by Rosanna Ley
After two weeks, she could stand it no more. She walked the steep path to Corniglia which she had walked since she was a child and which she could negotiate almost as easily as a mountain goat, and she headed straight for the café in the square to find out what she needed to know. Dante’s home proved as easy to find as the café owner had told her it would be, as he pointed it out to her, his curiosity evident in his eyes and voice; it was up by the church, amid a cluster of narrow houses that looked down over the bay. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A woman answered. His mother. She had Dante’s velvet-brown eyes and his cheekbones too, though she was small and also looked rather severe. ‘Sì?’ She glowered at Chiara.
Chiara pulled herself up to her full height; she was at least a little taller than this fierce matriarch, but not by much. ‘Is Dante at home?’ she asked boldly. ‘May I speak with him, per favore?’
‘Ah, yes.’ The woman folded her arms and regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘I know who you are. From Vernazza, eh? The Old Convent?’
‘Yes.’ Chiara forced herself to stay put. ‘Is he here? May I see him, please, Signora?’
‘You most certainly may not.’ The woman smiled, but Chiara couldn’t help noticing that her mouth was nothing like Dante’s mouth, and her smile was just a thin unconvincing line across her dour face.
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because he’s not here, that’s why.’ The woman laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘He’s left home, that’s what he’s done, and you’re to blame, as I understand it.’
Chiara’s eyes widened. ‘But, Signora—’
‘Oh, I know the story.’ The woman nodded. ‘No need to tell me. I know what you all thought.’
‘Indeed, we did not,’ Chiara protested staunchly, knowing she was referring to the incident of the olive harvesting. But something in her belly had turned to liquid panic. Had he done what he said they would do together? Had he gone to Milan – so far from Liguria?
His mother shrugged her thin shoulders. She was dressed in black, Chiara observed, and she remembered Dante telling her that his grandmother had died.
‘Where is he?’ she whispered.
Dante’s mother shook her head. ‘Nowhere you can follow him, girl,’ she snapped.
‘But where?’ She could try at least. If she could get an address, somehow, she could try to contact him and tell him that she was sorry, that she loved him, that she needed him . . .
‘England,’ his mother said.
‘England?’ Chiara had certainly not been expecting that.
‘He’s gone to make his fortune.’ The woman continued to glare at her. ‘He won’t come back either. So, I have you to thank for the loss of my son.’
‘But . . .’ Chiara didn’t know what to say. She was still trying to take it in. England. If Milan was far away, England was another planet.
‘So, you’re not welcome here. Understand?’ The woman slammed the door in her face.
Chiara stood on the step, trying to steady her breathing. She couldn’t blame his mother for her reaction to her visit. Signora Rossi wasn’t to know that Dante might well have left home anyway, even if they had not met. But he could have stayed – at least for a while – and she had to face the truth. Dante had not cared for her enough even to try again. He had gone as far from her as he possibly could. It was over.
*
The man outside in the olive grove walked down the winding path between the trees and soon was lost in the shroud of the wispy grey branches. Chiara turned away. He was just another guest. The same age as Dante would be – perhaps – and with something similar about his bearing. But that was it. How pathetic she was. What point was there after all this time, in indulging in such wishful thinking? Many of their guests took a stroll around the olive grove. Chiara liked to think that the olives of The Lemon Tree Hotel could refresh their spirits, could bring that sense of peace that could be so elusive in today’s busy world where technology dominated everything and people no longer wandered in olive groves and watched time pass by. And fell in love, Chiara reminded herself with a sad smile.
‘I shall see you in a few days.’ Alonzo picked up his jacket. He glanced over at her and shook his head in disapproval. ‘And shouldn’t you be doing less daydreaming and a bit more organising, Chiara? After all, this place is so precious to you, is it not? And you are supposed to be in charge of it? Should you not be giving it a bit more of your attention, hmm?’
Chiara bristled as he no doubt intended her to. But of course, what he meant was that she should be giving him more attention, that she should be attending to his every whim, not standing staring into olive groves. ‘We have everything in hand, you can be sure.’
She followed him down the winding stairs that opened out into the black-and-white tiled lobby. They too were the original tiles of the convent, although again many repairs and replacements had been necessary. It pleased Chiara to think that they still walked where the nuns of the convent had walked, on the same worn tiles. Besides – since when had Alonzo cared a dry fig for the hotel? Since when had he even been aware of who did what and how the place was run?
‘Certo. Of course, you do.’ He was placatory now that his barb had made its mark. He bent to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Ciao, my dear.’
‘Ciao.’ She felt the distant brush of his lips. There was no love in it. But he was still her husband.
Dante had left Italy, and after two years she had married Alonzo just as her parents wished, so she had made them happy at least. It was 1970, and Italy was not alone in experiencing an economic boom after the poverty of the post-war years. The world was changing so fast, just as Dante had known it would. Even here, where things changed so much more slowly, women had more freedom, they were beginning to forge new pathways for themselves; they were working in the cities and becoming more independent in so many ways. They could make their own lifestyle choices, select their own marriage partner. But she still lived in Vernazza, and things had not changed so very much. Her parents were of the old school, and for Chiara, duty and obligation must still win out over love. Or destiny, as she sometimes still allowed herself to think.
As for herself and Alonzo . . . What had she been hoping for when she married and knew it was not for love? Even in the early days, there had been no patience, no tenderness. Chiara had thought that making love would be something thrilling, something wonderful. But she never felt it, and Alonzo seemed to sense this. It wasn’t long before he started going away, before he built up his business interests elsewhere. He seemed to resent The Lemon Tree Hotel – as if he thought it was the place that had come between them.
Chiara was not the type of person to sit around doing nothing while her husband was away following his own business interests. She had a hotel to run – alongside her parents. Alonzo had never really talked to her about what he did – he liked to keep things secret; perhaps it was his way of saying: You have your precious hotel, but see here, my work is equally important, and you know nothing about it.
When Elene was born, Chiara had thought this would bring them together, this would make them a family in every sense of the word. But he seemed irritated at the thought of increasing responsibilities, annoyed by the baby’s crying, the broken nights. Chiara was soon exhausted trying to juggle the demands of The Lemon Tree Hotel and her new baby, and this seemed to annoy him too. ‘You need to make some time for your husband, you know,’ he had told her one memorable early morning when, worn out by the interrupted nights and desperate for sleep, Chiara had turned away from him in bed. And you need to remember you have a family, she had whispered silently in her head.
He went away, she stayed home; slowly, remorselessly, the distance between them grew. Until she looked at him one day and realised he was – and perhaps had always been – a stranger.
Chiara gave herself a little mental shake. She should not brood. He had given her a daughter, had he not? She should be grateful for that. And that daugh
ter had given Chiara her lovely Isabella. So, she should forget her dark thoughts and remember that despite her disappointments, she had so much to be grateful for.
She wandered past the old picture of the Angel Gabriel in its worn gilt frame, painted by Giovanna’s father Luca Bordoni. He had never been a great artist by any stretch of the imagination, and the painting was simple enough. But Giovanna – not an aunt by blood but by affection – was special to their family and to The Lemon Tree Hotel. And so, the painting stayed in its original niche opposite the staircase, lit by a plain white church candle in the evenings, just as it had been lit when the hotel was still a convent.
At the reception desk, Isabella was working on her laptop. She looked up. ‘Ciao, Nonna.’ She gave her a beam of smile.
‘Ciao, Bella.’ Chiara thought of the man in the olive grove. Naturally, it was ridiculous, but there was something different about the chord that had been struck this time . . . ‘Could I see the register, per favore, darling?’
‘Of course.’ There was a hint of curiosity in Isabella’s eyes as she passed it over.
Chiara studied the names. She knew who most people were. Like Isabella, she tried to keep track; they prided themselves on the personal touch. ‘A man checked in this morning?’
Isabella raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Uh huh. Signor Bianchi.’ She pointed to the entry.
‘Hmm, yes.’ Of course, it was not him. Over the years, a few nuggets of information had come Chiara’s way. She had learned that Dante had turned his hand to making gelato of all things. She had to laugh at the thought of those strong arms that had held her, those broad shoulders flexing as he pulled in the nets of the olive harvest . . . To think of those same hands making Italian ice cream in an English seaside resort – it amused her, even as it made her feel sad. He had been that kind of a man – who could put his hand to almost anything.
‘And another guest will be arriving soon.’ Isabella turned back to her laptop. ‘Let me find the name. Ah, yes. A Ferdinand Bauer from Germany.’
‘Mmm.’
Isabella looked up. ‘Is everything all right, Nonna?’
‘Yes, perfectly fine. I just wanted to check on the new arrivals.’
‘OK.’
Isabella didn’t seem to have noticed that she lacked her usual air of calm efficiency. Chiara put a hand to her hair and smoothed it from her face. ‘And everything’s ready for Aunt Giovanna’s dinner party?’
‘Mamma’s been talking of nothing else all day.’ Isabella grinned.
‘Excellent.’ Chiara took a deep breath. ‘Then I’d better go and fetch her.’ Because this really would not do. The time was long gone for seeing ghosts from the past, for fantasising about destiny. She had made her decision many years ago – and there was surely no way of ever going back.
CHAPTER 3
Isabella
It had been a warm and sunny day, there were currently no problems or queries with the guests that she should be solving, and she was looking forward to the family birthday celebration with her beloved Aunt Giovanna, but Isabella couldn’t help thinking that the atmosphere of The Lemon Tree Hotel was not quite as tranquil as usual. Was there a storm brewing perhaps?
From her position behind the reception desk, which was tucked well into the interior of the cool hotel foyer, she gazed out through the ancient and wooden front doors that had belonged to the original convent building. She didn’t think so. The tension could simply be down to the current difference of opinion within the family about how to change – or not to change – the hotel . . . She sighed. This was partly her fault, since she was in charge of the books, and she had informed them all a few weeks ago that there was money available for further investment in The Lemon Tree, if they should wish it.
For a family business, they spent a lot of time not in accord. Isabella returned her attention to her emails. They were still getting plenty of requests for bookings, thanks to the Cinque Terre’s growing popularity and the Indian summer they were experiencing. She couldn’t help worrying though. Her grandmother had seemed distracted. Was she working too hard? Should Isabella be shouldering more responsibility? Her grandmother epitomised The Lemon Tree Hotel for Isabella, and what’s more, Nonna was the most poised woman she had ever met – nothing seemed to faze her. But something seemed to be bothering her today.
‘Buona sera.’
The voice took her by surprise. She’d been miles away. Isabella looked up into a pair of cool blue eyes and a lean, pale, but rather attractive male face. She blinked. ‘Good evening, Signore.’
He smiled, as if well-aware he’d taken her by surprise. Isabella drew herself up to her full height. Why should she feel flustered? She prided herself on her ‘front of house’ skills. Like her grandmother, she enjoyed meeting people, dealing with any small problems that might arise for their guests, ensuring they enjoyed their stay. Like her grandmother, she hoped that time spent at The Lemon Tree Hotel could be more than a holiday, more than a gateway through which to experience the stunning landscape of her beloved Cinque Terre. Their family-run hotel could be a retreat or a shelter, it could be a spiritual haven, it could provide rest and recuperation for body and soul. They liked to give their guests that little bit extra.
‘You have a reservation, Signore?’ She spoke in English. She didn’t need to check the paperwork, however, to know that he was German and that this was Ferdinand Bauer. Until she started daydreaming, Isabella had been prepared to welcome their guest – generally, she was not a girl who liked surprises.
He was fair-skinned and fair-haired. He was tall and dressed in rather crumpled linen shorts, and a short-sleeved shirt and leather sandals. She raised an eyebrow – though admittedly he seemed to pull off the look. She didn’t have his full attention now though. Instead, he was gazing with interest around the foyer and out towards the Cloisters Bar.
Then the clear blue-eyed gaze rested on Isabella once again. ‘Yes. The name’s Bauer.’
She liked his voice. It was low and not too loud – it seemed to acknowledge the serenity of their surroundings.
‘Welcome, Signor Bauer,’ she said warmly. ‘Have you had a good journey?’
He seemed surprised by her question. Many people reacted similarly, but Isabella’s grandmother had taught her to use the personal touch. ‘A few questions,’ she always said. ‘Where’s the harm in that? Nothing too taxing – they may be tired, they may not want to talk. Take your cue from them. At the very least it will show that you are interested in their lives.’
‘Quite good,’ he said. ‘Thank you. But I was surprised how busy it is here.’
Isabella nodded. ‘The Cinque Terre is one of the most popular parts of Italy.’ With good reason in her opinion. Where else could you find a landscape that combined rugged mountains, romantic bays and turquoise sea with colourful villages, terraces of vineyards, olive groves, and lemon trees clinging to the hills and shimmering in the sun?
‘I can tell. The train from La Spezia was packed full of tourists.’
And you are one of them. She didn’t say it though, just gave one of her little shrugs that seemed to agree, sympathise, and deny all knowledge, at the same time. This was a mannerism she had acquired from her grandmother. ‘If you could just complete this paperwork, Signore?’
‘OK.’ He gave it a brief glance and scribbled a signature.
Isabella plucked his key from the rack behind her. ‘You are in number three,’ she told him. ‘I am sure you will be comfortable there.’ It was a pleasant room, a little smaller than some and so usually sold as a single, but with a narrow balcony and a partial sea view.
‘Any rules and regulations?’ He seemed to want to linger. And once again he was looking around the lobby with undisguised curiosity. Almost, she thought, as if he were searching for something in particular.
‘Only that we try to maintain a peaceful atmosphere.’ The ambience of the hotel was perhaps their number one priority.
‘Because this place used to be a convent?�
� He fixed her with an intent stare.
‘It has always been the nature of the building, as you say,’ she agreed.
‘And has the hotel been in the same family for a long time?’
Really, those blue eyes of his were very penetrating. ‘It has been in our family since my great-grandfather purchased the old convent in the 1950s,’ she said proudly.
‘Indeed?’ He seemed very interested in this. ‘And the nuns?’
‘Scusi? Pardon me?’ Isabella glanced around as if one of the old nuns might suddenly drift out from behind the cloisters.
He leaned on the desk. Isabella wondered if he was there for the duration. Most guests couldn’t wait to get into their rooms on arrival. This one, clearly, was different. ‘I was wondering what happened to all the old nuns – from the convent, I mean?’ He didn’t even blink.
‘Well . . .’ There was something almost accusatory in his tone. Isabella bridled. Who did he think he was, charging in here and asking all these questions? ‘The order was depleted,’ she said stiffly, searching in her English vocabulary for the correct words. ‘Most of the nuns had already left the convent, shortly after the war, I believe. The building was . . . how do you say? In danger.’ She frowned in concentration. Her English was fluent, but she wasn’t expressing this at all well.
‘In danger?’
‘In danger of deterioration. Otherwise it would have become a ruin, sadly the fate of so many of our old and interesting buildings. My great-grandfather thought it could be saved, restored, and made into a hotel.’ Isabella folded her arms. And, guest or no guest, that was all she was saying on the matter.
But to her surprise, Ferdinand Bauer lifted his hands in apology. ‘I’ve offended you,’ he said, rather disarmingly. ‘I’m sorry. I always ask too many questions. I’m too curious about everything. Please forgive me.’
Isabella stared at him. He was certainly a man of many parts – she wasn’t sure she had met anyone quite like him before. Already, he’d had her on the back foot and on the front foot, so to speak, and he’d only just arrived.