by Rosanna Ley
‘And how much did you have to drink, eh?’
Chiara sat down on the bed. She must take off these shoes. She must regain some balance. She glanced up at him. He seemed to tower over her. He was scaring her. But what right did he have to cross-question her like this? ‘You want to limit my alcohol intake now, is that it?’ she snapped.
‘When you are drinking with an old lover, sì.’ His words were measured.
‘He’s not . . .’ She should tell him that Dante was not an old lover. She should tell him that although they had been in love, they had never made love. They had been so young, they had been together for such a short time. But, she would have. Chiara remembered how she had felt when Dante had come to her in the olive grove at night. How he had kissed her breasts and she had held him so close that he had felt a part of her. It wouldn’t have taken much. One word from him, one of his deep kisses and, regardless of her parents, her age, the morals that had been pounded into her since she could remember – she would have.
‘You don’t have to tell me the details,’ he sneered. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘There is nothing to say.’ Chiara sat up straighter. ‘Nothing happened between us. Besides, we were only children back then. We—’
‘It is written on your face, my love,’ he spat.
Chiara sighed. It was hopeless, she realised. But, ‘Why should you care, Alonzo?’ The wine finally seemed to give her more fire in her belly. ‘It was long before you and I were married.’ She got to her feet and approached him. ‘And now? You are hardly ever here. You don’t tell me anything that is happening in your life. We have a daughter together, and yet we may as well be strangers. You stay in Pisa and who knows what goes on there—’
He slapped her face. Chiara was so shocked that for a moment she felt nothing. Then the sharp sting penetrated her senses. She put her hand to her cheek, stared at him. He had never hit her before, never so much as raised his hand. But then again, she had never defied him like this before, she had never given him reason.
He stared back at her. ‘I apologise.’ But he still looked defiant. ‘It is him – Dante Rossi – I’ve always known you loved him.’ He raised his hand again and she flinched. He sighed. ‘Don’t deny it, Chiara, per favore. I always knew you married me only to please your parents. And so . . .’
‘And so?’ She held her back stiff and upright, her face still smarting from his slap. She could hardly believe that he had done it, and yet her cheek felt swollen and sore under her fingertips.
‘And so, I’ve always hated the bastard.’ He turned again to face her. ‘For God’s sake, tell me, Chiara. What was it he gave you that I could not?’
She lowered her eyes but remained silent. This was her chance to be honest, to be authentic, to be true to herself. But how could she possibly answer that question? ‘Nothing,’ she whispered.
‘I’ve always wondered what would happen if he came back . . .’ And she thought she could hear the fear in his voice.
‘Still – after forty years?’ And yet he was right to be afraid. He had sensed it in her. And perhaps Elene had sensed it too.
‘Even now,’ he confirmed. ‘Seeing you with him, smiling at him, your eyes just glowing . . .’ His voice trailed. ‘Have you ever smiled at me that way?’
In truth, Chiara could not recall. She was deeply ashamed. She should have worked harder at her marriage, she should have ensured that Alonzo never felt second best. But he had always seemed so cold, so distant, even in those early days. She had tried to love him, but there had never seemed to be enough to hold on to. And when he started to go away so much . . . It had become easier to play the part, to pretend that all was well. ‘Then I am sorry too.’ But he shouldn’t have slapped her. He should never have slapped her.
She thought of Dante. How sour the evening had become. How much bitterness could be produced by something that had belonged so firmly in the past? And now?
‘Tomorrow morning, I have a meeting in the city.’ Alonzo spoke almost as if nothing had occurred between them. ‘I would not have returned tonight had it not been for this.’
She nodded. ‘And so you must leave early.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘I will trust that you will not try to see him. That you will stay out of the way until he has left.’
‘Of course,’ she muttered. For God’s sake – she would have a bruise on her face. She wouldn’t want to see anyone tomorrow.
‘The following day I will be back here. I hope we will never have to speak of this again.’
Never speak of it again? Chiara was stunned. She watched him go into the bathroom, heard the tap running as he washed his face, cleaned his teeth, and she continued to watch him as, seemingly oblivious to her, he stripped off his clothes and got ready for bed. At last, feeling weary, she followed suit.
But she lay awake for hours, thinking about what had happened. Alonzo’s property interests in Pisa couldn’t take up so much of his time. So what did he do there? Why did he spend so much time away? She had always assumed he didn’t want to be with her. He was not a demanding man in the bedroom. So perhaps he did have lovers? It wasn’t just a case of being naïve – Chiara had never wanted to know. Their marriage had been unsatisfactory in so many ways. This was just one of them. And now? It seemed that Alonzo’s moment of honesty was over, that he was prepared to continue as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, to go on just as before. Chiara glanced across to the other side of the bed. He was sleeping peacefully, snoring lightly.
Clearly, Alonzo could put it all behind him. She touched her face once more. But the question was – could she?
CHAPTER 15
Isabella
The following morning, Isabella was at the front door of The Lemon Tree Hotel chatting to the Signoras Veroni; the two women of seventy-something almost didn’t seem like guests, they had returned so often.
‘And how is your dear grandmother this morning?’ the taller sister, Antonia, was asking. ‘We were quite concerned . . .’ She fanned herself rather theatrically with the map of Monterosso that she happened to be holding.
‘Concerned?’ Isabella spotted Ferdinand Bauer loitering at the edge of the olive grove. She’d been meaning to catch him. There was something she wanted to ask . . . But she forced her attention back to the two sisters. ‘Why would you be concerned, ladies? I’m sure that Nonna is fine.’ Though, hadn’t she been thinking the exact same thing these past few days? Isabella frowned. Had something happened last night?
‘I’m sure she is, my dear.’ The younger sister, Caprice, caught Antonia’s arm. ‘And we are not the kind of people who gossip, as you know.’
Isabella folded her arms. Ferdinand must be coming from the olive grove towards the hotel otherwise she would have seen him leave the lobby. Where had he been? Down to the village perhaps for an early morning stroll? Or . . . She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. ‘Gossip?’ she echoed. ‘What about?’
Antonia’s old eyes were bright with mischief. ‘We saw her having dinner last night with such a nice man,’ she said. ‘And we couldn’t avoid hearing little snatches of the conversation, you know how it is.’
They were so naughty – like a couple of mischievous schoolgirls. ‘My grandmother has many friends here in the Levante,’ she told them. Though she couldn’t think who it could be. Their family were wedded to The Lemon Tree, and running a busy hotel tended to make social events hard to organise. They all had friends, yes, but mostly they socialised in the winter months when things were a lot quieter.
‘It was a man who is staying at the hotel,’ Caprice supplied. ‘A guest. We have spoken to him. Very well turned out. Italian, of course. From around these parts.’ She made a gesture that encompassed the landscape around them.
So that was it. ‘Signor Bianchi,’ Isabella supplied. Or was it Rossi? She had to admit to being slightly confused herself. ‘He’s a friend of Nonna’s. A very old friend, I believe.’
‘Ah, sì, sì, an old friend, that would
be it,’ said Antonia. ‘Though not a friend of your grandfather’s I’m guessing.’
What on earth were this pair suggesting? Isabella giggled – she could hardly take it seriously. ‘Now, that I couldn’t say. My grandfather is away at the moment – he has a business in Pisa, and—’
‘Oh, but we saw him.’ Antonia’s eyes widened. ‘Last night and again this morning, rather early.’
‘Oh really? He must be back then.’
‘Antonia is merely jealous, my dear.’ Once again Caprice caught at her sister’s arm. ‘She has been coming here for thirty years to find a husband. And still she has no success. How much longer do you think she will hold out hope for, eh?’
This was a longstanding joke, and so Isabella laughed politely. ‘It’s never too late,’ she said.
‘Hmm, and then your grandmother has two men fighting over her. Magari! Chance is a fine thing, eh? She is a lucky woman.’
Two men? Fighting over her? These two must have both lost their marbles. Isabella shook her head as Antonia eventually gave in and they headed off down the drive towards the front gate. ‘Ciao, my dear,’ they called.
‘Have a good day.’ Isabella waved them off. What a strange couple they were. Nevertheless, she decided to have a little chat with Nonna this morning – just in case something was amiss. She had been quite disconcerted when Nonna put her head around the office door yesterday and asked about Ferdinand.
‘He seems a nice man.’ She had come in and sat down on the edge of the desk. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Bella, but I saw you talking to him earlier and I just wondered . . .’
As usual, Isabella had jumped at the chance of confiding in her grandmother. ‘Nonna, the strangest thing happened . . .’ And she told her about the encounter between Ferdinand and their Aunt Giovanna.
But her grandmother frowned. ‘Do you know anything about his background, darling?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Apart from the fact that he was apparently a freelance architect based in Germany, Isabella knew nothing about him at all.
‘It’s possible . . .’ She hesitated.
‘What, Nonna?’ Isabella leaned closer.
‘I was thinking that perhaps he has a relative who has been to Vernazza in the past.’ She seemed to speak reluctantly. ‘If you get my drift, Bella.’
‘You mean . . .’ She could only mean one thing. That Ferdinand Bauer was so interested in the old convent and in Vernazza because one of his relatives had lived here, been part of the Occupation of their town during the war. ‘But that’s—’
‘Unlikely, yes.’ She shrugged. ‘And perhaps I am wrong.’
‘And of course, the war has been over for a very long time, Nonna,’ Isabella reminded her. ‘We welcome all international visitors here, do we not? We are all Europeans now.’
‘You’re right, of course.’ She nodded. ‘But perhaps you should ask him why he is so interested in the old convent, Bella.’
‘Oh, it is nothing to me.’ What did she care one way or another? It was only her aunt Giovanna that she was concerned about.
‘Is that so?’ Her grandmother arched an eyebrow.
‘Of course.’ Isabella got to her feet. She tossed back her hair and ignored her grandmother’s unsubtle implication. She should be getting on. She must take over reception duties from Marco and get some emails sent.
‘Even so, you should take care, my darling.’ Her grandmother’s voice became very serious all of a sudden, and Isabella had stopped in her tracks.
‘Why, Nonna?’
‘Because there is always a reason for everything – and your Ferdinand Bauer may not be exactly what he seems.’
*
Meanwhile, that same Ferdinand Bauer was now walking out of the olive grove, and so she went over to meet him. At the edge of the grove, the sunlight dappled the gravel path and veined the leaves of the olive trees with gold.
‘Isabella!’ He seemed surprised to see her – though why this should be so, she couldn’t imagine; she lived here after all.
‘Good morning, Ferdinand. You’re up and about early this morning.’ The path was a cut-through to the Sentiero Azzurro – which led either up to Corniglia or down to Vernazza – but of course it also led to Giovanna’s cottage. Isabella considered this. He wouldn’t have gone back to see Giovanna again – would he?
‘Oh, yes . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You have such picturesque grounds here. How can your guests resist exploring a little?’ Was it her imagination or was there a glint of guilt in the expression of those blue eyes?
‘Exploring?’ Isabella put her hands on her hips and faced him. ‘So, you have not been back to visit my Aunt Giovanna?’
‘Isn’t that allowed?’ he parried. ‘Didn’t you say no rules or regulations?’
‘Of course, it is allowed . . . If she wishes it.’ Isabella knew he was teasing her. Why shouldn’t he visit her aunt again? It was surprising – he’d only just seen her, and surely he’d had plenty of opportunity to find out everything he might want to know. Besides, why should a young man like Ferdinand be drawn to an old lady like Giovanna in the first place? But . . .
‘It bothers you though?’ He put his head to one side.
‘No . . .’ Why should it? She’d introduced them after all. But that was before her grandmother had pointed out a possible connection between a member of Ferdinand’s family and the occupation of Vernazza during the war. ‘But I don’t want you to upset her.’ She tried to look stern. ‘She’s old. We are responsible for her welfare. She doesn’t really know you, and—’ Neither did Isabella. She remembered her grandmother’s words. He may not be what he seems.
‘Isabella . . .’ He took a step closer. ‘I wouldn’t dream of upsetting her. I like Giovanna, and I respect her too. She’s a lovely lady.’
‘Yes.’ She looked up at him. In the light of the sun shimmering through the grey-green leaves of the olive trees, his eyes were almost translucent. ‘She is.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He raised his hands. ‘Perhaps I should have said something to you first.’
‘You should.’ Because he was right. She didn’t like the fact that he’d sneaked off to see Giovanna again behind her back. After what her grandmother had said, she almost wished she hadn’t introduced them at all.
‘But she did tell me to call on her any time.’
‘She did?’ Isabella frowned. Why would Giovanna have said that – especially if it turned out he was related to her old enemy?
‘You find it strange?’ He touched her arm, the lightest of touches.
‘No. Well, yes, a bit.’ Isabella was certainly confused.
‘Trust me.’ He leaned a few centimetres closer still. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We were talking – that’s all.’
Through the trees she saw a couple arrive at the front door. New guests. She must go and greet them. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I have to go.’
He nodded. ‘But do you ever get a day off?’
Isabella turned back to him. ‘Day off?’ she echoed.
‘Or doesn’t that happen with a family-run hotel?’
She noticed how the sunlight filtering through the leaves was glancing off the blond of his hair, turning it almost green-gold. ‘Yes, it does.’ She smiled. ‘My grandmother insists on it. Plenty of time off and a flexible rota. There’s no point otherwise, she says.’
‘Very wise.’ He was leaning against the trunk of a large and wizened olive tree, watching her lazily. He looked like some other-worldly woodland creature. ‘So, when’s yours?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Excellent.’ He stood up straighter. ‘Then would you come out with me?’
Isabella looked over to the hotel entrance. She just hoped that her grandmother or someone was around to take care of the new arrivals. ‘I really must—’
‘Would you?’
‘But you’re a guest.’
He laughed and revealed those dimples again. ‘Is that another rule?’
He caught hold of her arm. ‘Please, Isabella? Would you show me one of your favourite places?’
Why was he asking her this? After all, he would be gone in a week or so, and she would never see him again. What was the point? ‘I’ve got things to do,’ she hedged.
‘Better things than go out for the day with a troublesome guest?’ He pulled a face. ‘Can’t say I blame you.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘But it could be fun.’
She hesitated. It would at least give her a chance to ask him why he had come to Vernazza; she might even be able find out if Nonna was right. And she had to admit, she enjoyed talking with him. Yes, it could be fun. ‘We could go to Sestri Levante,’ she said. ‘It’s a real town. Some say that the Baia del Silenzio, the Bay of Silence east of the old town is the most beautiful beach on the Riviera Ligure di Levante.’
He beamed. ‘It sounds perfect.’
‘And now . . .’
‘You have to go, I know. See you later, Isabella.’
She gave him a small smile. ‘See you later.’ She hurried back inside.
Fortunately, Marco had come through to look after the guests and was handing them their room key.
Isabella took her place behind the reception desk and smiled at the new arrivals. ‘We hope you will enjoy your stay,’ she told them.
Was she mad? Her grandmother had told her to take care where Ferdinand Bauer was concerned, and now she had agreed to go out with him for the day. So yes, she thought, she probably was.
CHAPTER 16
Chiara
Alonzo had left first thing that morning and Chiara stayed tucked away in the office for most of the day, pleading a headache and arranging that Marco would cover her reception duties. Although she had disguised the livid mark on her cheek with a careful blend of foundation, Chiara wanted to see as few people as possible. She felt bruised and raw – and not just from that slap. The shock of it seemed to have penetrated to her inner core. Of course, things were not right between her and Alonzo; Madonna santa, they had never been right, but she had never thought that he would strike her.