by Rosanna Ley
Chiara had the urge to giggle. Had he always had that serious manner? In a way, yes. She only had to recall that last night in the olive grove (though she should not think of that now). He had certainly been serious when he proposed that they run away together. What would have happened if . . .
More dangerous territory. She held on to the handrail as the dusty path wove higher past the lemon trees, pines and figs. There were pine needles on the stone steps now and she could smell the scent – both sweet and bitter drifting on the breeze. Although the path was steep, Chiara was relieved that Dante didn’t take her arm. She’d been climbing this path since she was a girl and too much bodily contact would bring that ‘what if’ far too close to the forefront of her mind.
‘I do not blame you for choosing to stay in such a beautiful place,’ Dante said as they approached the side entrance to the hotel via the wrought-iron gate and the gravel pathway that snaked through the olive grove.
‘It wasn’t that. At least it wasn’t only that.’ Chiara had not meant to say this – somehow it had just come out of her mouth. They had entered the olive grove now and the place was dense with memories.
‘Chiara.’ He breathed her name and she felt her knees almost buckle. They both stopped walking. For the love of God . . .
‘What is it?’ She forced the words out with some difficulty.
‘I should explain.’
‘There’s really no need.’ She tried to carry on walking, but he caught her arm. She paused.
‘When I came back to Corniglia for my mother’s funeral, I wanted to see you, of course.’ He took her hands. ‘I need you to know that.’
‘But I was married,’ she said.
‘Yes, and I could not disrupt that – even if I had had the power to.’
And what about now? She stared at him, taking in the shape of his face, his mouth, the lines of laughter and worry perhaps that had never been there before. He had always been attractive, but he had been a boy. Now, as a mature man he was having exactly the same effect on her. Did he not think he could disrupt her life now? Was he not trying to do just that?
‘It was too painful for me to come to Vernazza,’ he admitted, and she could see the old grief still written there on his face. She took her hand from his and traced a pathway along his cheek with her fingertips. This man . . .
‘I was already grieving for my mother, there were already so many regrets . . .’
‘You could not take any more.’ Chiara understood.
‘Exactly.’
‘And now?’ She hesitated to ask this. But here they were in the olive grove, the late afternoon sun glinting through the silvery green trees and gnarled twisty branches. The ancient olives surrounded them with their aura of peace and wisdom. It was their place, had always been their place.
‘Now, so many years have passed that I thought we were safe.’ Their eyes met.
Were they safe? Chiara knew that this spark between them could so quickly be fanned into a flame – yes, even at their age, even after all this time. For it had never gone away and it seemed to be a part of them. He was already holding her hand. All she had to do was move a little closer.
But she could not do it. How could she do it? What about Alonzo, Elene, Isabella? There was still the hotel, always the hotel. There was simply too much to lose. Dante had made his life in England, and it was a successful life. Chiara could not leave Italy. And she was married, for God’s sake, she was still married, albeit to a man she did not love.
‘Dante . . .’ Almost, she could not speak his name, when once she had whispered it over and over before going to sleep at night. She couldn’t look at him, not at this moment. But she could feel him here, close as ever.
‘You tell me you are fine.’ He turned and put his hands on her shoulders just as he had before, reminding her of his touch, his kiss. ‘And I want that.’
She waited.
‘But can you truly tell me that you are happy?’
At his words, she felt a sudden and overwhelming sadness flood over her. And yet she had so many things to be thankful for.
‘I saw your face, Chiara,’ he said. ‘When you were swimming in the ocean. And you looked so sad. I would hate for you to be sad.’
‘I have so many things to be thankful for,’ she repeated aloud. ‘I have almost everything I ever wanted.’
‘Almost?’ he echoed.
She bowed her head. Sometimes there was simply too much to say.
CHAPTER 11
Elene
Elene was getting ready for bed. She had a fixed routine – as she did for most things. She brushed her hair and clipped it back. She cleansed and moisturised her face, and then she flossed and cleaned her teeth. She could hear Silvio in the bedroom, whistling, which she was finding profoundly irritating. Whistling suggested that all was well with the world, and this was simply not the case. Something was very wrong.
Because of the whistling, Elene found herself glaring at her husband as she returned to their bedroom to undress. What did he have to be so cheerful about? Had he even seen them? Elene certainly had. Her mother and this man – a guest of their hotel apparently – had been practically holding hands that night she spotted them in the bar. Then when she happened to look out of the window yesterday afternoon, she’d seen them in the olive grove, talking and looking very serious. What was going on? What was her mother up to? Who was he? It was both odd and unsettling.
‘What’s wrong, my love?’
Elene shot him a surprised glance. Like most men he tended to take a rather simplistic view of things and so she was always surprised at these rare moments of perception. Perhaps she should tell him – get a man’s point of view on the matter? ‘It’s Mamma.’
He frowned. ‘Is she ill?’
The opposite, thought Elene. She looked almost unreasonably well. ‘No.’ In one fluid movement, she pulled off the sleeveless shift dress she liked to wear under her chef’s apron while she was working. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
Elene knew he was looking at her body. She was never quite sure whether she liked this or not. ‘There’s someone staying here at the hotel, a man called Dante Rossi, though Isabella said he checked in as Signor Bianchi, which is a bit suspicious for a start.’
‘Hmm.’ Silvio was lounging on the bed still fully dressed. He folded his arms behind his head. ‘Why would he give a false name?’
Precisely. ‘Mamma knows him. She says he’s an old friend.’ Though Elene had not been impressed by that casual performance in the kitchen. It had been far too glib.
Silvio nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s nice,’ he said.
Elene shot him a despairing glance. He seemed to have entirely missed the point. ‘I’ve seen them together a few times,’ she said. ‘Laughing over some joke, talking together in an . . .’ she hesitated ‘. . . intimate way.’
He shrugged. ‘What’s wrong with that if he is an old friend?’
Elene sighed. As she’d thought – simplistic to the core. ‘It’s the way they are doing it,’ she said. Shouldn’t that be obvious? ‘It’s the look she gives him.’
‘The look?’
She shot him a flirtatious smile. It was called spelling it out.
‘Ah.’ He reached out to grab her waist and she slapped his hands away. To the core, she thought again.
‘And it’s more than that.’ It was the unexpected light in Chiara’s eyes. Her mother looked younger suddenly, less harassed. Elene didn’t like it, not at all. What would her father say?
‘More, eh?’ Silvio got up, took off his shirt and threw it across the back of a chair. ‘Lucky guy. Maybe she does fancy him then.’ He flexed his muscles.
‘Silvio!’ Really, he was not taking this remotely seriously.
‘Allora, why not? Maybe she finds him attractive. What’s wrong with finding a man attractive?’ He sidled up closer to her again.
Elene snorted. ‘You’re my husband,’ she reminded him sternly.
>
‘I’m glad you realise that, my love.’ He slipped one of the narrow silk straps down over her shoulder.
‘The point being that he is not my mother’s husband.’ She pulled the strap back into place. And if Silvio couldn’t see the difference, then he was more stupid than she had thought. Although he wasn’t, of course. He was practical, reliable and intelligent. He supported her, they were friends and their relationship was contented enough. He was everything she wanted. Wasn’t he?
When Silvio Lombardi had first started paying attention to Elene, back in the day, she had been flattered – few of the other boys from the village had bothered; she was too quiet, she found the banter wearing and frankly a waste of time. She put her nose in the air and ignored them and she wouldn’t care if they called her stuck-up and superior (which they did). Silvio didn’t though. Silvio came up to the hotel and asked her to go to La Spezia or to Monterosso al Mare with him at the weekend. Silvio brought her gifts – once, a bottle of olive oil from his uncle’s land, once a special balsamic that his mother swore by. Right from the start, he knew what kind of presents Elene would appreciate. He picked wild flowers and gave her little posies and bracelets plaited from wild grasses; he pursued her with a single-minded loyalty that both touched and moved her. It was the kind of love she’d never had.
‘Something is definitely up.’ Elene climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. ‘I don’t like it,’ she said again. ‘Especially with Papà away.’
Silvio raised his dark eyebrows. ‘My love, your papà is nearly always away.’
Elene turned from him, burrowing her head further into the soft comfort of the pillow. She knew that this was true enough. But who could blame him? Elene’s mother had always made it perfectly clear that The Lemon Tree Hotel belonged to her and to the women of the family. She loved this place probably more than she loved any of them – except perhaps Isabella. With this thought came the unavoidable twinge of jealousy. Elene loved her daughter too – of course, she did. But when she saw her mother and Isabella together, when she saw the easy affection between them, she sensed that it was something she would never share. Those two were just on the same wavelength somehow.
‘You mustn’t worry, Elene.’ She felt Silvio climb into bed next to her. ‘Your mother can look after herself.’
She knew that all right. ‘Yes, yes.’ But what about her father? He certainly wouldn’t like it. Elene rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘And you don’t think there is any funny business going on?’
‘No way. Your mother, she is not like that. I am sure of it, my love.’ He kissed her shoulder.
She glanced across at him. ‘I don’t know why you defend her.’ After all, her mother had never exactly been Silvio’s greatest fan. She bossed him around as if he were of little importance in the grand scheme of things. When Elene had first announced they were going to marry, Mamma had been so patronising, so negative. He wasn’t enough for her, that was why. Her mother didn’t value his qualities of honesty and integrity; she didn’t realise how important it was for Elene to be loved. Papà though – he had realised, he had given his support. Because although he wasn’t around much – had never been around much – Elene knew that her father loved her. And she loved him too. Her love for him was uncomplicated, never fraught with sensitivities, jealousies and criticisms – imagined or not.
And Silvio? Elene bit her lip. She was fond of Silvio and she could not imagine her life without him, no indeed. But had she ever loved him as he loved her? No – not even in the early days. So? Was that so wrong? No, it was not wrong, it was sensible, that was all. That was how to avoid getting hurt. Things were safer that way.
‘I defend her because she is your mother,’ Silvio said mildly. ‘She is not so bad as employers go.’ He was propped up on his elbow looking at her. ‘And I also defend her because sometimes, my love, you attack her with no reason.’
‘Attack?’ Elene stared at him. It was a strong word to use. ‘And with no reason?’
‘Allora . . .’ Silvio looked doubtful at this point.
That was it. ‘I will phone Papà.’ Elene began to scramble out of bed. ‘He really should know what is going on around here.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘No, Elene.’ He caught her arm in his powerful grip. It was so rare for him to say this to her that Elene blinked at him and for a moment, she was still.
But not for long. ‘Why shouldn’t I phone my own father?’ She was angry now – with Silvio and with her mother too.
‘Because it is your mother’s business and you shouldn’t interfere.’ His voice was soft but unusually authoritative.
‘What is it to you, Silvio?’ she snapped, pulling away from him again. ‘What right do you have to tell me what to do? This is my family. Mine. And what have they ever done for you?’ Too late she saw the sadness in his dark eyes, that sadness that never entirely vanished, no matter how much he might enjoy their life together, no matter how often he might whistle.
He sat up in bed, but let her go. And now she didn’t want to go anywhere. She felt awful.
‘They have given me my living,’ he said. ‘They have given me my wife. But you are right.’ His voice changed. ‘It is nothing to do with me. I am only your husband. I just hate to see you eaten up like this.’
‘I’m not eaten up.’ She stayed sitting on the side of the bed. Suddenly she felt like crying.
He put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around to face him. ‘We have each other, Elene,’ he said.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘I love you, you know that.’
‘Sì.’ She did know that. It was the one thing she was always sure of, little though she did to deserve it.
‘I only wish that was enough for you.’
She lifted her face and stared at him. Oh, Silvio . . .
‘Don’t phone your father – that’s my advice.’ He opened his arms and she crept inside his embrace. Together they lay back on the bed, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, her favourite place, the place she would always feel safe. And as for her mother and this Dante Rossi . . . She would decide what to do tomorrow.
CHAPTER 12
Elene
Elene was still brooding about the conversation she’d had with Silvio the previous evening as she moved in her accustomed manner around the kitchen, checking that the necessary preparation had been done, that every dish needed only twenty minutes or so to be ready to go. She had three helpers in the kitchen tonight: Ghita, Febe and Raphael, all practised and capable and used to her methods. Elene knew that she was exacting. Perhaps she cared too much. But it was a matter of pride. Since she was a girl, she had been pulled into this kitchen by its warmth, its comfort, her love of the food produced within: the fragrant tomato sauces cooked with fresh herbs until they possessed a depth that made the palate sing; the trofie with pesto she insisted on still making herself from the freshest ingredients and rich with olive oil, pine nuts and the best Parmigiano; the walnut sauce that her old friend Marcello had made with such love and gusto. The scent of la cucina still intoxicated her – it always had.
Tonight, they were preparing various regional specialities. There were the usual antipasti including anchovies cured in lemon and olive oil and thin slices of squid terrine served with a warm potato salad, while the first courses included her trofie al pesto prepared this morning with fresh basil from the kitchen garden. Pesto might be popular throughout the world, but in her opinion their own small-leafed Ligurian basil, buffeted by sea breezes as it invariably was, was by far the best and most flavoursome. Among the secondi, were muscoli ripieni – stuffed mussels, and cappon magro, an elaborate layered dish made of lobster, sea bass, prawns and anchovies with vegetables – a sort of Ligurian caponata. The food had been prepped and the fish lightly poached. Everything, she decided, was under control.
Silvio was a good man and she should be kinder, she knew.
But he would never understand the complex emotions that surrounded Elene’s relationship with her mother. She wasn’t sure that she understood them herself. Elene checked the mussels that Ghita had prepared earlier, ensuring they were well-cleaned and that all the shell valves were still attached to one another.
As a girl, she had never been badly treated; on the contrary, both her parents had worked hard to ensure she had the best start in life, and when she was younger she knew that her mother expected her to take over the running of the hotel at some point in the future, so that Chiara could step down. The Lemon Tree Hotel was Elene’s legacy, after all, or so she had been given to understand. She discarded a mussel with a broken shell. That one would certainly not do.
Running the hotel was what her mother had done for most of her life, so why not Elene when her turn came? She inspected the filling for the mussels, of which Ghita had also been in charge. As well as mussels, it consisted of garlic, chopped thyme, parsley and marjoram from the kitchen garden. To this, Ghita had added breadcrumbs that had been drenched in milk and then squeezed, Parmigiano, eggs and mortadella. Elene tasted the mixture and added a few more grinds of black pepper. ‘Bene,’ she said. It was good.
And this, it suddenly struck her, was the crux of the problem between them. Her mother had always thought that Elene should do everything just as Chiara had wanted to do it. So, Elene should have looked for the kind of man her mother would have looked for (given the chance; Mamma had always made it clear that she had not been permitted to marry for love – which was pretty tough on poor Papà), Elene should have preferred hotel management and administration to cooking, just as her mother did, Elene should want the hotel to remain unchanged, just as her mother did – an echo of its former self that refused to step into the twenty-first century.
‘You can fill the mussels now,’ Elene told Ghita. ‘And then make the sauce, OK?’ The point being – where was Elene in all this? Where were her wishes, her thoughts, her desires? Nowhere. She might as well not have a mind of her own. Her father on the other hand, whilst being largely absent from her life – more so, as the years went by – encouraged her to follow her own star.