Secrets in Sicily

by Penny Feeny

  *

  It was unthinkable that a bride and groom should spend the night before their wedding on the same premises. Nicolo and Luca had gone to the di Monzas’ apartment to keep Iacopo company while Silvana had been guarding Carlotta like a lioness. She had fielded phone calls and admitted the hairdresser and the florist and three or four girlfriends and chastised Eva for not arriving sooner. The bevy of women preened and chattered like starlings, exchanging lipsticks and anecdotes, happily contradicting each other. They were keyed up and anxious that everything should go right today.

  Carlotta sat among them in her dressing gown, drinking coffee, having her hair done, obeying instructions. She felt as if the arrangements were beyond her control, much as they had been for her first wedding, when Mamma Galetti and her own mother had taken charge. She’d slept restlessly and woken early and although it wouldn’t be long before Nicolo was at her side again – the ceremony was scheduled for 11.30 – she missed him and willed the hours to pass. She hoped she could master her nerves.

  Flavia, who considered herself an artist, took over her make-up, although Carlotta could do it perfectly well herself. She tipped up her face to have her brows plucked, to receive foundation, blusher and mascara. She flexed her fingers to let her nail varnish dry. When hands and face and hair were ready she stepped into her dress.

  Eva had brought her sewing bag in case there was any last-minute mending. She sighed contentedly as the gold silk swished and shimmered. ‘You look marvellous, tesora.’

  ‘I spoke to Nicolo already this morning,’ said Silvana. ‘He is very composed, as you would expect. And Luca is looking so handsome!’

  Carlotta said, ‘Lily didn’t ring again?’

  ‘Not since last week.’

  Carlotta had been disappointed not to take Lily’s second call herself – though why should it make any difference? Lily had told Silvana that she and Marcello would be pleased to come to the ceremony. It was unrealistic to expect any more detail. She had no rights over such a tenuous relationship and it was impossible to explain – even to these close friends, even to Nicolo – how vital it was that Lily should be there, the one link between her past and her future.

  A horn sounded in the street and Eva peeked through the shutters. ‘Iacopo is here with the car.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ exclaimed Carlotta. ‘Where are my shoes?’

  The women darted around the apartment, searching. Flavia laughed and said, ‘They’ll be calling you Cinderella!’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ said Silvana. ‘They are in the box in your closet, remember? The car can wait. The guests can wait. There is no one more important than you today.’

  Her friends went ahead in two cabs. Iacopo helped Carlotta into the passenger seat of the hired Mercedes and they made stately progress, giving guests plenty of time to congregate in the anteroom of the Sala Rossa. Carlotta would have to wait in the piazza until she was due to make her entrance on Iacopo’s arm. It was impossible to relax. ‘How will I know if everyone’s arrived?’ she said.

  ‘Silvana has the guest list. She’ll know.’

  Carlotta wasn’t reassured. Fortunately, Luca was twitchy too. He left his father’s side to come out to see her.

  ‘We’re still waiting,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For our turn. There’s one more group to be done and then it’s your go.’

  ‘We are not queuing for a ride at Luna Park,’ said Carlotta with a nervous laugh. ‘I wonder if she is here yet.’

  ‘The English girl?’ said Luca.

  ‘Yes. Will you tell me if you see her?’

  She had shown him her one and only snapshot of Lily when telling him the story of her miraculous survival. It had been far harder to explain the circumstances to Luca than to Nicolo. At first he’d been incredulous: ‘You’re saying you have a grown-up daughter? Who lives in England? It’s not possible! I don’t believe you!’ Then he’d been intrigued. Finally, he’d admitted he was curious to meet her.

  Carlotta patted his arm; he was so confident, so mature, she was so proud of him! ‘I know you will become friends,’ she said. ‘And I know you will find her for me. She’ll be easy to see. She’ll be wearing bright orange.’

  ‘Suppose she doesn’t come?’ said Luca with a matter-of-fact nonchalance.

  ‘Tsk!’ said Iacopo with a frown. ‘Don’t cause alarm, boy.’

  Carlotta gripped her bouquet, trying not to crush the stems. ‘She will come.’

  *

  There was a queue for the taxis or, rather, a shape-shifting throng, which never seemed to diminish. Marcello didn’t need to consult his watch because there was a clock on a pole by the taxi rank and they could see the hand inching around it. He decided a bus would be quicker, so they abandoned their places, ran across Piazza dei Cinquecento to the number 60 bus stop and jumped aboard. In via Nazionale traffic was snarled to a standstill. Even Marcello, who had resolutely kept his cool, was beginning to look flustered. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  ‘Do you think the wedding will run to schedule?’ said Lily. ‘Does anything run to schedule in Italy?’

  ‘They may begin late,’ he said.

  ‘But?’

  He shrugged. ‘The civil ceremony, it’s not like the Mass in a church. It’s very short.’

  ‘How short?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes?’ When he saw her expression, he said quickly, ‘Or twenty. It’s a legal formality, that’s all, though the feasting afterwards will go on forever. Why don’t we get off and walk? At least we’ll be moving, not like the bus.’

  Lily was rarely daunted by walking, but she hadn’t wanted to turn up on this occasion with dusty sandals and sweat patches under her arms, trailing her battered rucksack. Marcello, in his shirt sleeves, still managed to look unruffled. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘It’s not so far, about two kilometres.’

  The street was a cacophony of horns blown by irritable motorists. The pavements were busy with shoppers and tourists. Marcello took Lily’s hand and threaded a route at speed through the crowds. Her bag bounced against her hip, her hair frizzed in the heat and coiled damply on her neck. Neither of them stopped to draw breath, even though she had a stitch beneath her ribs and her nose and throat were clogged with petrol fumes.

  ‘We will do it,’ called Marcello over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Three weeks ago, she hadn’t even known about this wedding – but three weeks ago she had been angry with Carlotta, considering herself abandoned by her twice over. Now she knew differently. She could hear Jess saying, ‘You should avoid doing anything that would cause any more pain.’ So she clung to Marcello’s hand and pounded down via Nazionale, past Trajan’s Column and the monstrous white edifice that was the Victor Emmanuel memorial; then they rounded the corner and she stopped in dismay.

  ‘We are nearly there,’ he said. ‘We can arrive in time.’

  They were standing at the bottom of a steep flight of steps that seemed to stretch to infinity. ‘We have to climb that?’

  He stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. ‘No, not that. The one next to it. It’s a very splendid staircase, you know. It was designed by Michelangelo.’

  The Cordonata was a broad elegant ramp with a much shallower incline, but so monumental she couldn’t see where it led. She was hot and footsore and short of breath; she didn’t think she had enough air in her lungs to take another step, let alone tackle a hill. ‘Oh, fuck Michelangelo,’ she said. But it was inconceivable to give in now, so they linked arms and trudged onwards and upwards.

  The vast piazza at the top of the ramp was framed by three magnificent palaces and a view over the ruins of the Forum. Disparate clusters of sightseers, tour groups and wedding parties milled in a surreal spectacle. The tourists were mostly in shorts and trainers and gaudy tee shirts. The wedding guests wore tailored suits, buttonholes, precarious high heels. There was more than one bride, drifting about in a cloud of white candy floss.
Almost everybody carried a camera, the shutters whirring and clacking like birds.

  Lily was aghast. ‘However will I find her?’ She shaded her eyes and spun in a circle. She had only seen Carlotta once since the trip to Favignana, and on that occasion she had been pale and drawn and unwell. In fact they had both avoided eye contact. What chance did she have of recognising her in this arena?

  Then, from some yards away, a young man hailed them. Lily supposed he was an acquaintance of Marcello’s, a fellow student perhaps, surprised to meet him out of context. As he came closer she realised he was more of a boy than a man: he had wavy brown hair and a smooth fresh face, no need yet to shave. The well-cut suit and the flower in his buttonhole had made him look mature.

  ‘Sono Luca Morandi,’ he said. ‘Et tu sei Lily?’

  Of course: the boy in the photographs, Carlotta’s stepson. ‘Sì, sono Lily McKenzie.’ She clasped his proffered hand and forgot to let go. ‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed in English. ‘We have the same initials. D’you think that’s an omen?’

  He looked at her blankly. Marcello took over, introducing himself and explaining the delays they’d had, the mad dash across the city.

  ‘Did Carlotta think I wouldn’t make it?’ said Lily. She couldn’t help being fascinated by the boy. She couldn’t have imagined Harry at the same age showing such poise. A new stepbrother! Her family was expanding daily; it was really quite exciting.

  Luca gave a very Roman shrug. ‘She is waiting, she will not go into the building. She asked me to look for you.’

  ‘And you found me?’

  ‘Facilemente.’ Easily.

  He began to lead the way across the piazza. He called out and a small elderly man with thin strands of silver hair, spectacles and an unusually garish tie jumped to attention. So did the woman he was escorting. She was carrying a bouquet of roses in shades of apricot and cream; her dress was also the colour of glowing apricot. Her hair had been swept up and styled into a French pleat rather than tumbling over her shoulders, but she was instantly recognisable.

  ‘That’s her?’ said Marcello.

  ‘Yes! Do you remember now?’

  Carlotta was approaching, opening her arms as she did so. Marcello took charge of Lily’s bag and gave her a little push forward.

  ‘Oh, Lily!’ said Carlotta. ‘You came!’

  ‘You were expecting me? I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you myself, but…’

  ‘I have hoped,’ said Carlotta, ‘that Silvana did not make mistake.’

  ‘I was worried we’d be late because the train got stuck and we’ve had to run all the way here from the station. We haven’t missed anything, have we? Where are your guests?’

  ‘They are inside, waiting. I stayed out here because I didn’t want to miss you. I didn’t want to lose you again. And Luca has helped me to find you. You must also meet Iacopo. He is giving me away.’

  The elderly man smiled and kissed Lily’s hand.

  ‘Afterwards there will be photographs,’ said Carlotta. ‘You won’t believe how many. And I want you to be in them, with Nicolo and Luca. And then we will go to the restaurant and I hope you are hungry because we will have mountains of food. And there will be dancing and speeches. But you must know this. You have seen it before.’

  ‘No,’ said Lily. ‘Actually, I’ve never been to a wedding.’

  ‘What, never? Is it possible?’

  ‘This will be my first one.’

  ‘Veramente?’ Carlotta seemed quite overcome.

  Iacopo said, ‘Non deve piangere, cara.’ You shouldn’t cry, my dear.

  Carlotta buried her face for a moment in her bouquet. When she lifted it, her tears sparkled on the roses like raindrops. ‘It’s because I am happy,’ she said. Then she took Lily’s hand and they walked together across the travertine paving, through the haphazard selection of other people’s wedding guests, towards the grand open doors of the palazzo and the well-wishers who awaited them.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

  Penny Feeny’s next book is coming in 2019

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  Acknowledgements

  I am deeply indebted to my agent, Laura Longrigg, for her wisdom, support and encouragement – and for being such excellent company; to my editor, Lucy Gilmour, who has been a pleasure to work with – her guidance always insightful and astute; to the team at Aria for their commitment and attention to detail in producing this book; and to the people of Sicily who inspired it.

  Author’s Note

  The resort of Roccamare is fictional, but all other places mentioned in the novel exist. The Belice earthquake, in 1968, became notorious for the length of time it took to rehouse survivors. Fifty years on, the ruined houses of Santa Margherita can still be seen, cheek by jowl with the new town.

  About Penny Feeny

  PENNY FEENY has lived and worked in Cambridge, London and Rome. Since settling in Liverpool many years ago she has been an arts administrator, editor, radio presenter and advice worker. Her short fiction has been widely published and broadcast and won several awards. Her first novel, That Summer in Ischia, was one of the summer of 2011's best selling titles.

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  First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Penny Feeny, 2018

  The moral right of Penny Feeny to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (E) 9781788547314

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