The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  But who . . . Isabella turned the envelope upside down, and a business card fell out on to the desk. She recognised it – of course. And then she remembered seeing Ferdinand having dinner alone that night, watching him as he took a sketchpad out of his bag, seeing him look towards the cloisters for inspiration. Inspiration! Ferdinand . . . Isabella wanted to go and look for him right there and then – only she supposed he was still in Monterosso. She wanted to shake him and demand some answers. How could he have done such a thing? How far had this gone?

  Already confused about Monterosso and Giovanna, Isabella simply didn’t know what to think. Ferdinand didn’t return all afternoon, Nonna seemed too deep in her own thoughts to be disturbed, and her mother was busy with dinner. So, she waited. She left the envelope of sketches in the hotel register where her grandmother was bound to see it – she couldn’t bear to tell her herself – but Nonna hadn’t even opened it, although it was unsealed. And then it had all come out . . .

  Now, it was getting late, after eleven o’clock, and she gave a little jump when she saw Ferdinand loitering outside the Cloisters Bar. Aha! Time to find out a thing or two. Was he coming or going? She couldn’t tell. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans, and he was wearing a light blue collarless shirt, the sleeves loosely rolled to the elbows.

  ‘Good evening, Ferdinand,’ she said crisply. As if.

  ‘Isabella. I was wondering where you might be hiding.’ He took a step closer. Those eyes – they looked even deeper blue in this dim light.

  ‘I’ve been talking to my parents and my grandmother.’ She folded her arms as if to keep him at bay.

  ‘Hotel business?’ He seemed mildly curious, but that was all.

  She shrugged. ‘It is an ongoing discussion.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My mother – she has plans to renovate The Lemon Tree Hotel.’ She narrowed her eyes, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes. She wants to bring it into the twenty-first century, she says. She wants to make it a five-star luxury hotel, a place that might attract the most discerning, the wealthiest people.’

  ‘Right.’ He frowned. ‘And I take it, you don’t want that?’ He seemed uncertain.

  Isabella rose to her full height. ‘Nonna and I think that the hotel is just fine the way it is,’ she replied.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘In fact, we love the traditional building, the history of L’Attico Convento, the old convent. My grandmother and her parents before her did all they could to preserve the integrity of the place,’ she informed him. ‘And I have always been determined to do the same.’ Just so that he was in no doubt where she stood on the matter.

  ‘Hmm.’ Ferdinand rocked back on his heels and surveyed the crumbling pillars of the cloisters. ‘I have to say that I agree with you. It’s been expertly renovated. It’s perfectly charming and unspoilt.’ He even smiled as he looked out into the tranquil courtyard where the golden lamps were glowing.

  The cheek of him. Isabella could hardly believe it. ‘Then why did you do those drawings for Mamma?’ she hissed.

  ‘Drawings? Ah.’ He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Your mother asked me to.’

  Well, she had guessed that much. ‘You could have refused.’

  He hesitated. Perhaps he was afraid of seeming disloyal – to his client. ‘She made it hard to say “no”.’

  ‘Because of the amount of money she paid you?’ And that was another thing that had annoyed her. The Lemon Tree Hotel was doing well financially, but like her grandmother, Isabella hated throwing money away. Her mother had her own ideas, yes, fair enough. But Nonna was right – she should never have commissioned an architect to make sketches without consulting the rest of them.

  ‘No!’ He looked indignant. ‘Because, she made me think that you all wanted it.’

  A likely story. Just how could her mother have done that? ‘And why, after all, would you have wanted to say “no”?’ she parried, beginning to quite enjoy this sparring match with him, where – for once – she had the upper hand. ‘You are an architect, are you not? You work freelance, I suppose? You take commissions?’ Though she didn’t really know even this much about him.

  ‘Well, yes, I am, and so of course I take on certain projects. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But in this case, I didn’t agree with her plans.’ Those blue eyes looked so innocent – it was quite amazing.

  ‘Oh, really?’ She was believing this story less and less.

  ‘And so, I did the sketches simply as a favour to her, that is all.’

  What was he telling her? ‘A favour? So, she didn’t pay you anything?’

  He scuffed his feet on the flagstones. ‘In fact, no.’

  Did that make it worse or better? For a moment, Isabella couldn’t work it out.

  Ferdinand took advantage of that moment to grab her hands. ‘I thought you wanted it too,’ he said.

  ‘And you couldn’t ask me?’ After all, they’d seen enough of each other to make that more than a possibility.

  ‘Your mother – she said that it would be a surprise.’ He grimaced. ‘I thought it was intended to be a nice surprise – not a bad one.’

  Isabella shook her head and pulled away. ‘It feels as if you are always against me, Ferdinand.’ And so why was she wasting her time even talking to him? There were so many things she didn’t understand, so many secrets.

  ‘No.’ He pulled her closer once more. ‘The opposite is true.’

  ‘Those sketches . . .’

  ‘You didn’t like them?’

  Isabella considered. ‘They are good sketches,’ she conceded. She took a step away and looked up at the building she loved so much. She must try to be objective. In fact, as they had sat around the table in the kitchen discussing her mother’s plans, she had even, if she were honest, felt a faint sense of pride, that Ferdinand had made his sketches so simpatico. ‘But definitely not what we want for The Lemon Tree Hotel.’

  ‘I told you. I agree with you.’ He came closer once more, smoothed her hair from her face. It was too much. Isabella could feel herself being drawn in – again, almost despite herself.

  ‘Then . . . why?’

  ‘It was more a case of damage limitation.’

  Damage limitation . . . She could imagine now how it had been. Her mother asking him to do the drawings, Ferdinand not liking to refuse. He hadn’t accepted payment, he had done them because he thought that Isabella would want him to. Was that how it had been? ‘Why did you become an architect, Ferdinand?’ she asked him.

  ‘That’s easy.’ He smiled. ‘I always had a passion for buildings. I was fascinated by them, even as a boy. They’re representative of a part of history, don’t you think? A culture and context.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Which rather proved her point about the ancient convent that had become The Lemon Tree Hotel.

  ‘But it can also be about making changes within communities,’ he continued. ‘Looking at the bigger picture, architecture can affect social interactions and infrastructure. It can affect people’s lives in a powerful way.’

  ‘It certainly can,’ Isabella replied crisply. She admired his sentiments – up to a point – and it seemed that this man could explain anything away. But how could he explain the rest of today’s events? She was looking forward to hearing him try . . .

  CHAPTER 35

  Isabella

  ‘I should also tell you that I spoke to my father earlier today.’ Ferdinand sighed. ‘I’m afraid that he has taken a turn for the worse. He has had the results of some tests through – and it’s not good news.’

  ‘Oh, Ferdinand. I’m sorry.’ Isabella was immediately contrite. She put out a hand and gently touched his arm. ‘Does that mean you’ll be going home soon?’ She hated the thought, but even without his father’s illness, it was inevitable.

  ‘Yes, I will have to.’ He gave her a long look. Isabella tried to interpret it, but didn’t have a clue. ‘Every day here ha
s been more magical than the last.’

  ‘And today?’ She couldn’t help it. She wanted to believe every word he said, but the image of the three of them sitting around the table in Monterosso looking so serious, seeming so intimate, would not go away. But if he was leaving soon, then now was his chance to come clean about everything.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Where did you go today?’ She probed deeper.

  Ferdinand seemed to consider. Isabella waited. Was it such a difficult question?

  He leaned on a nearby pillar in that casual way he had. She could smell what she thought of as the evening scent of him – something soapy, a few glasses of wine, some pasta with a creamy sauce, a hint of lemon. ‘I visited Monterosso al Mare,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’ At least he hadn’t lied to her. ‘And what did you do there?’ She kept her voice light. But just because his father was ill . . . didn’t mean that he wasn’t answerable for his actions.

  He shot her a sharp glance this time. ‘What does anyone do there?’

  Allora, they rarely went to take coffee with a retired nurse. Isabella shrugged.

  ‘I walked along the beach, saw old San Francesco d’Assisi, looked around the Centro Storico. Nothing special.’

  Nothing special . . . Isabella suppressed a sigh. Once again, she was getting nowhere with this extremely annoying man of mystery.

  ‘And how about you?’ He leaned still closer.

  Did he even know that his voice could be so soft that it almost felt like a caress? Probably not, she decided.

  ‘Another busy day at The Lemon Tree Hotel?’

  ‘I took some time off this morning, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes widened. ‘Damn. Why didn’t you say? We could have spent it together.’

  And how would that have panned out with Giovanna and Siena? ‘You weren’t around. And anyway, it was a spur of the moment thing. I had some errands to run.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past eleven.

  ‘Are you busy now?’

  Isabella shifted her weight to the other foot. Obviously, she wasn’t busy now. It was late. Half of their guests were probably in bed already. Soon, Emanuele would be closing the bar. ‘I was thinking about going to bed.’ So, she sounded sarcastic. And why not? She felt sorry for him that his father was ill, she felt sad that he would soon be leaving, but the fact remained – he didn’t trust her enough to tell her the truth.

  ‘Isabella.’ His gaze travelled slowly over her face. She felt almost immobilised by it. ‘Could we have a nightcap together? I need to talk to you.’

  Was he going to open up to her after all? She considered. She didn’t feel in the least tired. ‘I suppose that is possible.’ She tried to sound more reluctant than she felt.

  ‘Good.’ He rubbed his hands together and turned towards the Cloisters Bar. ‘I’ll order us some wine.’

  ‘Only a small glass for me.’ She’d already had several in the kitchen talking with her parents and Nonna. And now more than ever, she needed to keep a clear head. She glanced outside to where the golden lamps were glowing – lighting up the blue agapanthus flowers, the dusky flagstones, and the lemon tree. Perhaps it was her overactive imagination, but sometimes that tree seemed almost to possess some spiritual power. The lemon was symbolic of bitterness and disappointment, she knew that. But she also knew that Christians had always linked the fruit to fidelity – a symbolism she preferred. The lemon tree would always be faithful and true – but how faithful and true was Ferdinand Bauer?

  ‘Shall we go out into the courtyard?’ she asked him. It was a warm night, but it was getting late, and only a few guests still lingered out there.

  He looked around, leaned back towards her. ‘I was thinking about going somewhere more private,’ he whispered into her hair.

  Isabella shivered. She drew back, gave him a second glance, and he actually winked at her. Clearly, he was planning to seduce her. And the thought filled her with anticipation rather than fear. ‘Well . . .’

  On the one hand . . . Isabella wasn’t a virgin – there had been a boy from the village with whom she’d hung out for a while a couple of years ago; it could have become even more serious, but Sergio got tired of always waiting for her to be free. And there had been another man at the hotel – a guest, who had come on to her and she had foolishly allowed herself to be flattered and made love to, not realising the obvious – that he was only staying at the hotel for a week and that he had a wife and a life back at home in Bologna. He was the reason she now tried to keep her working life separate from her personal one. He was probably also the reason why Nonna kept trying to warn her against Ferdinand too (well, one of the reasons anyway). Was it wise then to get entangled with another transitory visitor?

  Isabella rapidly mulled this over in her mind. And then there was the other hand. On the other hand . . . Isabella’s personal life was her working life – she had no other. Where else would she ever meet someone? Yes. On the other hand, she felt a distinct thrill.

  Ferdinand was regarding her with some amusement.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. What about the fact that she didn’t trust him? What about the sketches? What about his father and his past life here? What about the big mystery between him and Giovanna that she wasn’t in on?

  He smiled – and despite his sadness about his father, it reached his eyes. ‘Don’t look so worried, Isabella,’ he said. ‘I just want you to myself, that’s all.’

  And suddenly she felt foolish. She liked this man, didn’t she? She was attracted to him and she wanted to find out a lot more about him. ‘Let’s go and sit in the olive grove,’ she said. She’d nip upstairs to get a wrap while he was sorting out the wine.

  He laughed. ‘OK. Do we need something to sit on?’

  ‘Only the ground.’

  *

  They made their way into the grove several minutes later, Ferdinand carrying the wine in a cooler and Isabella holding the glasses. Despite what she’d told him, she’d decided to bring a blanket too. They settled themselves on this under the broadest tree, right in the centre of the grove, where there was just room to sit side by side in the comfortable mossy pouches between the roots, leaning against the knotty trunk. The olive grove was quiet and still; dense with night-time. But between the leaves and the olive-laden branches above, Isabella could see the globe of a full moon sending its eerie blue glow through the trees, dappling the ground with blue-pale light and shadows.

  Ferdinand poured the wine and handed her a glass. ‘To you and the Cinque Terre – both beautiful.’

  Isabella laughed uneasily. ‘To the Cinque Terre,’ she echoed.

  ‘You know . . .’ He leaned back against the tree trunk. ‘My mother would have loved it here.’

  ‘Would have?’

  ‘She died when I was eleven years old.’

  ‘That’s awful.’ Isabella put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry. You were just a boy.’

  ‘We were very close,’ he added. ‘She never visited Italy, but she told me lots of stories about her life in England when she was a girl.’

  ‘She lived there?’

  ‘She was British, yes.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ And why not, of course? It was just that she had assumed Ferdinand was German through and through.

  ‘You must miss her,’ she murmured. She tried to imagine how it would feel for an eleven-year-old boy to be deprived of his mother. How hard it must have been.

  ‘I do. We both still do. But now that my father . . .’ His voice trailed.

  Now, he was losing his father too. Isabella’s heart went out to him. And she realised how lucky she was. Her family argued like crazy, and her grandfather spent much of his time in Pisa, but at least they were all still healthy and intact.

  ‘And you were right.’ He put his hand on hers. ‘I’ll have to go back home soon.’

  ‘Of course.’ Isabella was no longer that naïve girl wh
o had been flattered by an older man from Bologna. ‘But have you done what you came here to do?’ She thought of Giovanna and this morning in Monterosso al Mare.

  ‘Not yet.’ He sipped his wine. ‘At least not entirely.’ His brow clouded. ‘But there have been some unlikely developments.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There are some things I must tell my father.’

  Isabella picked up her own glass. This was the same wine she had been drinking earlier, but it tasted so different in the moonlight, almost like nectar on her tongue. ‘So, you have not yet . . .’ she hesitated ‘. . . made amends?’

  He eyed her intently. ‘If it was my secret, Isabella . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then I would tell you everything.’

  Sitting here, so close to him in the moonlight, it was tempting to believe him. She leaned in closer. She could feel the warmth of his skin, his breath against her neck. ‘Whose secret is it?’ she asked. ‘Your father’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about Giovanna?’

  He put a finger to her lips. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I will tell you everything, I promise.’

  One day. That sounded as if he were envisaging some future meeting. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Isabella.’ He put both their glasses to one side and knelt in front of her. His fair hair looked dusty in the moonlight, and she reached out – an involuntary gesture – and ran her fingers through the softness of it.

  ‘I have not brought you out here to talk about my father’s secrets,’ he said.

  ‘Then why have you brought me here?’ He had said he wanted to talk. She watched his mouth. She could see the sadness there, even in the faint curve of his smile.

  ‘You were right the first time. I am a man, you are a beautiful girl.’ He put his head to one side and regarded her intently.