by Liz Fielding
From the outside no one would ever have guessed that there could be such a quiet, private space in the heart of the city.
A stone burble fountain made from an old grindstone stood at its heart. Overgrown with ferns and mosses, an amphora lying on its side at the base, it looked as if it had been there for centuries. Perhaps it had.
She crossed ancient, worn paving slabs, bent to let the water trickle over her fingers.
‘Someone suggested I should install concealed lighting,’ Matteo said, standing back to watch her.
‘Really? I’d much rather sit out here with the light fading, listening to the sound of the water,’ she said, refusing to ask who had suggested it, to think about who had suggested it, preferring to concentrate on the fact that he had not done it. ‘This place is timeless.’ Then, smiling up at him, ‘If you were wearing a toga, we could be in ancient Rome.’
‘Lying on a marble bench, eating grapes?’ He shook his head as he joined her. ‘I think we’d both be more comfortable on a chair.’
A table had been laid in the corner, a votive candle flickered as they disturbed the air, sat down.
They ate slowly, taking their time, talking about nothing much. Their week, their day.
Matteo found himself telling her what he would be doing in New York. His work on the development of salt-water tolerant plant strains. About the harvest, soon to begin in Isola del Serrone. First the grapes then, in November, the olives.
‘You will come?’ he asked.
‘To help with the harvest? Or is it mechanised?’
Not to watch, he noted, but to help.
‘We don’t crush the grapes with our feet these days,’ he said, and if he was smiling it was not because he was laughing at her, but delighted with her. ‘They are, however, still cut by hand just as they were in the time of the Caesars. Everyone joins in.’
‘I will be honoured to be a part of that, Matteo.’
Honoured …
She had the gift of choosing exactly the right word as naturally as breathing, he thought. They honoured the vines for what they gave them, blessed them, thanked God for the harvest and celebrated it with fireworks and feasting.
There was a simple joy in it. The same feeling he had when he thought of Sarah, talked to her, was with her. He had thought to offer her himself as a gift, but he was the one enriched by her presence. Would be the poorer when, heart-whole, she returned home.
The thought was so painful that he finally surrendered to the truth.
‘It is late,’ he said, ‘but I cannot bear to let you go.’ He reached for her hand, raised it to his lips. ‘Will you stay with me tonight, Sarah? Be here when I wake up. Be the last thing I see before I leave for New York in the morning.’
CHAPTER TEN
ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS
I was a guest at a Roman palazzo this weekend. Not a house divided into apartments or a purpose-built block of flats.
A palace built on Roman foundations.
Four storeys, two dozen rooms, a central courtyard with a fountain and a resident Conte. The real deal.
And I’m making progress with my Italian. I’m no longer a beginner.
MATTEO stirred as the sunlight slanted through the bars of the shutters. Opened his eyes. Sarah was curled up against him within the circle of his arm, her hand on his waist as if to keep him from slipping away before she woke.
No chance of that.
From the moment he had seen her sitting in the sunshine on the crumbling wall above his house, had kissed her, he had been lost. Even while he was telling himself that he was in control, that it was all a game, he had been fooling himself.
He was not Katerina.
He could no more make love to a woman he did not care for than Sarah could go to a nightclub and pick up a man to share her bed. He was long past the age where sex without commitment had any appeal.
He touched her cheek, his fingers tracing the gentle curve of her cheek.
‘Voglio rimanere qui con voi,’ he murmured as he continued along the line of her jaw. She stirred, leaning into his touch, her hair sliding against his chest.
There had been a moment last night when he had pulled a pin from her hair and it had cascaded over her naked shoulders. Her skin had been silvered by the moon and words had, for once, forsaken him.
He had forgotten this wonder. The slow unfolding, the complete surrender, the gift of yourself.
‘I am falling in love with you,’ he said, repeating the words in English.
The backs of his fingers traced the profile of her chin, her neck, the soft swell of her breasts as if committing them to memory.
‘Voglio stare con te per sempre …’
‘Mmm?’ Sarah opened her eyes, looked up, smiled, said ‘Ciao.’
‘Ciao, carissima.’
‘Voglio stare con te per sempre …’ She repeated his words perfectly. ‘What does it mean?’
‘You should not listen to a man talking to himself.’
‘That bad?’ she said, but she was smiling up at him.
‘Roughly translated, it means that I do not want to get up,’ he said. I want to stay with you forever … left him far too exposed.
‘I thought it might be something like that. I could come to the airport with you,’ she offered.
‘No,’ he said, gathering her close. ‘I want to remember you just like this. Naked. In my bed.’
ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS
I have been invited to the opera. Just saying. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was spending all my time shopping, eating ice cream and having fun in bed with my red-hot Italian lover.
Having been booted off the school website, she was now utterly free to write exactly what she wanted, knowing that only Matteo would read it. That, halfway across the world, in the midst of all the serious stuff, she could make him smile. Make him hot.
Not that culture isn’t fun, although I am going to see Tosca, in which, I’m reliably informed, everyone dies.
The upside, obviously, is that I have to buy a new dress. And shoes with very high heels. The stockings I bought are so fine that they are no more than a shimmer on my skin and that was before I got started on underwear. I didn’t know they still made those all-in-one things in black lace with hooks up the back. Like something out of a sexy historical romp. Lots and lots of hooks.
Matteo called her every evening. Sent her texts in Italian, which were—mostly—translatable. With the help of the new dictionary she’d bought.
Her replies made Matteo laugh a lot, presumably because she made so many mistakes but, although she’d signed up for Italian lessons, she could hardly ask her teacher for help translating her naughty little texts.
He had suggested she read an article in an Italian newspaper every day to help with her vocabulary and she’d stopped at a kiosk on her way to work to pick up a paper. The latest gossip magazines were piled high and on the cover of one the name ‘Isabella’ was splashed across a photograph of a woman wearing dark glasses, a scarf draped around dark hair, a black coat over her shoulders.
The broken heart and question mark didn’t need a dictionary and she easily resisted the temptation to buy a copy. It was the magazine that had published the stolen pictures and she had no doubt that whatever they’d written was no more than speculation. At least she hoped it was.
She knew how worried Matteo was about Bella and her husband. Knew the damage that could be caused by unfounded gossip.
And then on Friday morning, when she came back from her run, he was there, sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for her.
She hadn’t been expecting him until the following morning, but she didn’t bother to ask him why he was a day early. She didn’t waste time talking, just grabbed his hand and, shedding clothes as she went, hauled him into the shower with her. Only then did she say, ‘Hello.’
She came home at four to find that he’d left a gift for her on the small table by the sofa. A small blue carrier containing a blue box tied with
a white ribbon. Inside the box was a soft blue case and, inside that, nestled a pair of earrings.
Long polished slender spirals of silver … No, not silver. White gold.
She had her phone in her hand to call him as she walked into her bedroom to try on the earrings.
No need. Face down in a pillow, broad naked back gleaming in the evening sunlight, every muscle and sinew totally relaxed, he was fast asleep in her bed. But for the earrings in her hand, the fact that at some time during the day he’d picked up his scattered clothes, he might not have moved since she’d left him that morning to go to school.
She quietly placed the earrings and the phone on the dressing table, stepped out of her clothes and slipped in beside him.
They left Rome early on Saturday, while the sky was still pink, heading for the vineyard at Isola del Serrone.
‘Your Nonna won’t mind?’ Sarah asked a touch nervously.
‘Why should she mind?’
She lifted her shoulders, made a tiny awkward gesture and he reached out, caught her hand, without taking his eyes from the road. ‘You have my word that she will not mind me bringing home a beautiful girl.’
‘You’ve done it before?’
‘She won’t mind,’ he said, ‘because this is the family home and you will be sleeping on your own in the guest room.’
‘Oh.’
‘Wish you’d stayed in bed for another hour, cara?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t you?’
‘You were so eager to be away …’ He glanced at her. ‘Maybe we should take a walk on the path above the house,’ he suggested. ‘Try a rerun of that kiss.’
‘Make love in the grass?’
‘Is that what you felt?’ She looked at him. ‘You certainly felt something.’
‘I felt … The grass was soft, green …’
‘Spring grass?’
‘He kissed her and they made love one last time before he went to the waiting Jeep, flew home to his wife and a baby son he’d never seen.’
‘It was war, cara. They took comfort where they found it and lived every day as if it was their last.’ His hand remained on hers, a gentle, reassuring presence, until they reached a junction and he had to change gears. ‘She saw you, Nonna, that first morning when you came to the village,’ he said as they approached the village. ‘You went into the church?’
‘I was going to talk to the priest. I thought he would be the best person to ask about Lucia. But he was busy.’
‘So you decided to take a walk up the hill.’
She shook off the shadow of the past and smiled at him. ‘It was a good move.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Actually, it occurred to me that Nonna should be able to tell you more about Lucia. She was younger, of course, but she might remember something. Or have heard some gossip at the time. I can’t believe that no one knew that she was hiding your great-grandfather.’
In the event what Nonna knew, or didn’t know, never arose. Graziella met them with the news that the Contessa had gone to Naples to visit a cousin who was in the hospital and wouldn’t be back before Monday.
‘Do you want to go and see her too?’ Sarah asked. ‘I know how strong family ties are in Italy.’
He shook his head. ‘Nonna was my great-grandfather’s second wife,’ he explained. ‘She’s Bella’s grandmother, but her only relationship to me is through love.’
‘The men in your family seem to inspire devotion,’ she said. And instantly regretted it.
But Matteo was grinning. ‘Come and have some breakfast. Put something other than your foot in that pretty mouth.’
Tractors and trailers were lined up in the vineyard, the priest blessed the vines, Matteo cut the first bunch of golden grapes. Then it began. Sarah took the plastic bucket she was offered, a pair of secateurs and pitched in alongside Matteo, piling the grapes into the trailer.
‘I’m going up to the plant,’ he said after a while, taking the secateurs from her and handing them to someone else. ‘Come and see what happens next.’
Women were sorting the grapes as they were tipped onto a conveyor, through a machine that removed the grapes from the stalks, before being crushed.
Then, as she eased her back, he said, ‘Do you want to see the caves where the wine is matured?’
‘Heavens,’ she said as she saw row upon row of vast wooden barrels. I had no idea …’ She stopped as, out of sight of everyone, he began to massage her back, easing the ache. ‘Oh, yes!’
‘Better?’
‘I feel a total wuss. Everyone else will be working all day.’
‘They are used to it. Besides, I’ve been wanting to do this,’ he said as he backed her into a bay housing one of the barrels and kissed her. ‘And this,’ he said, sliding his hands inside her T-shirt to unclasp her bra. ‘And this.’
She leaned back over the gentle curve of the barrel, sighing with pleasure as he took possession of her breasts. ‘Is this what is known as being had “over a barrel”?’
He shook his head, clearly not familiar with the expression.
‘At your mercy, my lord,’ she explained.
‘On the contrary, cara, I rather think that I am at yours.’
The day passed in something of a blur. Only Sarah seemed to be in focus, at the centre of everything. She had slipped into the fabric of his world. Concentrating as she’d cut her first grapes. Attempting to communicate with the village women who’d come to help with the harvest, using gestures where words failed her.
Her eyes shining in the dim recesses of the cave, lighting up his life, making him believe.
They swam in the pool before breakfast, toured his laboratories, the nursery where he was growing new vines, looked in on the harvest.
‘I feel guilty,’ Sarah said as he picked a rose from one of the bushes that were planted at the end of each row of vines and handed it to her. ‘I’m sure if I wasn’t here you’d be working too.’
‘We’re just a distraction. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Nonna’s bees.’
‘Matteo …’ She hung back. ‘That’s very personal.’
‘They’re family. I understand. But they’ve already taken a good long look at you,’ he said, surrendering himself utterly to this woman who had wandered into his life and turned it on its head. ‘It is only polite to return the visit. And afterwards we’ll walk down to the church and light a candle for Lucia.’
‘This plaque was erected by Matteo di Serrone in blessed memory of his foster mother Lucia Rosa Mancini, wife of Roberto Leone. At rest in the arms of Mary. 1898—1944.’
Matteo translated the plaque for her, and then they both lit a candle, sat for a while in silence remembering the woman who had saved the life of Matteo’s grandfather by suckling him as a baby.
Finally, Matteo said, ‘It isn’t her, is it? Your Lucia.’
‘No.’
The dates weren’t right. According to Lex, she’d be in her eighties. Even if he’d got that wrong, or she’d been inventive with her age because he was younger than her, it still wouldn’t account for the difference.
‘I shouldn’t have leapt to conclusions. It was just her connection with the family, the house. I’m sorry,’ he apologised.
‘Don’t be.’
‘I don’t know where to begin to look. Every girl is named after someone else in her family. A grandmother, an aunt. There could be half a dozen Lucias in one generation of the same family. Nonna is Rosa Lucia after her grandmother and a cousin.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘Maybe she will be able to help.’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Let the past lie, Matteo.’
‘More Italian lessons tonight?’ Pippa asked as Sarah dropped off some papers in the office on Friday evening.
She should have told her she was dating Matteo. Driving out of Rome to eat at little restaurants in the country where no one knew him. Evenings in his palazzo. But it would be all over the school in ten minutes—Pippa couldn’t keep a secret to save her
life.
She wanted to keep what they had private for as long as possible. Private, if you didn’t count the entire population of Isola del Serrone, but they were people who knew how to keep a secret.
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘A glutton for punishment. You?’
‘I’m going home for the weekend, but I’ve got something for you.’ She scrabbled around in her bag, produced a memory stick and tossed it to her.
‘What’s this?’
‘A copy of all the Lucia stuff Federico dug up on that genealogy site. Birth, marriage and death certificates, that sort of thing. I know you didn’t want him to go on and I did tell him, but once he’s got his teeth into something …’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I downloaded it from his computer. Just in case you change your mind. It’ll need translating. Good practice for you.’
‘Downloaded?’ Then, realising just how bad Pippa looked, she forgot her hurry, pulled up a chair, sat down. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Pippa shrugged. ‘If you don’t count all the secret lunches, the afternoons who knows where, Federico has been spending with another woman.’
No … ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. It’s been obvious he’s up to something so I read his emails. Only a man would be stupid enough to use the name of his football team as a password.’
She pulled a face that was supposed to be comic, but the tear sliding down her cheek ruined the effect. ‘“Meet me in the usual place” emails. All initials.’
‘But … he seems devoted to you, Pippa.’ All kisses, hand-holding, smiles. ‘Have you talked to him?’
‘He’s been a bit hard to get hold of this week. You know … busy.’
‘Oh, Pippa …’
‘I left a message on his voicemail telling him to pick up his stuff. Then I spotted that folder and copied it onto a memory stick before I tossed the cheating scumbag’s laptop out of the window along with the rest of his belongings. Which is why I’m going home for the weekend. In fact, that’s my taxi now.’
Sarah had never spent so much money on so little dress, but missing Matteo, she had decided to distract herself with a little shopping and, braving one of the designer shops in the Via dei Condotti, she explained to the scarily elegant woman who had approached her what she was looking for.
