The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, cara,’ she said – rather unconvincingly in Isabella’s opinion. ‘But I need to check up on something to do with the apartments – and see your grandfather too, I suppose.’ Though she didn’t sound enamoured at the prospect.

  It crossed Isabella’s mind – as it often did – that her grandparents lived very separate lives. Had it always been that way? When her grandmother used to sit her on her knee and tell her fairy stories about princes and princesses, woods and wolves, Isabella had assumed that her grandfather must be Nonna’s prince; as she told those stories she always had such a wistful expression. But some time during the past fifteen years Isabella had realised – this wasn’t the sort of love her grandmother had spoken of with such passion in her voice, such love in her heart. How could it be? She remembered that comment the Signora Veroni had made about two men fighting over her grandmother. She remembered their guest, Dante Rossi, who had turned out to be an old friend of Nonna’s. And she wondered about this new sadness in her grandmother’s eyes . . .

  ‘Let me take care of the rota,’ Isabella had told her. ‘What time do you want to go?’

  ‘Mid-morning will be fine.’ And her smile was a little warmer and relaxed. ‘Thanks, Bella.’

  ‘Prego.’ She was welcome. But what was the problem? Isabella shrugged. No doubt she would find out soon enough. But it was odd. Was it her imagination? She couldn’t say for certain. But nothing had been quite the same since that day both Dante Rossi and Ferdinand Bauer had arrived at The Lemon Tree Hotel. Of that, she was quite sure.

  Isabella left the bar and headed for the lobby. She had even seen her mother talking to Ferdinand in the courtyard this afternoon, and that was practically unprecedented. Her mother rarely ventured out of the kitchen, and when she did, she tended to avoid the guests as if they had the plague. So, what? Was her mother charmed by him too?

  She jumped, startled. The lights were low – she’d turned them down herself an hour ago – but there was a figure in the niche opposite the staircase, standing right up close to the painting of the Archangel Gabriel, up so close that he was touching the worn, gilt frame. In the base of the niche, the white candle flickered. ‘Hey!’

  His head jerked around.

  ‘Ferdinand?’ Her voice was sharp. What in God’s name was he up to?

  ‘Oh.’ He took a rapid step backwards and almost tripped over the step. ‘Isabella. Hello.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ She came closer. And hadn’t she asked him that once before not too long ago?

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. A bit late for that, she thought.

  ‘This painting.’ He nodded at it as if she might not have noticed it before, living here as she did. ‘It’s quite beautiful.’

  ‘You think so?’ Isabella put her hands on her hips and regarded him sternly. Inside, she felt a deep disappointment. She had been fooling herself. Nonna was right, and she should have listened to her. She had allowed herself to be fooled by eyes as blue as a summer sky.

  ‘Of course.’

  Beautiful wasn’t the first word that came to her mind. In fact, the painting was rather an amateurish affair – which made it all the stranger that Ferdinand was interested in it. ‘It’s not valuable, you know.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness.’ And he actually blushed. ‘You didn’t think I was going to steal it, did you?’

  Isabella merely raised her eyebrows. What else was she supposed to think? Everyone to his own taste. She had never thought much about the painting herself – it had simply always been there. This was an old convent. The artist’s daughter – Aunt Giovanna – was the last person who had lived here – taken in by the nuns when she was only about seventeen. Hence, the painting would always remain. It belonged here in The Lemon Tree Hotel.

  ‘I was wondering what techniques the artist used to catch the light like that.’ Ferdinand frowned up at Gabriel as if the archangel might share the secret of his conception. ‘And the framing – I wondered whether it was gilt or painted wood. You know, it’s very interesting.’

  He had been doing a lot of wondering – rather like all the wondering he had been doing when she’d caught him in the kitchen garden that time when her mother had been so angry. And he certainly didn’t give up easily. Isabella narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you an artist as well as an architect, Ferdinand?’ She’d be surprised at that too. He was clearly rambling because he was embarrassed to be caught in the act, not because he was some kind of undercover art expert.

  ‘No.’ He took another step away. ‘Sorry.’

  Isabella wasn’t sure what to do. Should she tell her grandmother that Ferdinand Bauer was showing more than a passing interest in the painting? Was there any reason that she should? Nonna wouldn’t like it –even without knowing who his father was or why he had come here. Or was Isabella overreacting again? She didn’t think so. He hadn’t simply been admiring the picture; he’d been examining it, at least as far as she could tell, though for what reason, she had no clue.

  ‘As I said,’ she repeated, ‘the painting isn’t worth much. But it’s valuable to us.’ She stressed the last word. Surely, he had some integrity? Surely, she wouldn’t be attracted to him if he didn’t have even a few measly grains of the stuff?

  ‘You did think I was up to no good, didn’t you?’ Those eyes were so clear and honest. Challenging too.

  ‘No.’ Although . . . ‘Yes.’ If it had been anyone else, she’d have thought that, for certain. ‘Perhaps,’ she compromised. Because something was going on – but she had to have some faith in her instincts too. And her instinct was to like him.

  His gaze never left her face, though his mouth twitched in amusement – at her indecision, no doubt. It was a manifestation of how she felt about the man. ‘Who painted it?’

  ‘Luca Bordoni.’ A flicker of something – understanding? – danced into her mind and then flitted away. ‘Giovanna’s father.’ Did he know that already? Surely, he knew that already? She pointed. ‘That’s his signature in the corner.’ She recalled Ferdinand’s initial interest in the painting when he had first checked in. And his interest in Giovanna. It couldn’t be one massive coincidence. There had to be a connection.

  ‘Ah.’ Ferdinand nodded. ‘So, is this the only painting of his at The Lemon Tree Hotel?’ he asked conversationally, as if they were two art critics taking morning coffee.

  ‘Basta. Enough. I’m going to bed.’

  As she brushed past him, he caught her arm. ‘But we’re still on for tomorrow?’

  Isabella hesitated. How had he managed to charm Giovanna in the way he had? And what exactly was he up to? Even now, she wanted to trust him, but how could she if he wasn’t honest with her? She wanted to like him too – but how could she when he seemed to be everything her family should feel embittered towards? It was one thing not wanting to talk about this unlikely pilgrimage he was doing on his father’s behalf, because that wasn’t Isabella’s business, not really. But this . . . this was more closely connected to The Lemon Tree Hotel itself, she felt. This concerned her directly. She looked back at Luca Bordoni’s painting, illuminated by the white candle. She bent down and blew it out.

  ‘Please, Isabella?’

  ‘Very well.’ But she would be asking him for a further explanation, she decided. And this time it had better be a lot more convincing.

  CHAPTER 26

  Isabella

  The following morning, Ferdinand was waiting for her in the lobby – standing, not by Luca Bordoni’s Archangel Gabriel, but by the front door, dressed for the hike in sturdy walking boots, green shorts, and a T-shirt, with a straw hat on his head, a small rucksack on his back, and a camera slung around his neck. The typical tourist. Despite her worries about the wisdom of this expedition, Isabella suppressed a smile. She was wearing a cotton dress and sandals because the warm weather was showing no signs of disappearing any time soon. But they were strong sandals – she knew what was required on these trails. All she had in her shoulder bag
was a bottle of water, some sunscreen, and her mobile. Not that she was planning to use it – and she could hardly zip back down the mountainside should she be required at the hotel – but she liked to be contactable at least.

  ‘Good morning.’ She kept her voice cool. She hadn’t forgotten the events of the previous night – in fact, thinking about them had kept her awake for more than an hour before she eventually fell asleep. The next thing she knew, her alarm was playing its waterfall melody and it was time to get up again.

  ‘Morning, Isabella.’ Ferdinand seemed cheerful enough. He opened the front door. ‘It’s a lovely day. Perfect for our early morning walk, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Outside, it was just getting light, though the hotel faced south-west and they’d have to wait until they were out on the cliff to see much of the sunrise. The sky was a silvery pink and blue with woolly ribbons of grey on the far horizon. He was right. It was a beautiful morning and she couldn’t wait to get out there. She inclined her head. ‘Shall we go?’

  They walked through the olive grove, the trees still dewy from an early morning mist, until they reached the Sentiero Azzurro. They took the path down towards the village. In the pastel light of dawn, the colours of Vernazza shimmered softly like unpolished jewels against the silvery-grey sky and sea. There was a feeling of peace about the landscape that had not yet fully woken up – even the train station was deserted. They paused to take it all in.

  ‘That’s Vernazza’s other convent,’ Isabella told Ferdinand. She pointed to the old building perched on the hillside beyond. Its roof was bright terracotta and its façade a dark salmon-pink, but as with all the buildings in Vernazza, the paint had peeled to reveal the grey render beneath.

  Ferdinand looked over to where she was pointing. ‘Any nuns still around?’

  She shook her head. ‘They all left a long time ago. It’s used for community events these days.’ The church beside the convent was of a simple design – white with a central rose window and a grey bell tower. Next to it, snaking through the vines, terraces and trees, were the steps leading up the mountain.

  ‘And that’s where we’re going. It’s where the path to the Sanctuary of Nostra Signora di Reggio begins,’ she told him. It was ironic, she found herself thinking, that she should be visiting a safe house with a man who might be dangerous – in more ways than one. Not that he looked dangerous this morning in his tourist get-up. She smirked.

  Ferdinand glanced over towards the sinuous mountainside path and did a double take. ‘Shit. It’s pretty steep.’ He turned back to Isabella. ‘Will you be OK?’ He looked pointedly at her open sandals.

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘Will you be OK, Ferdinand?’

  He held up both hands and gave a rueful grin. ‘You’re right. This is your territory.’ And the ice of the morning was broken – or at least cracked – for now.

  They continued along the path lined with dry-stone walling that protected the ortos, the little allotments where villagers grew their artichokes and their beans, their melanzane and their onions. ‘See the trenino?’ She pointed again, this time to the steep hillside above.

  He stopped walking and peered towards the little red-wheeled train already twisting up through the terraces. They started work early in Liguria, to make the most of the cooler hours. ‘Hey, that’s ingenious.’

  ‘It’s the monorail wine train. It takes the workers high above the village to the small family vineyards, and then brings the baskets of grapes back down again.’

  ‘Wow.’ He seemed impressed. ‘Does every family have its own small vineyard then?’

  She smiled. ‘Historically, yes. In reality, not every family, not any more – they’re too labour-intensive, I suppose.’ She looked up at the men already working on the mountainside. ‘There are still small co-operatives though. They grow various grapes – the Bosco, Albarola, and Vermentino.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable.’ There was a note of respect in his voice.

  ‘I like to keep an eye on our wine list.’ Not to mention that her grandmother had given her tiny glasses of wine to taste since she was about ten years old. ‘And lots of people want to keep the old methods going.’ Which was a good thing in Isabella’s opinion. ‘It’s an important part of our heritage,’ she added proudly.

  They continued along the old mule track where the white grapevines were hanging over the path. ‘Imagine what it was like in the old days though,’ he remarked. ‘It’s amazing what they’ve managed to do on the side of a mountain.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She was glad that he got it – not all tourists appreciated how hard life must have been. ‘These hillsides have been terraced for centuries.’ How they had achieved it though, she’d never truly understand. ‘We’ve certainly had more than our share of great stonemasons.’ She let her hand trail along the stone wall as they walked. Higgledy-piggledy yes, but that was for practical reasons. Those builders had used every stone available – from big to small, flat to curved.

  ‘Like jigsaw puzzles.’ He bent closer to examine the stonework. Odd pieces of marble and brick had been added to the wall over the years in order to keep it solid. ‘Built to last.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But the weather around here has different ideas in the winter. If these walls aren’t well maintained and can’t hold back the soil . . .’ She looked up at the terraces. With fewer people working to cultivate the land and tend the vineyards and olive groves, the walls and the terraces were bound to be neglected. They couldn’t be expected to survive.

  ‘Landslides,’ he murmured.

  ‘Exactly. The Cinque Terre has been made a conservation area, and people are certainly trying to protect the environment here, but . . .’

  ‘It was a different life,’ he said, ‘when your people worked the land.’

  It was. Things had changed – and surely there would be some consequence.

  They continued along the path and called in at the old convent. The arches were crumbling, the paint was peeling, and the bricks of the old well were broken – nevertheless, in the cloisters the faint lines of an ancient fresco were still visible and a delicate painting had been tucked into a small niche in the wall. Niche. Painting. The events of last night flashed back into her mind once again. She showed Ferdinand the mural and the tiny work of art. ‘Since you’re so interested in paintings,’ she teased. She just wanted to get a reaction, she supposed.

  He shot her a look she couldn’t interpret, but didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the things I love about Italy.’

  ‘The frescoes?’

  ‘The sense of history.’

  She nodded. ‘Me too.’ It was hard to imagine not being surrounded by these historic buildings, this legacy of her ancestors, this sense of the past. ‘And what do you think of this other convent, Ferdinand?’ she asked. ‘Is it as fascinating as ours?’ Because his interest in The Lemon Tree Hotel was evident.

  ‘Nowhere near as fascinating.’ His gaze shifted from the convent building to Isabella herself. It was another of his appraising looks. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks and willed it to go away. ‘It’s definitely not as classy as The Lemon Tree,’ he added.

  She gave a light laugh. ‘I should hope not.’ Though if her family hadn’t saved it, who knew what the future of their own L’Attico Convento might have been?

  They retraced their steps past the church of Santa Margherita di Antiochia. ‘It’s fourteenth century, maybe earlier,’ she tossed the information to him over her shoulder. ‘And we’ll have to miss out the cemetery . . .’ Even though it had staggeringly beautiful views over the harbour. ‘Otherwise we’ll never get there.’

  Ferdinand was right – the stone steps lined with passion flowers and jasmine were charming but very steep. Isabella was used to them of course, but to her secret delight, after a few minutes he was out of breath from the climb. She turned and surveyed him, enjoying the all too brief sense of superiority. ‘Allora, we call this the
Via Dolorosa.’

  He frowned. ‘Way of Suffering?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She gestured to the first station of the cross erected beside the rough rocky path. It was a crumbling pink and grey shrine. ‘This is to remind the pilgrims of the journey of Christ to the Cross. Each station is symbolic of a certain part of the journey. We will see several of these little statues on the way up.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ He joined her on the step by the shrine and together they looked back the way they had come – down to the village and harbour of Vernazza, its colours sharpening in the light of the early sun, the silvery threads of dawn now dissipated into the deep blue sea.

  ‘This was your idea, remember,’ she said.

  ‘It was about the only way I could think of to get any time with you.’ He turned to face her, close enough to touch. He didn’t touch though. And she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed – or not.

  She smiled. ‘We are always busy at The Lemon Tree Hotel.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ He put his head to one side. ‘You’re Catholic, I suppose, aren’t you, Isabella?’

  ‘Lapsed.’

  ‘Already?’ he joked. ‘How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?’

  ‘Old enough to know my own mind,’ she flashed back at him. He was not in a position to try to get one over on her, as the English might say. Isabella certainly hadn’t forgiven him yet.

  He grinned. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘But I respect this place.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s important to the locals. It means something.’

  He nodded, paused for a moment, as if taking this in. He lifted his camera and took a few shots, but she guessed that he knew the pictures wouldn’t capture it.