by Angela Petch
Lodovica joined her and stared down.
‘If what you believed you saw was imagination – due to psychological causes, your grieving for James – then so be it. But you’re not the only person this restless spirit has tried to tap into. You and I have a connection, don’t we, Alba, with this silverware?’
‘Coincidence?’
‘You know what I think of coincidences. We talked about that when we first met.’
Alba pulled a face. ‘It’s all too weird for me now. I really believe that what I thought I saw can be put down to my being in a bad place. I mean’ – she swept out her arms – ‘up here, on this beautiful afternoon, all is right with the world.’
‘Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do any harm to say a prayer up here for my uncle. From what you told me, nobody mourned his death. Everybody deserves a decent farewell.’ Lodovica knelt on the floor of the forest, her head bowed. While Alba waited for some sign like in the movies: a clap of thunder, a darkening sky, or a raven to fall dead from a branch, she had to stifle a sudden giggle of embarrassment, and she wondered what words Lodovica was silently mouthing.
After a while, Lodovica stood up and patted the earth away from her long skirts. ‘We can go now,’ she said, her voice subdued. ‘But I believe we need to return the silverware to where it came from.’
‘How did you arrive at that conclusion?’ Alba asked as they began their walk downhill.
‘I believe it could only be Zio Basilio’s wish. You told me about his horrible death and his betrayal of fellow partisans. He was a jealous and greedy man, and he caused the demise of many of his compatriots. I believe he regretted his actions. Returning the stolen goods would be atonement.’
‘Weird as it sounds, it all seems to make sense,’ Alba said. ‘And I think I know what to do with your uncle’s stuff.’ She suggested taking it down to the boutique hotel along the Sansepolcro road. ‘The new proprietors might like to recount the origin of these ornaments to their guests, and add a bit of history to their menu.’
Lodovica smiled. ‘I’m tired now, Alba. I’m looking forward to doing nothing but sitting by my fire tonight.’
The two women walked down at a slower pace. Once or twice, Alba had to help Lodovica when she stumbled. It was as if her thoughts and prayers on the mountain had sapped her energy. Alba wasn’t sure what she made of it all.
Tramarecchia came alive again on the day of Massimo’s party. Alfiero had taken time off work. It was difficult for them at first, but Anna and Francesco were there to cushion the encounter and took charge, issuing instructions to cover any awkward moments. Alfiero helped Alba festoon the walnut tree with solar lights and arrange the long kitchen table in the piazza with a colourful cloth. The way to Massimo’s house down the track was lined with Alfiero’s trademark candles, and the butcher had lent them his large barbecue to roast the suckling pig that Massimo had so been looking forward to. Babbo had provided a five-litre demijohn of Montalcino wine and Anna had made a tiramisu as well as salads of aubergines, courgettes, tomatoes and rice. Massimo’s eyes lit up when he saw the dish of panzanella on the table.
‘Cucina povera,’ he said, helping himself to another portion of the simple, traditional Tuscan country salad made from dry bread, cucumbers, capers, tomatoes, onions and fresh basil. On top of a home-made chocolate sponge cake, Anna had placed two figures standing outside a little house that she had sculpted herself from marzipan: one of Alba and the other, Massimo. She had also decorated a large pecorino cheese bought from the farm up the road, studding the round with fresh figs, grapes and walnuts. Alba took plenty of photos to use as inspiration for watercolours.
Alba introduced Massimo to Lodovica, who had walked along the track by the river to the party, and she watched as the pair chatted earnestly. At one stage, she saw the nun take Massimo’s hands in her own and he nodded his head in agreement with whatever she was saying. Alba had guessed the pair would get on well.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked Alfiero when he topped up her glass with wine. ‘Is Beatrice leaving you in peace?’
He smiled. ‘I was warned it wouldn’t be easy, that there was no smooth road to recovery, but I have to say that changing the locks and threatening to report her to the carabinieri the next time she stalked me worked wonders. I don’t miss her at all. What about you?’
‘I actually applied to the Accademia di Belle Arti in Florence to start soon, and I got a place on their foundation course because somebody dropped out. How’s that for serendipity?’
He kissed her on each cheek, congratulating her. ‘Bravissima, Alba! But I’m sure they accepted you for your talent and not just because there was a space. That’s amazing news. And not too far for me to visit you occasionally. I love Florence. Not that I need that as an excuse,’ he added quietly.
‘You’re always welcome. You know that, Alfi.’ She meant it, grateful for his generous spirit. Meeting again could have been a hundred times more awkward.
Their conversation was interrupted by Massimo knocking a knife against his glass, asking for silence.
‘Thank you for coming today, my new friends.’ He gestured to Alba to approach, and he took hold of her hand as she arrived at his side. ‘This special girl has delighted me by becoming a daughter I never had. And I couldn’t have chosen better.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I know she will care for my little house when I am gone.
‘Over the last months, Alba has listened patiently to the stories of an old man as he reminisced. The circumstances of war led me to the other side of the world, and I took a few diversions, but I ended up back here in my beloved home village. I like to think I didn’t take any wrong turnings, only ones I hadn’t known I was going to walk. And on my journey, I came across love of different kinds…’ He squeezed Alba’s hand and she smiled back. ‘And I found friendship. Many of my friends have gone from this world. Knowing them was a blessing. Raise your glasses to friendship and love, and remember – whatever is in your hearts, you must do it! Cin cin, amici. Remember, you cannot stop time.’
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On the morning after the party, Alba woke to the sound of Freddie whining. She groped her way downstairs to let him out, her head a little worse for wear after the festivities, but the old dog refused to move from her side. He continued to whimper while she made a pot of strong espresso and then followed her as she climbed the stairs with a cup for Massimo. His face was pale, and she knew even before she touched his cold hands that he was gone. Freddie lay down on the carpet by the side of his bed, his head on his paws. ‘Oh, Freddie,’ Alba said, stroking his head, thinking to herself that perhaps her parents could look after him instead of returning him to the dog pound. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She sat for a while, remembering the stories Massimo had shared. After whispering, ‘Grazie, caro amico mio,’ she gently kissed his forehead and phoned her parents, tears coursing down her face.
Thirty-Three
In the weeks after Massimo’s funeral, Alba threw herself into her work, determined to make her contribution to the tourist office exhibition a homage to her elderly friend before she left for Florence. She missed him greatly, and often went for walks to Tramarecchia in her free hours to paint. It was where she felt his presence. The trees were slowly losing their foliage, and when a leaf somersaulted across the stones, she looked up from her drawing, half expecting to see Massimo approach. The vine on the house at the edge of Tramarecchia was heavy with grapes, and she painted the pattern of tendrils curling round verdigris-coated copper guttering.
A stray kitten scampered into view, winding between her legs as she sketched, and she bent to fondle its black and white fur. It scampered off and she watched it enter the open door of her little house.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said, jumping up to follow. She didn’t want the creature to hide and then get locked in. She found the kitten upstairs in the bathroom, sharpening its tiny claws against the ugly pine panelling lining the bottom half of the walls.
‘Scratch away on
that to your heart’s content,’ she said, bending down to stroke the kitten’s matted fur. ‘It’s pretty gruesome.’ She pulled away at one of the boards that had worked loose and opened the window to throw it out, deciding this would be the first room to tackle on her renovation project. Removing the panelling was dusty work, and she uncovered years of spiders’ nests in the process. She worked for almost an hour, her arms beginning to ache, her body covered in grime. As she wrenched the last board away, she was about to give up for the day.
Removing the last piece had revealed a niche in the old stone wall, and resting on it was a piece of sacking tied with string. She reached in gingerly, having already been spooked by a scuttling scorpion, its tail upright, ready to sting. The sacking contained something heavy and she carefully carried the package downstairs into the fresh air. Cutting the string away, inside she found an envelope, a black notebook and an oilcloth covering a rectangular object.
‘Oh – my – good – God,’ she exclaimed, as she exposed a glazed terracotta plaque decorated in the characteristic colours of blue, white, yellow and green. A Madonna and baby, lilies decorating the borders, stared back at her. She ran her fingers over the raised features of the baby, biting back the tears, remembering how Massimo had told her he thought it buried forever in a landslide. Lucia must have removed Florian’s gift from the cave and hidden it here for safekeeping.
She knew this was a priceless object. A predella from the base of a larger work, possibly a genuine Robbiana altarpiece like the two she had seen in the little church up in Montebotolino. They had been discovered two years previously on an antiques stall at the annual fair in Pennabilli, but the third had never been found. Could this be the missing one? She was sure Alfiero would know.
She turned her attention to the little notebook, bound in a thinner strip of sacking and stained with mildew. The handwriting inside was neat and, turning the pages carefully, she saw that it contained a series of intriguing maps with sketches of trees, insects, butterflies, fossils, a river, a cave and a mountaintop with handwritten notes at the bottom in a foreign language. They reminded her of treasure maps in a child’s storybook. She put it carefully to one side. She presumed that Lucia had hidden these things because they must be important. But why hadn’t she told Massimo about them? Or had he known all along?
Poking from beneath the predella was an envelope, yellow with age. She opened it and pulled out a thin piece of paper. The writing was barely legible, so she had to move closer to the window to read it. It was written in poor Italian, with a scattering of German words that she remembered from her school lessons.
Lucia, mein Schatz,
Your name rolls off my tongue like a word from a poem. I bless the day I met you – my very own treasure in this storm of war – my beautiful, funny, spirited Tuscan girl with whom I want to live out the rest of my days.
This keepsake should be put in a special place. It can belong to us for a while. While we are apart, look often at the little baby and remind yourself of all the angels we will make together. One day we will return it.
In the meantime, you have my heart.
Ich liebe dich.
Ti amo.
Your Florian
She digested the words in silence, her hand to her mouth, her emotions ready to spill over. Maybe Lucia had concealed these items even from Massimo, because she wanted to keep a part of Florian secret. In that way, something of him would still remain alive for her.
Alba knew she must inform the authorities about her find as soon as possible, and make sure everybody was aware that Massimo had always searched for it. It was important that nobody should think he was involved in anything underhand. This discovery was part of the history of the war. The Germans had purloined so many pieces of art, many of which had never been traced, and this find represented one tiny missing piece of a much larger jigsaw. With care, she wrapped the predella again in the sacking, together with the notebook, but she placed the letter in her rucksack. It was too personal to share with the world. She felt as if she was holding a piece of Lucia, a girl she had never met but who she felt very close to. She wondered what Massimo would have made of the discovery, and how he would have reacted. She would never know for sure, but she reckoned he would have been pleased – as if a line had been drawn under Lucia and Florian’s story.
With that thought in her head, she reached up to the ledge over the hearth for the urn containing Massimo’s ashes. It was time.
Alba made her way down the steep path to the river and stopped on the weir. This was the right place. The river was alive; it always would be. Massimo had told her so much about this spot. It was a favourite place for Lucia, too – his Tuscan girl. She paused and then started to unscrew the lid.
She tested the direction of the wind and then gently released the contents.
‘Addio, Massimo,’ she whispered.
Some of the ashes dropped onto the surface of the water and fish darted up from the depths to investigate. The rest were lifted by a gentle breeze that sprang up unexpectedly and were dispersed in the current that flowed by the stony banks, thick with willows and ash saplings.
She walked slowly up the path with the empty urn to the house she had named Ca’ Massimo. Her heart full, she pulled out her paints to capture the scene in front of her, selecting shades of purple and blue for the mountains in the background, adding dabs of cadmium red for the window frames and the rose climbing up the stonework. Yellow ochre and sap green went into the dying grass, burnt sienna and raw umber for the old sandstone of the ruins. She sketched in the small figure of Massimo sitting at the door, capturing him forever on paper.
After locking up the house, closing the shutters and making sure she had left no foodstuffs lying about for vermin, she started on her walk back to her parents, wondering when she would next be able to return to the red house.
As she wandered along the old mule track, the evening birdsong a background to her thoughts as the shadows lengthened, she didn’t feel alone. It was as if Massimo was walking beside her, encouraging her forward. A younger Massimo, a jaunty spring in his step, Lupino coming to his side between scampering back and forth to the edges of the beech woods. At one point, when a pine marten scurried over some rocks and up a tree, she almost turned to her imaginary companion to comment. But somehow, she knew she didn’t have to. He was there, somewhere.
If you fell in love with Massimo’s heartbreaking story, you’ll adore The Tuscan Secret by Angela Petch. When Anna inherits her Italian mother’s diaries, a devastating wartime secret about her family is revealed.
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The Tuscan Secret
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Il Mulino. An old crumbling mill, by a winding river, nestled in the Tuscan mountains. An empty home that holds memories of homemade pasta and Nonna’s stories by the fire, and later: the Nazi invasion, and a family torn apart by a heartbreaking betrayal.
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Anna is distraught when her beloved mother, Ines, passes away. She inherits a box of papers, handwritten in Italian and yellowed with age, and a tantalising promise that the truth about what happened during the war lies within.
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The diaries lead Anna to the small village of Rofelle, where she slowly starts to heal as she explores sun-kissed olive groves, and pieces together her mother’s past: happy days spent herding sheep across Tuscan meadows cruelly interrupted when World War Two erupted and the Nazis arrived; fleeing her home to join the Resistenza; and risking everything to protect an injured British soldier who captured her heart. But Anna is no closer to learning the truth: what sent Ines running from her adored homeland?
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When she meets an elderly Italian gentleman living in a deserted hamlet, who flinches at her mother’s name and refuses to speak English, Anna is sure he knows more about the devastating secret that tore apart her mother’s family. But in this small Tuscan community, some wartime secrets were n
ever meant to be uncovered…
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A stunning tale, inspired by true events, about how the tragic consequences of war can echo through generations, and how love can guide us through the darkest times. Fans of Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale and The Letter by Kathryn Hughes will be captivated.
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Books by Angela Petch
The Tuscan Girl
The Tuscan Secret
Available in Audio
The Tuscan Secret (Available in the UK and the US)
A Letter from Angela
I want to say mille grazie – huge thanks – for choosing to read The Tuscan Girl. If you enjoyed it and want to keep up to date with all my latest releases, just sign up at the following link. Your email address will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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This is another Tuscan story written from the heart and I loved writing it. If you enjoyed reading The Tuscan Girl, I would be very grateful if you could write a review. I’d love to hear what you think, and it makes such a difference helping new readers to discover one of my books.