by Rosanna Ley
‘Do they indeed?’ Papà did not like his tone, Chiara could tell. He was experienced with the olives, and he would not tolerate any of his workers getting above themselves.
Dante held his head high. ‘What else?’ he demanded. ‘What else could it be?’
Papà shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
Dante stared at him with undisguised hostility. ‘I am surprised you asked us here,’ he said, ‘if you have such little trust.’
‘What choice did I have, eh?’ Papà glared at him. ‘You come, and you—’ He stopped abruptly and Chiara wondered if Mamma had told him what she might have observed these past days. They should have been more careful. Papà was obsessed with Alonzo and his family, and he would not take kindly to another man coming to steal his daughter’s heart.
Matteo had gone to stand next to Dante, the two of them facing her father and the others. Suddenly, they had become enemies, it seemed. The tension hung thick in the air.
Papà waved them away. ‘Enough,’ he blustered. ‘You have done your work, you will be paid, and now you can go, both of you. That’s it. I don’t want to see you again.’
Chiara watched them leave in despair. She longed to run after Dante. When would she see him again? She knew already that his was a proud family, and she was aware how much damage had been done.
‘You did not think it?’ Dante asked her now. ‘What Salvatore said? You did not think it?’
‘Of course not.’ She knew how good he really was; she knew he would not be capable of such subterfuge and deceit. Chiara settled her head against his chest. It felt as if it was meant to be there. His arms were around her and she was no longer cold in the least. Now, she was warm; warm and loved in a way she hadn’t dreamed possible.
Papà had tasted the olive oil straight from the frantoio, the press, then he had brought it home and the family had eaten it with freshly-baked bread and bruschetta. It was as light and golden as ever and had the same mild, fruity taste as always – thanks to the Ligurian weather – not too hot in the summer and not too cold in the winter. ‘Delicious, my love,’ Chiara’s mother had declared. But the atmosphere had remained tense.
‘I have been thinking, Chiara.’ Dante straightened and she adjusted her position against him.
‘Sì?’ She had thought she would not see him for days. But now he was here in her arms once more – and so miracles were possible after all, and she wished she could tell her aunt Giovanna this. But of course, she could not. This was their secret. It had to be.
‘If we stay here, we cannot be together.’
‘If we stay here? What do you mean?’ Where else could they go? She eased slightly away from the warmth of him. What was he saying?
‘Your parents will not allow us to meet,’ he said solemnly. ‘My parents too.’
‘Oh, it will die down.’ Though Chiara spoke with an assurance she did not feel. Her father’s passions did not tend to die down; the opposite was true. ‘And until then we can meet in secret. Like we are now.’ It was, after all, rather thrilling. She glanced around at the olive trees, threaded with silver in the moonlight, old and wise, standing serene in the grove, endless as time itself. The olive tree was the symbol of peace and well-being. How many loves had they witnessed? Her father and her mother, Chiara and Dante, probably not the nuns though . . . She suppressed a giggle.
‘This is serious, Chiara.’ Dante put his hands on her shoulders to increase the distance between them. ‘At least to me.’
‘And to me.’ She pushed towards him again, intending to hold his head to her breast. She didn’t want to talk – there was no time. She wanted to feel more of the delicious sensations that spun through her when he kissed her, when he held her, when he—
‘But that is not enough, Chiara,’ he said. ‘I love you. I want to be with you.’
‘And I love you, Dante.’ The words were like flowers on her tongue. She relished the scent of them, she wanted to taste them over and over. She might be young, but Chiara knew what she wanted. And she wanted this man – with all her heart. ‘But what else can we do?’
‘Run away.’ He whispered the words into her hair.
‘Run away?’ She stared at him. It sounded impossibly romantic. ‘But where to?’ She couldn’t imagine being anywhere save Vernazza. Everything she loved was here – her father, her mother, Aunt Giovanna, The Lemon Tree Hotel . . .
‘Milan.’
She blinked at him. Milan was a lifetime away.
‘I could get work there,’ he said. ‘The car companies, they are looking for new mechanics. Alfa Romeo have a factory in the city. I learn quickly—’
‘Milan?’ she repeated, aghast.
‘Why not? I have been thinking for a while that I might leave and make a new life somewhere. There are so many opportunities, you know. Life is not just for farming and fishing. Others have gone—’
‘I know.’ Of course, others had gone. The new industries in the cities, il boom . . . Everyone was talking about it.
‘It could be a new start for us. We would be together, at least . . .’ His voice trailed as he caught her expression in the moonlight.
‘What would I do in Milan?’ she whispered. Milan was a city. Milan was very far from Liguria.
‘I’ll look after you.’ He held her closer once more. ‘We would work it out. I don’t know. But the point is, we could be together, my love.’
‘We can be together here.’ Suddenly, she wanted to cry. Suddenly, everything that had been so right was going horribly wrong.
‘We cannot.’
Chiara saw the stubborn glint in his eye, and she realised. She loved him, and she had even fantasised that he was her destiny, but she didn’t know him – not really. What she knew was Vernazza and this place, her home. What she knew were her parents, her life, the fact that she loved The Lemon Tree Hotel with a fierce passion, that she would run it herself one day – her father had always told her so – and that she was sixteen, and so how could she leave?
‘It will die down,’ she said again. ‘They will forget the silly argument. And then we can start meeting openly, and I will tell them how I feel, and slowly, gradually . . .’
‘I do not want slowly and gradually.’ He held her more tightly. ‘I want you now.’
Chiara shuddered with desire. ‘I want you too,’ she whispered. She felt his hands so warm against her with only her thin white nightgown between them. She took his hand and put it to her breast. How could it be wrong?
‘Not like this,’ he said, though his voice was husky with longing.
‘But, Dante, how can we leave here? What would we live on?’ Mamma had always said it was the women in this world who must be practical.
‘I have a small inheritance, you know I told you my grandmother had died?’
‘Sì.’ Her voice sounded ridiculously small and weak to her own ears.
‘It is enough to help us start our life together. In a new place. That’s what I want.’
She heard his confidence. But she didn’t possess that, she realised. Did he have enough for both of them? She wasn’t sure.
‘If you love me you will come.’
‘I do love you, but—’ All she could think of was the disappointment in Papà’s eyes when he found out what she had done.
‘Then?’
‘How can I leave Vernazza?’ She spoke sotto voce, but her words seemed to echo around the silent olive grove in the darkness.
‘If you love me, you can leave,’ he said.
‘It is not as simple as that.’ But Chiara was no longer sure. Did love and passion sweep you into making decisions that would hurt the ones you loved? Did they pull you away from all that was familiar and dear? Did love have to be that way? She felt that Dante had set her a test, one that she had failed miserably.
‘It can be that simple,’ he insisted.
‘But I cannot leave my parents. I cannot leave the hotel.’ There, she had said it. She glanced at him warily. Surely, he would see that his was a
reckless, crazy plan?
‘Then this is the end for us,’ he said.
‘No!’ She clutched at his sleeve. How could he be so stubborn, so melodramatic? ‘Everything will work out, Dante. You will see. I love you. We will be together. I know it.’
He shook his dark head. ‘Only if we go now. Only if we take this chance. If you trust me.’
‘But . . .’ It was too much. ‘I can’t.’
He took a step back. His eyes had a coldness she had not seen there before. ‘I am leaving, Chiara,’ he said. ‘I have made up my mind. I do not want to be in a place where there is no trust, where villagers live close by and yet cannot work together as a team. Where I could be accused of such a thing – and by your father.’
‘But, Dante—’
‘I am young. I want to see something of the world.’
‘But . . .’
‘And I will not – I cannot – stand by and see you married to another man.’
Alonzo. Who had told him about Alonzo? ‘I will not marry another man.’ She raised her head, jutted out her chin. She had no interest in Alonzo. She hated the idea of letting her parents down, but nobody could tell her what she must do – not even Papà. ‘I will marry who I please.’
Dante sighed. ‘Do you not see? They will not let us be together, my love.’
How could he have so little faith? How could he not believe that they would find a way? ‘But in a few years when—’
He put a finger to her lips. ‘I will not wait for years. And so . . .’
And so?
‘I will leave, my love,’ he said. He stroked her hair. ‘I will leave, and I am not sure that I will ever come back.’
Chiara’s eyes widened. He was headstrong, this man she loved, but this could not be true – he must come back, he was her destiny. But already he was turning to go, she felt it. ‘Dante—’
‘Arrivederci, Chiara. Goodbye and take care, my love.’
‘Dante, wait!’
But he slipped away into the darkness. And Chiara had never felt so alone.
CHAPTER 2
Chiara
Vernazza – October 2011
‘How long will you be gone?’ Chiara asked her husband. He was away more than he was home, but in some ways, this made life easier at The Lemon Tree Hotel. Mostly, the three women ran the place – Chiara, her daughter Elene, and Chiara’s twenty-year-old granddaughter Isabella.
Chiara glanced proudly around the room. Since her parents had bought it in the 1950s, the hotel had gradually grown into the successful business it now was. After their deaths, she had worked to retain as much of the old character of the original convent as possible, keeping many of the original hand-painted and decorative tiles, simple wooden carvings, and niches that paid homage to the hotel’s history – and the lemon tree in the courtyard that must have been planted by the nuns and had given the hotel its name. The acid yellow of the fruit was bright as sunshine for much of the year; in years gone by the nuns had made both lemonade and soap from the fruit, and on a summer’s day the lemons and the cool green of the waxy leaves presented a picture framed by the Mediterranean blue of the sea and sky that few of their guests could resist. The crumbling, narrow-bricked cloisters had been restored in keeping, and the exposed wooden beams had been repaired, varnished and polished.
What they’d added in recent years was luxury – the best quality Egyptian cotton bedding, deep leather chairs to sink into, marble and stone bathrooms with walk-in showers, and carefully chosen pieces of antique furniture that reflected the history of the building. Chiara nodded to herself in satisfaction. Sometimes a few changes were no bad thing. She thought of Elene. But a few changes could also be enough. One had to know when to stop.
Chiara was the overall manager and owner – she had taken on this role many years ago when her beloved father had died. Her mother, the chef, usually so stalwart, had crumbled then, never recovered from the death of her husband. She’d continued to work in the kitchen, but Chiara soon saw that she could no longer keep things together. Meals did not appear on time, guests began to complain . . . So, they had brought in Marcello, a big cheery bear of a man who took everything in his stride. The kitchen returned to its previous high standards, whilst her mother stayed behind the scenes in la cucina, grieving her loss until a year later, she too slipped away as if she couldn’t wait to be with her husband once more.
Va bene. Chiara understood about that kind of love, even though she was not fortunate enough to possess it herself. And whose fault was that if not her own?
She watched Alonzo as he examined his face in the mirror, as he peered closer and plucked out an offending hair. Although in his early sixties now and not a tall man, he had not put on too much weight, his hair was a distinguished salt-and-pepper grey, and his eyes were as sharp as ever. He wasn’t unattractive, but Chiara felt strangely detached from this man she had married over forty years ago. Perhaps she had always been detached. Perhaps that was why Elene . . .
But, no, it was better not to go down that route. So, she shook the thought of her daughter to one side, and instead busied herself with straightening the cushions on the tan leather sofa that contrasted so beautifully with the clean white walls of the room. After Alonzo had left for wherever it was he must go, she would pop into the kitchen to see Elene and they could discuss the week’s menu – for Elene had taken over as head chef when Marcello eventually retired. Perhaps Elene would make coffee and they could carve out some mother-and-daughter time. That was a rare thing these days. She sighed. Truth to tell, it had always been a rare thing.
Taking over the hotel after her parents’ death had been the making of Chiara though, and she paused in her tidying as she remembered those far-off days. In the main it had satisfied her. Still grieving for her parents, still suffering from what she now recognised as post-natal depression after the birth of Elene . . . She’d had to knuckle down and get on with it. That or go under.
‘Does it make any difference?’ Alonzo was watching her curiously in the mirror, perhaps wondering where she was on all these occasions when she was not here with him, although she might seem to be.
In all sorts of places, she thought. Places I have never gone to. With people I have loved. ‘Hmm?’
‘Does it make any difference how long I’m gone?’ He didn’t bother to hide his irritation at having to repeat the question.
‘Yes.’ Chiara ignored his tone. She’d been ignoring it for years, but it never got any easier. ‘It does, because of course, it would be nice to know when you will be back.’
He shrugged, put his head to one side and straightened his tie. ‘I have no idea. Business is business. It has to be attended to. It will take as long as it takes.’
‘Not to mention that we are having a dinner party for Giovanna’s birthday, and it would be nice if you could attend a family celebration for once.’ Chiara was aware of the edge in her voice. This was what they were like these days: leading separate lives, because when they were together, they bickered. And she guessed that neither of them much liked what they had become.
‘We’ve been through all that,’ he snapped. ‘I have to work. Where do you think the money comes from, eh?’
Chiara stepped away so that she was out of his view. She knew quite well where the money came from. Alonzo liked to pretend that their livelihood came mainly from his property business – he rented out some apartments in Pisa, and no doubt had a finger in a few other pies. But in fact it was the hotel that largely supported their family. Alonzo probably reckoned that the money his parents had put into The Lemon Tree when they married was more than enough of a contribution. But Chiara knew it was passion that had kept the place going through the hard times. Her parents’ passion for the hotel that meant so much to them, and then her own. Now, Isabella had taken on that inheritance, young though she was, and maybe even Elene – though Chiara was not so sure about Elene. She never had been. Her daughter was a closed book.
Yet again, Chiara push
ed the uncomfortable thoughts of her daughter away. The hotel had started so simply in its early days, still clinging to its old convent life perhaps, but as the world changed and tourism came to Italy, so visitors had discovered the beautiful Cinque Terre, many of them wanting to come back for more. And The Lemon Tree Hotel had opened its doors and embraced them, just as it did to this day.
Chiara drifted towards the window – now draped with elegant curtains where once it had only green wooden shutters – which looked out on to the olive grove. She smiled fondly as she always did. The silver-green leaves shimmered against the backdrop of the cloudless blue sky, the trees were already laden with small but gently swelling fruit, and these olives would be harvested next month just as they had always been. Summer had continued well into September here in Liguria and it continued still, although September had already slipped into the beginning of October. This ancient grove of trees, terraced so that it could be accommodated on the steep slopes of the surrounding hills, still gave her the same sense of tranquillity, even when she thought of what and who she had loved and lost. The whisper of the brittle leaves in the breeze, the rough curves of the gnarled and twisty grey branches, even the abundant olive harvest itself, reminded her that she had done the right thing.
A man was standing almost under their bedroom window staring into the grove, and she gave a start. For a moment, she thought . . . Certo, this was not the first time she had stopped short, seen a man of the right age, and imagined him here once more. But of course, it was never him; Dante was long gone, just as he had said he would be; it was a trick of her imagination – nothing more, nothing less. One might expect that over the years she would stop looking for him, stop seeing him here. But she had not.
She remembered all those years ago – how she had waited for him to come back to the hotel, waited in vain for some word. Everything went on as before, and it was almost unbearable: Mamma worked in the kitchen, Papà bottled and stored his thick golden-green olive oil in glass demijohns whilst continuing to sing the praises of Alonzo. And Chiara . . . Chiara went on waiting.