Beata resumed her sewing. ‘That statue hasn’t bled for over fifty years. The last time was the year your parents met. Your father was so dashing in his naval uniform. They made a handsome couple.’
‘Then it failed to weep blood the following year, the day before they were due to marry. The day she was found on the road to Naples in furs and diamonds, murdered with Lupo Bianco.’
‘But still we keep celebrating the miracle even though the statue has dried up.’
‘You never know, it might happen again.’
‘God works in mysterious ways. Anyway, you must take your place in the festival as your grandmother did. You are a descendant of Saint Benedetta.’
‘It’s hard to keep a straight face, Beata. They all take it so seriously. The disappointment when Christ’s eyes remain dry is terrible. It was probably a hoax in the first place. Father Dino and a bit of tomato ketchup.’
‘May you be forgiven, Alba!’ But Beata’s mouth curled up at the corners as she suppressed a smile.
‘Ah, Cosima,’ said Alba as her niece came out to join them. ‘Is everything in its proper place now?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, taking a seat in the wicker armchair that used to be Immacolata’s. ‘Everything is where it should be.’
Alessandro stopped playing and stood watching his aunt, his face serious. Then, inspired by a feeling he couldn’t understand, he plucked a rose and walked tentatively up to her. ‘For you.’
Cosima frowned. ‘For me?’
‘Yes, from Francesco.’
Cosima’s eyes welled with tears and for a moment she was unable to speak. Alba exchanged glances with Beata. They held their breath, waiting for Cosima’s reaction – anticipating the worst. But she took the rose with a little smile. It was yellow; Francesco’s favourite colour. She looked at Alessandro with such tenderness his heart swelled. She touched his face with her fingertips.
‘Thank you, carino,’ she said. Alessandro blushed a deep crimson and looked to his grandmother for approval.
‘That was very sweet of you,’ said Alba encouragingly.
‘He’s a darling,’ agreed Beata, relieved that Cosima hadn’t taken it the wrong way. Alessandro returned to his siblings and cousins, making off through the olive grove.
‘I’m so touched,’ said Cosima, twirling the flower between her thumb and forefinger. ‘He’s very good to apologise.’
Alba was pleased Rosa wasn’t around to hear her. As far as she was concerned, her children had nothing to apologise for.
‘Yellow is a good colour on you,’ said Alba, tired of seeing her niece look so pale and ill in black. ‘Do you remember that pretty dress with little yellow flowers?’
‘It’s in my cupboard,’ said Cosima.
‘Don’t you think you’ve worn black for long enough?’
Cosima’s face hardened. ‘I will never wear colour again. It’s an insult to Francesco’s memory. I will never stop mourning him.’
Cosima scattered the ground around her with eggshells so no one knew where to tread any more. Everything caused offence. Beata was right: she had been allowed to grow self-indulgent and it had to stop or she’d drive the family apart.
It was fortunate that just then Panfilo’s truck drew up under the eucalyptus tree to stop Alba from speaking her mind. They heard the motor behind the house and the barking of his dog, Garibaldi. ‘How nice,’ said Alba, getting up. ‘I wasn’t expecting him until later.’ She left Cosima and Beata on the terrace and walked around the house to greet her husband.
Garibaldi jumped out of the back and galloped down the path as fast as his short legs could carry him. His stumpy tail wagged furiously. Alba bent down and patted her knees, calling his name. The dog flew into her with a yelp and she laughed as he ran rings around her. ‘Hello, wife!’ exclaimed Panfilo, striding down the path towards her with Toto. ‘Look who I picked up on the road!’
‘Hi, Toto,’ she called, waving. Then she rested her eyes on her husband and felt the warm glow of love spread across her body as if seeing him for the first time. At sixty-seven he was still ruggedly handsome with shoulder-length silver hair, a broad forehead creased with lines and a long Roman nose above a large, sensual mouth. His eyes were turquoise, deep set, with crow’s feet that fanned out into his temples, reflecting the laughter within them. He was tall and broad, his skin brown and weathered, his hands large and tender. She grinned as he approached, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He wound his free arm around her waist and kissed her, lingering on her skin for as long as he was able to.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured, running his eyes over her face.
‘Work is work,’ she replied, casually. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
‘How’s everything?’ He meant Cosima.
‘Same.’ She pulled a face which said more than words ever could.
‘What’s happened to your car, Toto?’ Alba asked as her cousin joined them.
‘It’s with Gianni. The brake’s gone again.’
‘It’s important to get that mended,’ she said with a laugh. ‘We don’t want you driving it off the cliffs.’
‘I gather those people from the palazzo came for coffee?’ said Toto. ‘Rosa was full of it.’
‘She’s a great deal more excited about it than I am,’ replied Alba. ‘If you ask me they are nothing but trouble.’
‘Aren’t you even a little curious to see what they’ve done?’ Panfilo teased, squeezing her waist playfully.
‘Why would I be? My own uncle committed a murder in there. It should have been destroyed, not rebuilt and redecorated by people with too much money and no tact.’
‘They probably don’t know the history,’ said Toto.
‘Then someone should have told them.’
‘I’m very curious,’ said Panfilo.
‘That’s because interiors is your job,’ said Alba. ‘I suppose you’re going to photograph it now.’ Panfilo remained silent. Alba turned and stared at him. ‘Panfilo?’
He shrugged guiltily. ‘Work is work.’
‘You’re not. Over my dead body!’
‘You don’t have to come with me. I thought you’d be pleased that I was taking a job close to home instead of travelling all over the world.’
‘But it’s the palazzo!’ she gasped.
‘It’s not the place you knew thirty years ago, my love. You don’t even know whether Nero had anything to do with the sale. He might have died a long time ago, or moved away. It’s all buried in the past.’
‘But you’re going to dig it all up again.’
‘I’m taking photographs, that’s all.’
‘Then who’s writing the article to go with the photographs?’
‘What difference does it make? It’ll be a story of design.’
‘So, it’s House and Gardens.’
Panfilo looked bashful. ‘No,’ he replied.
‘You know it’s not just an article on decoration, don’t you?’
‘It’s none of my business. I just take the photographs.’
‘What’s the magazine?’
Panfilo glanced at Toto who grinned mischievously and shook his head, then thrust his hands into his pockets and walked tactfully on ahead, leaving them alone.
‘The Sunday Times.’
‘The Sunday Times!’ She pulled away. ‘You know that means some pretty in-depth reporting.’
‘What does it matter? If I don’t do it, someone else will.’
She brought her hand to her throat. ‘Oh God! They’ll dig up everything. They might even find out that Falco didn’t act alone in killing the Marchese.’
‘There’s no proof that Falco even killed him, let alone whether or not he had an accomplice. Don’t worry, your father’s quite safe. I promise.’
Rosa hoped that the handsome Luca would return to the trattoria but, in spite of her pretty red dress and the Yves Saint Laurent perfume Eugenio had given her the previous Christmas, he did not come back. She was surprised her face
hadn’t managed to lure him. After all, she was a local beauty and constantly compared to her grandmother, the legendary Valentina. She even worked extra hours in the hope of seeing him. A little flirting was a healthy thing, she told herself. Having got away with one affair, however, she wasn’t going to risk her marriage a second time just for the thrill of taking a bite of the forbidden fruit.
Since her children had been blamed for a crime they did not commit, Rosa had barely spoken to Cosima. The two women breakfasted under the vine on the terrace with Alba, Panfilo, Eugenio and the children, and each managed to behave as if the other didn’t exist. Rosa was fed up of tiptoeing around her cousin, aware that the very existence of her children must cause Cosima pain. Wasn’t it time she put on a pretty dress, tied her hair up, applied a little blusher and lipstick, and threw herself out into the world again? If she left it much longer no man would want her. Francesco was dead; mourning him wasn’t going to bring him back.
Alba seemed not to notice the growing rift between the two young women. She was wound up like a clockwork mouse over Panfilo’s commission up at the palazzo, but Panfilo just teased her, knowing he would get his way in the end. Why her mother cared so much about that place Rosa couldn’t imagine. Thirty years was a lifetime ago. She was amazed Alba’s memory stretched back that far.
Rosa had told Eugenio she wanted to move out, knowing that it was impossible. They hadn’t the money to buy a big house of their own – and only a big house would satisfy Rosa. Eugenio had told her how insensitive she was and she had accused him of being disloyal and of not loving her any more. It had developed into a full-blown row. If she had feared her marriage was becoming dull she certainly revived it with their making up, pleased that the passion was still there to be reawakened when necessary. She didn’t consider what it cost her husband to have to reassure her of his devotion time and again. She didn’t realise that she wore him down with each tantrum and each reunion. His policeman’s salary was small. He was aware of her love of fine things, like a magpie always attracted to shiny baubles and glitter, and he was only too aware of his inability to satisfy her.
8
Luca sat alone on the beach, gazing out to sea. He enjoyed the solitude and the new sense of freedom Incantellaria offered him. Everything about the place pleased him, from the clamour of birds to the sweet scents of fertility that rose up from the earth with the medicinal smells of the wild herbs that grew among the long grasses. He took pleasure from the coming and going of the little blue boats as the fishermen went about their business. His skin soaked up the sun’s rays by the pool and he lost his city pallor. He slept more than he had in twenty years and his dreams grew less troubled until he no longer dreamed at all. He took twilight walks on the stony beach reached by a path that meandered down the hill from the palazzo. Crickets chirped in the undergrowth and the rustle of grass gave away the odd rabbit or snake. It felt good to be alone, blanketed by the night.
He thought of Freya with a yearning for the comfortable and familiar, regret for what he had been too young and foolish to hold on to. He thought of Annabel and their soulless coupling, and the dull stream of similar meaningless encounters that blurred into a grey fog of pointlessness. He thought of Claire and the girls and how he had let them down.
When he hadn’t been working, his life had been like a merry-go-round of glamorous parties, dinners in expensive restaurants, knocking back cocktails in fashionable clubs, weekends in Saint Tropez, waterskiing off fully-staffed yachts, skiing in the Swiss Alps, forging relationships on the fragile foundations of wealth and status. The merry-go-round had got faster and faster, louder and louder, until his divorce had brought it to a sudden, mortifying halt. In the quiet that followed he was at last able to stand back and examine his life. The extravagance and waste disgusted him. His friends had separated into two camps, those supporting Claire and those supporting him, but most just blew away to the next party like pretty petals on the wind. Picking up the children from school once a week was like running the gauntlet through a crowd of disapproving mothers and, to his shame, he recognised himself reflected in their eyes. Here in the silence of Incantellaria, he realised he didn’t want to be that man any more.
It was early morning when he returned to his senses. He blinked and stood up stiffly. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He stretched and felt the blood rush to his muscles. He stood, watching the sunrise. Its beauty filled his spirit with longing. He felt a tremendous desire to dig the soil with his hands, plant a seed and watch it grow – to create something tangible. Yet, he didn’t know how or where to start.
When he returned to the palazzo his mother was doing yoga on the terrace. ‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ she asked, without moving from the lotus position. She was dressed in a long white shirt and white linen trousers, her feet bare, her scarlet toenails shocking against the serenity of her clothes.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘I do yoga every morning before anyone gets up. It clears my head and settles my spirit. Ready for the day ahead.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in that rubbish.’
‘It’s a form of exercise like any other.’
‘Not if you start levitating.’
‘I don’t think I’m likely to defy the force of gravity. I’m too earthly minded.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been down on the beach.’
‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ she gushed. ‘Incantellaria is so magical. I never want to go back to dreary grey London.’
‘I can see why. You live in paradise, Mother.’
‘And it’s being photographed by the Sunday Times.’ She beamed with pride. ‘Leyton Hughes came for the weekend and fell in love. And you know what?’ Too distracted to continue her yoga she stood up, tossed the mat against the wall and took the chair next to her son. ‘Guess who’s going to photograph it?’
‘I don’t know, who?’
She took a breath, articulating each syllable with relish. ‘Panfilo Pallavicini.’ Luca looked blank. ‘Darling, you don’t know who he is?’ She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘He’s the most famous interiors photographer in the whole of Italy. There’s no one who even comes close. He’s devastatingly attractive too! Leyton has promised me.’
‘I hope you won’t be disappointed.’
‘I trust Leyton absolutely. I gave him the best bedroom overlooking the sea. He adores me! And his wife adores Porci. She played with him all weekened and he followed her around like a lapdog.’
‘When is all this happening?’
‘It’s scheduled for June to come out in the September issue. They plan so far ahead, they’re working on Christmas in the summer. Must be very hard to muster up Christmas spirit in the heat! The journalist is coming in a few weeks. She’s going to stay for the weekend so she really gets a feel for the place. Perhaps you and Caradoc can help with her research. Have you found anything out yet?’
Luca shrugged. ‘Nothing that you don’t already know.’
‘You are useless. What did you do? Spend all afternoon drinking coffee?’
‘Something like that. The professor’s good company.’
‘Didn’t I tell you! You might be a grown-up but sometimes your mother knows best! Well, the journalist can dig around for herself. After all, that’s what she’s being paid to do. Let her earn her salary.’
‘Maybe she’ll discover who’s been sleeping in the folly.’
‘Don’t mention that place! It’s your father, of course. He just won’t admit it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge he’s getting old and in need of naps.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll catch him at it and then he’ll feel very ashamed of lying.’
‘Maybe it’s the ghost!’ he teased.
‘Not you too! Dizzy says she saw a man walk across the garden in the middle of the night and that silly girl Ventura complains the whole time that the palazzo is haunted.’
‘And you don’t believe in ghosts?’
‘Of course
I don’t. I don’t want to. Your grandmother . . .’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Oh, let’s not talk about her. If anyone was going to come back as a ghost it would be my mother and I haven’t heard a squeak since she died. Believe me, if she was squeaking on the other side the whole of Italy would hear her. It’s for simple-minded people with nothing better to do.’ Her face hardened and Luca felt his stomach clench as he remembered when she had dismissed his childhood fears so brutally.
He got up. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. She had hoped to share an early coffee.
‘To bed,’ he replied with a yawn.
‘You mean, you haven’t gone to bed yet? What on earth were you doing on the beach?’
‘Meditating.’
Romina laughed incredulously. ‘Is that what bankers do in their spare time?’
‘I’m not a banker any more.’
She shook her head and went to retrieve her yoga mat. ‘You can take a man out of the bank, but not a banker out of the man!’
There was a snuffling noise as Porci trotted out on to the terrace. Romina was distracted and Luca slipped away, leaving her with her precious pig in her lap. He retreated to his bedroom and climbed into bed. No sooner had his head touched the pillow than he was asleep.
When he awoke it was midday. Ma’s strident voice rose from the terrace with Dizzy’s high-pitched giggling, punctuated by the professor’s wise interruptions. He lay a while enjoying the warm breeze that slipped through the gap in the shutters. It was good not to have to get up at dawn to go to work. He didn’t miss the carbon fumes, the rumbling engines and tooting horns, the frantic heartbeat of the City. He felt years younger. In the quiet of his new existence he was beginning to sense parts of himself he had forgotten existed.
He thought of Cosima, and pictured her storming into the trattoria, her face tear-stained and furious. He felt himself drawn into her drama by the compelling magnetism of her mourning and her obvious rage. She was too young to be wearing black all the time and much too attractive to ignore the men around her. Her rejection when he had tried to talk to her had left him with a strong feeling of desire. He wasn’t used to being rebuffed.
The Italian Matchmaker Page 8
