‘I will. Thank you. Grazie.’
‘Prego.’
She heard the bedroom door close, and rested her head back down on the bath with a sigh. The woman was kindness itself, but Lydia just wanted to be left alone. Her head ached, her ankle throbbed, she had a million bruises all over her body and she still had to phone her sister.
The phone rang, almost as if she’d triggered it with her thoughts, and she could tell by the ringtone it was Jen.
Oh, rats. She must have heard the news.
There was no getting round it, so she struggled awkwardly out of the bath and hobbled back to the bed, swathed in the biggest towel she’d ever seen, and dug out her phone and rang Jen back.
‘What’s going on? They said you’d had an accident! I’ve been trying to phone you for ages but you haven’t been answering! Are you all right? We’ve been frantic!’
‘Sorry, Jen, I was in the bath. I’m fine, really, it was just a little slip on the steps of a plane and I’ve twisted my ankle. Nothing serious.’
Well, she hoped it wasn’t. She crossed her fingers, just to be on the safe side, and filled in a few more details. She didn’t tell her the truth, just that Jo had got there first.
‘I’m so sorry, we really tried, but we probably wouldn’t have made it even without the accident.’
There was a heartbeat of hesitation, then Jen said, ‘Don’t worry, it really doesn’t matter and it’s not important. I just need you to be all right. And don’t go blaming yourself, it’s not your fault.’
Why did everyone say that? It was her fault. If she’d looked where she was going, taken a bit more care, Jen and Andy would have been having the wedding of their dreams in a few months’ time. As it was, well, as it was they wouldn’t, but she wasn’t going to give Jen anything to beat herself up about, so she told her she was fine, just a little twinge—and nothing at all about the head injury.
‘Actually, since I’m over here, I thought I’d stay on for a few days. I’ve found a farm where I can get bed and breakfast, and I’m going to have a little holiday.’
Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. It was a farm, she had a bed, and she was sure they wouldn’t make her starve while she recovered.
‘You do that. It sounds lovely,’ Jen said wistfully, and Lydia screwed her face up and bit her lip.
Damn. She’d been so close, and the disappointment that Jen was trying so hard to disguise was ripping Lydia apart.
Ending the call with a promise to ring when she was coming home, she dug her clean clothes out of the flight bag and pulled her jeans on carefully over her swollen, throbbing ankle. The soft, worn fabric of the jeans and the T-shirt were comforting against her skin, chafed from her fall as well as the boning and beading in the dress, and she looked around for the offending article. It was gone. Taken away by Carlotta? She hoped she hadn’t thrown it out. She wanted the pleasure of that for herself.
She put her trainers on, managing to squeeze her bandaged foot in with care, and hobbled out of her room in search of the others, but the corridor outside didn’t seem to lead anywhere except her room, a little sitting room and a room that looked like an office, so she went back through the door to the beautiful cloistered courtyard and looked around for any clues.
There were none.
So now what? She couldn’t just stand there and yell, nor could she go round the courtyard systematically opening all the doors. Not that there were that many, but even so.
She was sitting there on the low wall around the central courtyard, studying the beautiful frescoes and trying to work out what to do if nobody showed up, when the door nearest to her opened and Massimo appeared. He’d showered and changed out of the suit into jeans and a soft white linen shirt stark against his olive skin, the cuffs rolled back to reveal those tanned forearms which had nearly been her undoing on the plane, and her heart gave a tiny lurch.
Stupid.
He caught sight of her and smiled, and her heart did another little jiggle as he walked towards her.
‘Lydia, I was just coming to see if you were all right. I’m sorry, I should have come back quicker. How are you? How’s the head?’
‘Fine,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I’m just a bit lost. I didn’t want to go round opening all the doors, it seemed rude.’
‘You should have shouted. I would have heard you.’
‘I’m not in the habit of yelling for help,’ she said drily, and he chuckled and came over to her side.
‘Let me help you now,’ he said, and offered her his arm. ‘It’s not far, hang on and hop, or would you rather I carried you?’
‘I’ll hop,’ she said hastily, not sure she could cope with being snuggled up to that broad, solid chest again, with the feel of his arms strong and safe under her. ‘I don’t want to break you.’
He laughed at that. ‘I don’t think you’ll break me. Did you find everything you needed? How’s your room?’
She slipped her arm through his, conscious of the smell of him again, refreshed now by his shower and overlaid with soap and more of the citrusy cologne that had been haunting her nostrils all day. She wanted to press her nose to his chest, to breathe him in, to absorb the warmth and scent and maleness of him.
Not appropriate. She forced herself to concentrate.
‘Lovely. The bath was utter bliss. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to get out of that awful dress. I hope Carlotta hasn’t burned it, I want to do it myself.’
He laughed again, a warm, rich sound that echoed round the courtyard, and scanned her body with his eyes. ‘It really didn’t do you justice,’ he said softly, and in the gentle light she thought she caught a glimpse of whatever it was she’d seen in his eyes at the airport.
But then it was gone, and he was opening the door and ushering her through to a big, brightly lit kitchen. Carlotta was busy at the stove, and the children were seated at a large table in the middle of the room, Antonino kneeling up and leaning over to interfere with what Lavinia was doing.
She pushed him aside crossly, and Massimo intervened before a fight could break out, diffusing it swiftly by splitting them up. While he was busy, Carlotta came and helped her to the table. She smiled at her gratefully.
‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.’
‘Is no trouble,’ she said. ‘Sit, sit. Is ready.’
She sniffed, and smiled. ‘It smells wonderful.’
‘Buono. You eat, then you feel better. Sit!’
She flapped her apron at Lydia, and she sat obediently at the last place laid at the long table. It was opposite Francesca, and Massimo was at the end of the table on her right, bracketed by the two younger ones who’d been split up to stop them from squabbling.
They were fractious—overtired, she thought guiltily—and missing their father. But Francesca was watching her warily. She smiled at the girl apologetically.
‘I’m sorry I kept your father away from you for so long. He’s been so kind and helpful.’
‘He is. He helps everybody. Are you better now?’
‘I’m all right. I’ve just got a bit of a headache but I don’t think it’s much more than that. I was so stupid. I tripped over the hem of my dress and fell down the steps of the plane and hit my head.’
Behind her, there was a clatter, and Francesca went chalk white, her eyes huge with horror and distress.
‘Scusami,’ she mumbled, and pushing back her chair, she ran from the room, her father following, his chair crashing over as he leapt to his feet.
‘Francesca!’ He reached the door before it closed, and she could hear his voice calling as he ran after her. Horrified, uncertain what she’d done, she turned to Carlotta and found her with her apron pressed to her face, her eyes above it creased with distress.
‘What
did I say?’ she whispered, conscious of the little ones, but Carlotta just shook her head and picked up the pan and thrust it into the sink.
‘Is nothing. Here, eat. Antonino!’
He sat down, and Lavinia put away the book he’d been trying to tug away from her, and Carlotta picked up Massimo’s overturned chair and ladled food out onto all their plates.
There was fresh bread drizzled with olive oil, and a thick, rich stew of beans and sausage and gloriously red tomatoes. It smelt wonderful, tasted amazing, but Lydia could scarcely eat it. The children were eating. Whatever it was she’d said or done had gone right over their heads, but something had driven Francesca from the room, and her father after her.
The same something that had made Massimo go pale at the airport, as he’d knelt on the tarmac at her side? The same something that had made him stand, rigid with tension, staring grimly at a poster when he thought she was asleep in the room at the hospital?
She pushed back her chair and hopped over to the sink, where Carlotta was scrubbing furiously at a pot. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat. Carlotta, what did I say?’ she asked under her breath, and those old, wise eyes that had seen so much met hers, and she shook her head, twisting her hands in the dishcloth and biting her lips.
She put the pot on the draining board, and Lydia automatically picked up a tea towel and dried it, her hip propped against the edge of the sink unit as she balanced on her good leg. Another pot followed, and another, and finally Carlotta stopped scouring the pots as if they were lined with demons and her hands came to rest.
She hobbled over to the children, cleared up their plates, gave them pudding and then gathered them up like a mother hen.
‘Wait here. Eat. He will come back.’
They left her there in the kitchen, their footsteps echoing along a corridor and up stairs, and Lydia sank down at the table and stared blankly at the far wall, going over and over her words in her head and getting nowhere.
Carlotta appeared again and put Francesca’s supper in a microwave.
‘Is she coming down again? I want to apologise for upsetting her.’
‘No. Is all right, signorina. Her papà look after her.’ And lifting the plate out of the microwave, she carried it out of the room on a tray, leaving Lydia alone again.
She poked at her food, but it was cold now, the beans congealing in the sauce, and she ripped up a bit of bread and dabbed it absently in the stew. What had she said, that had caused such distress?
She had no idea, but she couldn’t leave the kitchen without finding out, and there was still a pile of washing up to do. She didn’t know where anything lived, but the table was big enough to put it all on, and there was a dishwasher sitting there empty.
Well, if she could do nothing else while she waited, she could do that, she told herself, and pushing up her sleeves, she hopped over to the dishwasher and set about clearing up the kitchen.
* * *
He had to go down to her—to explain, or apologise properly, at the very least.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He couldn’t eat, not while his daughter was just settling into sleep at last, her sobs fading quietly away into the night.
He closed his eyes. Talking to Lydia, dredging it all up again, was the last thing he wanted to do, the very last, but he had no choice. Leaning over Francesca, he pressed a kiss lightly against her cheek, and straightened. She was sleeping peacefully now; he could leave her.
Leave her, and go and find Lydia, if she hadn’t had the sense to pack up her things and leave. It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t blame her.
He found her in the kitchen, sitting with Carlotta over a cup of coffee, the kitchen sparkling. He stared at them, then at the kitchen. Carlotta had been upstairs until a short while ago, settling the others, and the kitchen had been in chaos, so how…?
‘She’s OK now,’ he said in Italian. ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Carlotta? You look exhausted and Roberto’s worried about you.’
She nodded and got slowly to her feet, then rested her hand on Lydia’s shoulder and patted it before leaving her side. ‘I am tired,’ she said to him in Italian, ‘but you need to speak to Lydia. I couldn’t leave her. She’s a good girl, Massimo. Look at my kitchen! A good, kind girl, and she’s unhappy. Worried.’
He sighed. ‘I know. Did you explain?’
‘No. It’s not my place, but be gentle with her—and yourself.’ And with that pointed remark, she left them alone together.
Lydia looked up at him and searched his eyes. ‘What did she say to you?’
He gave her a fleeting smile. ‘She told me you were a good, kind girl. And she told me to be gentle with you.’
Her eyes filled, and she looked away. ‘I don’t know what I said, but I’m so, so sorry.’
His conscience pricked him. He should have warned her. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair.
‘No. I should be apologising, not you. Forgive us, we aren’t normally this rude to visitors. Francesca was upset.’
‘I know that. Obviously I made it happen. What I don’t know is why,’ she said, looking up at him again with grief-stricken eyes.
He reached for a mug, changed his mind and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Can I tempt you?’
‘Is it one of yours?’
‘No. It’s a neighbour’s, but it’s good. We could take it outside. I don’t know if it’s wise, though, with your head injury.’
‘I’ll take the risk,’ she said. ‘And then will you tell me what I said?’
‘You know what you said. What you don’t know is what it meant,’ he said enigmatically, and picking up both glasses of wine, he headed for the door, glancing back over his shoulder at her. ‘Can you manage, or should I carry you?’
Carry her? With her face pressed up against that taunting aftershave, and the feel of his strong, muscled arms around her legs? ‘I can manage,’ she said hastily, and pushing back her chair, she got to her feet and limped after him out into the still, quiet night.
She could hear the soft chirr of insects, the sound of a motorbike somewhere in the valley below, and then she saw a single headlight slicing through the night, weaving and turning as it followed the snaking road along the valley bottom and disappeared.
He led her to a bench at the edge of the terrace. The ground fell away below them so it felt as if they were perched on the edge of the world, and when she was seated he handed her the glass and sat beside her, his elbows propped on his knees, his own glass dangling from his fingers as he stared out over the velvet blackness.
For a while neither of them said anything, but then the tension got to her and she broke the silence.
‘Please tell me.’
He sucked in his breath, looking down, staring into his glass as he slowly swirled the wine before lifting it to his lips.
‘Massimo?’ she prompted, and he turned his head and met her eyes. Even in the moonlight, she could see the pain etched into his face, and her heart began to thud slowly.
‘Angelina died of a brain haemorrhage following a fall,’ he began, his voice expressionless. ‘Nothing serious, nothing much at all, just a bit of a bump. She’d fallen down the stairs and hit her head on the wall. We all thought she was all right, but she had a bit of a headache later in the day, and we went to bed early. I woke in the night and she was missing, and I found her in the kitchen, slumped over the table, and one side of her face had collapsed.’
Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed hard as the nausea threatened to choke her. What had she done? Not just by saying what she had at the table—the same table?—but by bringing this on all of them, on Claire, on him, on the children—most especially little Francesca, her eyes wide with pain and shock, fleeing from the table. The image would stay with her forever.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said gently. ‘You weren’t to know. I probably should have told you—warned you not to talk about it in that way, and why. I let you walk right into it.’
She turned back to him, searching his face in the shadows. She’d known something was wrong when he was bending over her on the tarmac, and again later, staring at the poster. And yet he’d said nothing.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I knew something was wrong, something else, something more. Luca seemed much more worried than my condition warranted, even I knew that, and he kept looking at you anxiously. I thought he was worried about me, but then I realised it was you he was worried about. I just didn’t know why. You should have told me.’
‘How could I? You had a head injury. How could I say to you, “I’m sorry, I’m finding this a bit hard to deal with, my wife died of the same thing and I’m a bit worried I might lose you, too.” How could I say that?’
He’d been worried he could lose her?
No. Of course he hadn’t meant that, he didn’t know her. He meant he was worried she might be about to die, too. Nothing more than that.
‘You should have left us there instead of staying and getting distressed. I had no business tangling you all up in this mess—oh, Massimo, I’m so sorry.’
She broke off, clamping her teeth hard to stop her eyes from welling over, but his warm hand on her shoulder was the last straw, and she felt the hot, wet slide of a tear down her cheek.
‘Cara, no. Don’t cry for us. It was a long time ago.’
‘But it still hurts you, and it’ll hurt you forever,’ she said unevenly.
‘No, it just brought the memories back. We’re all right, really. We’re getting there. Francesca’s the oldest, she remembers Angelina the most clearly, and she’s the one who bears the brunt of the loss, because when I’m not there the little ones turn to her. She has to be mother to them, and she’s been so strong, but she’s just a little girl herself.’
He broke off, his jaw working, and she laid her hand gently against it and sighed.
‘I’m so sorry. It must have been dreadful for you all.’
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