Chapter 22
Tad whistled to himself as he completed his prep for the following day’s lesson.
The last lesson with this group. Hard to believe their time at Casa was almost over – it felt to him as though the week had gone past twice as quickly as usual.
He’d barely touched base with Clare, let alone done anything about his negative thoughts about James – or the way that impacted on his view of Clare’s news.
He hadn’t put in the effort he should have done with Billie Forsythe-Rogers, especially if he was interested in moving on from Casa del Cibo and exploring the options she might have on offer.
And his time with Amy had been so fleeting. Far too fleeting.
The tune dried on his lips. They’d hardly managed to say ‘hello’ in any meaningful way and Amy would soon be saying goodbye. In a touch over thirty-six hours she would be gone, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
Before he could dwell on that thought any further, there was a knock on the framework of the open kitchen door. James Gardner stood in the doorway, imposing his height on the space and his gaze on Tad, who tried not to bristle.
‘Hello there,’ Tad said, forcing himself to sound cheerful. ‘Can I help with something?’
‘I hope so. Can I come in?’
That was unexpected. Tad had assumed James to be the type of man to stride into any space he needed access to.
‘Of course,’ Tad said, wiping his hands on a cloth and setting it aside.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ James said. ‘I want to take Clare for a picnic tomorrow – the two of us – and I wondered if that was something you could provide for me?’
Tad frowned. Extra meals provided haphazardly for guests weren’t usually on the agenda; he had enough to do without that.
And yet, he’d bent the rules already this week, more than once.
The fact Billie hadn’t turned up for the lesson he’d prepared especially for her, or that he and Amy had ended up making peach tart instead, was by the by – he’d been prepared to do it for a celebrity he’d never met, to curry favour.
And he’d fed Amy lunch after they’d returned from Monte Baldo.
Although that had little to do with maintaining good relations with guests, and far more to do with spending as long with Amy as possible.
And this request, even though it was coming from someone Tad had yet to warm to, was for Clare – and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Clare.
‘I feel like we’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ James said. ‘I think that might be on me, crashing in like I did yesterday.’
‘Why do you call her Beetle? I didn’t think Clare was one for nicknames.’
It wasn’t the smoothest of segues, but the question was something that had been rolling around Tad’s brain like a marble in a washing machine.
James smiled, and for the first time since the man had arrived at Casa del Cibo, Tad saw an inkling of genuine emotion in his expression.
‘It’s silly, really. But that’s how we met.
She was trying to persuade a beetle onto a leaf, wanted to get it off the pavement before someone trod on it, but it kept falling off.
I’d come out of my offices, was about to get into my car when I saw this crazy woman, leaf in hand, bent double over the tarmac.
It took me a while to work out what she was doing and when I offered assistance I startled her, she jinked, and the beetle fell off the leaf again. She was so cross with me.’
‘I see,’ Tad said. Saving a beetle did sound like something Clare would do, crazy though it sounded.
‘You could say our eyes met over an iridescent insect,’ James said.
‘And by the time we’d got the beetle to safety I’d asked Clare out for a coffee, and she’d said yes and, well, it went from there.
Months later she told me she felt like I’d rescued her, too, so I started calling her Beetle, and the name stuck. ’
Tad drew in a sharp breath. He’d always considered he’d been the one to rescue Clare. And although someone else’s happiness wasn’t a competition, he couldn’t help being stung by the comment.
‘Anyway, I have something I want to ask Clare, something important – and I hoped you could put together a hamper of snacks for us. I thought I’d take her to Tenno; apparently there’s a brilliant view of the lake from the vineyards, so the venue and the wine are sorted – all I need is the food.’
Tad bit his lip as he tried not to ask James if he’d been so unobservant as not to notice Clare hadn’t been drinking alcohol since she’d been at Casa del Cibo, and that Tad would hazard a guess she hadn’t been drinking it for a while before that, either.
He pressed his lips together to stop himself from spilling the reason, to prevent himself from asking James why he thought it might be that Clare was finding it so difficult to tell him that she was carrying his baby.
Clare had sworn Tad to secrecy, but that kind of news shouldn’t be a secret, should it?
The joy Clare should be experiencing was already overshadowed by the loss of her baby girl and husband – wasn’t that enough of a burden to carry, without her new partner making Clare feel unsure about telling him?
He bristled again, fighting the desire to tell James there was more at stake here than a stupid picnic in a vineyard.
That the man should be taking every available moment to spend with Clare, rather than leaving her to sightsee with his brother and sister-in-law, while he continued to take work phone calls.
That James was a complete idiot if he couldn’t see what he had and failed to value Clare accordingly.
‘It doesn’t have to be anything too fancy, a few bits and bobs – whatever you think Clare would like. You know what she enjoys eating, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I do.’ Tad took a breath. ‘I suppose I could make some stromboli.’
‘What’s that?’ James said.
‘It’s a bit like a toasted sandwich, or a filled loaf where everything is cooked into the bread.
I could make one with some Parma ham and cheeses – maybe mozzarella and fontina, she likes the subtlety of mozzarella and fontina goes well with it, brings a buttery, nutty flavour to the bread.
You eat it cold, slice the bread as you would a normal loaf but end up with a ready-formed sandwich. ’
‘Sounds great – Clare never strays very far away from cheese,’ James said, a comment that had Tad thawing. He remembered the first time he’d seen Clare smile was to do with cheese, and somehow the fact James had made the connection made Tad’s shoulders drop an inch or two.
‘How about a flask of coffee and some lemon biscotti to dip as a nod to a dessert…’
‘Clare would love that,’ James said.
‘I’d love what?’ Clare wandered into the kitchen, tailed by James’s brother and sister-in-law, her focus on James. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. How did your call go?’
‘Oh, you know…’ James rolled his eyes.
‘Is Clive being as gutless as usual?’ James’s brother, Luke, asked.
‘You guessed it,’ James said, shaking his head.
‘I have made a decision, though. I’m going to ask Miriam to step up and take the lead in cases rather than Clive.
She’s hungry enough for it. Clive won’t like my choice, but with a bit of luck it might prompt him to look elsewhere for a different law practice, solve all my problems in one go.
Then,’ he said, swivelling back to Clare, ‘I’ll finally be able to cut back my hours and we can spend as much time as we want sightseeing together. Go wherever you want.’
Tad wondered if anyone else saw the way Clare bit at the edge of her lip. It was clear she still hadn’t told him.
A timer bleeping from one of the ovens had Tad excusing himself from the conversation and he pulled out a tray of confit cherry tomatoes, prodding at a couple of them to make sure they were as soft as they looked. Satisfied, he slid the tray onto the counter to cool.
‘We’ll let you get on, Tad,’ James said. ‘If you’re sure about what I asked, I would be so grateful,’ he added.
Clare looked mystified, her gaze trained on Tad. In that moment he felt as though he held far too many secrets, and he wondered if she could see it in his expression as Clare turned away, asking James what was going on.
The word ‘surprise’ floated back through the open door as the group left, and Tad tried again to focus on his food. He wondered fleetingly who would be getting the larger surprise, out of Clare and James, when she finally did summon up the courage to tell him.
* * *
Hugh took a seat beside Kathleen at the dinner table, lodging his untouched flute of prosecco onto the table in front of him.
The last catered night of a stay at Casa del Cibo never felt like something he wanted to celebrate, instead the thought of returning to his cold, empty, lonely home in the UK caused him a definite downturn in mood.
‘You again?’ Kathleen said.
‘I’ve taken your advice,’ he said, after he’d lifted the water jug, heavier than expected, and poured for them both. Even though his hand shook, most of the water ended up in the glasses, which Hugh took as a win.
Kathleen side-eyed him. ‘And what advice would that be?’
‘To let people do things their own way,’ he said. ‘I haven’t interfered with anyone’s plans for days now – haven’t you noticed?’
‘Well, congrats,’ Kathleen huffed.
‘I still think there’s no harm in it,’ he said.
A slight shrug of her shoulders was as far as she was willing to go in agreement, but Hugh took it, setting down his water glass as the starter arrived – a confit tomato tart with baby salad leaves and a balsamic dressing.
It smelt absolutely divine and demanded attention – the entire room fell silent, chatter replaced by the chink of cutlery against crockery.
It was great to see Tad and Amy together, getting along famously if Hugh was any judge. Living in the moment, wasn’t that the modern way?
Although it seemed all was not as rosy in the rest of the Forsythe-Rogers camp. Billie had seemed pleased enough when she snagged a seat beside Tad. And yet the woman now looked like thunder.
Hugh thought it highly likely the fact Tad had all but ignored her through the first course, in favour of Amy, hadn’t helped.
But there was something else – Malcolm was also a shadow of his former self.
As though someone had told him he had six months to live, and he had to spend them doing something he hated.
‘Is this your version of not beaking into other people’s business?’
‘Whassat?’ Hugh said.
‘You’re so focused on them you didn’t even hear my question, did you?’
‘Question?’
Kathleen frowned, her expression closing down. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m being terrifically rude, I apologise.’ Hugh said, ‘Ask away. I’m all ears, I promise.’
‘I was wondering if you might take a wander around Riva tomorrow, with me? I thought I would relax and keep it local on my last full day here but I expect you already have plans.’
Hugh pursed his lips. ‘Actually, that sounds absolutely the ticket. How about a stroll around the Museo Alto Garda? It’s part museum, part art gallery and it’s right by the lake.’
‘Have you been there before?’
‘Not for ages.’ The truth was the last time Hugh had crossed the narrow, arched bridge into the fortress had been the last time he’d visited Riva with Brian, before the world-shrinking virus, before Brian had been diagnosed with his illness, before so many life-altering events had knocked the stuffing out of Hugh.
The truth was, the last time Hugh had visited that place he’d been happier than he had any way of realising, back then.
And maybe it was time to remember that feeling, somehow.
He stared at Kathleen, all bristles and sharp edges and angst from a lifetime of dealing with disappointment and betrayal, her walls far, far higher than his own. He smiled. ‘I’d like to visit again, though.’
‘If you’re sure?’
Distracted momentarily as Matteo flourished his way around their side of the table with plates of main course osso buco, on a bed of saffron mash and accompanied by zesty gremolata, Hugh wafted the aroma of the meat towards his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he sighed and turned to Kathleen.
‘I’m very sure. Let’s go and have some fun, Kathleen. Show these youngsters how to live, eh?’
Kathleen snorted a laugh, but in agreement – at least that was the way in which Hugh chose to interpret the sound – and they settled to the food with Hugh only keeping half an eye on proceedings across the table.