The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  Tonino seemed at peace for almost the first time since she’d known him. He had lost his perpetual half-frown, his mouth was not set, but easy and relaxed, his eyes lightened by the sun when he pushed his sunglasses on to his head.

  He looked across at her, smiled and let his hand rest lightly on hers. His palm was dry and the pressure firm; she could sense rather than feel the strength in him. There was something of the stone he worked in about this man. As if he were part of the Sicilian landscape, embedded in the rock itself. Then the water touched their hands in a slippery caress and his skin softened, her hand slotting more surely into his.

  ‘Here is the cove,’ he said.

  Tess followed his gaze. He had allowed the boat to drift around the headland and in front of them now curved a semi-circle of fine white sand dotted with red and cream rocks and bands of seagrass washed upon the shore. As she watched, a solitary butterfly – a Red Admiral – flapped its gorgeous wings and skimmed the shallow aquamarine water.

  Tess realised she’d been holding her breath. ‘It’s a very special place,’ she said. But what she really meant was … This is special, this moment, this experience with you in this boat, in this bay. Whatever he was – and she still wasn’t sure – she only knew that she was drawn to him like an insect to honey. It might be impossible to resist – even if she wanted to.

  He stripped off his T-shirt, stood up in the boat and dived in an arc into the water. The boat rocked and she held on to the sides and laughed. She watched his dark head go under first, the rest of his body following in one fluid movement. Like a seal, she thought. Please, not a shark. She thought of Robin. But less and less, she realised. Less and less.

  A small pink jellyfish floated across the rippling circle where Tonino had dived in. She smiled. And as she watched, he emerged crisp and wet and grinning.

  Tess laughed once again. She wanted to be in there too. She was wearing a bikini and a sarong, which she untied without further ado, so that she was ready.

  He pulled the boat further in and moored it, tying the rope to a crag of rock. The boat gave a small sigh and a scrape against the pebbles and then was still. Tonino offered her his hand.

  ‘Grazie.’ She smiled.

  ‘Prego.’ He bowed playfully and hand-in-hand they waded through the water, out towards the open sea rather than to dry land.

  ‘Shall we?’

  She nodded, reached out her arms and slid into a slow breaststroke. The water was cool on her hot skin, silky and intoxicating. She turned over and floated on her back, the sun burning against her closed eyelids, sending a kaleidoscope of red and golden images into her vision, into her head. These were the colours of Sicily, she thought. Red earth, golden sun … Red tomatoes, yellow durum wheat …

  ‘This is like paradise,’ she called across to him. Worlds away from family feuds, thefts, betrayals and murder … Not to mention the Mafia.

  ‘Correction.’ The water was dripping from his black hair. He stood up and ran his hand through it. ‘It is paradise.’

  She squinted towards the mountain, outlined against a cloudless azure sky. ‘Can you get to this bay by the path in the nature reserve?’ She could just make it out in the distance, a band of red earth winding through palm trees, tamarisks and prickly pears.

  He shook his head. ‘It is only accessible by boat.’ Once again he grinned. ‘Lucky us, do you not think?’

  ‘Lucky us.’ But the water – or something – was making Tess shiver so she waded out of the water and on to the beach, dropping on to the white sand. The red mountains rose around the pocket of the cove, their lower slopes scattered with rock roses, wild spikes of rosemary and sweet yellow broom.

  He joined her a few minutes later. He had brought the rucksack from the boat and a huge blue towel. He spread this out and she sat up as he unpacked the rucksack. Fizzy water and – mmm – Prosecco, both bottles wrapped in cool bags, Serrano ham, ricotta cheese, tomato salad, thick yellow Sicilian bread and oranges.

  ‘It looks delicious,’ she said.

  And it was. They ate hungrily, drank Prosecco from the glasses he had also brought along. ‘Never drink good wine from plastic glasses,’ he said. ‘No, no, it is not the thing.’

  Slowly, he peeled an orange, letting the rind fall into a spiral around his brown fingers. He took a segment and offered it to Tess.

  She took a bite. ‘Sweet and warm,’ she said. ‘Like the sun.’

  He nodded. ‘The orange is a daytime fruit,’ he said. ‘The lemon, she is of the moon.’

  ‘Lunar,’ said Tess. The colour of moonshine. And the scent of night-time.

  Finally, replete, they lay on the towel, Tess almost dozing.

  ‘You are very different,’ he murmured, after some minutes had passed. ‘To what I imagined.’

  Oh yes? She became attentive. ‘And what did you imagine, exactly?’ She propped herself up, looking down at his tanned body, at the dark tendrils of hair that curled over his flat stomach. She didn’t dare look further.

  He didn’t open his eyes. ‘Another tourist.’ But she heard the contempt in his voice and tried not to be hurt. After all, she wasn’t another tourist – she was half-Sicilian herself. And why shouldn’t he resent the tourists that came and plundered the beaches and towns and temples of Sicily with their brashness, their noise, their mountains of rubbish? Well, because the tourists gave him the food on his table, for starters, she thought. If not for the Germans, the English, the wealthy Italians from the north, who bought his glittering mosaic tableware, his inlaid furniture, his mirrors and tiles, then how would people like Tonino make a living?

  But … Vanity won out. ‘How am I different?’ she persisted. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted to touch the hollow in his neck under his Adam’s apple. How much she wanted to trace a path with her fingertip past his sternum and his ribcage, down to his navel. And down … Her gaze was drawn to the waistband of his close-fitting black trunks that fitted him like a second skin. And …

  ‘You are a beautiful woman.’ His voice was husky and she realised that now his eyes were open and he was watching her watching him.

  Tess felt the heat on her shoulders and in her breasts. But she had a feeling it was coming from inside rather than from the sun this time.

  ‘Lots of tourists are beautiful women,’ she pointed out – though somewhat shakily. This was dangerous ground. She had seen them posing in white bikinis on the decks of flash yachts and sailing boats, all with improbably dark golden tans and blonder-than-blonde hair. Much younger than her too, she thought, looking down at her stomach and legs – which were, OK, well-toned, thanks to all the swimming and diving she did, but perhaps not as trim as they’d been when she was twenty – or even thirty.

  ‘Your hair … ’ He trailed a hand through it; twisted a tendril between thumb and forefinger. ‘It is like a weed of the sea.’

  Tess laughed. She’d had smoother compliments. Still … ‘Seaweed?’

  He nodded. ‘Like a mermaid,’ he said. ‘Yellow and brown and red and amber. Like jasper.’

  She had seen those mottled stones in his studio. They looked like the stones you often saw on the bottom of the ocean; dappled by sand and moss. ‘You still haven’t told me the mermaid story,’ she teased. ‘The story of Villa Sirena.’

  ‘You must be patient,’ he said. ‘I will tell you when it is time.’

  Right. But when would it be time?

  ‘Your eyes are blue violet,’ he went on. ‘Very rare in Sicily. Very rare in sea glass.’

  ‘Sea glass?’ She had been propped up on one elbow, now she collapsed down on the sand again next to him. He certainly had some inventive chat-up lines.

  He hadn’t stopped touching her hair. ‘The green, the amber, the brown – they are common enough. But to find the perfect sea-buffed blue violet … ’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Lucky for you to have it in the flesh then,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘You are also provocative.’ He leaned closer. ‘A
nd interesting. Funny. And infuriating.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed. An irresistible combination, was it? ‘Well you’re not so bad yourself.’

  ‘And … ’ His dark gaze was smouldering into her now.

  Like molten lava, she thought. Like black, liquid oil. Oh, God. ‘And?’ Her voice wavered. What was the matter with her? Anyone would think she’d never been on the edge of paradise with a gorgeous and sexy man before. Exactly.

  He put a finger on her lips. ‘And I want to kiss you. Again.’

  Tess didn’t really have time to consider how she felt about this prospect – yes please; oh, yes please – before his lips were on hers and he tasted like honey and ricotta and Prosecco all mixed into one and it was so good, too good, and then his body was closer, closer, and he was touching her shoulders and her thighs, and he was kissing her throat, her neck, her breasts, and …

  She was sinking. Sinking and lost and abandoned and loving every sensual, blissful second of it.

  Minutes later, as he was nuzzling into her neck, and attempting to remove her bikini bottoms with his free hand, she felt him stop, his hand resting on her thigh, as he raised his head and looked over her shoulder out to sea. He swore softly.

  ‘What is it?’ Tess struggled to sit up.

  ‘The sea, she grows angry,’ he murmured.

  Tess ran her fingertip down the length of the scar on his face, feeling the contours of his cheekbone, letting her fingertip rest on his lips. But she had lost his attention. She followed the direction of his gaze and tried to breathe more normally. In the distance, she could see the waves being whipped into white horses. ‘It does look a bit choppy out there,’ she agreed. Closer to shore, the water was wrinkled like polythene; no longer calm and unruffled as it had been only an hour before.

  He was on his feet in seconds. ‘It is a very strong wind,’ he said. ‘We must get the boat back to harbour. Or we will be stranded here. Come.’ He took her hand and she got to her feet.

  Would that be so bad, thought Tess? But she didn’t waste time. She threw the picnic things back in the hamper, grabbed her towel and ran down the beach towards the boat. Suddenly the wind felt chill around her bare shoulders.

  ‘How long?’ she asked him.

  He helped her in. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’ Already he was unmooring the boat. He pushed it out and jumped in. Started the motor and they were away, the engine on full throttle, the boat pitching and crashing through the waves, speeding back towards Cetaria Bay.

  Racing the wind, thought Tess, pushing her hair from her face, trying not to look at him. She wasn’t worried. Exhilarated, more like. He had said ten minutes and in ten minutes they would be safe. The sea was rolling, and the little boat was being tossed about a bit. But they would make it. She was sure they would make it.

  He reached for her hand. ‘Mi dispiace, Tess, sorry.’

  She smiled and shook her head. Better to be so close to the sea that you could sense these sorts of changes, than blind to it. Still … Inside, she was conscious of a warm ache of desire. It would have happened. Maybe it should have happened. But it hadn’t. Not yet.

  They got into harbour with the wind right on their tail and howling. Behind them, the waves were climbing high and the open sea had changed dramatically from turquoise into murky grey. Tess had pulled on a sweater but was still shivering, her hair matted with salt water and tangled from the wind. The change had been fast – she had never realised that the Mediterranean Sea could be so wild.

  ‘Just in time,’ said Tonino, bringing in the small craft, and helping Tess out of the boat.

  He’d just finished mooring it securely into position, when his mobile bleeped with a text message. With an apologetic glance at Tess, he checked his phone and read it. He frowned.

  ‘Problem?’ Tess was wondering whether or not to invite him in for coffee. It wasn’t the most original line in the book and his coffee was an awful lot better than hers, but she didn’t want the afternoon to end. Not yet.

  His eyes flickered. ‘There is someone I must see,’ he said. ‘They sent a message. They say it cannot wait.’

  ‘OK.’ The disappointment hit her like a fist. They had, what you might call, unfinished business. But on the other hand, it was all moving so fast; maybe it was a good idea to slow things down. ‘That’s fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Go ahead. I’ll see you—’

  ‘Later,’ he said. Gently, he touched her face. ‘At seven?’

  ‘At seven.’ She knew what he was saying. There would be no going back.

  CHAPTER 41

  No, Tess didn’t want the afternoon to end. So instead of staying inside the villa, she grabbed her raincoat from the peg in the hall and descended the steps back into the baglio. She’d visit Santina.

  She ran through the puddles of the baglio, collar up, ducking into doorways with each heavy burst of rain. Even so, she was soaked by the time she got to number fifteen and knocked on the door with the flaking green paint and rusty grille. She leant in as far as she could get out of the rain and crossed her fingers that Giovanni wasn’t at home.

  Santina opened the door a fraction and then flung it wide. ‘Tess!’ She broke into a torrent of Sicilian and pulled Tess into the dingy blood-red hallway. ‘Come in, come in, my child,’ she said.

  Thank goodness. Giovanni must be out.

  Tess was propelled along the narrow hallway lined with photographs, certificates and religious paraphernalia, into the kitchen, where Santina had obviously been preparing vegetables. Spinach and beans were laid out with a small sharp knife on a wooden board by the enamel sink, and more vegetables had been piled into a metal colander. ‘Sorry to disturb you—’ she began.

  ‘No, no, no …’ Santina made gestures to indicate Tess should get out of her wet things.

  She was glad to oblige.

  The old woman took her coat and hung it on a hook by the stove, clicking her tongue and shaking her head throughout. ‘Some coffee?’ she suggested, pointing to her little percolator. ‘Some dolce?’

  ‘Lovely.’ Tess nodded. She was itching to launch into her questions. ‘Giovanni?’ she asked.

  Santina shrugged. ‘Who know?’ she replied. ‘The Sciarra men – they always have go their own way.’

  Tess was fascinated by this. ‘But you’re a Sciarra,’ she said. ‘You’re family.’ And she knew how families stuck together in Sicily.

  Santina touched her forehead. ‘I different,’ she said. She shook her head violently. ‘I different.’

  It was one thing, Tess supposed, to disagree with one’s family and their way of life, quite another to discard it completely. ‘You never married?’ she asked.

  Santina was filling the percolator with water at the sink and so she had her back to Tess. ‘It never happen,’ she said. ‘Mostly I look after the family men.’ She turned, a strange look of defiance in her dark eyes. ‘I too have the fire in my belly.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I do what I can.’

  Tess nodded. Like her mother, she thought. She watched Santina take the percolator to the stove and fill it with coffee from a small canister. ‘How did you know?’ she asked her. ‘About my mother’s broken heart?’

  Santina lit the stove and placed the percolator on the flame to boil. ‘We write letters,’ she said. ‘Years go by. We write letters, Flavia and me.’

  Tess had wondered about that. ‘And now?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Santina shook her head vehemently. ‘Now, no. Not for many years.’

  No matter how much she cared for her old friend, her mother wouldn’t have wanted the contact with Sicily – Tess knew that. She would have had to let her go. ‘But why?’ Tess asked. ‘Why did she hate Sicily so much, Santina?’ Surely it couldn’t have been just because her father wanted her to marry Rodrigo Sciarra?

  Santina shook her head. ‘She not say, not to me.’

  And Tess had done the sums – why had it taken her mother so long to go to England? It couldn’t have been just because of the war. ‘My mother
was twenty-three years old when she left Sicily and travelled to England,’ she said. ‘That’s six years after she met this English airman you told me about. A long time.’

  Santina was fetching the tiny white cups and saucers and plates from behind the fabric that curtained the kitchen cupboard. She shrugged. ‘She wait,’ she said.

  She was very patient then, thought Tess. She must have loved him an awful lot. ‘And he helped her when she arrived in England?’ She could imagine how scary it must have been to a young, sheltered Sicilian girl to arrive in England alone. Her mother was very brave.

  Santina shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Signor Westerman from Villa Sirena. He help her. His sister in London help her. She cook, yes!’ She laughed.

  ‘Ah.’ It was all becoming clearer now. Tess accepted the tiny cup of coffee and pastry from Santina. ‘Grazie.’ So her mother had waited for him in Sicily – but he hadn’t come. So what had she done? Well, she’d gone to England to find him, of course. And Edward Westerman had helped her do it – just as he had helped Tess come to Sicily. She sipped the coffee. The jigsaw was gradually slotting into place.

  ‘So I suppose she tried to find the English airman and it was like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ she suggested to Santina.

  ‘Needle …? ’ Santina frowned.

  ‘She couldn’t find him?’ Tess said. ‘So she gave up her search and eventually forgot all about him.’ Another sip of coffee – it was rich and warming. And a bite of cornetti, the icing sugar sticking to her lips. ‘And then she met my father?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Santina. Her expression was one of compassion. ‘She find him, my child. She never forget that man.’

  ‘But—?’ Before Tess could say more, she heard the door opening and a stream of Sicilian that signalled the arrival of Giovanni.

  He stopped short when he saw Tess sitting in the kitchen. ‘You,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Tess was confused. Giovanni was looking very angry.

  He said something else in Sicilian and she caught Tonino’s name. Santina was looking from one to the other of them, twisting her apron between her fingers. What was going on? Had Giovanni somehow found out about Tess and Tonino? Not that there was too much to find out – yet.