The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  Isabella was only twenty, but she knew her lifestyle was very different from that of other girls her age. Most of her time was taken up with the business, it always had been; she had lived and breathed The Lemon Tree Hotel since she was old enough to understand what it was. Her grandmother had always made her feel that she was fortunate to live here and she knew that this was true. She had made sacrifices – she had friends, but not much of a social life down in the village; it was simply too difficult to find much leisure time with all her duties here. Nor did she have much interest in local boys her age – they all seemed immature, more interested in football than anything else.

  But any sacrifices were worth it. She had become accustomed to meeting people of all nationalities here in the hotel; there was always interest and variety. Isabella had done a course in business studies so that she could help her grandmother with that side of things, but front of house was where she most liked to be. It was important to feel that they were making a difference; this made her work fulfilling and worthwhile.

  ‘Va bene,’ she said. ‘It’s perfectly all right. It’s nice that you’re so interested in our hotel.’

  He beamed at her – and suddenly it was nice. Isabella was so used to the place, she’d forgotten how intriguing the story could be to others. But it was their history, and it should be celebrated – her grandmother had always taught her that too.

  ‘Thank you, Signorina,’ he said. ‘And I must congratulate you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your English is excellent.’ He grinned – and she noticed that he had dimples. When he smiled, his face was transformed.

  ‘Isabella, please,’ she said. ‘And so is yours.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, it’s useful to have a language in common.’

  ‘It is.’ Isabella knew very little German. But she could manage schoolgirl French, and her English was improving daily. ‘But do you also speak Italian, Signore?’

  ‘A little.’ His smile was once again disarming. ‘I learned some at college, and I was lucky enough to spend some time here in Italy when I was studying art history a while back.’

  ‘Really?’ Isabella wanted to ask more, but there was a limit to the number of questions one should ask a guest on arrival, and surely Nonna would soon be back with Aunt Giovanna and wonder why she was taking so long to sign in their new guest. ‘And now would you like to see your room?’

  ‘I would.’ He dangled the key between his fingers. ‘But I hope I can talk to you some more about the convent, Isabella?’

  ‘Why not?’ She smiled back at him. ‘But if you are really interested, then the person you should speak to is my Aunt Giovanna.’

  ‘Giovanna?’ Again, she felt the intensity of his interest, again the faintest feeling of unease.

  Should she involve Aunt Giovanna? But why not? Her aunt would probably enjoy talking to a charming young man about the old days. But she would ask her first, she decided – maybe even tonight. ‘Giovanna Bordoni,’ she said. ‘She used to live here at the convent.’

  ‘She was a nun?’ He leaned closer.

  ‘No, she never was.’ Isabella surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘If you like, I will speak to her. Ask her if she is happy to talk to you.’

  ‘I would be grateful.’ He gave her another long look. Plucked a card from his shirt pocket. ‘Here’s my number. You can contact me on my mobile any time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She had his contact details already of course, but she took the card and glanced at it. It was charcoal grey with white lettering, a simple graphic. Ferdinand Bauer, Architect, she read. Hence the art history, she supposed. She placed it carefully on the desk.

  ‘See you later, I hope.’ He grabbed his bag and turned to give her another fleeting smile.

  ‘Ciao. See you later.’ Really, he was a bit of a whirlwind. Someone like that – he could shake things up if he wanted to. The question was – did she want things to be shaken up at The Lemon Tree Hotel? Hardly.

  She watched as he made for the stairs. He paused in front of Luca Bordoni’s painting for a few moments as if he already knew the connection, though that was surely impossible, since Giovanna’s father’s signature on the painting was totally illegible. ‘First floor,’ she called out to him softly, ‘turn left at the top.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He waved. One last glance at the Archangel Gabriel and then he loped up the stairs, his bag slung over one shoulder and disappeared from view. Isabella let out the breath she’d been holding.

  She picked up his business card, glanced at it again, and put in her pocket. Tranquillity was necessary to The Lemon Tree Hotel, this was indisputably true. Even so, she thought. Even so.

  CHAPTER 4

  Elene

  Elene looked around the family group. It had been a simple enough dinner by Italian standards. For antipasti she had prepared scallops in a saffron and vanilla sauce and cuttle fish with a black cream – Aunt Giovanna’s favourite. The two stuffed pasta dishes – a meaty ravioli alla Genovese, and pansòuti, filled with fresh herbs, garlic and crushed walnuts – had gone down rather well and nicely prepared the way for the secondi – a layered filo tart with ricotta, plus a traditional braised rabbit dish in a sauce of white wine and fresh capers that was another favourite of her aunt’s. The dessert was a traditional Ligurian lemon cake with candles, accompanied by Elene’s own limoncino – what else could it be?

  She sipped the citrus liqueur, felt the heat in her throat as she swallowed. There was one person missing, of course – so often, there was one person missing.

  And whose fault was that? Their table was tucked away in the far reaches of the Cloisters Restaurant, leaving the courtyard free for their guests, being looked after tonight by Emanuele and the others. Elene’s mother Chiara was sitting next to Aunt Giovanna; opposite her – dark eyes shining – was Isabella. Silvio and Elene sat opposite one another, Elene as always nearest to the kitchen, so she could nip in and out as necessary to attend to the food. Not that she minded. Cooking was, perhaps, the most important thing in her life – after her family, she supposed. Of course, she loved her daughter Isabella – Elene smiled as she tuned in to Bella’s latest story about a demanding hotel guest who had categorically stated that their high quality Egyptian cotton sheets were not sufficiently soft on the skin, and that the view from their window was slightly obscured by an open parasol on the terrace below.

  ‘So, what did you tell them?’ she asked Isabella.

  Her daughter gave a theatrical roll of the eyes. ‘I showed them the label on the sheets – no one was going to argue with that level of luxury. And I pointed out – diplomatically – that the yellow of the parasol perfectly matched the lemons on our tree.’

  They all laughed. ‘Perfect!’ Elene’s mother clapped her hands, then looked for a moment towards the olive grove as if something was distracting her, or as if she was looking for someone perhaps. It wouldn’t be Papà though. When had her mother ever looked for Papà? She was far too independent, too self-sufficient. So no wonder he went off to Pisa to attend to his business there. No wonder that he missed family celebrations, birthdays like this one. When had he ever been made to feel wanted?

  Not that Aunt Giovanna was a blood relation, so not truly family. But she had been so close to Elene’s grandparents to make her as good as. She had lost her own parents when still very young, soon after the war apparently, and so had gone to live at the convent with the few remaining nuns. When they left, when Elene’s grandparents bought L’Attico Convento and vowed to do it up, to make it into a very special sort of hotel, it was only natural that Giovanna would be part of the arrangement. Since that day she had lived in her own cottage in the grounds – independent, but part of their family for sure.

  ‘And did you also point out the significance of that lemon tree, my dear?’ Giovanna’s faded brown eyes twinkled. She still had a hearty appetite and had managed to have a taste of everything on the table. Elene was satisfied – the birthday dinner had been a success. And as for
her family – of course, she loved every one of them. It was just that sometimes she felt excluded, undervalued, that was all.

  ‘I did. I explained that it is iconic. Its fruit enables Mamma to make her limoncino and her Ligurian lemon cake after all.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Silvio rubbed his stomach appreciatively. ‘And very good they were too.’

  ‘Exactly, Papà.’ Isabella leaned over to pour him another small glass. ‘We are The Lemon Tree.’

  ‘Perhaps we are booked up too far in advance to even worry about such awkward guests?’ Elene suggested. She pushed her plate away. Who really cared if they didn’t come back? Not that she had anything to do with the guests, the bookings, or the way the hotel was run . . . She bit back the sense of grievance that never seemed far away. But she listened to conversations her mother and her daughter seemed to have at every opportunity – consulting constantly about the hotel, the rooms, the staff, the advertising, everything else under the sun. Elene knew they ran a successful business. Which was why, after what Isabella had told them . . . She sneaked a glance at Silvio, her husband, her supporter, perhaps also her best friend. It was time for them to think about making some big changes around here.

  ‘We always have to worry about awkward guests,’ her mother was saying now. Come to think of it, she had not eaten as much as usual. Elene frowned. ‘If it’s not the bed linen or the view it will be the windows being too stiff to open or a speck of dust discovered on a bedside table.’

  They all laughed again.

  ‘But not the food, Mamma,’ Isabella added diplomatically.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Chiara’s smile was breezy. ‘Of course, never the food.’

  ‘But how things have changed, my dears.’ Aunt Giovanna’s smile was wistful.

  ‘For the good, Aunt?’ Elene knew that life had never been easy for the inhabitants of the Cinque Terre – not even before the war, when steep slopes had been terraced to make the vineyards and olive groves – back-breaking work in near-impossible conditions, some might say. When men had fished for anchovies and other seafood, but had relied on the olives for their living. Their people had been focused on survival back then – not on tourism and the continual stream of visitors whom they now had to keep happy. It was enough that they grew and caught enough to live on. But who could blame them when they saw the glimmer of light provided by people who found the area so beautiful they wanted to spend their vacations here? The Ligurians knew already that Vernazza and the other villages were tiny and precious jewels in the crown of the Levante. Couldn’t they then use their land in a new way? Couldn’t they celebrate their good fortune at having been born in such a glorious landscape rather than struggle to make that landscape provide them with a meagre living? Anyone could see how it must have been.

  ‘Mostly for the good,’ Giovanna conceded. She took a small sip of her limoncino. ‘But may I say that I am relieved I am so very old . . .’

  There were groans and shouts around the table at this remark. No one knew Giovanna’s exact age – though she must be eighty-three or eighty-four years old today, Elene guessed.

  ‘Not to have to witness what might happen next.’

  What might happen next. For a moment there was silence around the table.

  Elene glanced across at Silvio, who gave her a little nod. It’s all right, he seemed to say, she cannot know what we are thinking of.

  And he was right. They might not have the strongest marriage in the world – Elene would readily admit that she had married Silvio because he was reliable and hard-working, and because he clearly adored her. But they were on the same wavelength, as it were, they wanted the same things – for themselves, for their daughter Isabella, for future generations who hopefully would continue to run The Lemon Tree Hotel.

  ‘But we will do all we can to keep things as they are now,’ Chiara was saying staunchly, as if to reassure Giovanna – and perhaps herself. She was such a traditionalist, so stuck in her ways.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Isabella was raising her glass of lemon liqueur.

  Elene tutted. It came out louder than she had anticipated. She saw her mother frown.

  ‘What, Mamma?’ Isabella was waiting, still smiling.

  Again, Elene glanced at Silvio. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘To The Lemon Tree Hotel.’ She raised her own glass.

  ‘And the peace and tranquillity it provides for our guests,’ Isabella added.

  Elene met Silvio’s eyes yet again. And to our plans, he seemed to say. When the time is right – at last – for things to change.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chiara

  In the end, Chiara didn’t get around to talking to Elene about the week’s menus until the following day. She had been faintly relieved when the family dinner was over, and when Silvio offered to take a tired Giovanna back to her cottage so that she could retire for the night. Chiara wanted to rest too, but more than that, she wanted to be alone. She was still distracted, still not sure what – or who – she had seen. Although she had checked the hotel register yesterday, there was something still bothering her.

  She headed for the swing doors that led to the kitchen with her customary slight trepidation – for it was a place that was very much her daughter Elene’s domain.

  ‘Mamma.’ Her daughter greeted her with a cool nod. ‘The menu is on the table.’

  ‘Good morning, Elene.’ Chiara sat down, picked up the menu and ran her eye over the list of dishes written in her daughter’s neat and precise hand. Many guests liked to have dinner at the hotel, so they ensured there was a good choice, while keeping the small bill of fare both fresh and manageable for Elene and her team.

  ‘It all looks wonderful as usual, my dear.’ Chiara was aware that she sounded appeasing. It was an integral part of the relationship pattern she played out with her daughter. She was always apologising – but for what? The wrongs of the past? At any rate, determined not to cause further upset, she avoided treading on conversational eggshells – which was, quite frankly, exhausting. Whilst Elene . . . Allora. Who knew what went on inside that head of hers?

  ‘You don’t want to change anything?’ Elene shot her a look of disbelief.

  ‘Let me think.’ Chiara frowned, shifted her weight and looked more closely. She was still preoccupied; she was finding it harder than usual to focus. ‘Perhaps the antipasto on Tuesday . . .’ She ran a fingertip down Elene’s list.

  ‘Yes?’ Her daughter let out the smallest of sighs.

  ‘Wednesday might be better for the mozzarella caprese – because—’

  ‘Of the market, yes, I know, I have thought of that, naturally. I have plenty, and certo, it will stay fresh, but—’

  ‘Allora, well then, fine.’ She glanced at her daughter’s face, which was inscrutable as ever. Sometimes Chiara wondered if she was testing her. Elene knew as well as she did what they could get hold of and when. There weren’t many roads that led into the villages of the Cinque Terre; residents and restaurants alike must organise their culinary needs accordingly. There was a poor excuse of a track up to the hotel, which was easily negotiable in an Ape – the practical three-wheeled truck that was really just a Vespa with a cart on the back – still used in these parts. But to make things simple they collected most of their fresh food from the village, particularly on market day, although they still grew much of their own vegetables and fruit, and Giovanna still looked after the chickens in the coop next to her cottage in the grounds. Living on a mountainside had both its advantages and its problems – both undisputed. But Elene was a creative cook, and a good one. Chiara quite liked it when her daughter forgot to be practical.

  Elene swapped the antipasti around with a double-edged arrow and refrained from further comment.

  ‘The rest is perfect,’ Chiara said quickly. She wondered as she often did where she had gone wrong with Elene – how things between them had become so strained. Where was the easiness that characterised her relationship with her granddaughter, for example: the love and laughter? Had it started wi
th that painful birth, that feeling of being so literally ripped apart by this small being that she couldn’t face another pregnancy? Or had it begun even earlier perhaps? Had it started when she married Alonzo?

  The wrong man. Chiara watched her daughter as she plucked her white chef’s apron from the peg and wrapped it around her slim waist. Elene wore that apron like armour. In the kitchen, she was in charge, and they all respected that. But Chiara knew that she wanted to make changes to The Lemon Tree too, and that was where Chiara drew the line.

  Elene had been left to her own devices as a child – was that the reason why? – and she’d taken to running to the kitchen almost as soon as she could run anywhere. Chiara thought of her mother; it must be in the genes. She remembered how grateful she’d been at first. How hard she had worked to get things right after the death of her parents – and with very little help from Alonzo, it must be said.

  ‘It is your hotel,’ he had remarked when she questioned his frequent trips away, his obvious lack of interest. ‘It will always be your hotel.’ And since Chiara knew this to be true, she hadn’t pursued the subject. Let Alonzo disappear off to Pisa, to his apartments and his wheeling and dealing. She could run The Lemon Tree alone – why not?

  But now, Chiara wondered about the repercussions. Could she have given Elene more attention? Perhaps. But she was always so busy in those days. The hotel – much as she loved it – often seemed like a greedy child itself, dragging her attention back to it whenever she showed any sign of taking time out. And if she were truly honest, she had relished the challenge of it, she had almost resented those times when she’d had to look after her daughter and been unable to focus fully on the problems and practicalities of running an increasingly busy enterprise. She’d loved Elene – naturally, she had loved her. She had done her best for her. But Chiara was a woman who needed more than child-rearing to satisfy her – that was something she could not deny. While Alonzo . . . She truly believed that he too loved his daughter; he was always ready with an affectionate hug when he came home, he always took Elene’s side when there were disagreements – the matter of Elene’s marriage to Silvio came to mind – he was not a bad father, no indeed. It was just that he had often been an absent one.