Chapter 14
‘I’ll see you in Portofino when you’ve come to your senses.’ Joe slammed the taxi door. The Mercedes drove off.
Stella stared at the receding number plate.
She couldn’t believe he’d really gone. But she didn’t have time to dilly dally, wondering what she could have said or done differently.
She had to wheel her case over to Domenico’s shop and open up.
Luisa had messaged her last night and again this morning.
Her uncle had been very lucky: plenty of bruising, no broken bones.
But Luisa was insisting her father stayed in Genoa with her and his great-grandchildren for a few days, knowing that as soon as he returned to the village he wouldn’t be able to keep away from his beloved shop.
Stella set off up the road from the car park, calling out buongiorno in response to a workman’s greeting, but her voice wobbled.
The sun was bright, the sky a cloudless blue, but it was hard to find any joy in the holiday weather.
Joe had gone. She was alone again. She could already hear Carol’s admonishing voice: Falling out over some relatives you haven’t seen for forty years and a tatty old shop – you must be joking!
Stella, go after him! And worse, the inevitable, You’re practically sixty, Stella, you won’t find anyone else.
She passed the war memorial. This time she took the direct route to the bar.
Yesterday she’d hovered awkwardly outside whilst Joe bought the gelati, worrying she’d run into someone from the past, but now she no longer cared.
She was hungry, she hadn’t been able to face any breakfast, and she was desperate for a decent coffee before she started work.
If people were still judging her for what she’d done so many years before, she would have to learn to cope. Somehow.
She squared her shoulders and stepped into the cool tiled interior.
The bar was almost exactly as she remembered it: the long counter, the speckly grey-tiled floor, the stacks of waffle-textured cones lined up from little to large on the ledge above the enticing array of Italian ice-cream.
The pairs of chairs at each small table were the same ones she’d sat on with her brother and sister on days when the sun was too hot to risk taking their rapidly melting treats outside.
Now, her brother and sister had their own children and quite probably grandchildren.
Did they have a favourite local gelateria where their families went without fail every week? She’d probably never know.
The person behind the counter was the same one who’d served them yesterday, a trim woman in her thirties, she wouldn’t have been born when Stella left.
This morning she’d be treated like any other stranger passing through.
Stella waited whilst the woman prepped the orders for the customers who’d arrived before her.
The cavolini and almond meringue-filled pinolata they’d chosen were the same favourites the place had served for generations but the display case looked shiny and new.
The only other upgrade was a pinboard on one wall covered in photos, many with cheerful greetings: Ciao!
Saluti! Che bella! scrawled across them with smiley faces and rows of kisses.
Old folk holding hands outside Sant’ Agata, toddlers clinging delightedly to the pink and turquoise horses on the mini roundabout that was set up in summer, families with grins as wide as their pizza slices.
Thanks to the spread of social media, the once unknown village was beginning to attract its share of day trippers.
Stella ordered her breakfast al banco; she’d save time and money standing up at the bar. She tore a piece off her sweet focaccia to dip into her cappuccino. Its surface was decorated with a pretty leaf. How many visitors had ordered the same coffee and taken a photograph of that?
She ate quickly, wiping her fingers on the flimsy paper napkin.
Domenico’s shop was calling. She felt in her pocket for her uncle’s reassuringly heavy bunch of keys, paid quickly, and set off up the narrow pavement.
She could hardly believe she was doing this without Joe by her side.
She’d been so sure he was going to apologise in the morning and in turn she would have apologised herself.
She’d believed he’d come to a compromise, that they’d stay in the village for just one or two days – enough time for Luisa to rope in somebody else.
But he’d gone off with barely a backwards glance.
The Joe she knew wouldn’t do something like that.
It must have been a knee-jerk reaction; he’d soon be back.
She pushed away the thought that perhaps she didn’t really know him at all.
The shop key turned easily in the lock. Stella laid her case on its side behind the counter; she’d take it over to Domenico’s place when she closed up for lunch.
She removed the old cloth draped over Mirtillo’s cage; the budgie gave a small chirp.
She hung the cage back outside and sent a quick message to Luisa to tell her she was opening up.
A thumbs-up back and a report that Uncle Domenico had got some sleep: those were the easy parts.
A leatherbound book lying on the shelf beneath the counter proved to be the order book, nearly identical to the one the two brothers had used back in the 1980s.
Not much had changed, thank goodness. No computerised systems with unhackable passwords to worry about, no unfamiliar software with unfathomable glitches.
The great grey metal till opened with a satisfying ping.
Stacks of euros were arranged neatly in its five drawers.
There were plenty of coins too and the till roll was nearly full.
No reason why she couldn’t turn the shop sign from Closed to Open.
Stella took a deep breath. She could do this. She walked over to the door, flipped the sign and took up her position behind the counter.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Stella jumped. It had to be Joe! He must have got part way to Portofino only to change his mind. Everything was going to be all right.
She grabbed her phone from her bag. Her daughter on a video call. Stella would make this brief. She didn’t want to tell Lauren about Joe’s departure. Not yet.
‘Mum!’ Lauren’s face filled the screen. Her cheeks looked a little pink, as though she’d caught the sun.
‘Hi, darling! You look well. Is the weather good?’
‘Beautiful.’ Lauren swung the phone in an arc. Stella caught the tip of her daughter’s chin followed by part of the garage roof, an explosion of yellow flowers in a hanging basket, then a close-up of tarmac and immaculately painted toenails.
‘Err, lovely,’ Stella said, not quite sure what she was supposed to have gleaned from the rather dizzying tour.
‘Where on earth are you?’ Lauren said.
‘Oh, just in a shop. In fact—’ Stella laughed nonchalantly ‘—it’s actually the old general store your grandpa used to run with your great-uncle Domenico. Isn’t that a funny coincidence!’
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Just, umm, shopping. There wasn’t a corkscrew in the apartment.’
Lauren’s nose loomed large against the screen. ‘Mum, you’re behind the counter!’
‘Am I?’ Stella looked over her shoulder. ‘Oh, so I am. Aren’t I daft!’
‘I know you’ve been missing your old job. You’ll be asking to have a go on the till next!’ A frown creased Lauren’s forehead. ‘Wait a minute. You’re right next to the till and the drawer’s open. I can see all the cash.’
Stella elbowed it shut. She groped for some plausible explanation.
‘Mum, why are you still in Leto? Weren’t you supposed to go to Portofino today?’
‘I… I can’t really explain right now, Lauren. I’ve got to go.’
‘Tell me what’s going on. Is Joe with you?’ Lauren had switched to her doing-business voice. Stella was tempted to accidentally cut her off. But she’d only phone back.
‘Joe’s gone,’ she said.
‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’ Lauren twisted her head, her hair catching a trailing strand of ivy.
‘Gone. You know – left, departed, scarpered, whatever you want to call it.’
‘I know the meaning of the word, Mother.’
Mother. Stella was definitely in trouble now. She could feel one of Lauren’s little talks coming on. They were even worse than Carol’s.
Stella stumbled out an explanation as quickly as she could.
Lauren let out an exasperated huff. ‘Of course Joe’s going to be cross!
Of course he’s going to be fed up! Any normal person would have told this cousin of yours to sort out her own family dramas.
I’m sure if you send her a message apologising and call a taxi firm, you can meet up with Joe. You’ll sort everything out.’
‘But I…’
The doorbell jangled.
‘Buongiorno!’ A man in paint-splattered overalls entered the shop. He looked like a local who’d hopefully find what he wanted without Stella’s help.
Stella signalled a ‘be with you in a moment’.
‘You know what the problem with you is, Mum?’ Lauren’s head continued to spout. ‘You’re a soft touch. For once in your life will you stop thinking about other people and do what you want.’
It was a creed Stella had once lived by. She’d ignored everything but her own feelings the day she’d jumped on that moped with Gino and sped off to Sanremo. Doing what she wanted had caused nothing but heartache.
The customer was picking up an electric strimmer. He turned it over to read the back of the long oblong box. Stella had to finish up this call.
‘I’m not running after Joe. I’m staying here, looking after the shop. This is what I want.’
‘But you’ve had nothing to do with your family for decades.’
‘I have to do this, Lauren. I have to do this for Uncle Domenico… to make up for the awful thing I did to his brother.’
‘Whatever are you talking about, Mum? You’re the kindest person. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone your own father.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Stella’s voice shook. ‘I did something terrible…’
‘Oh, honestly! I expect you’re worrying about some bit of nonsense everyone else probably forgot about decades ago.’ Lauren tutted. ‘But if you’ve been brooding about it all these years, you’d better tell me about it. You won’t move on until you’ve opened up.’
‘It’s not that easy.’ Stella gripped the counter with her free hand. She’d never move on. Never forget.
The man with the strimmer had swapped the box for another model, opening up the packaging and pulling out the operating instructions. Seemingly satisfied, he came forward and placed it on the counter.
‘Wait a moment, Lauren.’ Stella took the man’s cash, handing over a few euros’ change. He nodded, departing with a cheery buona giornata. She picked up the phone. Lauren was wearing her best ‘I’m listening’ face.
‘I’m waiting, Mum. Talk to me! Get it off your chest.’
Stella sighed. After all these years, it had taken less than twenty-four hours back home to bring everything to a head.
‘I killed him,’ Stella said. ‘I killed my darling Papà.’