by Rosanna Ley
‘But it tastes good,’ she finished for him.
‘Yes.’ He shook his head in mock despair. ‘It tastes good, and it is my life.’
‘I understand that, Dante.’ And she did. What had she been thinking when she came over here? She hadn’t really thought, had she? She hadn’t grasped the implications – that she and Dante lived so far apart from one another, one of them would have to leave.
She couldn’t ask him to leave Dorset. It wouldn’t be right. Which meant that if she wanted to be with him she would have to move over here – there was no other way. Even Elene had recognised that fact. Chiara would have to leave the hotel she loved, Elene, Isabella, Giovanna – everything and everyone she cared for. Could she do that? Did she have the courage? Was she ready to give up so much?
‘Bene.’ He patted her hand. ‘I needed you to understand. But it is good to see you, Chiara.’
‘And you.’
‘And perhaps after I have cooked you dinner,’ he suggested, ‘we can talk about this some more.’
Chiara sighed. ‘All right, yes.’ So, she had to come to a decision, Dante had made that plain. He would not allow her to throw herself into his arms. He would be making no grand gestures and it would have to be her this time who made all the sacrifices. Otherwise . . .
It would not happen. Chiara hung on a little tighter to his arm. She had come all this way – but for what? She could have Dante, but not her life in the Cinque Terre – she would lose her precious Lemon Tree Hotel. Or she could have a life there – but without the man she loved. That was her decision – and she had to make it tonight.
CHAPTER 49
Chiara
Dante’s house was exactly as she might have imagined it if she had ever allowed herself to think about it in any detail. He lived in West Bay in an old fisherman’s cottage just off the sea front. It was small and white with tiny square windows and was perhaps in need of a lick of paint, but it was perfectly formed and had views of the snaking river and the impossibly green hills beyond.
It was funny to see Dante working in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing an over-sized navy and white striped apron, while she sat on his antique brown leather sofa, legs crossed, sipping a delicious gin and tonic he’d made for her earlier. They’d talked so much today about so many different things – she felt that she was getting to understand how he lived his life here in England for the very first time.
He was pan-frying two whole plaice that had been caught in the bay only hours before, and serving them with sautéed potatoes and a crisp green salad. He’d allowed her to peel the potatoes, but nothing else. ‘Relax, Chiara,’ he’d said. ‘You are on holiday, is that not so?’
‘As you like.’ She was happy to accept the tease. And so, she had done just that – it was so pleasant to relax, here in his territory, after all. She chuckled as he whisked the potatoes into another pan, doing the cooking in the same way he seemed to do everything – with gusto.
‘Something amusing you?’
‘It’s just that . . .’ How could she explain? It wasn’t only the gusto. It was the pure domesticity of it – a situation that she would never have envisaged. She and Dante had spent such a short time together over the years when you counted it up. There had been those first two encounters – one in Corniglia when he had sent off those boys who were bothering her, and one in Vernazza when he was looking after the old lady. Followed by Chiara’s dreams about destiny . . . There had been their passionate and whispered meetings in the olive grove not long afterwards, there had been plans and promises – most of which had never come to fruition. Then he had left, and when he returned all those years later, there had been walking and more talking, drinks and dinner and then . . . At last, a night of love.
Chiara took a sip of her drink, hoping it would cool the heat that had risen to her cheeks on remembering that night. And what a night it had been for two people far from the first flush of youth. ‘We don’t even know each other very well,’ she said. ‘And yet here we are.’
‘Allora. Here we are indeed.’ He turned and brandished a spatula at her. ‘Talking about whether we might spend the rest of our lives together.’
‘Exactly.’ She put her drink back on the glass-topped coffee table beside her. ‘I thought of you though, Dante,’ she said. ‘I thought about you a lot, you know.’
‘Ah – at least in the beginning.’ He turned back to his pan, but she knew he was teasing again. This Dante was not as uncompromising as the young Dante had been. He was gentler, more mellow – and his sense of humour had improved since coming to England, for sure. She relaxed back further into the sofa. The enticing fragrance of the plaice and the dill and lemon with caramelised garlic wafted in the air.
Chiara breathed in deeply. ‘And beyond,’ she assured him. ‘I imagined you making your living here in England, finding your way in your new life, chatting up all the single women in West Dorset . . .’
‘And there are quite a few,’ he pointed out – rather unnecessarily in Chiara’s opinion.
‘I even imagined you coming back to Vernazza.’
He grinned at that. At last. How she loved that grin. Dante seemed to put all of himself into his grin. ‘But by the time I actually did come back – you’d stopped expecting it, I think?’
‘I certainly had.’ She regarded him over the rim of her glass as she picked it up to take another sip. There was something about gin and tonic – something deliciously anticipatory and crisp. She re-crossed her legs. ‘And did you ever think of me, may I ask?’
‘Every day.’ Expertly, he turned the fish in the pan.
‘Dante . . .’
‘The woman I wanted the most. The woman I could never have.’ He tossed the sautéed potatoes in the other pan. ‘Ready, I think.’
He brought the food over and dished it up on to their plates. Chiara took a sniff. ‘Mmm. It smells divine.’
Dante opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and they sat down at the table squashed between the kitchen and living area of the open-plan ground floor. Even the stairs rose up from this space – every square centimetre had been used. It was definitely, Chiara thought, a house for one. Would she want to live in this tiny cottage? Would it give her the space she needed? She looked around. Pictures of the sandstone cliffs at West Bay on the white walls, a Turkish rug on the bleached floorboards, wooden blinds at the windows.
‘What?’ He poured the wine. ‘Salute.’
‘Salute.’ They clinked glasses, and she picked up her knife and fork. ‘Just that there’s nothing Italian here at all.’
‘And why should there be?’ He sliced into his fish and breathed in the aroma.
‘Because you are still Italian,’ she reminded him sternly. ‘I thought there might be something from our homeland here in your house.’
‘There might be.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t seen the bedroom yet.’
‘Dante . . .’ She took her first bite of the fish. It was so full of flavour, and melted in her mouth. Even Elene would have approved. ‘This is delicious.’
‘Thank you, Signora.’ He bent his head.
‘You are very welcome.’ But where did they go from here? Chiara took another mouthful. Who would have thought that Dante would be such a good cook? Today they had discussed every subject under the sun. She knew how he lived his life here in West Dorset – how many hours he worked, how he got on with the people, what he did in his spare time. She knew where he liked walking, what films and plays he’d seen, what music he listened to these days. They’d got on to politics – of both Britain and Italy, and had even touched on football. As for her life, she had told him what had led to her eventual break with Alonzo, and many other things besides.
‘Are you lonely, Chiara?’ he had asked her.
‘Not at all,’ she’d replied. ‘How could I be lonely with my family so close by? With The Lemon Tree Hotel, and all our guests to look after?’
‘So, let me guess,’ he said now. ‘Were you wonde
ring – how can I even think about giving up my very fulfilling life in Vernazza for a man I’ve hardly spent any time with?’
She shrugged. ‘For a man who is barely more than a fantasy,’ she teased. Because two could play at that game.
He leaned forwards. ‘And yet,’ he said.
‘And yet.’ His eyes were still dark and still smouldered just as they always had. His hair was grey and silver now, but gave him a dignified look that was just as attractive as the piratical charm he’d had in his youth.
‘I came all the way here to see you,’ she reminded him.
‘You did.’
‘You still move me.’
‘And you me, Chiara,’ he said. ‘And you me.’ The look in his eyes told her he wanted to take her into that bedroom of his, and she had to admit that she ached for it too.
‘And although we haven’t spent so very much time together . . .’ she paused ‘. . . still, I know you.’
‘Sì.’ She saw the understanding in his dark eyes. She had known him from the first moment they met – and he her. It had indeed seemed to be destiny.
‘So . . .’ She forced her attention back to the food. It was far too good to waste.
‘We fell in love.’ He took another mouthful and washed it down with some wine.
‘Yes.’ Now, that she couldn’t deny.
‘And whereas some people fall out of love, divorce, die, or simply forget one another . . .’ He let the words hang.
‘The feelings between us remained the same.’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper now. She put down her cutlery. ‘We didn’t forget. But it’s crazy isn’t it, Dante? I mean, before tonight I’ve never even seen you cook a meal.’
He speared a potato. ‘And I hate to point this out to you, my dear Chiara, but I haven’t seen you cook at all.’
‘What?’
‘Perhaps you can’t.’ His eyes shone with humour now. ‘Perhaps I am considering taking on a woman who doesn’t know one end of la cucina from the other, hmm?’
‘Why you . . . You!’ Chiara picked up her knife and fork again and returned to her meal. The fish was so delicate; the potatoes crisp on the outside and fluffy inside.
He took pity on her. ‘But you’re right. I understand what you’re saying.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. You’re saying that we are contemplating a huge life change with someone we hardly know. We may not have forgotten one another. But is this feeling between us real? Or is it some romantic dream?’
‘Exactly.’ She sipped her wine.
‘Have we been thinking of each other all these years because we haven’t met someone else we could be happy with – or were we unable to be happy with that someone else because the right person was someone else?’
‘Hmm.’ Put like that, it sounded even more complicated than she had thought. Chiara helped herself to more salad. The dressing he had prepared was also very delicious, with just the right hint of balsamic.
He put his head to one side, considering. ‘Perhaps it depends on what we think about love?’
‘Perhaps.’ Or perhaps they shouldn’t even have started this conversation.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t try to analyse what it is we have between us? Perhaps we should simply give in to it, don’t you think?’
Now, he was reminding her of how he had been when he came to The Lemon Tree Hotel. Intense, persuasive, seductive, charming, irresistible . . . She dared to glance up at him. He had finished eating, and had folded his arms, a small smile playing around his mouth. She looked away. Really, anyone would think that this was just a game to him. ‘But it pays to be cautious,’ she remarked.
‘Does it?’
‘Well, yes. Just as you were saying earlier. We don’t want to hurt each other all over again. We need to be sure.’
‘And are you sure, Chiara?’
‘Yes.’ She answered almost without thinking. Perhaps she shouldn’t be mixing gin and wine after all.
‘Sure enough to leave The Lemon Tree Hotel and come to live here in West Bay with me?’
Chiara couldn’t escape the feeling that Dante had somehow manipulated the conversation so that it would arrive at this point. Was she that sure?
She thought of Elene and the coolness she often saw in her eyes. If Chiara wasn’t there, Elene might flourish. She had Silvio and Isabella – this independence could be just what her daughter needed. She thought of Isabella, who seemed to understand her grandmother and The Lemon Tree Hotel so well. Isabella was young. She would miss Chiara, but she would find a nice young man, and she would throw herself into the business just as her grandmother had done before her. She thought of Giovanna, who sadly must be getting to the end of her days. The others would look after Giovanna, Chiara had no worries about that. And she thought of The Lemon Tree Hotel and all the love and work she had put into it.
Could she ever leave? It was her legacy from her parents – but it was a legacy that she could now hand over to Elene and Isabella. She had done her job, and they could be trusted. Giovanna had been right – it was Chiara’s time now. And finally, she thought of her beloved Cinque Terre – the blue skies and seas, the colourful houses, the prickly pears and the olive groves, the scent of lemons in the courtyard. Dante was right though. It was just a place. It was just a hotel – however much she cared for it. It wasn’t – it should not be – everything. Because Chiara only had one life, and this was the man she loved.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m that sure.’
Dante’s eyes widened. ‘Really, Chiara? You would give it all up and come and live here with me?’
‘Really, Dante. I would, yes.’ She took a deep breath and pushed her plate away. She couldn’t eat another thing.
He took her hands over the table. ‘I never thought I would hear you say that,’ he marvelled.
Chiara had never thought she would say it either. She got to her feet. ‘Will you hold me?’ she asked.
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Dante had taken a step around the table and she was in his arms, feeling the strength of him, the softness of his touch, the scent that was Dante’s alone.
They drew apart. ‘My love,’ he whispered. He cupped her head in the palm of his hand. They stared at one another, and this time Chiara didn’t look away. He kissed her, slowly at first and then with a gathering urgency, and she could feel herself responding to every touch of his lips, every breath that he took.
‘Dante,’ she said. ‘I think I would like to see the bedroom after all.’
He chuckled. ‘Sounds like a plan, cara.’ And then he was suddenly serious. ‘We have so much to plan, you and I.’
He was right. You couldn’t analyse love or how it worked, how a spark could take you and hold you. It was more than enough that it was there.
Chiara’s mobile began to ring. She turned. ‘I should . . .’
‘Of course.’ He stepped back. ‘And then I have something more to confess to you, my love.’
‘Really?’ Distracted, she picked up the call. It was Elene. ‘Elene? How are you, darling?’
‘Mamma.’
‘What is it?’ There was something in her voice. Some need that Chiara hadn’t heard for so long – if at all.
‘Mamma – it’s Isabella.’
‘What?’ A surge of panic made her legs buckle. She dropped back into the leather sofa, her senses on high alert. ‘What’s happened to her? Tell me.’
‘She’s hurt. There’s been a terrible landslide. She’s in hospital.’
‘In hospital?’ A landslide? ‘How bad is she?’
‘Bad enough.’ There was a pause, and Chiara could hear the emotion in her daughter’s voice, she could feel her tears. ‘Mamma, we need you. Please – will you come home?’
CHAPTER 50
Isabella
Isabella was conscious of her mother sitting by her bed. ‘Where am I?’ she managed to whisper. Not in her own bed in The Lemon Tree Hotel, that much seemed certain.
‘In hospital, my darling.’ Her mother gently squeezed her hand. ‘You’re in hospital in La Spezia.’
Hospital. That made sense. Isabella closed her eyes. She couldn’t think about it now. She was too tired.
Later, or the next day perhaps, she was aware of nurses drifting past. Sometimes one would come up to the bed and talk to her, their face close and kind. Sometimes, Isabella thought she spoke to them, sometimes, she did not. She was conscious of her father too, she instinctively sensed his worry. The hospital was warm and yet clinical, the sheets and blankets felt heavy on her legs. From time to time someone helped her sit up and she drank water through a straw. Or there was a doctor asking her questions she couldn’t seem to focus on. People swam in and out of her vision. Once, her grandfather was there by her bedside, and she felt faintly surprised to see him. Her head hurt.
Some time on, and gradually things became clearer. Her mother was still there. Often, she read to her in her cool, clear voice. ‘Do you remember anything, Isabella?’ she asked her.
‘I don’t know.’ But then Isabella tasted the fear that she had felt that afternoon and she began to remember. She remembered that morning in Vernazza, the dark ominous grey of the sky, the fast-moving clouds, the sense of premonition that she had blithely ignored. She remembered the fat raindrops and sitting on the rocks by the far promontory watching the wild waves send spray high on to the harbour arm. She remembered a whisker of fear as she scurried down to take shelter, aware of the rain getting harder, the wind howling, the water around her feet suddenly becoming a brown river. And the noise; the rush and the dark noise, before she slipped and fell.
‘What happened?’ she whispered at last.
‘There was a landslide, my darling.’ Her mother was holding her hand again. She seemed different here in the hospital, quieter and more tender. And she seemed to be here all the time. But if she was here . . . What was happening with the hotel? Was Nonna looking after things? But no, Nonna had gone away, she remembered that too . . .
