The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  As for Elene – Chiara guessed that her daughter was equally keen to avoid her. She would know that her father had returned, she might have heard that there had been words between them, but she would not know of his violence – not if Chiara had anything to do with it. Elene had called him back here – but she didn’t need to know what had taken place.

  Most of all, she didn’t want to see Dante – she was deeply ashamed. She would stay well away from the public areas of the hotel, she decided, and by the time she emerged, he would be long gone. And she would never see him again . . . She pushed this thought away. It was a necessary sacrifice. She had no choice. And she must not torture herself with thoughts of what might have been.

  Isabella popped in to bring her a cool drink of lemonade. ‘Do you still have that headache, Nonna?’

  Chiara kept her head down. ‘I’m afraid so, my dear.’ She was keeping the light dim and the blinds half drawn.

  ‘Would you like me to get you something for it?’

  ‘No, no, thank you, but this is lovely.’ Chiara gestured towards the glass of lemonade. She glanced at Isabella, who seemed temporarily lost in another of those daydreams of hers. It was fortunate that her granddaughter had other things on her mind today, though Chiara suspected that unfortunately, those things were connected with their guest, the Signor Ferdinand Bauer.

  ‘Nonna.’ Isabella suddenly seemed to wake up.

  ‘Yes, Bella?’ Chiara put her hand up to shield her face. Had she noticed the mark on her cheek?

  ‘Did my grandfather come back here last night?’

  Oh, dear. What had she heard? Of course, people would always talk, and although they had averted a scene, it had still been dramatic enough. ‘Yes, he did.’ She tried to remain calm. ‘Just briefly, to collect a few things for a business meeting. He’s gone back to Pisa, but he’ll return tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ Isabella clearly wanted to say more. ‘And did anything happen?’

  ‘Happen?’ If only she knew. Chiara’s entire body seemed to ache from what had happened – and not happened.

  ‘Oh, nothing, really, just ignore me.’ Isabella slumped on to her chair looking suddenly dejected.

  ‘Bella? Is anything wrong?’ For a moment Chiara forgot about her own troubles.

  ‘Oh, it’s just . . .’ Isabella bit her lip. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Chiara shook her head. Really there was an awful lot of nothing going on in the hotel today. ‘Have you seen Giovanna since the other day?’ She tried to keep her voice casual. She would go to see her herself if she weren’t so concerned that in the daylight the old lady’s sharp eyes might notice the bruise she’d tried to conceal on her cheek.

  Isabella gave a little start. ‘No, I haven’t. Do you think I should?’

  ‘Perhaps it is an idea . . .’ Had it been wise to take the young man there in the first place? Chiara didn’t think so – and if she’d known of Isabella’s plans, she would have questioned it. ‘Just in case . . .’ she added.

  ‘In case?’ Isabella blushed.

  ‘I worry about her, Bella,’ she admitted. Giovanna’s closeness to her parents made Chiara feel responsible for her aunt. How had she dealt with the encounter with this young man? How had it affected her? Isabella had insisted they’d got along well, but what if Giovanna was simply being polite?

  ‘I’ll call around there later.’ Isabella gave another start when her mobile beeped in a message and as she pulled it out of her pocket, a slightly crumpled business card fell out too. She blushed even more as she bent to pick it up, smoothed it between her fingertips, and replaced it in her pocket.

  Chiara raised her eyebrows. ‘Thank you, darling.’ Was it really possible, as she’d already mentioned to Isabella, that the Signor Bauer was related to someone who had been part of the terrible Occupation of their town? Even someone who had committed atrocities here during the war? Chiara shuddered. She hoped not. It would explain his interest though. Isabella was right and, naturally, they were all European now. But some people had long memories, and it was hard to shake off the thought of what her father and the other Partisans had suffered at the hands of those men.

  Not that it would be Signor Bauer’s fault – no, not at all. But what about that look in Isabella’s eyes when she talked of him? That message was probably from him too, judging by the secret little smile on her granddaughter’s lovely face. And she was very jumpy. It wasn’t good to develop a crush on a guest – not good at all. Guests came and went; they were on holiday, they could not be relied on. But then again – who could?

  *

  Chiara did not emerge from the office until past six o’clock. She glanced through to the Cloisters Bar, and there he was. Dante. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Chiara!’ He had seen her, and was on his feet already.

  ‘Dante! I thought you were leaving this morning . . .’ She broke off. She’d felt such a dull ache of disappointment all day. Dante had left, and under such a dark cloud, that she’d been convinced she’d never see him again. It would be just like before. He would go back to England and take all her dreams with him. But now . . . It was ridiculous, but at this moment, despite everything, she felt like a young girl again.

  ‘I was told by your husband to leave this morning,’ he corrected her with a wry grimace. ‘But I thought I’d take my chances and stay another night.’

  ‘Why?’ Mindful of the mark on her face, Chiara stepped back a little so that they were standing in the shadows. There was nothing to be gained by seeing Dante just one more time, but she couldn’t help being glad.

  ‘Because I was worried about you. Because I wanted to see you before I left.’ He frowned, took a step closer. ‘But you have been hiding away all day, and I didn’t want to draw attention—’

  ‘I am fine.’ She glanced down at the floor. It was too hard to look at him and lie. And she didn’t want him to see . . . But she could hardly help her heart leaping. This man cared for her, really cared. It was too late now, of course. But how foolish she had been all those years ago, to throw something like that away.

  ‘But, surely . . .’ He was very close now. He bent his head, examining her face.

  Chiara looked up.

  He ran his fingertips so gently across her cheek.

  She winced.

  Dante looked very serious now. ‘Did he . . . Did he hit you?’ She heard the disbelief in his voice.

  ‘Ssh.’ Chiara glanced around. They were not alone. There were a few guests in the Cloisters Bar on the other side of the arch, including the young Australian couple, and Isabella was still working on reception, chatting to some new arrivals and handing them their room key.

  He swore under his breath. ‘We must talk.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Can we go somewhere private? Is he around?’ He sounded controlled. But she could see it in his face and she could feel it – a white-hot anger. She’d seen him this angry once before. The night he’d walked away from her in the olive grove forty years before.

  ‘Alonzo? No.’ She shook her head, put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘He will be back tomorrow. But you must not . . .’ Her voice trailed at the expression in those dark eyes. ‘. . . Do anything foolish,’ she murmured.

  ‘Will you come to my room?’

  The words were spoken so softly, but they seemed to spin in her head, making her dizzy. She fought for composure. ‘Certo, I cannot.’

  ‘Where then?’

  She caught the urgency in his voice. She thought quickly. They couldn’t talk in her rooms – what if Alonzo should return unexpectedly? Where else was there? This was a hotel – there were guests everywhere. The olive grove? That was far too risky. And what if Elene should see them again in any of the more obvious public places? She sighed. And yet she wanted to talk to him. Just for a few minutes. Just to say goodbye. ‘Va bene – your room then.’

  ‘Fourteen. Come as soon as you can.’

  A few minutes later, Chiara slipped along the upper
corridor before she could doubt her own wisdom or question why she was doing this. She tapped softly on the door and went straight in.

  ‘Chiara.’

  All she wanted at that precise moment was for him to hold her, all she wanted was to be in his arms. But he kept his distance. He gestured to the two chairs at the window and she sat down on the nearest one. Thank goodness that one of them had some sense of propriety.

  ‘A glass of wine?’

  ‘Please.’ She needed something to fortify her.

  Dante poured a glass of white from the bottle in the ice bucket on the table. His movements were measured as he handed her the glass, but she could tell that he was finding it hard to hold back.

  He sat down and raised his glass up to hers as if in a silent toast.

  Chiara did the same. They did not speak, but his gaze held hers for a long moment, before she broke away and took a sip. The wine slid down her throat – chilled and heady.

  Dante put down his glass. He took a deep breath. ‘So, he hit you.’ He clenched a fist in his palm, and now she could really see the anger flaming in his eyes.

  ‘He has never done it before.’ Listen to her, still defending him. Chiara felt the cold dampness of the wine glass seeping into her palms and she put it back on the table.

  Instantly, Dante reached forwards and grabbed her hands. ‘But don’t you see, Chiara? Now that he has done it once, he will do it again.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I provoked him, you know that.’ But inside herself, she felt a shadow of foreboding. Was Dante right? Would striking her unleash some further aggression – allow Alonzo to lose whatever inhibitions had held him back this far? She didn’t think so. Alonzo was usually so calm, so composed. ‘It was seeing you. Knowing . . .’ Her voice failed.

  ‘Knowing what?’

  ‘Knowing how much I loved you,’ she said simply. ‘Knowing that when I married Alonzo, my heart was still yours.’ It seemed pointless to lie any more. For he must already be aware of this, and what was there to lose?

  Dante’s gaze did not leave her face. He kept hold of her hands too. ‘And since then?’ he asked. ‘You have had a good marriage, sì? You told me that you get along fine.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t true,’ she confessed. She felt that she had to be honest now. ‘We’ve struggled. We don’t share our lives. Alonzo is away most of the time. Though it’s probably my fault.’

  ‘Your fault?’ He let go of her hands and sat back in the chair. ‘How could it be your fault?’

  There were so many reasons. ‘I did not love him enough. I am always busy with the hotel. He always seemed so distant.’ And cold, she thought, he always seemed so uncaring and cold. She drank more wine. It was one of her favourites from their cellar and had a boldness in its flavour – a characteristic that apparently came from the high mineral content of their soil and the fresh, salty sea air. Under different circumstances, she would have complimented him on his good taste.

  ‘You have done a wonderful job here, Chiara.’ Dante looked around the room.

  It was true that everything was tastefully done – she hoped – and it was true that everything ran smoothly at The Lemon Tree and that the hotel was doing well. But . . . Once upon a time it was her sense of responsibility towards the place that had stopped her from running away with him. And now . . . She doubted he appreciated the irony.

  ‘Alonzo says I care more for this hotel than for my own family.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘We all have to make sacrifices. This hotel was your legacy.’

  ‘And still is,’ she reminded him gently. Just in case he had another agenda on his mind. Alonzo had hit her, yes, Dante still had the same effect on her, certainly, but despite these things, she would survive what had happened and she would put it behind her. She had to. She was not a woman who needed saving.

  ‘Of course.’ He sipped his wine and regarded her over the rim of the glass. ‘But are you really going to stay with him after this?’

  She too picked up her wine glass to give herself time to think. This was what she was ashamed of. ‘I am, yes.’ She had considered all the options during her sleepless night. And she had come to the conclusion that much of the blame must be laid at her door. ‘I am sure it was a one-off incident.’

  ‘Incident? My God, Chiara . . .’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘He hit you.’

  ‘And there is Elene to consider.’ Elene, who was so often angry with her, so often resentful. How could she do something that could only make their relationship worse? Alonzo might not be around for his daughter most of the time, but he was still her father, and they could still at least pretend to offer a united front for her.

  Dante sighed. ‘How many times, cara, must you choose duty and obligation over love?’

  Love. She found herself staring at his mouth. ‘I should go.’ She could imagine the scene if Alonzo were to return early. She could see him frantically searching the hotel for her, becoming more furious by the minute, checking the register, storming into this very room . . .

  ‘I can’t let you go until you have answered my question,’ he said.

  ‘What question?’ Though she knew.

  ‘Are you happy, Chiara?’ He gestured towards her bruised face. ‘You are such a strong woman – at least I have always thought so. Is this really how you want your life to be?’

  She got to her feet. She’d been wrong to come here. She had told herself she simply wanted to say goodbye, but that was not the honest truth. She had been hurt, and she’d wanted comfort. But she was not in a position to accept comfort from this man. ‘I don’t know the answer,’ she confessed. ‘You ask me if I am happy – right now, you can see that the answer is “no”.’ She looked out of the window where the olive trees were shimmering acid-green in the evening light. ‘Something bad happened, I can’t deny that.’ Her voice was low. ‘But I have so much to be thankful for – I have told you this and it’s true. There are so many things – my daughter, my granddaughter, my work here . . .’

  He nodded. ‘I understand. But you could leave him and not lose all that, is this not so?’

  ‘My daughter . . .’ She shrugged. She simply did not have the energy right now to explain. And besides, with Dante gone, she could manage her half-life with Alonzo. She had given up on love a long time ago.

  ‘You cannot bear for her to suffer?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, you will stay with him, even though it might happen again?’ He drained his glass.

  ‘It may not be true happiness,’ she went on, ‘but it’s the life I have chosen.’ She shot him a final look of regret, turned around, and walked to the door.

  ‘Wait.’ He got to his feet and took a step towards her.

  Chiara turned back. How close would he have to come before her resolve failed?

  ‘I thought when I saw you again that you would have become some stately matriarch,’ he said, ‘with children and grandchildren running around your feet.’

  She laughed, grateful that the atmosphere between them had lightened. ‘I am a grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, you are a grandmother.’ He took another step closer. ‘But not that sort of a grandmother.’ He was within reach of her now and still she did not move away. He ran a fingertip along her cheek, just as he had done downstairs, touching the very place where Alonzo had slapped her. ‘You are still a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Dante . . .’ Beyond the soreness of her face, she felt the tenderness of his touch. And it was a tenderness she craved.

  ‘I have never forgotten you, Chiara.’ He took her so gently into his arms, as if she were some precious thing.

  How could she walk away from something so healing, so good? She rested her face – just for a moment – on the curve of his shoulder, and it felt familiar, a perfect fit, almost as if it were a place reserved just for her.

  ‘You are always so brave, so selfless,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘When will you do something for yourself, hmm?’


  ‘Such as?’ She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. They had seen so many different things and yet they were still the same eyes. She and Dante were standing so close to one another that she could smell the faint tang of that citrussy, resinous aftershave that he must have put on this morning; so close that she could feel the heat of him.

  ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘Anything that you want to do.’

  Anything. There was of course, only one thing. But could it ever be just that between them – only one night of love? ‘What good would it do, Dante?’ she said.

  His eyes gleamed in that way they had always gleamed before. ‘Why don’t we try it out, Chiara, and see?’

  And then his lips were on hers and the shudder of longing swept over her and into her, that same shudder she had not felt for forty years. And she kissed him back because she wanted to. She kissed him back with all the love and pain she had felt in her heart for so long.

  Why don’t we try it out, and see . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  Chiara

  The first thing Chiara was aware of when she awoke, was a feeling of warmth running right through her to the core of her being. She was being held. She took a moment to adjust. This was a new sensation. Alonzo never held her like this through the night. And then it all came back to her. She was with Dante. She was in The Lemon Tree Hotel, but she was in Dante’s bed. Madonna santa . . .

  She couldn’t move. For one thing, she was so close to him physically, breathing in the heat and sheen of his skin, that if she moved, she would . . . what? Break the spell? Because it had been magical. Something so longed for, so often imagined and desired. And in the end, even better than she had imagined, because every second had been real. And so, she didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to wake him, she didn’t want this present moment – when everything was still possible – to end.

  But it did. Dante shifted sleepily under the duvet and she felt the second when he awoke, when he realised she was there lying next to him, when he went through the same thought process that she had.