Love at the Italian Lake

by Darcie Boleyn

  Sophia released her suitcase and wrapped her arms around her grandmother, who was several inches shorter, which meant that she was leaning over with her bum sticking out awkwardly.

  ‘Sorry, Nonna. I had an accident at the airport and it delayed me.’

  ‘What?’ Her nonna released her suddenly and pushed her backwards to look at her. ‘Are you hurt?’ She took hold of Sophia’s face and turned it left then right and Sophia was surprised at the strength of the small fingers. ‘How did this happen, bella?’ The use of the same term of endearment as her mother, made tears spring into Sophia’s eyes. She blinked rapidly to clear them; she was obviously over-tired.

  ‘A man knocked into me and I fell over my suitcase. But I was trying to remove my kimono and my arms got trapped and I…’ She sighed. It all sounded so ridiculous now. ‘I bumped my head on the floor and bit my lip. But I’m okay. Just a bit tender.’

  ‘Well I hope you tell him off, bella. Come with me and I’ll show you your room then make coffee.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be wonderful.’

  As Sophia followed her nonna through a cool, dark hallway then up two flights of steps, she thought about how good her nonna’s use of English was. Growing up, her mother had always spoken Italian, but her move to England had changed that and she’d learned the language of her adopted country quickly. She’d told Sophia that Nonna had been able to speak some English since she was a child because of the tourists who visited Malcesine, but that she’d been determined to learn to speak it fluently when her only daughter did the same. Apparently, Nonna had always been a very determined woman. But despite learning the language, Nonna had never visited England; she claimed it was because so many people needed her in Malcesine, but Sophia suspected she was afraid to fly.

  Nonna paused in front of an open doorway. ‘This will be yours, Sophia. Is it okay?’

  Sophia entered the square room and eyed the faded primrose yellow walls, the flowered coverlet and the mismatched wardrobe and dressing table. The round mirror above the dressing table was smudged and the glass was eroded around the edges. She let go of her suitcase and went to the window, then peered down at the small square she’d been stood in just moment ago. The scent of clematis drifted up from the window box below the sill and she could hear the sounds of a television from a nearby house. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking and a child was laughing.

  She turned to her grandmother. ‘It’s perfect. Exactly what I need right now.’

  Her nonna crossed her hands over the apron she wore tied at her waist. A smile played over her thin lips and she nodded. ‘I am so happy you have come to stay. I know that you have not been happy for a while—’ Sophia made to disagree but the older woman shook her head and held up a hand. ‘No, no! Your mother told me some of it. Lake Garda will heal you, bella. You trust your nonna.’ Her thick Italian accent made the words, which would normally make Sophia have to stifle her laughter, take on a sense of power. ‘You will find peace here and figure out what it is that you want to do with your life. Then, perhaps, you will move on. But perhaps you will stay. I could never leave this place, it is the only home I’ve ever known, but even if you go, Sophia, it will always remain in your heart.’

  Sophia’s eyes burned again and her throat tightened. She was, no doubt, tired and emotional because of her journey and the accident, but once she’d eaten and had a good night’s sleep, she was sure that she’d be back to her best by the morning.

  Chapter 6

  Sophia padded down the stairs and paused in the dark hallway. She knew it was just after eight from the display on her mobile phone – she’d remembered to put the clock forward an hour – but she didn’t know how long Nonna would have been up. They’d eaten supper the previous evening, then her nonna had retired at nine, and Sophia had been glad to do the same. Their conversation had been light, focused on Sophia’s brothers and what they’d been up to, as well as on the restaurant and the regulars who came in. It seemed to make Nonna happy to hear how well Stella handled the demands of their customers as well as about how much she loved running the restaurant.

  There was noise coming from the kitchen, which was at the end of a short corridor at the rear of the house. When she reached the doorway, she found her nonna sitting at the square wooden table sipping from a steaming mug.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning to you, bella! How did you sleep?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. I was exhausted after travelling here.’

  ‘And how is your…’ Her nonna squinted and pointed to Sophia’s mouth, then her forehead.

  ‘Oh… much better, I think.’ She prodded her upper lip carefully but as she’d seen in the bedroom mirror, the swelling seemed to have gone down. The lump on her head was still quite prominent though.

  ‘Your mouth is better but your head… is a third eye.’ Nonna started laughing at this and Sophia joined in.

  ‘Oh that’s awful. Does it look that bad? I only glanced in the bedroom mirror and then when I washed my face, but it wasn’t very bright in the bathroom.’ The electric light had been dim and the mirror, like the one in her bedroom, was faded with age. But after what Nonna had just told her, that was probably a good thing.

  ‘You want some coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s good coffee, bella. Strong and Italian, like our men.’ The wink that followed the comment made Sophia laugh again. She was starting to think that her nonna might have a bit of a wicked sense of humour. ‘My husband was a good man. He wouldn’t take any silliness from anyone and he was well respected here and in Verona.’ She crossed herself quickly.

  ‘How long is it since Nonno… passed away.’ Saying his name made Sophia’s heart flutter. As a child, she’d longed to call her grandparents Grandma and Grandpa – although she didn’t see them that often, she had written about them at school and spoken about them when others referred to their grandparents – but her mother had always insisted on the Italian terms that translated as little grandfather and little grandmother. It was yet another thing that had singled her out from her peers. Now she realized how silly that had been, but it had been part of her desire to fit in, to not be so different from everyone else.

  ‘Twenty-five long years. Sit, Sophia! Treat this as your home.’

  Sophia took the seat next to her nonna and watched as she filled two small cups from a stove top coffee pot. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There is milk and sugar.’

  Sophia shook her head. ‘You still miss Nonno a lot?’

  ‘Yes. He was the love of my life. The first man I loved and the last.’

  ‘It must be amazing to love like that.’ She pictured Lee’s beard combing and shivered.

  ‘Amazing but painful. Oh the fights we used to have… He used to drive me wild… infuriate me and make me chase him round the house with the broom. But then… afterwards, when we made up…’ Her eyes glazed over and she stared down at her cup. ‘Even when we’d been together for years, the passion did not die. Nor the laughter.’

  She met Sophia’s gaze.

  ‘I don’t think everyone finds love like that. You were lucky… I mean, to have each other. Not to lose him so young.’

  ‘Yes, too young. But we loved so deeply that it has carried me through the lonely years.’ Suddenly, she seemed to shake herself. ‘You are hungry, bella?’

  ‘I could eat.’

  ‘I have things for you. I was not sure what you would like.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, no. Sit and enjoy your coffee and let me spoil you. Don’t you know ai nonni piace viziare i nipotini.’

  ‘Nonni is grandparents but I’m not so sure about the rest.’ Sophia chewed her lip.

  ‘We like to spoil our grandchildren.’

  ‘Of course…’

  Sophia did as she was told and sipped her coffee. It was strong and delicious. She felt tension seeping away as she sat at the old table in the kitchen she recalled from her childh
ood, with its eclectic range of cupboards and wooden surfaces, its ancient cooker and wonky fridge. As a child, the kitchen had seemed large, but now she saw it through adult eyes and it was small and a touch messy, but homely. It was cosy with the early morning sunlight streaming through the rear window and warming the tiles of the floor., Sophia could completely understand why her nonna would choose to spend the start of the day in there.

  From somewhere outside, she could hear a bird warbling and another answering it. It lifted her heart and filled her with a sense of hope and purpose. Today was a new day and the start of her new life.

  Today was going to be a good day.

  *

  An hour later, Sophia descended the stairs to find her nonna waiting in the hallway.

  ‘Oh, Sophia… So beautiful!’ Nonna clapped her hands together then pressed them to her lips. ‘Bellisimo. Just like your mama.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She accepted a hug, then gestured at her skirt. ‘Is this okay though? It’s not the type of thing I usually wear. I’m more of a trousers woman but Kaisha persuaded me to buy it.’

  ‘It is lovely.’

  And Sophia had to agree. The floaty bohemian-style skirt that fell to her ankles was made of a soft lightweight material. It was tie-dyed in a variety of shades of blue from indigo to cornflower, and the silver thread that had been stitched across the material in swirls made it shimmer as she moved. It was pretty and feminine and had been very expensive. But she was glad she’d splashed out because it made her feel good. She’d teamed it with navy pumps, another of Kaisha’s suggestions, and a white smock top that stopped at her hips.

  ‘I think you will like the market. I normally go early as it starts at eight but today I waited for you.’

  ‘Oh… I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘No, don’t be, it’s a pleasure to have some company. Now come, let us get there before all the good onions are gone.’

  She ushered Sophia out of the door then locked it behind them.

  By the time they reached the Centro Storico, as Nonna called it, Sophia was slightly out of breath. Nonna walked quickly, her age clearly not hindering her fitness. During the walk, Sophia had had the chance to get a good look at her, and she had to admit that if this was what living on the shores of an Italian lake did for you, then she would seriously consider moving there. Katherine Spinoli was seventy-five but she could have passed for ten to fifteen years younger. She was small and slight but not in a fragile way. Her arms were strong, her hands agile and free from arthritis, and her bobbed hair, although white, was thick and soft. In her fawn silk blouse, black linen trousers and flat sandals, she was smart and chic.

  ‘Here we are.’ Nonna took Sophia’s arm as they stood in front of the square housing the Saturday market. ‘Now I will show you some good Italian produce and how to get a deal.’

  Sophia allowed her nonna to lead her into the throng of people. The market consisted of two tiers and a sea of white and blue striped awnings covered the stalls, protecting the wares from the warm June sunlight. There were stalls selling fruit and vegetables, others selling pastries and confectionery, and some offering cheese and meat. Others sold jewellery, leather shoes and bags. All around her, people chatted, laughed, smoked and haggled.

  Nonna paused before a stall heaped with fruit and vegetables, in a bright rainbow of colours, then she handed Sophia a tote bag. ‘You carry the fruit, Sophia.’

  Then, Sophia listened carefully as Nonna launched into a fast Italian monologue, accompanied by gesticulations that made the man behind the stall nod, frown and smile as he filled small brown paper bags with everything that his customer desired. Sophia understood odd words and phrases but just as her brain was translating them, Nonna had moved on and Sophia had lost the flow. Her parents had always spoken English at home, believing that it gave their children a better chance of succeeding in their education and in their lives there, and had encouraged their children to do the same.

  When Nonna finally stopped pointing and speaking, the man handed Sophia some of the bags and she put them into the tote bag. Nonna put the rest into her own two large tote bags and paid the stallholder.

  ‘Now that is done, we can enjoy the rest of the market.’ Nonna hooked her free hand into the crook of Sophia’s arm.

  ‘Let me take another bag.’ Sophia reached for one of the totes.

  ‘No, no. I can manage. It keeps me fit. It is important to be active. I will stay strong and independent, not become soft and weak.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Sophia watched her carefully but the brown eyes with their white lashes flashed in response and Sophia knew that she shouldn’t try to push this little woman into anything she had no intention of doing.

  They ambled from stall to stall, poring over silver jewellery more intricate and beautiful than any Sophia had seen before, then to another that smelled divine as soon as they reached it. Sophia eyed the pastries that filled up the trays, recognising the tubes of fried pastry dough filled with ricotta as sweet cannoli. Sophia read the labels, which were written in Italian and English. Some had lemon ricotta and in others the ricotta was orange, flavoured with orange flower water. The open ends of some of the cannoli were dotted with candied citrus peel or cherries and chopped pistachios.

  ‘You like cannoli?’ Nonna asked.

  Sophia’s mouth was watering. ‘I shouldn’t really, not after that delicious breakfast.’ She’d enjoyed a delightful combination of crusty rolls, cheese, bologna and fruit washed down with plenty of coffee.

  ‘If you don’t want the cannoli, how about the zeppole?’

  ‘What is it?’ Sophia gazed at the small cake with what appeared to be a dollop of cream on top. ‘I don’t think I’ve had those before.’

  ‘Zeppole are deep-fried dough balls topped with sugar and filled with pastry cream, or with jam, custard or butter and honey.’

  ‘So they’re a bit like cannoli?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘And what are they?’ She pointed at the next tray.

  ‘That is pignolata. It is soft pastry half-covered in chocolate icing and half in lemon icing. It can be served with a hot honey sauce and chopped almonds or hazelnuts.’

  ‘Chocolate and lemon?’ Sophia’s stomach rumbled.

  ‘Or… there are biscotti.’

  ‘I’ve had biscotti before. And I recognise the other desserts I can see there.’ She pointed at some of the trays.

  Nonna shook her head. ‘You are Italian, Sophia. Your parents should have ensured that you tried all of these. I am surprised they don’t serve them at the restaurant.’

  ‘They can’t serve everything Italian, Grandma. They serve some options but try to go with what’s most in demand. Otherwise, things would waste and they have some quieter periods as it is. Besides, if they served them all, then I wouldn’t stop eating.’ Sophia laughed to try to make light of the comment. She knew her parents had experienced periods when they’d had to tighten their belts, but she didn’t want to give her nonna the impression they struggled.

  ‘If you keep active, everything can be enjoyed in moderation, bella.’ Nonna waved at the pretty girl behind the stall. ‘Proviamo due di questi. E quelli. E quelli.’

  Sophia watched as the girl filled a box with a variety of the fresh pastries then handed them over.

  ‘Here, Sophia. We will enjoy these later. But first we have things to see.’

  They strolled on through the market and Sophia stopped at two stalls. At one, she purchased a small burgundy handbag that she thought Kaisha would love, and a silver scarf for her mother. She knew they wouldn’t expect gifts but they’d been so supportive about her trip and she wanted to show her gratitude.

  Towards the end of the second tier of stalls was one that made Sophia stop suddenly.

  ‘You like these?’

  ‘They’re so beautiful.’ She gazed at the display of pottery in front of her. There were white bowls and plates decorated with juicy tomatoes and fat black olives, pasta dishes painted with herbs a
nd vegetables and olive oil dispensers featuring olives of all shapes and colours. Further along there were larger bowls with lemons painted around their edges and triangular plates clearly meant for cheese. ‘Could I take a closer look?’ Sophia asked the woman behind the stall. She paused, realizing she’d spoken in English, but the woman nodded her understanding.

  ‘Of course.’ The woman came around to her side. ‘Which?’

  ‘That olive dish. There. I think my dad would love it.’

  She shifted the cake box under her arm that also held the bag of fruit and her shopping bags and the woman handed her the long, thin dish shaped a bit like a canoe. The dish was pretty and delicate and she knew her olive-mad father would appreciate its understated elegance. Her father just loved food. Everything about it. Ever since Sophia could remember, he’d raved about tastes and textures, colours and aromas. He loved to cook, not just Italian dishes – although he did those at the restaurant – but recipes from all corners of the world. Sophia wondered how he’d have behaved at the wonderful market and realized she’d love to see his reaction to the stalls and to the seemingly infinite variety of goods on offer.

  ‘Oh, hello again!’

  Sophia jumped at the familiar voice and, as she did so, the dish slipped from her hand. She tried to catch it but her other hand was supporting the cake box, her shopping and the bag of fruit that slipped along her arm and wedged against the cakes, squashing the side of the box. In slow motion, the olive dish fell to the ground where it instantly splintered. Sophia stared at the broken dish, then at her nonna, then at the stallholder and finally at the man who was responsible for making her drop the dish.

  He stared back, his mouth open in surprise, his green eyes wide. ‘I am so sorry.’ He knelt next to Sophia and began picking up the china fragments. ‘I really am. I mean, twice in two days I cause you to have an accident. What must you think of me?’

  Sophia watched his blond head bobbing as he retrieved one china shard after another. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounding. The stallholder was frowning as she watched Joe and she folded her arms over her chest.