The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  Her mother pulled back. ‘Us?’

  ‘You and me,’ Elene confirmed.

  ‘Oh, Elene . . .’ Her mother looked as if she wanted to hug her again.

  Elene found herself blinking back another of those damned tears. ‘When something happens to someone you love . . .’

  Her mother was nodding. ‘Life’s so short,’ she agreed.

  ‘Exactly.’ They clasped hands.

  ‘I’ve always loved you so very much, Elene.’ Her mother bit her lip. ‘I didn’t give you enough of my time, I see that now. I didn’t value you enough or give you enough of a say. But I’ve always loved you so much.’

  ‘You had other things to do. Hotels to save.’ Elene smiled back at her. ‘I understand. Truly I do. And you know, I didn’t have a bad childhood, all things considered.’

  Chiara laughed as she embraced her. ‘I’m glad to hear that at least,’ she said.

  *

  Later they walked arm in arm back to the ward.

  ‘So, did you find him?’ Elene asked at last. She was curious to know.

  ‘Yes, I found him.’

  ‘And?’ Elene wondered how much she would mind what her mother might be about to say.

  ‘And he insisted on coming back here with me.’

  ‘He’s here?’ Elene stopped walking. She hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Her mother seemed quite blasé. ‘He’s back at the hotel. I don’t think he’s quite ready for my family yet.’ She chuckled.

  ‘I’m surprised.’ Elene wasn’t sure what she had expected – but it wasn’t that.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ her mother told her. ‘I was in such a state that he insisted on coming with me. And I’m sorry to tell you this, my darling, but that man is the love of my life.’

  Elene turned to her, registered that glow in her mother’s eyes once more. ‘He wasn’t the one who hit you, was he?’ Though they were very hard words to say.

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t hit me. Dante would never hit me, Elene.’

  Hadn’t she known it? ‘I see.’ And what this meant was a truth that she must learn to accept.

  ‘I walked into a door, as I always said.’

  ‘Mamma.’ She wouldn’t let her mother lie to her – not any more.

  Chiara sighed. ‘Very well. But don’t blame him too much, my darling. I too must shoulder some of the responsibility.’

  ‘Why, Mamma?’ Elene thought of her father and the love she had always felt for him. He had asked her to forgive him, because he would never ask her mother to do the same. Could she? He was her father, whatever he had done.

  ‘I loved Dante Rossi long before I met Alonzo,’ Chiara told her. ‘I wasn’t fair to your father. I married him to please my parents, but I could never quite stop loving Dante. Which was a disaster for all of us, I’m afraid.’

  Elene absorbed the words. Her mother had never spoken so frankly to her before, and it explained a lot that she had never understood. Allora. She had a feeling that she and her mother would be able to speak a lot more honestly to one another after this.

  ‘But you tried?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my darling, for many years I tried.’

  Elene sneaked a look at the woman by her side. So, there was one more thing she needed to know. Was her mother going to leave Italy for good – was that what was going to happen? Was she going to go and live in England with her Dante? Would she leave her family, her community, The Lemon Tree Hotel? Could she really do such a thing – after this?

  CHAPTER 52

  Chiara

  Chiara and Dante were in Vernazza. The train station was not yet open – even for residents – and many roads remained impassable. But Dante was a man who made it his business to organise things, and he had borrowed a boat to take them there by sea. He held out a hand to her, and Chiara climbed out on to the jetty. She was grateful for the contact, grateful that he was here. He seemed instinctively to understand so many things – how Chiara felt about this town, how she needed to see it, right now in its raw and battered state, to see for herself how bad things really were.

  And they were bad. She couldn’t speak at first, she just looked around her, appalled. The harbour itself was barely recognisable. The beach had been replaced by a massive pile of mud on which she could see the splintered remains of a few battered blue and white boats that had washed up to shore. Via Roma was still covered in mud – in fact the mud rose so high that it entirely obscured doors and windows.

  As they walked slowly down the street, taking in this strange and unfamiliar landscape, Chiara recognised a first-floor balcony that now appeared to be on ground level, the sign for the pharmacy once hanging above its door also now level with the ground. Opposite this, the top of the awning of Vineria Santa Marta was the only part of the shop still visible. She was walking on top of people’s businesses and homes – all buried under the mud and rubble. It was surreal and deeply disturbing.

  Luckily, they had been sensible enough to wear waterproof boots. Around them, men in yellow and orange vests were already working with cranes and diggers to remove the mud, other people were wandering through the streets still looking lost and disorientated. Chiara recognised a few people she knew and she spoke with them in shocked whispers.

  ‘It is barely believable.’ She clung on to Dante’s arm as they walked further up the street. The oleander trees in terracotta pots had been swept from the centre of Via Roma, even the colour had been leached from the fascias of the houses; everything seemed to be brown. The thick mud had splattered the walls and roofs. Fragments of buildings and other wreckage was strewn everywhere – pieces of wood, bits of plaster and stone, broken car parts, bins, sections of balconies, rocks of all sizes and endless tangles of vines. Telephone and electricity wires were down, thrown haphazardly into the road. The little chapel had all but disappeared. In the centre of Via Roma was a pile of debris running the whole length of the street, which had already been cleared away from the houses. But how could they get rid of so many tons of mud? Chiara couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Oh, Dante,’ she said. ‘Vernazza is destroyed.’

  ‘It’s still there,’ he said. ‘It’s hidden, but it’s still there.’

  ‘Dante—’

  ‘Don’t say another word.’ He held her close as they walked back down towards the harbour again.

  ‘If there is anything we can do,’ Chiara kept saying to the people they passed, who had lost their possessions and possibly their houses too. ‘If you can get up to The Lemon Tree Hotel, there is someone there who can help. There’s shelter at least, and we must have some provisions. We will take it from there.’

  Back at the harbour, Chiara lifted her face towards the sea. It was no good. ‘I have to say it, Dante,’ she told him. She had been sure, she really had. But this – this had changed everything. It wasn’t just a question of helping her family or looking after the hotel. It wasn’t even the fact that for the first time she had seen the vulnerability and fear in Elene’s eyes, or how much this had moved her and made her long for that new start with her daughter. It was so much more than that now – there was a whole community needing her help. They needed to stick together, they needed to work as a team. There were years of work ahead to salvage the beauty of Vernazza and return their village to its former glory. She could not walk away.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Dante said softly. ‘I know you need to stay here in Vernazza. I know you need to be with your family.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling, but I do.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders and faced her. ‘You want to help with the rebuilding, I know.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was glad he understood. But even so, to lose him again . . . Her heart was almost breaking.

  ‘You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t want to do that.’ He drew her closer.

  Chiara folded her body against him. He felt so good. She remembered how he had reacted when that phone call had come through from
Elene. He hadn’t questioned her decision to leave immediately – not for a second. He had given her brandy, made her sit down, gone online and booked them the very first available flights to Pisa. ‘I am coming with you,’ he had said. ‘There is absolutely no way you are going through this on your own.’

  He had taken her back to the B & B to collect her bags, and he had held her all night, not wanting or expecting anything other than that Chiara would allow him to stay close and comfort her. He had driven her to Bristol the following day and he had been beside her ever since. While she visited Isabella in hospital he had been finding out what they could do, who needed help, how he could get her over to Vernazza to see the damage for herself. And now . . . He was the sacrifice. ‘But, Dante . . .’

  ‘Hush.’ He held her more tightly still. ‘It will be OK. I will be here too.’

  ‘No.’ She looked up. She would not allow him to do this again. Why should he give up everything to come here – for her? Why should his entire life be put aside?

  ‘You don’t want me here?’ But there was a small smile on his lips.

  ‘It’s not that.’ He must know it wasn’t that.

  ‘These are my villages too, cara.’ He looked out towards Monterosso, which had also been damaged, though not as badly as Vernazza. Dante’s home village of Corniglia had suffered too of course, but not so severely, since it was built on higher ground. Nevertheless, they would go there on the way back to see if any of his old friends needed help. Any past hostilities would have been long-forgotten – they would all support one another now.

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I was always going to come back here with you,’ he said softly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She frowned, recalled what he had said about Dorset and his life in West Bay. ‘What about your business? Your home? The life you have made there?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have made some money out of my gelato, Chiara. It may be only ice cream, but it has served me well. I have had no family, no commitments.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault, cara,’ he said sternly. ‘It was my choice. But I have made enough to support myself. If I can’t find casual work in some local hotel . . .’ He shot her a conspiratorial glance ‘. . . I will be happy to take early retirement, believe me.’ He sighed. ‘Once we have sorted out this mess, at least.’ And he nodded back to the sad little town.

  ‘Early retirement?’ Chiara echoed. What a lovely thought. She and Dante living in some little cottage on the hillside. With a view of lemon trees, olive groves, and the Mediterranean Sea.

  ‘Forgive me.’ He took her hand. ‘I only wanted to be sure of your feelings, before I told you all this. I was about to come clean – do you remember?’

  Chiara thought back. Yes, there had been something he was about to say – just before that phone call from Elene. She realised what he was telling her. ‘You were testing me,’ she breathed.

  ‘Can you blame me?’

  After everything that had happened? ‘I can’t, no.’ The image of that fantasy cottage swept into her mind. Could that be possible? ‘But you love Dorset,’ she reminded him again.

  He smiled. ‘This is true. It was the right place for me – at the time.’

  ‘And now?’ Despite everything that had happened, despite the destruction all around them, Chiara felt a spark of hope.

  ‘Oh, Chiara, don’t you know? I love you and the Cinque Terre even more.’

  CHAPTER 53

  Isabella

  Isabella was feeling much better now, and it was good to be back in her beloved Lemon Tree Hotel, even though she was still supposed to be resting. She’d had all the tests, and everyone kept telling her that apart from her cracked ribs and a few bruises, she was fine. The trouble was that she didn’t feel fine.

  It wasn’t just the trauma of what had happened – thankfully most of it was a blur, though she still sometimes woke from a nightmare where all she could hear was the sound of rushing water, all she could smell was gas. And it wasn’t just the destruction of Vernazza – she still had to see that for herself; her mother and Nonna had tried to protect her from knowing the scale of the disaster, but thankfully plenty of other people talked, and there were lots of other stories she’d heard that hadn’t been censored in the least.

  Besides, she believed that Vernazza could come back from this. There were so many people who loved the town. Already, the mud was being cleared, the railway station would soon be re-opened – at least for residents – the phone lines were once again operational. It would take months before the debris was fully cleared, years probably before Vernazza shone as brightly as it had shone before, but it would happen. Vernazza would come back from this disaster.

  Ferdinand though . . . That had been a big blow to her self-esteem. There had been moments in their short relationship when she had doubted him – quite a lot of moments, truth to tell. He had been evasive, dishonest even. He had come here to uncover a painting, and she had, by his own admission, got in the way of his plan. She wasn’t sure she fully believed him, even now. He had become distant in those last few days. And yet . . . She had to admit – and she’d had plenty of time to mull this over during her convalescence – that despite all this, she had thought he might be the one for her. There was something about him that had touched her so deeply, something about him that made her keep coming back for more. She had hoped . . . Oh, how she had hoped. And this bitter disappointment just wouldn’t go away.

  There was a light knock on her bedroom door, and Giovanna slipped inside. ‘Bella.’ She approached the bed, a wide smile lighting up her wrinkled face. ‘I am so glad you are safe. So glad that you have come back to us.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Giovanna.’ Isabella held out her hands. Her ribs didn’t really allow her to hug anyone yet, but she squeezed her old aunt’s hands as hard as she dared. ‘It’s wonderful to see you. You were unharmed, I hope?’

  ‘We were lucky.’ Giovanna drew up a chair. ‘I heard the rain and wind, but I had no idea how bad things were.’ She sat in the chair and smoothed her black skirt. ‘Your mother came and brought me back here to the hotel, just in case. But the cottage is still standing. I am back at home. And now everything is as calm as ever.’

  ‘And the painting?’ Isabella whispered. Surely everything hadn’t been entirely in vain?

  ‘The painting survived too,’ Giovanna told her. ‘And it will be a gift that Vernazza needs – it will help a small amount towards the rebuilding you know, it will be a good start.’

  She was right. ‘It was a terrible day,’ Isabella said.

  ‘Oh, yes. First in the morning, young Ferdinand called back to Germany like that, rushing around, not knowing what to do for the best, then—’

  ‘What did you say?’ Isabella frowned.

  ‘He must have caught one of the last trains before the line was out of action,’ Giovanna mused. She didn’t seem to have any idea of the effect her words were having.

  ‘But why was he called back so suddenly?’ Isabella sat up straighter in the bed. Her head was beginning to hurt again, and she struggled to concentrate.

  ‘But don’t you know?’ Giovanna seemed confused. ‘He told you what had happened, did he not?’

  Isabella shook her head.

  ‘It was his father. Karl.’

  Was she imagining things, or did Giovanna have tears in her eyes? Really, the emotion flying around here at the moment was affecting everyone in so many strange ways . . . ‘What about him?’ She knew that he’d had some test results back, she knew that he didn’t have long left, and she knew that Ferdinand had promised to go back and look after him until the end. But what was true and what was pure fabrication? Where Ferdinand Bauer was concerned, she simply had no clue.

  ‘He deteriorated very suddenly. Ferdinand was told he had only hours to live.’ Giovanna bent her head. ‘And so, he had no time to lose if he was to see his father before he died.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’ Though Isabella was surpr
ised that her aunt was so affected by the news. ‘Were you fond of Karl Bauer, Aunt?’ she asked.

  The old lady nodded. ‘Very fond.’

  ‘I see.’ Though really, she didn’t. ‘Was that why Ferdinand left without saying goodbye?’ It certainly explained why he had left so suddenly – and she could hardly blame him. For a moment she thought she could see a chink of light in their story, though she hardly dared. It was easier not to expect anything, not to be disappointed once again.

  ‘Oh, but of course, my dear.’ Giovanna lifted her head. ‘Though before he left, he was desperate to find you.’

  ‘Desperate?’ echoed Isabella. She remembered the distance between them. Could that really be true?

  ‘Quite frantic.’ Giovanna seemed very certain. ‘He’d looked for you in the hotel, he told me. Then he rushed down to the cottage to tell me about Karl, asked if I’d seen you, there were things he regretted, he said. Then he told me he had to get back to Germany straightaway . . .’

  Things that he regretted? Did that include making love with Isabella in the olive grove perhaps? ‘I was in Vernazza,’ she said softly.

  ‘Of course you were, my dear.’ Giovanna reached across and patted her hand. ‘Allora, he said he would write you a note, he said he would call you, he said that you would understand.’ She scrutinised Isabella, her head on one side like a bird in that way she had. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Bella?’

  ‘I never got a note,’ Isabella said. She fidgeted with the bedcovers, aware that she sounded rather like a petulant child. And she didn’t understand.

  ‘The landslide, the chaos, the panic . . .’ Giovanna shrugged. ‘Maybe the note got lost?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Very likely in fact, she had to concede. ‘But he didn’t call me either.’

  ‘Did you have your phone with you?’

  ‘Yes. No. I think I put it on silent.’ She struggled to recall. She remembered wanting to be alone, to think. She remembered the noise of the waves, the rain, the wind. And then she lost her bag and her mobile with it at some point – when she fell or was dragged to safety perhaps. And the phone lines here were still down.