The following morning she found Armel in the garden, hiding behind a large pair of sunglasses, a sunhat upon her head, a small cup of coffee in her hands. She wore the same pair of navy blue slacks she had worn the night before. When she saw Celestria, she raised her hand and waved.
“Bonjour,” she said, her voice friendly. “Why don’t you join me?” Celestria sat on the wicker chair beside her.
“Have you seen Waynie?”
“I believe she went into town,” she replied.
“Alone?”
“No, some retainer was with her.”
“Nuzzo,” said Celestria, with a grin. “I think Waynie has found love.”
“Lucky her,” said Armel dryly. “I have lost mine.” She took a sip of coffee. “I drank too much last night. My head aches.”
“There was a lot to take in,” Celestria conceded. “What are we going to do, Armel?”
The older woman shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Surely we can do something. We’re stronger as a team.”
“I exhausted myself last night, trying to work out a way of sneaking into Salazar’s office, but if there was anything incriminating in his office, you can be sure that he has got rid of it.”
“He looks like a Mafia boss with those funny two-toned shoes.”
“I suspect he did some sort of business, or investment, with my husband and your father, probably others, and ran off with the money. No one would connect two deaths in two different countries.”
“What was your husband called?”
“Benedict Devere. We met in Paris at the races before the war. He was so handsome I could barely take my eyes off him.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. I wanted children, but it wasn’t to be. Now I am too old. I wish I had something left of him. A child that was a part of him. At least you are a comfort to your mother.” She twisted the rings on the third finger of her left hand. One was a large diamond solitaire.
“I have a little brother, too.”
“You have each other.”
“One only realizes how much one relies on someone after he is gone.”
“Salazar has not only stolen my husband, but he has left me without a penny to my name. Only the house in Paris and the jewelry Benedict gave me over the years, which I am pawning little by little. Soon I will have nothing left. You see, it is vital that I get that money back.”
“What was Benedict’s business?” Celestria asked.
“He was an entrepreneur. He bought and sold art, the odd racehorse, property.”
“Sounds like my grandfather,” Celestria said.
“It was only after he died that I had to look into his affairs. It seems that he gave every last penny to Salazar.” She frowned and drained her cup. “He must have discovered some major investment opportunity out here. That is the only answer. But what?”
“Do you suppose Benedict and Papa were in it together? I don’t know exactly what Papa did. But I did discover that his business went bust a couple of years ago. All the while he was supposedly in Paris on business, he was here. Did Benedict ever mention Papa? His name was Robert Montague, Monty for short.”
Armel removed her sunglasses, and her dim eyes lit up with recognition. “Yes, I know that name very well. Monty was your father?”
“Yes. Did you meet him?”
“No. But Benedict spoke about him. I had no idea they did business together, but he was definitely a friend he had in London. Your mother is Pamela?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. She’s American, like you. Benedict told me about her.” Now she smiled at the memory. “He said she was very beautiful, but very demanding.”
“I’m afraid she needs a lot of attention. She hated it when Papa traveled. That’s why it was so upsetting to discover that he hadn’t had a job for the last two years.”
“Perhaps not the job he had originally, but if he was in business with Benedict, he was working, believe me. It might not have been the desk job he had had before, but it would still have required him to have traveled.”
“That’s a relief to know,” said Celestria, her heart surging with gratitude. “That’s been bothering me so much. To think that my father might have been traveling to avoid being with us.”
“Listen, Benedict was secretive about what he did and where he went. It was all part of the job. Some he lost, some he won. I didn’t get too involved. He was an independent spirit. He didn’t want some nagging wife making demands on him all the time.”
“I think Mama made Papa crazy with her demands.” She remembered with a bitter aftertaste the last conversation her mother had had with her father: “He told me I was spoiled and greedy. He said the sooner you married, the better, because you were only going to turn out like me, driving him insane with your demands.”
“Do you smoke?” Celestria took a cigarette from Armel.
“Mama doesn’t know what to do with herself now that Papa has died. You see, not only did he give Salazar his own money, but Mama’s as well, not to mention what by right belonged to me and Harry.”
“Mon dieu!” Armel shook her head and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth. “It must have been an incredible opportunity to risk so much.”
“So you don’t think he stole it?” Celestria was ashamed they had all jumped to that conclusion.
“Not necessarily. Perhaps he thought he was going to make you all a fortune.”
“We already had a fortune,” said Celestria.
“Maybe he thought he’d double it. If he was anything like Benedict, I doubt he ever thought he’d lose it. Benedict invested my money for me. Most of the time it was worth it.”
“Did he give your money to Salazar, too?”
“I had so little, Celestria. In the end I didn’t consider it mine. He looked after me. Now he is gone, I’m alone. There is no one to look after me. I’m forty-five years old, and I have nothing. I will have to sell the house and buy a small apartment. You can imagine. I have been used to a certain standard of living. Now I have to begin all over again.” Celestria inhaled deeply. To be bereft was bad enough; to be bereft and poor was unthinkable. At least Celestria had her grandfather.
Armel and Celestria had no option but to bide their time. Armel was sure that, with Freddie and Gaitano’s help, a chink in Salazar’s armor could be found. Celestria was content to wait. The longer she waited, the more likely she was to bump into Hamish, who now dominated her thoughts almost more than her father did.
She spent the afternoon with Mrs. Waynebridge and Daphne Halifax, accompanied by the playful Nuzzo. He and Mrs. Waynebridge seemed to have a joke that only they shared, for they ribbed each other teasingly, stating words in their own language for the other to repeat. They walked into town. The locals all greeted them warmly. The children with the same curiosity, giggling behind brown hands, followed them in small, mischievous groups, like elves.
They entered a little shop that sold food and postcards. A young woman stood behind a counter; her aged mother, dressed in black from head to toe, embroidered a shawl in the corner on a stool, while two small children played in the doorway. They shared banter with Nuzzo, who took off his beret when he entered. They laughed, even the sad-looking old lady, who cackled at Nuzzo’s impish charm. Celestria bought postcards to send to Lotty, Melissa, and her mother. She chose one for Aidan, out of guilt, because Daphne was right; she wasn’t missing him.
Mrs. Waynebridge bought some postcards, too, while Daphne exchanged a few words with the shopkeeper in broken Italian. After that they ambled along the coast, taking pleasure from the rocky coves along the way. Nuzzo picked flowers to give to the women, but Celestria knew they were all plucked for Waynie. She wanted to ask where Hamish’s wife had died. The cliffs were high and sheer the whole way along. It could have happened anywhere. Nuzzo would know. However, she felt she shouldn’t ask.
Hamish did not appear that evening, either. Celestria was frustrated. She saw so much
of Freddie and Gaitano; how was it possible for him to avoid her? She wished they had never met in that dreadful place. Then he wouldn’t have overheard her talking about him with Daphne in the dining room. They might even have become friends.
During dinner, the conversation turned unexpectedly to Hamish. Federica mentioned Saverio’s bar in town, where he went every night, staying until the early hours of the morning, playing Scopa with the locals. Celestria was struck with a crazy idea. After dinner, she said good night to Mrs. Waynebridge, but, instead of going to bed herself, she crept out of the Convento and made her way into town.
She walked briskly under the pines. The moonlight was bright, casting shadows across the paving stones as if it were a silver sun. The air was thick with the scent of wood and herbs from the Convento’s garden, and the smell of lilies was carried over the wall of the city of the dead on a cold breeze blowing in off the sea. Celestria shivered, wondering whether she should go back. What would he think of her turning up like this? She knew no one. What if he wasn’t there? If he was, what on earth was she going to say to him?
She arrived at the bar. Small groups of men were sitting outside, playing cards, smoking, and drinking. She noticed at once that there were no women. One by one they lifted their eyes. Some glared at her with hostility, others with ill-disguised delight. She tried to look confident, but inside she felt lost. She knew she was not welcome. Suddenly a familiar voice called her name. She turned to see Salazar standing behind her in a coat that was extravagantly lined and had a wide fur collar, wearing those old-fashioned two-toned shoes. He looked ridiculous.
“Miss Montague,” he said, amused to see her in such an unlikely place. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” His smile was broad and somehow indecent. He held out his arms again, as if about to embrace her. “Let me buy you a limoncello. It is only right to welcome you to my town. I must apologize for our hasty meeting. That woman has been a plague.” He shook his head, lifting his hand to escort her into the bar. Celestria feigned confidence, knowing it was the only way to get her through what was clearly a terrible mistake.
“She was very rude,” she replied, hoping to draw him into a false sense of friendship.
“Frenchwomen have no manners. I much prefer doing business with the British.” As she walked in, she felt more pairs of eyes upon her, indignant, as if she had walked into a private party uninvited. Salazar ordered a limoncello for her and a coffee for himself. “So,” he said, appraising her with unguarded appreciation, “you are very brave to come here on your own. Saverio’s wife only serves behind the bar during daylight hours, and she’s as ill-humored and tough as a donkey.”
“Oh?” she replied coolly, noticing his predatory eyes slipping over her body, as if deciding which part he’d devour first. “Do Italian men turn into vampires the moment the sun sets?”
He chuckled. “Didn’t your mother warn you? Nighttime is not safe for little girls.”
“Should I be worried?”
He shrugged. “Not now you are with me. Salazar will take care of you.” He raised his eyes to a group of people in the corner laughing raucously. Celestria turned around to see Hamish at a table, playing cards with a group of men in caps. He was throwing his head back, roaring with laughter like a lion, his hair falling about him in a shaggy mane. Her heart surged with relief. However, he couldn’t see her because he was facing the other way. She turned back to Salazar, who was beginning to make her extremely uncomfortable. “Did you come here alone?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied defiantly. “This is a small town; I’m hardly likely to get lost.”
“As long as you don’t walk in the shadows.” He laughed and puffed on his cigar, blowing smoke into her face. “Poverina!” His eyes lingered on her lips longer than was polite. “This is no place for a girl; why don’t I walk you home? Where are you staying? At the Convento?” Before she was able to reply, Hamish’s voice spoke from behind her.
“That’s okay, Salazar. I’ll walk her home. She’s staying with us.” Celestria was too relieved to feel foolish. She spun around to face him. “Shall we go?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in amusement, his mouth displaying the beginnings of a smile.
“I’m ready,” she replied.
“Che peccato,” said Salazar, putting the cigar between his lips. “We were just getting to know each other.”
“Tell your wife,” said Hamish, placing his hand in the small of her back and leading her out into the street.
“Thank you,” she said, folding her arms and shivering, more from fright than nerves.
“What? For not shouting at you?” He smiled cynically.
“No, for saving me from Salazar.”
“You’re a foolish American,” he replied, leaning on his stick with one hand, putting the other in his trouser pocket. “Where do you think you are? In Manhattan?”
26
They set out down the road towards the Convento. Hamish leaned on his stick, his limp preventing him from walking very quickly. Celestria was aware of every fiber in her body, her nerves alert like an animal braced to react, uncertain whether he was friend or foe. However, one thing was certain: he was unable to avoid her now.
“What on earth possessed you to come to the bar?” he asked gruffly.
“I was bored at the Convento. I wasn’t ready to go to bed.”
“Do you make a habit of wandering the streets at night on your own?”
“Certainly not! What are you implying?”
“I’m joking. This might be a small town, but I wouldn’t consider it safe for a girl like you.”
“A girl like me?”
He glanced at her. “You’re more suited to the Ritz than to a small-town bar frequented by rough countrymen.”
“You misjudge me.”
“I never misjudge anyone.”
“You’re going on appearances. You don’t know me at all.”
He stopped and looked her up and down as one might appraise a mare for sale. “Expensively cut, well-conditioned hair. Blond, which is rare in these parts. Manicured nails, polished skin, clean clothes, a fresh dress every day, smart leather shoes, painted toenails, elegance, refinement, and an air of snootiness, too, which comes from being spoiled by your parents. Don’t pretend you felt you blended into Saverio’s, because you stuck out like a swan among swine.” Flattered that he had noticed her in such detail, Celestria hid her pleasure behind a veneer of defiance.
“If one was to judge simply on appearances, you wouldn’t come off too well yourself.” She looked him up and down with the same arrogance. “Hair that could do with a good wash and a brush; a shave wouldn’t go amiss, either. Stooping shoulders, which denotes a man ill at ease with himself or his height, which should be an advantage. Scruffy clothes more suited to a shepherd than an artist, who should really have more taste. The shoes could do with a polish, too. But I don’t judge on the outside alone.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re wrong. But you are right about one thing, I didn’t like the bar at all.”
He continued to walk. “That’s because you got hooked by the crookedest man in Marelatte.”
“And unhooked by the angriest man in Marelatte.”
He glanced down at her irritably, but her smile was surprisingly infectious; he couldn’t help but smile, too. Celestria felt a wave of triumph.
“I have good reason to be angry.” His face crumpled into a frown. “But I don’t owe anyone an explanation, least of all you.”
“I think you’re old enough to do as you please.”
“How old do you think I am?”
She laughed, though every muscle in her face and neck was taut. “I don’t know. Older than me.”
“Most of Marelatte is older than you. You’re just setting off, like a beautiful sailing boat. I imagine this is the first time you’ve left the safety of your cove. I should stay with the oldies. It’s safer within the walls of the Convento.”
> “With you in residence, I don’t think that particular cove is very safe at all.”
“You can’t be afraid of a man with a limp? Even though he’s a little rough around the edges.”
“I gather it was a hunting accident,” she said.
He looked at her quizzically, and she realized that she had unwittingly revealed that she had been asking about him. She was sure his lips twitched with amusement.
“I haven’t ridden since,” he replied, looking straight ahead.
“Do you miss it?”
“Damn right, I miss it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve experienced such freedom as I felt on a horse. Flying like the wind. Jumping whatever stands in my way. I was good at it, too.”
“I’ve never even sat on a horse.”
“No?”
“Now taxis, I’ve been in a lot of taxis. Yellow ones in New York and black ones in London. That’s something I’m really good at, along with painting my nails and sitting in the hair salon.” He chuckled, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening into his weathered skin. She felt a sudden yearning to run her fingers over them.
“But you love books,” he said softly, and she realized to her joy that he, in turn, had been asking about her.
“Gaitano says we share a favorite book,” she ventured.
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“And the terrible Château d’lf,” she added with a grin.
“What else do you love?”
She sighed ponderously. “I love dancing, playing the piano…”
“Yes, I know.”
She felt herself blush and hastily moved on. “Freddie told me you’re the only one who plays.”
Sea of Lost Love Page 29