Summer at the Lake (39 page)

Still hidden behind the girls and their rucksacks – she had decided they were German – Floriana continued furtively to observe Adam. She thought back to when she had met him that cold December night and the solicitous way he’d taken care of her while they’d waited for the ambulance to arrive. She had never forgotten how reassured and safe he’d made her feel. She had since come to know that was how she always felt when she was with him.

It was the opposite to how Seb had made her feel. With Seb she had always felt she was precariously on the edge of the unknown. It had, she now admitted to herself, been a strain at times, as though she was carrying him, bearing the heavy burden of whatever was troubling him. She supposed she had got so used to doing it, it had become second nature for her. Even recently she had been the one to whom he had turned for help when he’d been worrying about his approaching wedding.

But that was what you did when you cared for someone; you willingly shared the load. But had Seb ever done the same for her? She had never asked herself this before and the answer made Floriana think just how one-sided their friendship had been. Perhaps some relationships were meant to be that way. But wouldn’t a balanced relationship feel more secure and satisfying? And would it be like that with Adam?

No! No thinking along those lines.

Squeezing past the two German girls, she managed to find a free space against the rail of the boat. Leaning on it and staring out at the lake, she thought of their walk this morning when they’d gone in search of the site where Mussolini and his mistress had been executed. It was hardly an outing to foster any romantic declarations, but even so, Adam had been exactly the same as he always was with her, which threw further doubt on Esme’s claims.

No. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d been quieter. More thoughtful. Even a bit distracted at one point. Was that a sign? Or was she clutching at straws to try and make sense of an old lady’s attempt at matchmaking?

With the wind whipping at her hair, Floriana pushed her sunglasses back, tipped her head up to the sun and closed her eyes. There was really only one question that counted for anything in all this, and it was the most fundamental and obvious question of the lot – how did she really feel about Adam? Did she feel sexually attracted to him? No sooner had she articulated the thought, than a picture of the two of them popped into her head – to her surprise, it was of
her
taking the initiative and kissing Adam. But then, just as suddenly, she saw it wasn’t Adam she was kissing, but Seb. She snapped her eyes open with alarm. Was that an omen, her subconscious telling her not to risk ruining things with Adam?

‘It’s not a bad view, is it?’

‘Not bad at all,’ she said awkwardly as the man himself materialised next to her. She hastily lowered her sunglasses and hid behind them, worried that her face would betray what she’d just been thinking. He rested his elbows on the rail beside her, his already tanned arm touching her much paler one.

‘Where’s your new Australian buddy?’ she asked.

‘With his wife now and being thoroughly charmed by Esme. I’ll be disappointed if by the time we reach Bellagio they haven’t invited her to visit them in Perth.’

Floriana smiled. ‘Esme’s not the only one who can turn on the charm.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you don’t do so badly yourself. You have a way with people.’

‘That sounds horribly like you’re accusing me of being Mr Smooth.’

Her equilibrium fully restored now, she nudged his arm playfully. ‘More like Mr Overly Sensitive!’

‘I can’t win with you, can I?’

‘Damn straight! Just accept that I’m Miss Perfect.’

He laughed. ‘Trust me, I did that a long time ago.’

The boat was drawing nearer to their destination and looking at the outline of the pretty town of Bellagio in the distance, Floriana said, ‘I hope meeting this woman this afternoon doesn’t upset Esme as much as going to Villa Margherita did yesterday. I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t a mistake her coming here. I feel so responsible.’

‘What for?’

‘For her happiness. If I’d never received Seb’s wedding invitation, the memories might not have got so stirred up for her and she wouldn’t have left Oxford; she’d be at home perfectly happy with Euridice.’

‘We’re back to those
what if
moments, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘But I honestly don’t think she’ll regret this trip, and maybe it’s down to us to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

Touched by his comment, Floriana smiled and watched him take a photo with his mobile of where they were heading. ‘Has anyone ever told you, you are one of the really good guys?’

‘Hell yes! I get that a lot. All the time, in fact.’

She laughed. ‘I retract that statement, you’re nothing but a honking great
blagueur
!’

‘Wow, a
blagueur
. Honk, honk! Can I claim that as our word of the day?’ Then turning his mobile around so the screen was facing towards them at arm’s length, he said, ‘How does Miss Perfect feel about posing with Monsieur
Blagueur
for a photo?’

She smiled. ‘No problem, so long as you get my best side.’

Their heads close together, they struck up a series of poses, with Floriana then getting her own mobile out and doing the same.

From her seat next to the woman from Perth whose husband had given up his place for her, Esme watched Adam and Floriana fondly. Better and better, she thought with happy satisfaction as she watched their grinning antics and heard Floriana’s uninhibited laughter, while Adam had his arm casually placed around her as they posed for the camera.

The sight of them made Esme’s brain make a rapid connection to that day when she’d been on the boat with Angelo and he’d put his arm around her. The memory filled her with a rush of reminiscences so strong she felt an ache in her chest, and her head spun with details she should have long since forgotten.

How devious Angelo had been with her and what a silly innocent she’d been for trying to appear so worldly-wise with him. How easily he must have seen through her veneer of sophistication and her desperate need to be taken seriously as a woman.

Her gaze moving away from Adam and Floriana, and over to the lakeshore, she stared at a large building that was partly covered in scaffolding. It took her a few moments to realise what it was: it was the Hotel Grand Bretagne. Adam had shown her photographs of the hotel on the internet, how it had fallen into disrepair and that numerous attempts had been made to revive it, but without success. How sad that such a fine and beautiful building had been stripped of its dignity and glory days.

Amidst the jostle of people disembarking the boat, Esme was grateful for Adam’s steadying hand. When they were clear of the terminus, she looked up and down the length of the main street. There at the far end was Hotel Metropole and Hotel Suisse, and in front of her was the covered promenade and Hotel du Lac with its balconies gaily adorned with scarlet geraniums; to her left was Hotel Florence. It all seemed more colourful than she remembered, more vibrantly alive, but then that was probably because there were so many more tourists here now.

Thanks to Domenico, everything had been arranged and they were to be met at the terminus; they were to look out for a
ragazza
– a young girl – in a silver Fiat. Sure enough, there was a car that fitted the description and standing behind it was an attractive young girl in sunglasses. Catching sight of them, she came over. She was of a similar age to Floriana with long dark hair tied back into a ponytail. ‘Signora Silcox?’ she said to Esme.

‘
Sì
,’ Esme replied, ‘
sono io
.’

With a smile of happy relief, the girl shook hands with all three of them and introduced herself as Maddalena. ‘Please to come,’ she said, ushering them towards the car, ‘my grandmother is most curious to meet you.’

She drove at breakneck speed out of the centre of Bellagio, away from the lake and the bustling streets of tourists. Climbing up and up the hillside and taking hairpin bends so fast the wheels of her little car squealed, she suddenly turned sharply to the right, then slowed to turn again before coming to a stop in front of a two-storey house with a circular bed of red roses in the garden.

Leading the way, Maddalena took them to the front door and stepping inside, she called out to her grandmother. ‘
Nonna!
’ In return, Esme heard an indistinct response, and following behind the girl they passed through a short hallway. The house was dark and quiet, and very cool compared to the baking heat outside.

They came to a stop in a room that was filled with too much cumbersome furniture and a large stone fireplace with blackened stonework. The room, by no means small, was dark and oppressive, the sunlight kept out by heavy net curtains at the windows. A pair of open glass doors led out to the garden, but the opaque net curtain remained perfectly still. Framed photographs on the walls charted the progress of a growing family. Above the fireplace there was a crucified Christ and rosary beads hanging from the crucifix.

At the other end of the room was a dining room table with six chairs and an ornate display cabinet. To the left of this was an archway and coming through it, her movements slow and stiff, was a stocky woman with short iron-grey hair.

Esme stared at her, and with equal curiosity the other woman stared back at her from behind a pair of spectacles.

Was it really Maria? Could this woman really be the young, spirited waitress from Hotel Margherita? The girl with the flashing eyes, the smooth olive skin, who had been jealous of Esme dancing with Angelo?

‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ the other woman said, raising her sagging chin. ‘But yes, I am Maria.’

‘I expect you don’t recognise me either,’ Esme replied. She was surprised how tremulous her voice sounded in the oppressive atmosphere.

‘This is true,’ Maria replied, ‘but I remember your name and how you looked all those years ago.’ She motioned for them to sit down, while also dispatching Maddalena to the kitchen for drinks.

Then, as if only now noticing Adam and Floriana, she gave them a long hard look. ‘These are your grandchildren?’ she asked.

Esme explained that they were friends and would be attending a wedding on Saturday – putting the emphasis on their coming to the lake for a wedding sounded better than a foolish old woman wanting a sentimental trip down memory lane.

‘You speak excellent English,’ Esme complimented her, after Maria had said the lake was a very popular place for weddings these days, that it was good for the local economy.

Maria shook her head. ‘No, no, it is only what I have picked up over the years.’

Reappearing with their drinks – glasses of iced tea – Maddalena said, ‘As usual, my grandmother is being modest. She speaks very well the English and helped me with my homework when I was at school. My cousins also. She helped us all. We all say she should have been a teacher.’

Glancing round at the photographs on the walls, Esme said, ‘You have a big family, I see.’

With obvious pride, Maria said, ‘I have two sons and a daughter and seven grandchildren and one great-grandson. And you?’

‘I never married.’

‘Then you have been spared the sadness of losing a husband,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘My husband Vittorio died five years ago. We had a good life together. He was a . . .’ she hesitated, seeming to search for the right word, ‘an electrician,’ she said finally. ‘He had his own business.’ She said this with yet more pride. ‘I remember your father; he was always very polite. He loved to paint, didn’t he?’

Pleased that Maria could remember her father so clearly, and after Maddalena had excused herself saying she would return later to drive them back to the boat terminus, Esme said, ‘I don’t know how much Domenico told you, but I’m interested to know what happened to the Bassani family. I know Hotel Margherita was sold many years ago, but do you know what happened to Giulia and Angelo and Marco?’

Maria’s expression hardened and behind her spectacles, her watery eyes sparked. ‘The Bassani family attracted nothing but bad luck,’ she said, her heavily knuckled hands clenched in her lap, ‘and their misfortune spread to everyone who came in contact with them.’

In the leaden stillness of the room Maria took a long and deliberate sip of her drink. And then another. The ponderous silence seemed to go on for ever and was so intense Esme could literally feel her pulse ticking as she waited for the woman to speak.

‘Bad luck was in their blood,’ Maria said finally. ‘The family was cursed. First Marco’s parents died in a car crash, then Giulia’s husband killed himself.’

‘I thought he died from a heart attack,’ Esme said. ‘That it was the strain of coping with the pressure of trying to keep the family business going during the war that proved too much for him.’

‘That was what the family wanted people to think. But we all secretly knew he started that fire which destroyed the Bassani factory, he did it for the insurance money and when he feared he would be found out, he hung himself. He was a coward. Just like his son, Angelo.’ The bitterness in Maria’s voice was palpable and out of the corner of her eye, Esme noticed Adam and Floriana exchanging a glance.

‘Angelo was not only a coward,’ Maria continued, ‘he was . . .’ She hesitated, while leaning forward to put her glass down on the table. ‘In Italian we say, he was
furbo
. I believe in English the word is “cunning”. He could make people do whatever he wanted them to do. I think maybe you know what I mean by that.’

She looked at Esme meaningfully and a moment of shared understanding passed between them.

‘Yes,’ Esme said, ‘I didn’t know Angelo for long but in that short space of time I came to realise that he knew precisely how to use his charm to get what he wanted. I was very naive with him.’

‘I was too,’ Maria responded, with a slight lifting of her shoulders. ‘All women were. I remember I was jealous of you. You were so beautiful with your blond hair and blue eyes and your shy and modest English ways. You were like a perfect little china doll. I hope you did not give Angelo what he wanted.’ She shot Esme another meaningful look.