The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  Dante had been tucking into his trenette pasta served with salsa di noci, Elene’s delicate walnut sauce, but now he sat back in his chair. ‘It seems disrespectful of its history to me.’

  Chiara glanced at him in some surprise. He seemed very sure. ‘Exactly,’ she murmured.

  ‘I know the history too, don’t forget.’ He toyed with his fork. ‘Your parents – they would not want it.’

  ‘No, they would not.’ As for Giovanna – she had no shares in the hotel, it was true – but she would hate it too. After all she’d been through . . . Chiara could not allow it to happen – and it would not, while she had the strength to stop it. She took another forkful of pesto.

  ‘And what does your granddaughter think?’

  ‘She agrees with me.’ Though that never went down well with Elene. Their latest discussion on the matter had taken place in the kitchen where Elene had been making focaccia – pounding the dough as if her life depended on it.

  ‘And Alonzo?’

  The atmosphere seemed to change as her husband’s name was brought into the conversation. Chiara shrugged. ‘He is a businessman. He would favour whichever would be most successful.’ Dante would know that by success she was referring to money, and she felt a small stab of guilt at this small betrayal. But it was the truth. Alonzo didn’t care for the hotel – not like the rest of them did, not even as his parents had when they were alive, when they had been generous with their money as well as their support. Sadly, Alonzo was not like his parents, whom Chiara had got on with rather well – he lacked their integrity, for a start, though it had taken her years to fully realise this. She felt another stab of betrayal. She should stop thinking this way – he was her husband, for better, for worse; she must remember that. He went away often, but he had given her no reason to think that he was disloyal to her.

  Rosalie came to their table to take their plates back to the kitchen. Chiara wondered if she had told Elene that Chiara was in the restaurant tonight with a male guest. Would Elene care? Chiara had to remind herself again that she – they – were doing nothing illicit. Even so, she had drunk a little too much white wine and was on her way through at least three courses – not counting dessert – which was very unusual for her these days. This was probably why she felt intoxicated. Because, certo, it could surely be nothing to do with the man sitting opposite her and the little dances of electricity that seemed to exist between them.

  Their main courses were brought to the table, and Chiara let a small sigh escape her lips. She tried to draw it back, but it was too late.

  ‘What is it, Chiara?’ He took her hand.

  She flinched at his touch. The warmth of his skin was a sweet and guilty pleasure. ‘Only that I will miss our chats.’ She forced a smile. ‘It has been good to see you again, Dante.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Then I am glad I came.’

  Even though, she reminded herself, she had not yet answered his question.

  ‘And tomorrow, you will return to England.’ Chiara withdrew her hand while she was still able and before anyone should see. She took a mouthful of delicious seafood. She must compliment Elene on tonight’s dishes, she decided. She must be more attentive, more thoughtful. She valued her daughter in so many ways – but how often did she let her know?

  ‘Sì. I must.’ Dante had chosen the gleaming, garlicky mussels as his main course, and he seemed to be enjoying them. ‘I cannot expect my assistant to look after the place for too long, you understand. And of course, I must make more gelato.’

  She smiled. ‘Why ever did you decide on making ice cream for a career?’

  Dante demolished another mussel and dropped the shell in the bowl provided. He gave a little shrug. ‘I spotted the need,’ he said. ‘Why do you think so many Italian coffee shops have sprung up in England?’

  Chiara acknowledged this. ‘But you could have opened a coffee shop.’

  ‘I could, yes.’ He seemed to consider this, head on one side. ‘But the big chains dominate most of the towns and cities, you know, and besides, with gelato . . .’ He paused to eat another mussel. ‘I could be more creative.’

  ‘I suppose that you could.’ Chiara pushed her plate away. Dante demolishing a bowlful of mussels was quite a sight – and it was making her harbour thoughts that were entirely inappropriate.

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘making gelato is more complex than it might seem to the uninitiated.’ The quirk of his mouth suggested he was not being entirely serious.

  ‘What do you think of when you’re making it? What’s your aim?’ It was perhaps rather an odd question. But she could picture him testing the flavours, churning the milk, and she wanted to know more. She wanted to know what made Dante and the man he had become, tick.

  ‘I suppose I think of the children,’ he said. He finished the last of his mussels and wiped his hands with the lemon-scented tissues provided.

  ‘The children?’ She hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘The children who are going to be eating it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now, she got it. And they could have had children of their own . . . Shocked at this thought, she turned her attention back to the courtyard. Night was deepening now. She could no longer make out the colours of the plants and flowers, though she fancied she could catch the citrus tang of the lemon tree drifting in the night breeze.

  Rosalie returned to clear their plates and give them the dessert menu. Chiara took it, though she wasn’t sure she could manage any more food.

  ‘I think about those who come next in life. The future.’ He glanced at the menu and smiled at Rosalie. ‘Definitely the gelato for me,’ he said.

  Chiara laughed and handed back the menu. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’

  ‘Really?’ He feigned surprise.

  ‘One would think,’ she teased, ‘that you would have had enough of ice cream in England.’

  He shrugged. ‘Can one ever have enough of a good thing?’

  Once again, Chiara held his gaze. His eyes still seemed to draw her, just like they had drawn her all those years ago, bringing her in closer and closer, until . . . ‘I hope that ours lives up to your expectations,’ she murmured.

  A few minutes later, the dessert arrived, along with two glasses of their delicious dessert wine, the Sciacchetrà – which Chiara never could resist. It was made from partially dried Cinque Terre grapes, and the large quantity of grapes required to make just one bottle of Sciacchetrà helped explain the high pricetag.

  Dante surveyed the pistachio gelato with a critical eye. He tasted it. ‘Not bad,’ he conceded.

  ‘We get it from the best gelateria in Vernazza, you know.’ She leaned forwards. ‘But tell me, Dante, how exactly do you put the future into ice cream?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘I use the best ingredients – no preservatives, no colouring. I keep it fresh, pure and organic, just as the future should be.’

  ‘Bene!’ Chiara grinned back at him, and this time it was she who placed her hand on Dante’s. ‘I love that.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘This is how you operate too here at The Lemon Tree Hotel. It is all about authenticity, no?’

  They shared another long and conspiratorial glance. Authenticity . . . He was right, and yet she’d hardly kept to this ethos where her marriage was concerned, had she? Chiara felt ashamed. There was so much she could say, so much she could allow herself to feel. But, how could she? Just the look of him seemed to throw her into a spin, take her back to a time in her life when everything was still possible. But now it was not. Now, whatever the authenticity of the matter, whatever she felt in her heart . . . there were other things – other people – to consider. It was no good. She had to accept that all there could be between them was this one last supper, this gentle conversation, this spark that could never become the fire that she longed for.

  Rosalie brought coffee and liqueurs. It was already late. Chiara was aware that they were both trying to prolong the evening, knowing that very likely they would never see on
e another again. And yet. And yet the thought was almost too difficult to swallow.

  ‘It was brave of you to come here, Dante.’

  He seemed to hesitate, his dark eyes clouded with sadness, and the desire to reach over the table to kiss him was so sudden and so intense that Chiara had to use all her strength to fight it.

  ‘It is incredible, and I can hardly believe it myself. But the fact is that my feelings are still the same,’ he said. ‘Even after all these years.’

  Even after all these years . . .

  ‘Dante . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘Allora.’

  Chiara jumped at the sound of her husband’s voice. In the next second, she realised it was a guilty jump, but by then it was too late.

  He was scowling. ‘This is all very cosy, I must say.’

  ‘Alonzo.’ Feeling at a disadvantage, Chiara rose to her feet, slightly unstable on the unfamiliar heels, slightly dizzy from the wine. ‘This is—’

  ‘Dante Rossi,’ he finished for her. ‘I know perfectly well who he is. Because we all know about Dante Rossi – is that not so, my dear?’

  CHAPTER 14

  Chiara

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Signore.’ Dante rose to his feet. He seemed remarkably unperturbed by the interruption even though Alonzo was glaring at him as if he were the devil incarnate.

  ‘I regret that I am unable to say the same.’ Alonzo ignored Dante’s proffered hand. ‘As I said, I know exactly who you are and I can guess what it is that you want.’

  Chiara was grateful that there was only one other table still occupied in the restaurant although unfortunately it was the one where the Signoras Veroni were both gazing open-mouthed, clearly enjoying the drama that was unfolding. She had to find a way to diffuse this situation, and fast. Alonzo seemed determined to make a scene.

  ‘Indeed?’ Dante’s dark eyes grazed over him. He did not look at Chiara, and she was grateful for this. She was already hanging on to the edge of the table to stop her knees from buckling completely.

  ‘And so, I must ask you to leave The Lemon Tree Hotel immediately.’

  For goodness’ sake . . . ‘He can’t leave immediately,’ Chiara burst out. What was Alonzo thinking of? ‘It’s past midnight. And he is a guest.’ Added to which, this was her hotel. Alonzo had no right to dictate who should leave and when. She was about to say this, when she caught Dante’s swift glance of caution. She swallowed back the words. He was right. Why antagonise Alonzo still further?

  ‘I leave in the morning.’ Dante remained calm. ‘But if I may say, I think you misunderstand the situation, Signore.’

  ‘It seems clear enough to me,’ Alonzo muttered. ‘You sneak in here as soon as my back is turned . . .’

  ‘Not at all. I came here not aware that you were away. Your wife and I are merely having dinner for old times’ sake,’ Dante continued smoothly. ‘If you had been around, I should certainly have asked you to join us.’

  Alonzo snorted. ‘And I should certainly have refused.’

  But, thankfully, his initial hot temper seemed to have cooled. And after all, what could he accuse them of? He had not discovered them doing anything wrong. However, he had a point. How would Chiara have reacted if she came across her husband enjoying an intimate dinner with another woman – some old lover perhaps? She wasn’t sure. She assumed he was loyal, yes, but perhaps that was rather naïve. In fact, she knew almost nothing of her husband’s life; he could have intimate dinners with other women three times a week for all she knew.

  ‘Alonzo, please.’ Chiara put a gentle hand on his arm. How little things had changed between the sexes after all this time. He would always be in charge. She ran this hotel, but to all intents and purposes, she stayed here – effectively ‘at home’ – while Alonzo went out into the world, doing whatever business he did, without sharing any part of it with Chiara. And she had accepted that – perhaps because she was aware of how much of herself she also kept from him.

  ‘In the morning then,’ he snapped. ‘I want you gone first thing.’

  Dante raised his dark eyebrows but said nothing.

  Chiara took a deep breath. This was awful, but she was relieved that Alonzo had calmed down and that a terrible scene in the hotel dining room had been averted. Damage limitation, she thought, although no doubt the signoras would be disappointed. ‘That is enough, I think. Perhaps we should all now say goodnight and go upstairs.’

  All the pleasure of the evening had evaporated. Alonzo had brought reality back into the room. And perhaps that was a good thing in some ways, because would Chiara have otherwise been strong enough to say goodnight to Dante without a touch of the hand, without even a kiss perhaps? A tremor ran through her body at the thought, and she pushed it from her mind. Either way, she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Andiamo, let’s go.’ Alonzo turned away from them.

  Dante nodded. ‘Goodnight,’ he said stiffly, shooting Chiara an apologetic glance that said an awful lot more.

  Alonzo strode away without a further word. Chiara knew she must follow him immediately if she wanted to avoid any more argument. But she also knew there would be more words between them whatever she chose to do now. ‘Buona notte. Goodnight, my friend,’ she said softly.

  ‘Chiara – wait.’

  She watched Alonzo’s retreating back as he left the cloisters through the archway by the bar. She breathed a sigh of relief. But: ‘I must go.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ Dante grabbed her hands.

  ‘Of course.’ Alonzo had a temper, but he’d never been a violent man. And besides, she had betrayed her husband in her thoughts alone. How could he tell what she’d been thinking? How could anyone?

  ‘Are you sure, cara?’ Dante let go of her hands, but his voice seemed to caress her.

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘I am so sorry to have put you in this position. I should not have come here. I should certainly not have persuaded you to have dinner with me. It was wrong of me . . .’ He tore his fingers through his hair.

  ‘No.’ Chiara met his gaze once more. ‘It was my decision to have dinner with you. It was not your fault at all. And you know that I am glad you came here.’ Chiara was once more aware of the two elderly women from Milan trying to catch every word. She forced herself to break away. ‘I must go,’ she said again. She would have to fly up to their rooms or Alonzo would certainly have a lot more to say.

  ‘It has been . . .’ For a dangerous and delicious second, he drew her closer, ‘. . . everything to me,’ he whispered.

  Everything to me. Chiara shivered. One last look at him, one last touch of his hand, and she walked swiftly away.

  Upstairs, Alonzo was pacing the room. ‘You make me look like an idiot.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’ She took off her earrings. If she acted as if she were innocent, then wouldn’t she be innocent – at least as far as Alonzo was concerned? Nothing has happened, she whispered to herself. And tomorrow, he returns to England.

  ‘And a fool.’

  ‘No.’ She took a step closer.

  He grabbed her arm. ‘Do you still have feelings for him?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She pulled away. ‘It was forty years ago, Alonzo. And I haven’t seen him in all that time.’

  His eyes narrowed. He was not convinced. ‘So why did he come here?’

  ‘I suppose, just to say “hello”.’ This sounded unlikely, even to Chiara. ‘He was in the area. You know, he lives in England now.’ How chatty she sounded, how unconcerned. When in reality her belly was churning – with anxiety, with regret.

  ‘But he has been here for several days.’ He followed her into the white marble bathroom.

  ‘Only two or three,’ she corrected him. Three days that had disappeared much too fast. She had wasted the opportunities. But how could she have done otherwise? However she felt about Alonzo, however empty their marriage, however little they shared, he was still her husband.

  ‘But in those three days you have bee
n meeting with him, sì?’

  Chiara realised with a lurch of apprehension why Alonzo had returned so suddenly and with no warning. Elene must have phoned him. She had seen them in the Cloisters Bar. Perhaps she had even seen them tonight? It wouldn’t have taken long for Alonzo to return from Pisa. Elene must have called her father and told him that something was going on. Alonzo had come here in order to catch them out. Chiara felt an ache of disappointment, of sadness. She couldn’t blame her – he was her father after all. But, oh, Elene.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A few conversations.’ She shrugged. ‘Dante had many people he wanted to see. I was just one of them.’ And that was all it was, she reminded herself. Just talking. That was what had spun her back into the past. That, and the way he touched her hand . . .

  ‘A few conversations . . .’ he mimicked. ‘That dinner tonight looked like much more than conversation.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The bathroom was making her feel claustrophobic. Alonzo was making her feel claustrophobic. She began to take off her make-up with a cotton-wool pad and cleanser. Her face looked garish in the light of the bathroom, shiny and unreal.

  ‘And look at you.’

  ‘What?’ He was standing behind her, staring into the mirror. She didn’t like the expression on his face.

  ‘You have gone to some effort, I think. A nice dress, high heels, a little more eye make-up than usual, hmm?’

  ‘Not really.’ She must keep calm. Chiara finished washing her face and went back into the bedroom.

  He followed her. ‘In fact, you look like a whore.’

  ‘Alonzo!’ She was shocked.

  ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you—’

  ‘No.’

  He was glaring at her now, and there was a cold light in his eyes. She turned away so that she didn’t have to see the hatred there. It was worse than she had let herself believe, she thought now. Their marriage was a sham.