by Rosanna Ley
‘Ciao.’ Isabella watched him walk away, tall, rather gangly, and somehow very appealing.
‘Your Signor Bauer is still with us, I see.’ Her grandmother was standing just behind her – Isabella hadn’t even noticed her come out of the office.
‘Yes.’ Isabella opened her laptop. ‘Though he isn’t my Signor Bauer, Nonna.’
‘Hmm.’ Her grandmother sighed. ‘And have you found out anything more about him, Bella?’
Isabella glanced up. Her grandmother looked concerned and she still had a sadness in her dark eyes. She put an arm around her shoulders. Nonna hadn’t been herself for some days. Isabella remembered what the Signoras Veroni had said the other day about two men fighting over her. If it was true, Nonna didn’t seem to be thriving on it.
‘Don’t worry, Nonna,’ she soothed. ‘I can look after myself you know.’ She decided not to tell her what she had found out. Giovanna might have forgiven Ferdinand’s father for his part in what had happened to Partisans like her great-grandfather – but Isabella suspected that her grandmother would not feel quite the same.
‘Of course you can.’ Her grandmother patted her hand. ‘But please take care, Bella. I don’t have a good feeling about that young man – he looks as if he’s hiding something. Whatever you do, my darling, take care.’
CHAPTER 23
Elene
Elene had an hour to herself before she needed to do any further preparation for dinner, so she undertook a little detective work, which mainly consisted of getting Silvio to point out Signor Bauer as soon as he spotted him again.
At 4 p.m. he called her. ‘He’s just entering the lobby,’ he said, in a suitably low and melodramatic tone. ‘Grey T-shirt and green shorts, tall, fair hair, slim build.’
Very succinct. Elene made her way to the lower curve of the sweeping stairs, preparing to linger by the painting of the Archangel Gabriel that her mother and Isabella insisted on keeping in the niche, even though it was old-fashioned and not even very well painted, in her opinion. Elene had as much affection for Giovanna as any of them, but that didn’t mean they had to display her father’s painting in their foyer for evermore.
Signor Bauer was having what seemed to be rather an intimate conversation with Isabella. Elene saw her daughter laugh and lean forward to look at his phone – perhaps he was showing her a photograph. And that was exactly it, Elene thought; her mother and her daughter both possessed this easy charm, this way with people. Elene wasn’t sure how they did it; it seemed to come naturally. As a girl, Elene used to watch her mother in action, she even tried to mimic her welcoming smile in front of the mirror in her own bedroom. But it lacked sincerity somehow. Her mother and Isabella would smile and nod, and somehow know when to ask another question or when to hold back. They always said the right thing. They seemed so interested in all their guests, they had warmth. It was beyond Elene. She was glad she only had to work with pasta, tomatoes, and melanzane and the like in the kitchen. Food was far less demanding.
At last, the young signore made his way out to the courtyard, and Elene followed, with a casual hello to her daughter as she passed by.
‘Ciao, Mamma.’ Isabella shot her a sharp look.
But there was nothing strange about Elene walking into the courtyard at this time of day, nothing at all. Why should she not enjoy the sunshine like anyone else?
Signor Bauer took a seat under the lemon tree by the well and Elene wandered over. He unfolded a map on to the table top and began to study it intently.
Elene knew that this wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t in her nature simply to go up and start talking to people. She would have to give the performance of her life. She went over to the lemon tree and made a pretence of examining the fruit. For a moment she was distracted by the sharp green of the leaves, the zesty citrus scent. Lemons were fundamental to the very history and identity of this land. Mmm. Perhaps she would make another lemon cake later? She hadn’t planned to, it hadn’t been so long ago that they’d enjoyed Aunt Giovanna’s lemon birthday cake – although so much had happened since then that it felt like a lot longer – but a few of these beauties were ripe for the picking. She neatly plucked one from its stem and drew it in closer to inhale the fragrance.
The signore looked up at her and smiled. Nice eyes, she thought. No wonder her daughter found it easy to be friendly and pleasant with this one.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said.
‘And to you.’ He gave a little nod.
‘I see you are investigating our hiking trails,’ she said warmly, looking closer at the map. If her mother or daughter were to see her, they might be surprised. But why shouldn’t she fraternise with their guests? Had anyone ever suggested that she should not? Just because she worked in the kitchen, didn’t mean that she couldn’t also mingle in the courtyard, pass a word or two with anyone she chose – just as she was sure her mother and Isabella did if they so desired.
‘Yes.’ He looked up, vaguely curious, she could tell.
‘Elene Lombardi.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m the chef here at The Lemon Tree Hotel. Chiara Mazzone, the general manager, is my mother.’
‘Oh.’ He rose to his feet. ‘You are Isabella’s mother, I can see the resemblance.’
She acknowledged this with a nod. So, he was on first-name terms with her daughter. Did that mean anything? Probably not, she decided. It was the way of the younger generation.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ He shook her hand. ‘I’ve already experienced your delicious food, Signora. Thank you. The sea bass at dinner last night was out of this world.’ He rubbed his stomach appreciatively.
‘Thank you, Signore. The branzino was indeed very fresh.’ Elene beamed at him. He looked as if he could do with fattening up. He was one of those young men – a little like Silvio had once been – who were so lean and yet ate such a lot that you couldn’t help wondering where they put it.
‘Bauer. Ferdinand Bauer.’ He smiled. ‘I’m just looking at the trail up to the sanctuary.’ He showed her on the map. ‘They say it’s a lovely walk.’
‘Oh, it is.’ So far, so good, she thought. He was very charming. Perhaps it was easier to be friendly with the guests of their hotel than she had realised. ‘May I join you for a moment?’ She indicated the chair next to his. It was very pleasant out here in the courtyard garden, the blue agapanthus waving slightly in the breeze, the faintest hint of ozone in the air mingling with the sharp sweetness of the lemons, and the sun warm and golden as honey.
‘Of course.’ He was very polite – especially for someone so young – but also a little surprised, she could see. Perhaps he wanted to be left alone to study his map. But she would only take up a few minutes of his time.
‘You are enjoying your stay with us, I hope?’ She made a nod towards the pinkish-grey of the convent walls, visible beyond the cloisters. ‘It is atmospheric here, no?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded. ‘It is a restored convent, I understand.’
‘Yes, it is.’
He put his head to one side. ‘The restoration has been carried out very sympathetically. And so many of the original features have been retained. I congratulate you.’
‘And yet . . .’ Elene let her voice trail. ‘There is so much more we could do.’
‘Perhaps.’ His smile gave nothing away. ‘There is always more that can be done with these old buildings.’
She tapped his arm playfully. ‘You sound as if you know what you are talking about, Signore.’
He gave a modest little shrug. ‘It’s what I do for a living, as a matter of fact.’
‘Really?’ Even Elene wasn’t convinced at her own performance, but the young man seemed to notice nothing amiss.
‘I’m an architect, yes.’ He sat back in his seat. ‘And I have to admit that I’m very interested in your old convent, Signora.’
‘Ah, I suspected as much.’ Elene smiled to herself. So, he was already interested in the building – this might be easier than she had thought. Of course
, the creatives of this world – such as painters, architects, chefs . . . they never really let go of what they felt passionately about. A painter would always be thinking about the landscape or the light, a chef would never completely forget about food, and an architect would always look at buildings with an architect’s eye.
But although this Ferdinand Bauer was young, and although he was an architect, he was also – no doubt – like all men, susceptible to flattery. Like all men, he seemed to be ruled by his stomach. She wondered how to progress. ‘And so, I imagine that you are working on some exciting project right now?’
‘Right now?’ His brow furrowed. Had she touched a nerve perhaps? ‘I’m not here in a professional capacity,’ he began. ‘It’s more of a . . .’ He hesitated. ‘A family affair.’
‘How intriguing.’ She resisted the impulse to ask more. That was not her purpose here. ‘But no doubt people are always trying to pick your brains for ideas? I suppose it is a bit like being a doctor? Suddenly, everyone you talk to has some ailment they need to discuss.’
He laughed at this. ‘Sometimes, yes.’ He gestured towards the old convent building. ‘But here, it’s all been done already, I can see. The staircase is elegant, the lobby cool and welcoming and yet retaining its original simplicity, the cloisters so romantic.’ He let out a small sigh and gazed towards the fine narrow brickwork, the decorative tiles set into the various niches in the walls, the ruby-red bougainvillea clambering up the crumbling arches of pale stone.
Elene wondered what or who he was thinking of. Some young girl back at home in Germany no doubt. She wondered if she’d been mistaken about this young man. She would have expected the young to be interested in new ideas, to favour the contemporary, to be innovative, explorative . . . But this one sounded a bit too much like her own daughter. One last try, she thought. ‘But as you yourself said, there is always more that can be done with an old building, is that not so, Signore?’
‘Ferdinand, please.’ But she saw a new light in his eyes, a new interest. ‘It is a historic building, Signora, and very individual, very special. But . . .’
Elene made sure she kept a smile on her face. ‘I need hardly tell you that we are catering for the luxury market here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He frowned. ‘But I’m still not sure . . .’ He looked back towards the cloisters. It almost seemed as if he was waiting for someone to come out and save him.
‘And as such, there are certain facilities that we are expected to provide.’
‘Such as?’ He raised a sandy eyebrow.
Elene took a deep breath. It was now or never. ‘Spa facilities. An infinity pool. A rooftop bar . . .’
The other eyebrow went up. He whistled. ‘You don’t do things by halves around here, do you?’
‘And generally, a more contemporary feel.’ She plunged on.
‘Contemporary?’ he echoed.
She nodded. ‘Sì.’ Just because the convent was old, didn’t mean they couldn’t provide a more up-to-date vibe in the place. It could still be restful and tranquil and all the other things that her mother and Isabella wanted, but it would belong in the twenty-first century – for the first time.
‘Are you quite sure?’ he asked her. ‘It’s hard to see how the place could be improved and yet still keep its original charm. It’s already quite minimal. It’s such beautiful stone, such exquisite carving . . .’ He was frowning again, and Elene’s heart sank. But just because this young architect didn’t think they should do it, didn’t mean that her ideas were bad ideas. It just meant that he was the wrong man to be talking to. What they needed, she thought, was not necessarily someone young, but someone more willing to embrace change.
‘Yes, I am sure.’ She didn’t add that she and Silvio were the only ones that felt this way. To be honest she wasn’t even convinced that Silvio did feel the same – or if he just supported her because she was his wife. She wanted to put her stamp on the place, that was all. She wanted to be valued. She wanted to be recognised as a co-owner.
‘And the others?’ There was a smile twitching at his lips now, and she got the definite feeling that he was teasing her.
‘The others?’
‘The owner – Chiara Mazzone, isn’t it? Your mother, I think you said? And . . .’ His voice trailed.
‘We’re co-owners.’ Though what business it was of his she had no idea. She hadn’t even asked him to do anything yet. ‘We don’t agree about everything, naturally. Not all the time. Whoever agrees about everything?’ She gave a light laugh.
‘So where were you thinking of housing the . . . spa?’ He looked around the charming courtyard with its stone flags and bright planting.
It had once been a simpler and more contemplative place. Elene guessed that when it was a convent, the flags had been bare, the stone well uncovered, the fountain the only decoration. The lemon tree had been here for almost a century, she believed, and was still going strong – there were many lemon trees in Liguria; in Monterosso they even had a festival of lemons every May, Sagra del Limoni, with lemon-themed decorations and menus in every restaurant. Lemon statues, market stalls selling lemon pie, lemon cake, lemon custard and limoncino – though not necessarily up to the quality of that produced in Elene’s kitchen.
Her mind began to wander. It was the lemon that made the difference; so it was all about choosing the right lemons for this delicate recipe, which was made by steeping lemon zest in spirit and then diluting the mix in a sugar and water syrup. The intense aroma of essential oils in any lemon skin came naturally from its environment – and was therefore dependent on the microclimate, the proximity of the sea and protection from the cold winds in winter. Then it also depended on when the lemons were picked. Marcello had taught Elene that the first blossoming lemons, picked at dawn, had the most concentrated flavours – this was undeniably true. The syrup to alcohol ratio mattered too; Elene used grappa of prosecco, just as Marcello had done.
But she knew that her mother had planted the bougainvillea, and that she and Isabella had put their heads together and come up with the plan for the drifts of agapanthus and other flowers. Elene had to admit that as a whole, the colourful splashes of planting contrasted, complemented, and worked. The terracotta urns and the original stone well and fountain completed a pretty much perfect picture.
‘Not here,’ she said hurriedly. God forbid. ‘In a separate building perhaps?’
‘The lines,’ he murmured.
‘Lines?’
He shook his head. ‘An annexe of some kind?’ The words almost seemed to pain him.
Elene held her breath. Was he taking this seriously after all? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Would you be interested in taking a look around, perhaps giving us some ideas?’ She gave him her best smile.
He hesitated. ‘I don’t think . . .’
Elene thought of the way he had been talking, heads together with Isabella earlier on. ‘We would all appreciate it so much,’ she said.
He seemed to at least be considering the idea now. ‘Informally, do you mean?’
‘For now, yes.’ She beamed.
‘And you’re all on board?’
‘We will be.’ Elene had not realised what a good actress she could be. ‘But at this stage, I would appreciate it if this little chat could be kept between the two of us.’
His expression grew wary at this.
She spread her hands. ‘Who knows where it might lead?’ Actually, she was rather good at all this chatting to the guests sort of stuff. Perhaps she had more of her mother’s genes than she had realised.
‘You haven’t asked anything about me or my work,’ he pointed out. ‘What makes you think I can help you? I haven’t had much experience of this sort of project.’
‘But you are here.’ Elene lifted her face to the sun. ‘And I can tell that you understand the place.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Just a few initial ideas,’ she said. ‘Just your impressions.’
‘But—’
; ‘Maybe a few sketches?’
‘Well . . .’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever you think is appropriate,’ she whispered. ‘We’d pay you for your time, of course.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t dream of—’ He seemed very flustered all of a sudden.
Elene decided to leave it there. ‘Grazie mille,’ she said. And she kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks. He looked rather shell-shocked, but that was no bad thing. ‘This is my email.’ She pulled a notepad from her bag and scribbled the address down. ‘Please send any communications to me here. And here’s my mobile number.’ She wrote this down too. She wanted everything to be professional and clear.
‘Right.’ He gave her a dazed look.
‘Do you have a card, Ferdinand?’ she asked him.
‘A card? Oh, yes.’ Somewhat reluctantly, he pulled a business card from his back pocket and handed it to her. It was crumpled around the edges and slightly squashed from having been sat on, but it looked like the real thing.
‘Thank you.’ She tucked it carefully into the zipped pocket of her bag. ‘And now, please excuse me, but I must return to la cucina.’
‘Of course, yes.’ His eyes lit up. ‘I’ll be eating in tonight, Signora.’
As she had thought . . . A man and his stomach. ‘And remember . . .’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘It will be a wonderful surprise for the rest of my family.’
Elene practically skipped back inside with the lemon she had plucked from the tree. She felt a surge of excitement, of joy. She could do this, she realised. With this young man’s help, she could make things visual, she could show her mother and her daughter how it could be done, how amazing it could be. She imagined her mother’s smiling face, the warm tone of her voice. Well done, Elene, she’d say. These are fabulous ideas. I didn’t know you had it in you, but I can see now how much we could improve The Lemon Tree Hotel. You’re so clever. You’ve really helped me to see. Something like that anyway.
‘Oh, there you are.’ Silvio was lurking in the Cloisters Bar. ‘You were talking to him for ages.’ He was eying her suspiciously. ‘What did you say? You didn’t commit us to anything, did you?’