The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And where will you go, Nonna?’

  There was a beat of silence. Once more, Elene’s attention was caught. Her mother wouldn’t go far. Florence perhaps? Siena? Or did she want something a little more relaxing? If so, this was hardly the best season for it. Everything in Italy was winding down. Soon it would be autumn, and Elene would be thinking of the next season’s recipes: the nuts and the mushrooms, warmer sauces and autumnal treats.

  ‘I think I shall go to England.’

  Elene dropped the sieve. Icing sugar clouded the tiled floor. She looked down. It was very unusual for her to be clumsy in the kitchen, and so her mother and her daughter were now looking at her too.

  Isabella jumped up to fetch a floor cloth. Elene retrieved the sieve and rinsed it under the tap. But her mind was spinning. England. Her mother was going to England. So that was how it was.

  ‘Why are you going to England, Mamma?’ She turned to face her. As if she didn’t know.

  Her mother met her gaze, eyes steady. There were streaks of grey in her dark hair, which on Chiara, naturally, looked effortlessly chic. Whatever she wore, however old she grew, her mother was beautiful still. Elene could see it, and no doubt Dante Rossi could see it too.

  ‘It’s just a holiday, Elene.’ She forked up a mouthful of pasta and then pushed her plate away. Unfinished. ‘Two weeks off, that is all.’

  Just a holiday? To England? Elene took the dessert plates over to the hatch where Rosalie was waiting. They were the last ones.

  She turned back to her mother. ‘And will you see him?’

  Isabella had sat back down again and was looking from one to the other of them in confusion. She knew nothing about all this, and it was not Elene’s place to put her straight. But it had all happened so quickly. Her mother was certainly wasting no time.

  ‘No. At least . . .’ Chiara hesitated. ‘I don’t know where he lives.’

  Elene narrowed her eyes. There were ways of finding out such things.

  ‘Who, Nonna? Who might you be going to see?’ Isabella chipped in. At least she was eating her pasta with some gusto, Elene was pleased to see. She wondered how her mother would explain.

  ‘I have a friend, Bella,’ she began.

  ‘Pff.’ A friend? Elene trusted that this would show her feelings on the matter.

  ‘His name is Dante Rossi. You may remember, he came here recently . . .’

  ‘Dante Rossi . . .’ Isabella was wide-eyed. She stared at her grandmother. Elene guessed her mind was working overtime. She would be wondering now. Weren’t they all?

  ‘I have not made any plans to meet up with him,’ Chiara said firmly.

  Elene wiped the kitchen counter down with soapy water. But they would meet up – she knew it. And if they met up, they would be together again, sure as day. And if that happened . . . Would her mother consider leaving Italy to be with him? Was that why she had raised so few objections to Elene and Silvio’s plans? She felt as if she couldn’t stop moving and doing. If she stopped moving and doing . . . If her mother left Italy . . . Suddenly, she felt bereft. ‘Really, Mamma?’ Then why was she going there?

  ‘But, yes, he spoke of his life in England, and yes, I would like to see something of the country. Why not?’ Her mother’s voice was calm, but there was something more. It was as if some decision had already been made.

  ‘When are you leaving?’ Elene asked quietly.

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon, Nonna?’ Isabella frowned. ‘But—’

  ‘I have already been in touch with Emanuele about covering for me,’ Chiara assured her. ‘Lucia is going to come in to help in the bar. And things are quieter now.’

  She had planned it already – and so quickly. Elene couldn’t let it rest. ‘Are you going to look for him, Mamma?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Elene . . .’

  ‘After he . . .’ Hit you, she was going to say. But of course, she could not. She must show some discretion. If Isabella had not been in the room, then it would be different.

  ‘You don’t understand, Elene.’

  But what was there to understand? Elene had seen the evidence with her own eyes. The mark of a slap on her mother’s face. She didn’t know what had gone on between them that night – she didn’t want to know. This was enough. Somehow, this man had edged between her parents’ less-than-stable partnership, and he had forced their parting. To Elene it was as plain as day.

  ‘And when you find him?’ Elene couldn’t stop. ‘What then? Will you ever come back to us?’

  Isabella gasped. ‘Nonna?’

  ‘Of course, I will.’ Her mother reached out to put her hand on Isabella’s. At the same time, she looked across at Elene with dark eyes that were so sad, it was all Elene could do not to rush over to her, not to hold her, not to hug her and tell her that everything would be all right. She couldn’t respond though, she just couldn’t. Instead, she bustled around the kitchen putting her utensils away. Everything must be clean and organised. She must focus on la cucina – just as she always had.

  ‘But what about the hotel, Nonna?’ Isabella asked in a small voice. Her daughter too seemed out of her depth. Elene realised that they all were.

  ‘The hotel will be fine, my darling. We’ll go through the timetable of shifts in the morning and you will see. I told you. It is a holiday, nothing more.’

  ‘And the other changes – the plans we discussed only yesterday?’ Elene knew it had been too easy. Her mother was the embodiment of The Lemon Tree Hotel – this place meant everything to her. And the thought of her not being here . . . Elene wiped the same counter down three times before realising. Could they manage? She steadied her breathing. Yes, they would manage. They had to. If it came to it, she and Isabella could take over the helm.

  Her mother was still speaking. ‘Isabella, you should go ahead and get some costings just as we agreed. It is only a holiday, I keep telling you . . .’

  Who was she trying so hard to convince? Elene frowned. Wait until Silvio heard about this – her mother, barely separated from her father and already heading for England to search for Dante Rossi. The rest of them left to look after things at the hotel for God knows how long until she found the man who had slapped her around. Was she mad?

  For a moment Elene thought of Silvio with longing. He was the sensible voice in her head. What would she do without him? She hoped she never had to find out.

  ‘The three of you can manage perfectly well without me.’ Her mother’s voice was brisk and businesslike as ever.

  For a moment Elene couldn’t help feeling pleased that she trusted them. But this was scarily unlike her mother. Chiara always wanted to be in control.

  ‘Are you sure you’re only going for two weeks, Nonna?’ Isabella looked anxious.

  ‘Two or three. Certainly not more than a month, my darling.’

  ‘A month?’ She gave an audible gulp. ‘But you won’t leave for ever?’

  ‘Of course not, Bella.’

  Elene saw her mother put her arms around Isabella to comfort her. There had always been such an easy affection between the two of them. She felt herself tense. She pulled her apron off so roughly that she heard the neck stitching go.

  ‘This is my home,’ her mother said. ‘You are all my home.’

  And when she looked over, she saw her mother’s dark eyes fixed on her.

  ‘I will come and get you if you don’t return,’ Isabella said staunchly. She pulled away from her grandmother’s embrace.

  Chiara laughed. Isabella looked very fierce. Even Elene wanted to smile.

  ‘Elene?’ Her mother was waiting.

  ‘Yes, we will manage.’ Elene had a lump in her throat. She swallowed it whole. ‘Of course, we will manage.’ If she said it enough times, naturally, it would be true.

  ‘So, you don’t mind if I go?’

  Elene knew what her mother wanted. She required emotion – she always did. She wanted to comfort Elene just as sh
e had comforted Isabella. She wanted tears, words, anything she could hold on to. That was her way. But Elene felt contrary. Her mother had left her father. She was on her own now.

  So she just shrugged as she always did. ‘Haven’t you booked it already? And besides, it is only a holiday, as you say.’ Because even her mother could make nothing of a shrug – although no doubt, she would try.

  CHAPTER 40

  Isabella

  The night after her grandmother had left for her trip to England, Isabella couldn’t sleep. She eventually drifted off at about 2 a.m. and then something woke her. But all was quiet in The Lemon Tree Hotel. It must then, have been a dream.

  There was so much to think about – no wonder it was hard to relax. So much to dream about too. The renovations her parents were so keen on having done that they had gone behind Nonna’s back to have drawings made – and by Ferdinand of all people. The fact that Nonna had gone away – and her mother’s insinuation that there was some darker purpose to her trip and that she’d be gone for longer than she’d said.

  Dante Rossi . . . Isabella had known, hadn’t she, that something was up with that man; Nonna had been behaving so strangely. And she was sad, of course, about her grandfather, though truth to tell, he had never been a strong force in her life, he had never been around for long enough. Isabella wasn’t afraid of managing the hotel while her grandmother was away – she knew she wasn’t alone, and Nonna had already covered most eventualities with her usual smooth efficiency. Nevertheless, things were changing.

  And then of course, there were the delicious feelings that had been creeping and sweeping all over her ever since she had made love with Ferdinand Bauer in the olive grove just a few nights before. She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh. She had been so cross with him about the drawings. She still was – though she understood why he had done it; her mother could be very persuasive, and Ferdinand must have thought he was doing them all a favour. Even so. How could it have turned so easily into passion?

  In the darkness, she allowed herself to relive for a moment the touch of his hands on her shoulders, her breasts; the intensity of his eyes in the moonlight as he seemed to leave her for seconds and go to some other place. She’d gone there too, of course. And then he had held her in his arms and they had stayed there under the olive tree until her limbs had grown stiff and her skin shivery with goose-bumps. Their love-making had been better and bolder than anything she’d known before – more tender than the outright lust of the man from Bologna, more subtle than the youthful fumblings with Sergio. She sighed once more. It had almost been too good, too right.

  She had seen Ferdinand since then of course. They had snatched a coffee the following morning – Isabella well aware that she was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and that her face and lips were sore from his kisses. But she didn’t care. They’d had a drink together too that evening in the courtyard after her grandmother’s announcement about her forthcoming holiday.

  ‘Everyone needs to get away sometimes,’ Ferdinand had said.

  ‘But Nonna . . .’ Only she couldn’t explain. It was just that her grandmother didn’t need to go away – why would she? Her whole life was here at the hotel – or so it had seemed until now.

  She waited for Ferdinand to suggest that they went to her room or his. After all – how long did they have? He would surely be leaving soon. His father was stable, he said, but when he returned to Germany he would stay with him until the end. Was he waiting for something? Did that something concern Isabella? She was expecting him to suggest another stroll in the olive grove perhaps. She wanted it, and yet at the same time she was scared of it, which was perhaps the most confusing feeling she’d experienced in her whole life.

  When they left the courtyard, he kissed her goodnight – a long deep kiss that made her ache for more. ‘Ferdinand . . .’ She didn’t want to waste time where this man was concerned.

  But he had held back. Did he imagine he’d taken advantage of her? Did he regret those hours in the olive grove? She didn’t think so. At any rate, they’d gone for a walk this morning, when she took a break, along the Sentiero Azzurro towards Corniglia. Not all the way, but far enough for her to show him the prickly pears and the olives high up on the mountainside, and the spectacular view of Vernazza below. ‘I have to return to work,’ she told him, ‘otherwise we could walk further along the path.’

  ‘We can do the walk another day.’ He stroked her cheek with his forefinger.

  ‘But you’re leaving soon,’ she reminded him. She didn’t dare ask exactly when.

  ‘I know.’ He frowned.

  What was it then? Was he not ready to go? Had he not done what he had intended to do? Or was it his attachment to Isabella that kept him here? She couldn’t help hoping so. ‘Ferdinand . . .’

  ‘I’ll come back to Vernazza,’ he told her again.

  ‘Don’t make any promises,’ she warned. It was what she wanted, but she hardly dared hope. She knew what it was like when someone returned to their own life after a romantic holiday abroad. The romance faded just like the sunshine. And the memories too. But she didn’t regret what they’d done. How could she?

  ‘I will come back,’ he repeated. ‘After my father—’

  Now, another sound made her sit up like a shot. It was definitely coming from downstairs. She checked the clock. 4.45 a.m. Who would be creeping around at this time of the morning? Surely not a guest – it was too early even for the dawn risers. And it was far too early for any of the staff to be here. A burglar? She swung her legs out of bed, got up, and grabbed her robe from the hook by the door. Her room was nearest to the stairs; if anyone was to hear something it would be her.

  Silently, she eased opened her door a crack and listened. Nothing. Could she have been mistaken? She frowned. Should she wake up her parents? Not at this hour. If there was nothing to see they’d be none too happy. And if there was anything to see?

  She’d find out. But surreptitiously, so she could back off if there really was anything to worry about. She looked around the room. There was nothing she could use as a weapon, but she felt she ought to have something. She grabbed the vase from the windowsill. It was made of glass and heavy enough to make her feel a bit safer.

  She crept out of her door and on to the landing. The lighting was kept at a low level at night-time, and it was still on, casting an eerie yellow glow along the corridor. What would she say if one of the guests were to appear? How would she explain the fact that she was wandering along the landing in her night clothes holding a glass vase? But she mustn’t worry about that now – being spotted by a guest was the least of her problems. Isabella approached the top of the stairs. First, she must see if there was anyone down there.

  She tiptoed down the first few steps and peered around the curve of the staircase. She couldn’t see much from here, but the front door appeared to be closed. That was good. Probably not a burglar then – they’d leave it open for a quick getaway, surely? She froze. She could hear something though – a soft rustling. Perhaps someone was at the desk in reception. They didn’t keep any money down there, but who was to know that?

  She hovered, torn between going back upstairs to fetch someone – but if she did, that would give whoever it was a chance to escape – and going down a bit further to find out more. It could be legitimate after all. It might be her mother or father, going through some paperwork (until recently she would have found this idea ludicrous, but after the revelations of the other night and the contents of the envelope she’d found, she wasn’t so sure). Or Emanuele – who, with Lucia, was living in while her grandmother was away – deciding to get some work done before breakfast. In fact, now she came to think about it, that was much more likely. So, she’d just try to see a bit more . . .

  Isabella edged around the curve of the stairs knowing that when she’d done so she would have a full view of the black-and-white tiled entrance, and that whoever might be in the lobby would equally have a full view of her. Worst-case scenario
: she could run back upstairs and scream. She cursed inwardly. Why hadn’t she thought to grab her mobile – then she could at least raise the alarm that way? But . . . Her hand stilled on the banister. What if they had a gun?

  Oh, for goodness’ sake! How likely was that? She would have said she’d been reading too many crime novels, only when did she have the time? She took another step. She had to know.

  Someone – and in the next millisecond she knew who – was kneeling on the floor in front of the niche that always held Luca Bordoni’s painting of the Archangel Gabriel. Only the painting wasn’t there. It was on the floor, and the man kneeling on the floor beside it looked to be taking apart the gilt frame with a screwdriver.

  Isabella didn’t waste time considering what she should do. She thundered down the remainder of the stairs, the glass vase still in her hand. He heard her, of course, and twisted around. He looked guilty as hell.

  ‘Ferdinand!’ She stared at him. She had the glass vase held high, but she was hardly going to smash him over the head with it. Wasn’t this the man who she had imagined herself in love with? ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

  CHAPTER 41

  Isabella

  ‘Isabella – put that down,’ hissed Ferdinand. He didn’t get to his feet.

  She realised that she was still holding the glass vase above his head. ‘What the hell is going on?’ She sank to her knees beside him, lowering her voice too, though she had no clue why. He was obviously stealing their painting. He was a liar and a thief. Why shouldn’t she shout out for someone to come? Why shouldn’t she sound the alarm? Why shouldn’t she smash this vase over his head for that matter? She put the vase down beside her.

  ‘You must be quiet,’ he warned.

  ‘But—’ How dare he! Isabella saw red. She began to get up, but he pulled her down again. He put his arm around her, and she pushed it away.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I can explain.’

  But he didn’t have to. Suddenly it was all very clear to her what was going on here. He was dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, with a fleece tied around his waist – like a burglar. He had planned the whole thing. That was the reason he was here at the hotel in the first place. ‘Your father asked you to steal this painting.’