Chapter 11
Back at La Tavola I find the children.
‘And then she offered me almond tart!’ I’m telling Giovanni and Caterina as we all sit under the olive tree, with small glasses of limoncello.
‘For the digestion,’ Giovanni tells me.
‘More like indigestion,’ I say.
There is a candle on the table and, despite the warm night, the mosquitoes seem still to be leaving me alone. Aimee has a box of decorated biscuits and Luca and Pietro are sharing the almond tart.
‘So, you met our three nonna s?’ says Giovanni.
‘I did! You could have told me!’
‘Told you what?’
‘That I’d have to eat with each of them.’
‘I said you had to sit with them.’
‘But I couldn’t turn down their offer of food. It would have been rude.’
He laughs. ‘You’re beginning to sound like a local already – you’ll fit right in!’
‘How come they eat on their own every night?’
‘Like many older people here, their families have moved away so they’re on their own.’
‘But they’re sisters? Why don’t they eat together?’
‘Sisters and sister-in-law. And it’s a long story. But the three women fell out many years ago and now you’ll never get them in the same room together.’
‘How sad.’
‘It is.’
‘What did they fall out over?’
‘That’s not my story to tell. But I’m sure you’ll find out, one way or another.’
‘No, no … I won’t be here long enough.’ I hold up a hand and laugh. ‘I’m not getting involved. It has nothing to do with me. I just have to do up the house and be back in the UK in time for school starting in September.’
‘So you don’t want any leftover pasta, then?’ Giovanni nods to the orange light from the kitchen.
‘No, thank you.’ I sip the limoncello, praying it will help my digestion. It certainly loosens my tongue after the glasses of wine I’ve had. ‘And they all wanted to hear why their lasagne was the best.’
Giovanni and Caterina laugh.
‘It wasn’t funny,’ I say tartly, and find myself laughing with them. ‘Don’t make me laugh – it hurts.’ And we laugh some more, as if I’ve known these people for years.
‘Believe me, it is never just about the recipe,’ Giovanni says sagely, offering me more limoncello.
‘No, thank you. I have to get to bed.’ I stand up as if I might give birth at any moment.
‘Would you like a biscuit, Mum?’ asks Aimee. I can see Giovanni trying not to laugh.
‘I would,’ I say, ‘but I’d love to have it in the morning.’
‘With caffè ?’ she says.
‘With caffè .’
‘Okay.’
Luca bids Pietro ‘ Buonanotte ’.
Pietro grins and waves.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Luca adds. And then, suddenly serious, ‘If that’s all right, Mum?’
‘Yes, of course.’ And then I say quietly, ‘It’s okay to have fun, you know. We don’t have to feel sad about Dad all the time. He wouldn’t want that.’
I head back to the house, along the moonlit lane, with two tired children, and a soft stuffed rabbit.
With the children in bed, no complaints about washing or cleaning their teeth and fast asleep in no time, I kiss them lightly.
Coming here may have been good for them: they’re away from all the memories and constant reminders of Marco.
A summer of being themselves with other children.
Maybe Marco knew exactly what he was doing when he bought this place.
Maybe it wasn’t just a moment of madness.
I go downstairs, where I see him sitting at the table, arms folded, smiling up at me, telling me he knew I’d love it.
I join him there, putting down the cookies, knowing he would have eaten the lot if he could.
It’s like when things were hard at the restaurant: we’d come home tired, sit at the table with a glass of wine and hope tomorrow would be a better day.
‘Maybe tomorrow will be a better day,’ I say, ‘but you’ll still be dead. So, really, it can’t get any worse.’ I sip the water I’ve poured.
‘But I am still here, cara ,’ I hear him say.
‘I know. And I’m grateful for that.’
I look at my notebook. ‘Tomorrow I need to tackle some jobs … A couple of weeks’ cleaning and painting and this place could be looking half decent. I have to do it. I can’t miss the deadline, because I don’t have any money to pay to the mayor. It has to be done.’
A small memory scratches at the back of my brain. What was Marco going to tell me about this place? Why he fell in love with it? Was it just the views? Why here?
‘You’ll understand. There is a little piece of me left behind,’ he’d told me after his trip here. And I feel it too. Maybe that’s why I see him sitting at the table, and why I’m talking to him: because there’s a bit of him here. I don’t want that ever to leave me.
I finish my water. ‘Night, Marco,’ I say, feeling his presence and warmth, and wondering how I’ll feel when we have to leave. For now, though, I’m just taking comfort from him being here.
‘Goodnight, cara ,’ he says, as I turn out the lights and climb the stairs.
I check on the sleeping children, then get into bed.
Once more, I push the indentation into the pillow beside me for where his head should be, enjoying him being in the house.
How sad it is that the three nonna s I met tonight, living their own lives, have ended up alone and lonely.
I wonder what happened to allow the quarrel to go on.
Surely letting go of the past is a good thing. As I will one day, just not yet.