The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  ‘Prego.’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘After all, mia bella, I would not wish you to be bored.’

  A comment, she thought stonily, that removed any further need for appreciation on her part.

  For the next few days it suited her to play the tourist—if only because it got her away from the villa and Renzo’s chillingly aloof courtesy. To her endless embarrassment he continued to treat her with quite astonishing generosity, and as a result she found herself in possession of more money in cash than she’d ever dreamed of in her life, plus a selection of credit cards with no apparent upper limit.

  She’d often wondered what it might be like to have access to unrestricted spending, only to find there was very little she actually wanted to buy.

  Maybe I’m not the type to shop till I drop, she thought, sighing. What a waste.

  But she did make one important purchase. In Positano she bought herself three maillots—one in black, another in a deep olive-green, and the third in dark red—to wear for her solitary late-afternoon swim, and to replace the bikinis she never wanted to see again, let alone wear.

  In Amalfi she visited an outlet selling the handmade paper for which the region was famous, and dutifully bought some to send back to England to Julia and Harry. She also sent her cousin a postcard, with some deliberately neutral comments on the weather and scenery. After all, she thought wryly, she could hardly write Having a wonderful time.

  She was particularly enchanted by Ravello, its narrow streets seemingly caught in a medieval time warp, and thought wistfully how much she would like to attend one of the open-air concerts held in the moonlit splendour of the gardens at the Villa Rufulo. But she acknowledged with a sigh, it was hardly the kind of event she could attend alone, without inviting even more speculation than already existed.

  Paolo was a pleasant, middle-aged man who spoke good English and was eager to guide her round his amazing native landscape and share his extensive knowledge of its history. But Marisa was conscious that, like the staff at the villa, he was bemused at this bride who seemed never to be in her husband’s company, and she was growing tired of being asked if the signore was quite well.

  Eventually she decided she had visited enough churches, admired enough Renaissance artefacts, and gaped at sufficient pictures. Also, she felt disinclined to give any more assurances about Renzo’s health—especially as the bruise on his eye was fading at last.

  Her main danger was in eating far too many of the delicious almond and lemon cakes served in the cafés in Amalfi’s Piazza del Duomo, as she sat at a table in the sunlight and watched the crowds as they milled about in the ancient square.

  So many families strolling with children. So very many couples, too, meeting with smiling eyes, a touch of hands, an embrace. No one, she thought, had ever greeted her like that, as if she was their whole world. Not even Alan. But their relationship hadn’t had a chance, being over almost as soon as it had begun.

  And then, in her mind, she saw a sudden image of Renzo, standing at the altar only a week before, as if transfixed, an expression that was almost wonder on his dark face as she walked towards him.

  And what on earth had made her think of that? she thought, startled, as she finished her coffee and signalled for the bill.

  Not that it meant anything—except that the sight of her had probably brought it home to him that his head was now firmly in the noose.

  All the same, the buzz of talk and laughter in the air around her only served to emphasise her own sense of isolation.

  She thought, with a pang, I have no one. Unless, of course… And her hand strayed almost unconsciously to the flatness of her stomach.

  The next morning, when Evangelina enquired at what hour the signora would require Paolo to call for her, Marisa said politely that she did not wish to do any more sightseeing for a while.

  ‘Ah.’ Something like hope dawned in the plump face. ‘No doubt you will be joining the signore by the pool?’

  ‘No,’ Marisa returned coolly. ‘I thought I would go up to the village for a stroll.’

  ‘The village is small,’ said Evangelina. ‘It has little to see, signora. Better to stay here and relax.’ She gave a winning smile. ‘Is quiet by the pool. No disturb there.’

  In other words, Marisa thought, caught between annoyance and a kind of reluctant amusement, no one would go blundering down there in case the signore decided to take full advantage of his wife’s company by enjoying his marital rights in such secluded and romantic surroundings.

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll swim later, as usual,’ she said casually. ‘After I’ve been for my walk.’ And she turned away, pretending not to notice the housekeeper’s disappointment.

  Fifteen minutes later, trim in a pair of white cut-offs topped by a silky russet tee shirt, with her pretty straw bag slung across her shoulder, Marisa passed through Villa Santa Caterina’s wide gateway and set off up the hill.

  Evangelina, she soon discovered, had been perfectly correct in her assessment. The village was small, and no tourist trap, its main street lined with houses shuttered against the morning sun, interspersed with a few shops providing life’s practicalities, among them a café with two tables outside under an awning.

  Maybe on the way back she’d stop there for a while and have a cold drink. Enjoy the shade. Read some of the book she’d brought with her. Anything to delay the moment when she would have to return to Villa Santa Caterina and the probability of Evangelina’s further attempts to throw her into Renzo’s arms.

  At the same time she became aware that every few yards, between the houses and their neat gardens, she could catch a glimpse of the sparkling azure that was the sea.

  The view from the villa garden was spectacular enough, she thought, but up here it would be magical, and in her bag she’d also brought the small sketching block and pencils that she’d acquired on yesterday’s trip to Amalfi.

  She was standing, craning her neck at one point, when she realised the lady of the house in question had emerged and was watching her.

  Marisa stepped back, flushing. ‘Perdono,’ she apologised awkwardly. ‘I was looking at the view—il bel mare,’ she added for good measure.

  Immediately the other’s face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Si—si,’ she nodded vigorously. She marched over to Marisa and took her arm, propelling her up the village street while chattering at a great and largely incomprehensible rate—apart from the words ‘una vista fantastica’, which pretty much explained themselves.

  At the end of the street the houses stopped and a high wall began, which effectively blocked everything. Marisa’s self-appointed guide halted, pointing at it.

  ‘Casa Adriana,’ she announced. ‘Che bella vista.’ She kissed her fingertips as she urged Marisa forward, adding with a gusty sigh, ‘Che tragedia.’

  A fantastic view, I can handle, Marisa thought as she moved off obediently. But do I really need a tragedy to go with it?

  However, a glance over her shoulder showed that her new friend was still watching and smiling, so she gave a slight wave in return and trudged on.

  As she got closer she saw that the wall’s white paintwork was dingy and peeling, and that the actual structure was crumbling in places, indicating that some serious attention was needed.

  It also seemed to go on for ever, but eventually she realised she was approaching a narrow, rusting wrought-iron gate, and that this was standing ajar in a kind of mute invitation.

  Beyond it, a weed-infested gravel path wound its way between a mass of rioting bushes and shrubs, and at its end, beckoning like a siren, was the glitter of blue that announced the promised view.

  The breath caught in Marisa’s throat, and she pushed the gate wider so that she could walk through. She’d expected an outraged squeal from the ancient metal hinges, but there wasn’t a sound. Someone, she saw, had clearly been busy with an oil can.

  This is what happens in late night thrillers on television, she told herself. And I’m always the one with her hands over
her face, screaming Don’t do it! So it will serve me right if that gate swings shut behind me and traps me in here with some nameless horror lurking in the undergrowth.

  But the gate, fortunately, displayed no desire to move, and the nameless horror probably had business elsewhere, so she walked briskly forward, avoiding the overhanging shrubs and bushes with their pollen-heavy blossoms that tried to impede her way.

  There was a scent of jasmine in the air, and there were roses too, crowding everywhere in a rampant glory of pink, white and yellow. Marisa was no expert—her parents’ garden had been little more than a grass patch, while Julia had opted for a courtyard with designer tubs—but from her vacations in Tuscany she recognised oleanders mingling with masses of asters, pelargoniums, and clumps of tall graceful daisies, all wildly out of control.

  Halfway down, the path forked abruptly to the right, and there, half-eclipsed by the bougainvillaea climbing all over it, was all that remained of a once pretty house. Its walls were still standing, but even from a distance Marisa could see that many of the roof tiles were missing, and that behind the screen of pink and purple flowers shutters were hanging loose from broken windows.

  But there’d been attempts elsewhere to restore order. The grass had been cut in places, and over-intrusive branches cut down and stacked, presumably for burning.

  In the centre of one cleared patch stood a fountain, where a naked nymph on tiptoe sadly tilted an urn which had not flowed with water for a very long time.

  And straight ahead, at the end of the path, a lemon tree heavy with fruit stood like a sentinel, watching by the low wall that overlooked the bay.

  Rather too low a wall, Marisa thought, when she took a wary peep over its edge and discovered a stomach-churning drop down the sheer and rocky cliff to the tumbling sea far below.

  She stepped back hastily, and found herself colliding with an ancient wooden seat, which had been placed at a safe distance in the shade of the tree, suggesting that the garden’s owner might not have had much of a head for heights either.

  That was probably the tragedy that her friend in the village had mentioned, she thought. An inadvertent stumble after too much limoncello by some unlucky soul, and a headlong dive into eternity.

  She seated herself gingerly, wondering if the bench was still capable of bearing even her slight weight, but there was no imminent sign of collapse, so she allowed herself to lean back and take her first proper look at the panorama laid out in front of her.

  One glance told her that ‘fantastic’ was indeed the word, and she silently blessed the woman who’d sent her here.

  Over to her left she could see the cream, gold and terracotta of Amalfi town, looking as if it had grown like some sprawling rock plant out of the tall cliffs that sheltered it. The towering stone facades themselves gleamed like silver and amethyst in the morning sun under a dark green canopy of cypresses. And below the town the deep cerulean sea turned to jade and turquoise edged with foam as it spilled itself endlessly on the shingle shore.

  She could even see the rooftop swimming pools of the hotels overlooking the port, and the sturdy outline of the medieval watchtower, which no longer scanned the horizon for pirates or enemies from neighbouring city states, but served food in its elegant restaurant instead. Beyond it lay Ravello, and if she turned to glance the other way she could see the dizzying tumble of Positano, and in the far distance a smudge that might even be Capri.

  The horizon was barely visible, sky and sea merging seamlessly in an azure blur.

  It was also very quiet. The sound of traffic along the ribbon of coast road was barely audible at this distance, and for the first time in weeks Marisa felt the tension within her—like the heaviness of unshed tears—beginning to ease, and something like peace take its place.

  So good, she thought. So good to be truly alone and leave behind the pressure of other people’s expectations. To be free of the necessity of changing into yet another charming and expensive dress just to make occasional and stilted conversation across a dinner table with a young man whose smile never reached his eyes.

  To be, just for a while, Marisa Brendon again and nothing more, with no apology for a marriage to haunt her.

  She looked down at her hand, then slowly slid off her wedding ring, and buried it deep in her pocket.

  There, she thought. Now I can pretend that I’m simply here on vacation, with my whole life ahead of me, free to enjoy no one’s company but my own.

  Only to hear from behind her a small, mild cough which announced that she was not alone after all. That someone else was there, sharing her supposed solitude.

  Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned, to find herself confronted by a small woman with rimless glasses and wisps of grey hair escaping from under a floppy linen sun hat. Her khaki trousers and shirt were smeared with earth and green stains, and she carried a small pair of pruning shears in one hand and a flat wicker basket full of trimmings in the other.

  Oh, God, Marisa thought, embarrassed colour flooding her face. That house can’t be as derelict as I thought.

  Aloud, she said, in halting and woefully incorrect Italian, ‘Please forgive me. I was not told that anyone lived here. I will leave at once.’

  The newcomer’s brows lifted. ‘Another Englishwoman,’ said a gentle voice. ‘How very nice. And I’m afraid we’re both trespassers, my dear. I also came here one day to look at the view, but I saw a potentially beautiful space going to rack and ruin and I couldn’t resist the challenge. No one has ever objected,’ she added. ‘Probably because they think I’m mad to try.’

  Her smile was kind. ‘So please don’t run away on my account. And I’m sorry if I startled you. You were a shock to me too, appearing so quietly. For a moment I thought Adriana had returned, and then I realised you were totally twenty-first century. Quite a relief, I have to say.’

  She tugged off her thick gardening gloves and held out her hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Morton.’

  ‘Marisa Brendon.’ Well, I’ve done it now, Marisa thought as she returned the smile and the handshake. Crossed my own small Rubicon back to being single again.

  ‘Marisa,’ the older woman repeated thoughtfully. ‘Such a charming name. And Italian too, I believe?’

  ‘After my late godmother.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Morton. ‘And did she live locally? Are you familiar with the area?’

  Marisa shook her head. ‘No, this is my first visit.’ And almost certainly my last. ‘I’m staying with—some people.’

  ‘My husband and I were fortunate enough to be able to retire here.’ Mrs Morton looked out at the bay with an expression of utter contentment. ‘We have an apartment nearby, but it only has a balcony, and I do miss my gardening. So I come here most days and do what I can.’ She sighed. ‘But as you see, it’s an uphill struggle.’

  ‘It must be tiring too.’ Marisa gestured towards the bench. ‘Shall we sit down—if you have time?’

  ‘My time is very much my own.’ Mrs Morton took a seat at the other end of the bench. ‘I have a most understanding husband.’

  ‘That’s—lovely for you.’ Marisa was suddenly conscious of the ring buried in her pocket. She added hurriedly, ‘But why has the garden been allowed to get into such a state?’ She glanced around her. ‘Doesn’t the owner—this Adriana—care?’

  ‘I think she would care very much if she was alive to see it, but she died a long time ago—over fifty years, I gather—and ownership of the property is no longer established.’

  ‘She didn’t have an heir?’ Marisa asked with a certain constraint. Another topic, she thought, she’d have preferred to avoid.

  ‘She and her husband were still newlyweds,’ Mrs Morton explained. ‘According to the local stories they made wills leaving everything to each other. And when he pre-deceased her she refused to make another.’

  She shrugged. ‘Relatives on both sides have made legal claims to the estate over the years, but I suspect that most of them have died too by now, so the whole
thing is in abeyance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marisa drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s the tragedy. This wonderful place just left to—moulder away.’ She shook her head. ‘But why on earth didn’t this Adriana change her will?’

  ‘Oh, that’s quite simple,’ Mrs Morton said quietly. ‘You see, she never actually believed that her husband was dead.’

  Marisa frowned. ‘But surely there must have been a death certificate at some point?’ she objected.

  ‘Under normal circumstances,’ the other woman said. ‘But sadly there was no real proof of death. Filippo Barzoni was sailing back from Ischia—he was a keen and experienced sailor, and had made the trip many times before—when a sudden violent squall blew up. Neither he nor his boat were ever seen again.

  ‘Some wreckage was washed up near Sorrento, but it was considered inconclusive as the storm had produced other casualties. However, no one but his widow believed that Filippo could possibly have survived. They were passionately in love, you see, and Adriana always claimed she would know, in her heart, if her husband were no longer alive. She felt most strongly that he was still with her, and that one day he would return.’

  She sighed. ‘That’s why she had this bench placed here, so she could sit and watch the bay for a blue boat with maroon sails. She came every day to keep her vigil, summer and winter, and she refused to listen to any arguments against it. “One day, he will come back to me,” she used to say. “And he will find me waiting.”’

  ‘How awful,’ Marisa said softly. ‘Poor woman.’

  Mrs Morton smiled again. ‘She didn’t see herself at all in that way, by all accounts. She was very calm, very steadfast, and doing what she believed in. As well as love, you see, she had faith and hope, so maybe she was one of the lucky ones.’

  ‘What happened in the end?’ Marisa asked.

  ‘She caught a chill, which she neglected, and which turned to pneumonia. She was taken to hospital, much against her will, and died a few days later.’ She added with faint dryness, ‘It’s said her last words were “Tell him I waited,” which one can believe or not.’