The Winter Sea (43 page)

‘Who’s going to ring? You or me? And what time is it in LA?’ Michael was right. Pietro might have the answers.

‘About midnight. I think I’ll ring in the morning. It will be more civilised then.’

The restaurant was very busy that night as well. Jenny was in her element and clearly loved working in a restaurant again.

‘I wouldn’t want to make a habit of this,’ she told Cassie when most of the clearing away and cleaning up had been done and Steve and Trixie had left. ‘But it’s nice to be back in the action again. There were certainly no complaints from the customers. They loved everything we served. This place is a credit to all the hard work you’ve done.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Cassie. ‘I appreciate that, coming from such an experienced restaurateur as you, but I could not have done it without a lot of very good help.’

‘True, but even the best helpers in the world need to know that they have a dedicated leader who knows what she’s doing. Now I’m off to my comfy bed. You sure you’re all right on the sofa?’

The next day Cassie could hardly wait to hear from Michael to see if he had any answers from Pietro, so she was a bit surprised when he actually turned up at the Blue Boatshed.

‘What happened? What did he say?’ she asked eagerly before Michael even had a chance to come inside.

‘Cassie, I spoke to him, but all he said was that it all happened a very long time ago and he thought it better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

Cassie looked at Michael in dismay. ‘What now?’ she asked.

‘I think we should both fly to Los Angeles and confront Uncle Pietro.’

In the distance, beyond
the walls and grounds of the classic French-style Chateau Marmont Hotel, Cassie and Michael were aware of the pulse of traffic on the nearby Strip heading into the heart of Hollywood.

‘This place is insane,’ whispered Cassie. ‘Old Europe with a touch of Middle Eastern souk. A hotel whipped up by Baz Luhrmann! Whitby Point eat your heart out!’

‘We’re coming to see Pietro, a Hollywood legend in his own right, so why not experience another one? I think we deserve a bit of fun, so I thought I’d show you this place,’ said Michael as they walked through the lobby of gothic archways, Tiffany lamps, padded and fringed velvet sofas, and deep plush armchairs with gold-tasselled cushions. A waiter with movie-star looks served a late afternoon tea, while another poured champagne into a crystal flute. Cassie stared at the opulence of the coffee house restaurant with its chandeliers and crisp linen.

‘Getting a few ideas for the Blue Boatshed?’ asked Michael with a chuckle.

‘Don’t think the brocade wallpaper would work at the Blue Boatshed somehow. The price of the food in this place must be astronomical! Are we going to eat in here or grab a hamburger down the road?’

‘Let’s eat here. It’ll be fun on the garden terrace, seeing and being seen, like everyone else!’

‘You’re nuts. But I’m liking it,’ said Cassie, laughing. ‘Maybe we could bring Pietro here, though he probably has been here a zillion times.’

‘Maybe, but he told me at Uncle Ricardo’s party he doesn’t go out much in the evening. He said he prefers brunch or lunch. I’m not sure whether he meant at the same time or not.’

‘You said he didn’t sound very enthusiastic about meeting us and talking about the past,’ said Cassie anxiously.

‘Yes, I think he was taken aback when I told him that we’d hopped on a plane and landed on his doorstep so that we could speak with him.’

‘I still can’t believe I’m here either. You certainly are a man of action, the way you organised someone to look after your practice so quickly. And, you know, I think Mum is really pleased to be running the restaurant for a few days and looking after Bill.’

‘So start enjoying yourself. I know this is an emotional trip, and we mightn’t learn anything, but if we don’t ask Pietro, we’ll never know. When he sees us and realises how troubled you are, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to help.’

Cassie didn’t answer as they were led out onto the garden terrace. Instead she caught her breath at the sight of the lovely restaurant with its comfortable wicker chairs and tables discreetly set amid the flowering vines and Canary Island date palms. Tiki torches flickered against the last of the sunset sky and the city lights of Los Angeles began to glow, creating a spectacular background.

She took the seat the maître d’ offered her and refrained from glancing around, even though she just knew there must be famous people everywhere in the dim corners of the garden. Her attention was quickly taken by the menu as Michael ordered them a good Californian sparkling wine.

‘Listen to this, Michael, some nice Californian cuisine touches – fresh peach bellinis, sun-kissed stuffed dates with honey and fig puree and gin negronis.’

‘I’m hanging out for the “Damn Good Burger”. He lifted his glass of sparkling wine. ‘Here’s to us, Cassie.’ They touched glasses.

‘Thank you for bringing me here. This place is certainly OTT and expensive, but so lovely.’

‘Our hotel is nice but not as flash as this one, so I thought it’d be worth every cent to be here with you and share the experience,’ Michael smiled. ‘I haven’t had a break in a long, long time. All I seem to do is work and occasionally surf, although I do visit this really classy little eatery called the Blue Boatshed. I like the food and the ambience, and I love its owner more than I can say.’

Cassie smiled but still looked troubled. ‘Oh, Michael, that’s lovely but I just can’t get rid of the uncomfortable feeling I have about Ricardo’s bequest. I won’t be happy about that money until I find out why he left it to me. It’s all too bizarre.’

A shadow crossed Michael’s face. ‘Cassie, it’s yours for whatever reason. Stop worrying.’

She nodded but still looked unhappy. ‘Okay,’ she said. As the waiter hovered to discuss the menu, she turned to give him her full attention. They ordered, and then she and Michael talked about movies and theatre, museums and travel. After a very enjoyable dinner, they had coffee in the main lounge and watched the trendsetters sashay past, all angling to be noticed.

‘Do you want to go on to a club? There’s a good blues and jazz place not far from here,’ said Michael.

‘Do you mind if we don’t make it a late night? I’m still jet-lagged and worried about tomorrow,’ Cassie replied, frowning again. ‘I’m scared Pietro might not tell me anything but then what if he tells me things I don’t want to hear? Afterwards I might wish I’d never asked.’

Michael took her hand and they walked to the front entrance, where he asked the doorman to get them a taxi. ‘I can understand that you must feel anxious,’ he said sympathetically.

‘Pietro is the only person still alive who knew my father when he was young and I have so many questions I want to ask him,’ Cassie said as the taxi drove away from the Chateau Marmont.

‘Cassie, Cassie,’ said Michael, sighing. ‘It will all be fine, you’ll see.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her. She returned his kiss, lost in his now familiar smell and the taste of his lips. As they drove up to the entrance of their boutique hotel off Sunset Boulevard, the doorman smiled at them as he opened the car door. ‘Evening, sir, madam.’

*

The next morning, wrapped in fluffy towelling robes, Cassie and Michael sat on their small balcony enjoying croissants and fresh fruit. Stately old palm trees floated on the distant boulevards through the morning haze.

‘It’s not quite the blue sky or fresh air of home,’ said Michael.

‘I’m giving up on this tea. It’s a teabag in lukewarm water. Can I have some of your coffee, please?’

‘Sure. Or there’s fresh OJ.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you ready for the next big event?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. Just got to get dressed and then we’ll go,’ Cassie replied. ‘But I’m still nervous,’ she added softly.

Their cab wound into the Hollywood Hills, around steep bends where tall trees screened private homes.

‘Isn’t this fabulous? You’d think Cary Grant or Ginger Rogers might step out of one of the doors,’ exclaimed Cassie.

‘All very art deco. Built in the twenties or thirties,’ replied Michael.

The driver told them the names of movie stars from years past who’d lived in these secluded streets, and eventually pulled into a circular driveway in front of a modest bungalow.

‘What a gorgeous old house,’ said Cassie as they got out of the cab and walked across the gravel driveway. The house was sheltered by mature trees that leaned against each other. A climbing rose clung to a lattice on the stucco walls.

‘This is just so romantic,’ said Cassie.

‘It’s in better condition than some of its neighbours,’ said Michael as he peered through the trees at the surrounding houses. ‘They could use a bit of TLC.’

‘A few grand dames starting to show their age,’ agreed Cassie.

The door was answered by a tall and still attractive elderly man with thick white hair, perfect teeth and tanned skin, immaculately dressed in a powder-blue checked shirt with the cuffs turned back and the collar standing up.

‘Hello, Michael,’ he said in a soft American accent as he shook Michael’s hand.

‘How are you, George? You’re looking great,’ said Michael warmly. ‘George, this is Cassie.’

George smiled at Cassie and gestured for them to enter. ‘Pleased to meet you, Cassie. Come on inside. We don’t get family dropping by very often.’

The rooms of the house were surprisingly small and cottage-like, and decorated in chintzy shabby chic. Silver-framed photos were on every surface and the walls were covered in paintings and photographs. A series of framed prints of set designs caught Cassie’s eye.

George ushered them into a sunny sitting room that opened onto a small terrace with a view towards the city. Pietro, who was seated in a white wicker chair, rose stiffly to greet them.

‘Don’t get up, Uncle Pietro, please.’ Michael went to embrace his great-uncle.

Pietro smiled and held out a hand to Cassie. ‘Hello, pretty lady. I remember you. Ricardo’s birthday. I’m pleased to see you two are still together. Is this leading somewhere serious?’

‘Pietro, don’t pry,’ interjected George.

Pietro chuckled. ‘Would you like something to drink? Juice? Coffee? Tea? We have proper tea,’ he said.

‘I’d love a cup of tea if it’s going,’ said Cassie.

‘Me too, thank you,’ added Michael.

‘George knows how to make it, but it took me years to teach him how to do it properly. I’ll have fresh juice, please, George.’ George headed to the kitchen and Pietro said, ‘Sit down, you two. What have you been up to?’

Michael answered quickly. ‘We had dinner at Chateau Marmont last night. That was quite an experience.’

Pietro rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a tourist mecca now. In its heyday it was such fun. Lots of naughty behaviour and anyone who was anyone stayed there. George loathes it now so we never go. Mind you, we don’t go out a lot these days, but we like to entertain old friends here. Those who are still around,’ he added ruefully.

‘Cassie, Uncle Pietro and George have been together a long time,’ said Michael.

‘We met not long after I first started working here. He’s younger than me, but not by much,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.

‘Has George ever been to Australia?’ asked Cassie.

‘No, George hates flying. If he can’t go by car, he won’t go. And I don’t think he’d find a lot to do in Whitby Point.’

George came in with a tray set with cups, a teapot and a glass of orange juice, which he handed to Pietro. ‘I disagree. I’ve seen photos and it looks charming. Very scenic. I’d love to paint it,’ he said as he poured the tea.

‘George is a bit of an artist. Those are some of his paintings,’ said Pietro, casually pointing to a couple of delicately detailed watercolours of gardens and flowers. Despite his manner, Cassie heard the pride in his voice.

‘They’re lovely! Do you exhibit and sell your work, George?’ asked Cassie.

‘A little. I used to be the one who put Pietro’s dreams and designs on paper at the studio. When I retired, I started painting in watercolours. There’s a gallery in Santa Monica that takes what I give them, but I only paint when I feel like it now.’ He handed Cassie and Michael a cup of tea each.

‘We were hoping that you’d stay and have lunch with us,’ continued Pietro. ‘Consuela – you remember her from your last visit, Michael – has made her famous chili and guacamole.’

‘Thank you, Uncle. That sounds lovely. Maybe we’ll be able to reciprocate sometime during our trip,’ said Michael.

George gave both Cassie and Michael a smile. ‘Let’s play it by ear, shall we? I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you.’

Michael moved the low stool he was sitting on nearer to Pietro. ‘Uncle, you know why we’re here? I told you about it when I rang.’

Pietro gave a theatrical shrug. ‘Oh, lordy, what now? As I told you on the phone, I try to keep out of family dramas. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’

‘Uncle, it’s not really about me, it’s Cassie. She has so many questions she’d like to ask you.’

Pietro smiled at Cassie. ‘Yes, Michael explained to me over the phone your relationship with my family. I expect you’re very pleased about the money Ricardo left you.’

Cassie didn’t smile back. ‘Since I found out about Ricardo’s will my life has turned upside down,’ she said. ‘My mother and I . . . we never knew anything about my father and the Aquinos and now I need to know.’

‘Are you sure you want to? It was such a long time ago,’ said Pietro.

‘Uncle, I brought Cassie here because you are the only person who can tell her about her father Patrick, and I think she has the right to know.’

Pietro was silent for some time before he said, ‘Pat was a quiet boy, kind and always a good person. We got on really well. It was a wonderful thing when he and his mother came to live with us. Our mother died when Carlo was born, and Ricardo and I were still very young.’