by Rosanna Ley
‘If you ever feel you don’t want to stay at the hotel,’ he had told her once when she admitted to feeling particularly disgruntled, ‘come to me first, OK?’
‘Mamma would kill me,’ Elene had told him.
And his face had darkened. ‘Mamma will have to understand.’
She never had though – the truth was that Elene loved The Lemon Tree as much as her mother did – but it was nice to know that she had a choice.
She nodded her approval as Ghita assembled the ingredients for the sauce – more garlic, parsley, white wine, and tomatoes. The stuffed mussels would simmer in this for about thirty minutes before service.
Elene wiped her hands on her apron. The irony being that her mother had got what she wanted in Isabella. Isabella had never wanted to run to the kitchen as Elene had done when she was a girl with busy parents and left very much to her own devices. Isabella liked to deal with the guests; she wanted to talk to people, she was good at managing things, and her business and technology skills ensured that she could keep the hotel running smoothly. She was only twenty, but she already possessed a natural authority similar to her grandmother’s. She was cut from the same cloth as Chiara; they understood each other without even trying.
And so. Elene sighed. She tasted the sauce, which was bubbling nicely, and added just a touch more salt. Elene made her contribution to the running of the hotel, of course. She was appreciated – to some extent. But she was made to feel somehow not quite as indispensable to the continuing success of The Lemon Tree Hotel as her mother and her daughter were. And whenever she or Silvio dared to suggest any changes . . . her mother and Isabella closed ranks. Elene simply didn’t understand their stubbornness. Just because the hotel had once been a convent – why should that mean it must always make a nod to its past life? Why not restructure the building, build an extension or two? Why not add a few touches of luxury that would bring in the guests who had money? They could afford it, and it would be a good investment for the future.
‘I want the hotel to retain its tranquillity,’ her mother had said when they had last talked of the matter. ‘That’s vital. The shape, the structure of the building, the history of the convent . . .’
‘Is part of its integrity,’ Isabella had added. ‘Whatever we do, we shouldn’t compromise on that.’
‘I agree.’ And they had shared a conspiratorial look.
‘But you’re both businesswomen.’ Elene was exasperated. ‘Surely you can see that we can bring in more money if we update things a little?’
‘It’s not all about money, Mamma,’ Isabella had said, making Elene feel like an avaricious skinflint.
‘I know.’
‘It’s about the hotel being accessible for people who need it.’ Her mother had always pushed this idea as if The Lemon Tree Hotel was some sort of spiritual retreat.
‘But in the meantime, we get left behind.’ This was Silvio, putting in his contribution. ‘Five-star hotels need to have five-star facilities.’ He was always loyal to Elene, but sometimes she wondered if that was all it was. Her mother clearly thought so.
‘We don’t need to be a five-star hotel in order to attract visitors.’ She seemed to be looking down on the very idea of such a notion. ‘And we won’t get left behind.’ Allora. Once again, the matter was closed.
‘Do what you like then. I’ll just get on with the cooking.’ Elene knew she was being childish, but, what the hell, she felt childish. She had no part in the decision-making around here, and this just proved it.
Elene had already made her trofie pasta and prepared the pesto. As all Italians knew, it was necessary for pasta and sauce to marry; the pasta must be perfect for the sauce. In this case, the ribbed twisty spirals of Ligurian trofie were able to pick up the delicacy and fine consistency of the fragrant pesto to perfection, so that the full experience was in every bite. Elene liked to prepare her dish with blanched green beans and basil that was young and fresh, but she didn’t add potatoes and she had her own way of using the pestle and mortar with the salt and basil to coax the flavour from the young leaves – this was why it was a dish she felt unable to delegate to any of her assistants.
It wasn’t only the comfort of food that had pulled Elene into the kitchen when she was a girl; it was also Marcello the chef. Whilst her parents often seemed tense and anxious, whilst the atmosphere in their rooms was too often rather like the one you get before a storm . . . Marcello had been free and easy. He was a great bear of a man; a burst of loud laughter or a hug was never far away.
‘There you are, little one,’ he would roar as if her seven-year-old presence was somehow necessary to his delicately flavoured Ligurian prawns or his famous salsa di noci, walnut sauce. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. And so . . . allora.’ He would put his head to one side and watch her. ‘What shall we prepare today, hmm?’
She never considered at the time that he was teaching her. He made her feel wanted, that was all, and the kitchen soon became her favourite place to be. But as months and then years went by, Elene realised that she could prepare a ragù with the necessary layers of flavour, that her sauces were as glossy as required, and that her panna cotta had what Marcello referred to as the ‘perfect wobble’.
It made her feel good. It was a release. People’s reactions to her food warmed her belly and her heart. This was something she could do. This was something in which she could excel and be proud of. Even her mother – who had never been free with her praise – raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and remarked on Elene’s skills. ‘You are an excellent chef, Elene, so maybe . . .’ Elene knew the way her mother’s mind was working. The hotel, she was always thinking of the hotel. Maybe it didn’t matter that Elene had no interest in the business side of things. Maybe she could do what her grandmother had done and make her contribution that way? Her words made Elene feel both happy and resentful. It made her want to cook both less and more. When she was young, her thoughts about her mother always seemed to have this ambivalence.
They still did. Was Chiara a bad mother? No. Was Elene a bad daughter? Perhaps. Living in the same building, working towards the same ends should have brought them closer. But it had only served to make the distance between them grow.
Even so. Silvio was probably right about this thing that was bothering her – she was letting her imagination run right away. Her parents had never been love’s young dream, and they had never pretended to be, but that didn’t mean they weren’t solidly attached. They were a unit. They were her parents. They belonged together. Spending so much time apart might even make them closer in the end. They always spoke nicely to one another, they seemed concerned about one another’s welfare and she’d never even heard them argue. Perhaps it was all a bit too polite to be true. But Elene had no real reason to doubt them. They had been together for ever – very few couples went around holding hands all the time after almost forty years, and if their closeness wasn’t always apparent, well . . . No, she was glad now that Silvio had persuaded her not to make that call to Papà – why bother him unnecessarily? And this unsettled feeling – no doubt it was down to something else entirely.
She glanced at her watch. It was time for a short break before things got a bit hotter around here and she decided to pop back to her room for a quick freshen-up. They could manage without her for now. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ she called.
She pushed open the swing doors of la cucina just in time to see her mother turn to speak to this old friend of hers. They were standing just beyond reception in the arched doorway that led to the bar. But Chiara didn’t just speak, she laughed in a soft and intimate way that set Elene’s teeth on edge, her nerves jangling. And the man – this Dante Bianchi or Rossi or whatever he was called – put a hand on her mother’s arm and bent closer to whisper something in her ear. Elene stood by the swing doors, waiting for her mother to step away in that gracious way she had when a guest got too close but she didn’t want to cause offence – Elene had seen her do it hundreds of times.
Only, she didn’t. She reached up to the lapel of his jacket and she brushed away a speck of dust.
And that was it. That told Elene everything she needed to know. People could pretend all they liked, but there was no mistaking the intimacy of that simple gesture. Mother of God, it was worse even than she had thought. What might it lead to? Indeed – what had it led to already? What could she do? There was only person who could stop this.
Elene slipped back into the kitchen and she reached for her phone.
CHAPTER 13
Chiara
Dante had somehow persuaded Chiara to have dinner with him.
It was against her better judgement. She had spent the last few days shifting between trying to avoid him and wanting to catch sight of him more than anything. ‘I’m on the desk until seven,’ was her first excuse. Even she found it weak.
‘I can wait.’
‘And my family . . .’
He raised a questioning eyebrow. Who is the boss around here, he seemed to be saying. And he was right. But: ‘We could go somewhere else?’ So clearly, he understood her reservations.
‘Allora . . .’ She weighed up the options.
‘It’s only dinner I am proposing, cara. And it is my last night.’
‘Oh.’ She tried not to feel upset about this, at least not to allow her emotions to show on her face – Dante was all too good at reading them. And certo, he was leaving. Why wouldn’t he be leaving? His life was not here in Italy – it hadn’t been for years. She swallowed hard. She wanted to experience every last minute with him that she could, she realised. ‘In that case, it seems churlish to refuse.’
‘And where would you like to go?’ There was just a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. ‘Here, or . . .’
Chiara looked away. ‘Here is fine.’ At least she would be showing that she had nothing to hide. At least there would be no temptation – to get too close. She repressed a small shiver. How was it that he had this effect on her still?
Once again, she dressed with care – this time in a forest-green dress that she knew complemented her hair and eyes, high-heeled sandals that she hadn’t worn for years, and with her favourite gold necklace, given to her by her parents, at her throat. Elene might see them dining together, but what did it matter now? He was leaving tomorrow.
What would have happened if Alonzo had been here these past few days, she wondered, as she clipped the necklace into place. Would he have accepted Dante’s initial invitation for them both to have a drink with him? Hardly. He had always been jealous of Dante. He knew of his existence – Chiara had been foolish enough to mention their brief liaison and how she’d once felt about him, when Alonzo had made his first declaration.
‘You still think of him now?’ His brow had furrowed.
Chiara had reacted quickly enough. ‘No, not now,’ she had lied. ‘It was almost two years ago.’
But . . . Somehow, Alonzo had seemed to know that he was second best, that he was not Chiara’s true choice, that this was more a marriage of duty and obligation than of love. ‘I will make you love me,’ he had vowed, fists clenched.
Back then, Chiara had prayed that he could. Now, she knew that he could not.
Stilling her nerves, Chiara checked her appearance in the mirror, gave a little sigh – oh well, she would never be young again – and went down the stairs to meet Dante.
Halfway down, she almost bumped right into their young German guest the Signor Bauer. ‘Signore.’
‘Excuse me. Signora.’ He had a charming smile. She watched him go on up the stairs, lean and bursting with energy. She hoped she was wrong about his reasons for being here, but after what Isabella had told her . . . she had her doubts. She had noticed the way Isabella’s eyes lit up when she saw him – it was almost impossible not to – and then when her granddaughter had told Chiara about the encounter with Giovanna . . . She’d had to say something. She had a protective role to play where both Giovanna and Isabella were concerned. No one was ever going to hurt them – not if Chiara had anything to do with it.
She paused on the bottom step, hand on the curved oak banister, opposite Luca Bordoni’s painting of the Archangel Gabriel in the niche, the white candle already lit. She could see Dante from this vantage point, about to go through the archway into the Cloisters Bar, cutting a rather fine figure in his navy suit and a dusky pink shirt, the silver in his greying hair illuminated by the glass lamp above. As she watched him, he turned and saw her, held her gaze. Oh, Dante, she thought. She had given herself away.
She crossed the black-and-white tiles of the foyer and he came to meet her. He kissed her hand.
‘Ciao, Dante.’ She forced a lightness into her voice.
He leaned closer and whispered into her hair. ‘Ciao, Chiara. You are looking especially beautiful tonight.’
Chiara gave a little laugh. She wondered if some men continued to pay their wives extravagant compliments long after they were married, or if she was just unlucky in this respect. It was meaningless, of course, she reminded herself sternly, quelling the blush that she knew would be staining her cheeks. He was merely being polite, just doing what Italian men would always do best.
To distract them both, she brushed a speck of dust from the lapel of his jacket and then was immediately embarrassed at the intimacy of the act. It was the kind of thing a woman might do if the man were her husband or her lover, not simply an old friend.
But Dante just smiled and thanked her. Mamma mia . . . Nothing was simple. How could it be when she still felt so open to him, with every look, every smile? The past: it seemed to crouch behind her shoulder, leaping out to confront her at every opportunity.
The tables in the Cloisters Restaurant were laid with white damask cloths, gleaming cutlery, and elegant glasses. In the centre of each was a tiny vase of flowers cut from the flower patch by the herb garden at the back of the hotel. Chiara nodded her approval. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Some of the other tables were already occupied, but Chiara had reserved her favourite, slightly tucked away but with a good view of the courtyard. She nodded a greeting to the other diners, most of whom she recognised. There was an American family with two young children who were chatting animatedly – Chiara noticed that Emanuele had put them at the far end of the Cloisters Restaurant, where they would disturb the fewest number of people. A young Australian couple she’d taken rather a shine to, who were hiking the entire Sentiero Azzurro Cinque Terre trail, were drinking Aperol spritzes and gazing into one another’s eyes, and the Signoras Veroni who came here every year from Milan were both studying the menu intently. Chiara wasn’t fooled though, they didn’t a miss a thing. One gave her a smile and the other signora – the one who was apparently looking for a husband when she came here every year – actually winked. Oh, dear.
Over the antipasto, she and Dante chatted about The Lemon Tree and the future of the hotel, and Chiara found herself telling him about Elene and Silvio’s wish to make it more exclusive.
‘More exclusive?’ he teased.
‘This is the Cinque Terre,’ she reminded him. Though as she glanced out at the darkening courtyard, the grey stone flags lit by the golden lamps, the wrought-iron furniture casting its knotty shadows, the lemon tree shimmering gently in the moonlight, she couldn’t help but agree.
‘And?’
She cut a piece of the squid terrine and popped it into her mouth. Elene’s antipasti were always delicious. ‘You can see for yourself how the area has changed.’ Like Chiara, he had grown up in this region where people still made their living from fishing or from their olive groves and vineyards built into the terraced hillsides. Time was when you could go down to the harbour and catch a netful of anchovies in minutes and the rest of the fishing was done by lampare – night trawling with lamps – along the sea beds near the five villages. They weren’t rich in the material sense of the word, but it was a good and simple life – at least, until the price of olive oil plummeted, until factories g
rew up in nearby towns, until their rural lives threatened to change.
With more and more people visiting the area, and tourism promising to give financial security back to the region, what the family possessed in The Lemon Tree Hotel up on the hillside was a valuable slice of history; a place of peace, protected from the crazy bustle of the five villages. Authenticity. Ah, yes. A lot of tourists expected lobster, but in Vernazza most restaurants had stuck to their traditions, and The Lemon Tree was the same. What was traditional and what could be found on their own doorstep was not only authentic to the region but delicious too. And Chiara hoped that would never change.
She paused as Rosalie, their waitress, appeared to clear away their antipasti.
When she had done this, Dante leaned towards Chiara, chin cupped in his hands. ‘And exactly how would they like to change things?’
‘Allora . . .’ She began to speak, but the pasta course appeared before she had the chance to go on. The perfumed fragrance of the pesto was heady. Chiara speared one of the delicate trofie and took a taste. It was delicious. Once again, Elene had excelled.
Where to begin? ‘They’d renovate all the rooms. Add more contemporary furniture.’ Elene had even mentioned giving each room a theme. Chiara shuddered. Who knew where that might lead? ‘They would make everything about the hotel more luxurious and less traditional. She – they – would like it to be less reminiscent of . . .’
‘A convent?’
‘Exactly.’ She told him about Elene and Silvio’s other suggestions: the infinity pool and hot tub (both of which she found unspeakably pretentious), the spa centre in a new extension (was that really necessary?), the rooftop terrace, which admittedly would have a glorious view, the pool bar (which sounded too tacky for words) . . . Chiara had already agreed to a piano in the cloisters; she could imagine a laid-back jazz evening creating a relaxing atmosphere for their guests, or gentle piano music serenading their diners, but as for the rest of it . . .