art.’
‘Well, I haven’t – I’m absolutely hopeless at drawing and painting, and trust me that’s an understatement.’
‘But you could learn to paint. It’s a myth that you’ve either got talent or you haven’t – everyone can be taught. After that, it’s just hard work.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘I know it’s true. I’ve seen people start an art class without a clue which end of the brush to hold. And I’ve watched them work hard, lesson after lesson, until in the end they’re absolutely amazed at what they’ve achieved.’
‘Thinking of my past efforts, I find that virtually impossible to believe,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m still inclined to subscribe to the natural ability theory: I’m the living proof of that.’