Sea of Lost Love (22 page)

As Celestria and Federica hovered in the corridor, Celestria asked the question she had been burning to ask all evening.

“Does the name Salazar mean anything to you?”

Federica nodded. “Of course. Francesco Salazar is a rather pompous lawyer here in Marelatte.”

“I've been trying to tidy up my father's affairs. I have correspondence from him and various things that I need to clear up. I thought perhaps I could do that while I am here.”

Federica frowned, and, for a moment, a shadow of suspicion darkened her face. “Of course,” she replied with a shrug. “I will get Nuzzo to accompany you.”

“Monday would be good,” Celestria replied, wishing they hadn't arrived on a Friday. What on earth were they going to do all weekend? As charming as it was here, she didn't want to stay any longer than was necessary. “You didn't by any chance meet a Hungarian called Countess Valonya, did you?”

Federica shook her head. “I'm afraid not. I would remember a name like that.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you looking for anyone else?”

Celestria shrugged. “One never can tell.” She gave a little sniff and stepped into her bedroom, flopping onto the bed with a yawn.

“Of course. If you need my help I will be happy to do all I can. You only have to ask.
Va bene,
I hope you sleep well.” Federica remained in the doorway, her mouth open as if about to say something else. Celestria turned and looked inquiringly, but the older woman closed her eyes and shook her head with an apologetic smile.
“Niente,”
she said, turning away. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Celestria replied, getting up to close the door. She knew that the wine, the soup, and the fresh sea air had prepared her for a long night's sleep.

C
elestria awoke to the bright Italian sun streaming in through the two small square windows behind her bed and the sonorous sound of bells from the church next door calling the people to worship. The song of birds filled the air, and a dog barked outside in the road. She inhaled, smelling the scents of pine and rosemary that were carried on the breeze, and the lingering bouquet of lilies. She stretched contentedly and gazed around her. In the light of day the room looked even prettier. The bold colors of the textile throws mixed with the muted reds and browns of the rugs gave the room warmth. Federica had clearly chosen the items out of love and not to match some rigid color scheme. She knew her father would have liked it as much as she did. She rolled onto her side and considered him. Alone in the room that only she shared with him, she allowed herself to miss him. Not in the way she had missed him in England, avoiding the pain and considering only the practicalities and inconveniences of his death, but the sadness of his absence. The fact that she would never see him again.

She closed her eyes and pictured him. He must have lain here in his pajamas, breathing the same scents, listening to the same sounds, escaping the world as she was. Had he come here when his business had collapsed to hide from the reality of not having a job to go to? Had he perhaps dreamed of escaping forever? If he loved it so much, why seek death? Why such finality when there was so much to live for? These thoughts strengthened her resolve, and she climbed out of bed and dressed in a pair of white slacks and a pale blue shirt, a silk Hermès scarf around her neck. She brushed her long blond hair off her face so that it fell in waves over her shoulders.

Downstairs Federica's dogs rushed at her excitedly. A couple of maids smiled as they wandered past with clean towels and sheets. They were small, with brown faces and glossy black hair cascading down their backs. Clearly impressed, they broke into chatter the moment they passed her. Waynie was already eating breakfast in the dining room, at the long refectory table that was laid out with bread, prosciutto, and fruit.

“Good morning, Celestria,” she said brightly. “I don't think I've ever slept so well in all me life. That bed beats the old one Alfie bought when we moved into Anslem Road. He got it off Pete Duff what owned a warehouse in Harrogate, full of God knows what junk, in exchange for a bit of plumbing. Alfie never paid for nowt if he could help it. Even me ring.” She looked down at it and smiled. “Makes no difference to me. It's the thought what counts.” Celestria wandered past the sideboard, gazing hungrily at all the pomegranates and figs piled high in wooden bowls.

“I do like it here, Waynie,” she said emphatically, helping herself to a pomegranate.

Waynie smiled. “You know, I never expected to. I was very nervous, to tell the truth. But there's something magic here.” She lowered her voice, glancing about the room suspiciously, and leaned forward. “Can you smell the lilies? I haven't seen a single lily since I arrived. That's magic.” She straightened up and spoke normally again. “I can't put me finger on it, but I feel years younger already. Don't the bells sound lovely? Not at all like bells in England. I should have slept like the dead, but I woke with excitement in me belly. Something extraordinary is going to happen, I can feel it.”

“Is there a bird to corroborate this feeling?” Celestria teased, sitting down.

“Now you're pulling me leg, and that's not wise. It's old and might come off!”

They both turned as a tall, silver-haired man strode in, accompanied by a younger man who grinned toothily. “Welcome,” said the older one. “My name is Gaitano; I'm Freddie's husband.” Like his wife, he spoke good English, but his accent was more pronounced.

Celestria extended her hand, which he took in his as he bowed again, almost bringing her hand to his lips, his small brown eyes settling on her warmly from behind a pair of fine silver glasses. Her heart lurched with longing; the only other man to have ever greeted her like that was her father. In a sudden cascade of memories she recalled that day on the beach when he had gone out in his boat with Harry and their small cousins; he had kissed her hand then. She could still remember the affectionate twinkle in his eyes as he had offered her a place in his boat. She pushed the painful image from her mind and concentrated on Gaitano. His face was noble, with a straight Roman nose, chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones, still a devastatingly handsome man.

“And this is Luigi, the most talented cook in Puglia. Luigi speaks no English,” he added, patting the young man's back affectionately. “But food is a language common to us all, wouldn't you agree?”

“Naturally!” Celestria nodded, liking Gaitano already. “This is Mrs. Waynebridge,” she added. “Neither of us speaks Italian, but we both like our food!”

Gaitano bowed, but Mrs. Waynebridge was too nervous to extend her hand. She felt it wasn't her place. She thrust it into her lap, where it remained until the danger had passed.

“Ah, Mrs. Halifax,” said Gaitano as a plump elderly woman walked into the dining room, aided by a walking stick that rang with the tinkling of tiny bells. She had a jolly, round face, seamed with laughter lines and lines of sadness as her full and active life had impressed itself in all its diversity onto her peachy pink skin. Celestria remembered Federica's comments about her guest's shoes and slid her eyes down the crushed velvet housecoat to her feet. They did not disappoint, neatly clad in green velvet slippers decorated at the toes with furry gold balls.

“Good morning, young man,” she said to Gaitano in a voice that was thick and smoky. “Goodness, we have company. How very nice. Are you American?” Celestria wondered how the old woman had deduced that just by looking at her. Mrs. Halifax explained. “I heard you talking outside my room last night.”

“Oh,” Celestria replied. “Well, my mother's American but my father's…He was English.” Mrs. Halifax noticed the hasty change of tense and discreetly moved on.

“Well, it's lovely to have the company of fellow countrymen.”

“This is Mrs. Waynebridge,” Celestria added.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mrs. Waynebridge, putting down her teacup and allowing her right hand to slide up from her knee to shake Mrs. Halifax's.

“Oh, you must be from Yorkshire,” said Mrs. Halifax, resting her stick against the table and taking the chair that Gaitano pulled out for her. “I have spent some wonderful times up north, near Skipton. Do you know Skipton? It has a glorious old castle. The Fattorini family are dear friends of mine, you know.” Mrs. Waynebridge nodded. She knew the castle, it was famous, but she had never been there, and, as for the Fattorini family, she would never have presumed to make their acquaintance. “Salt of the earth,” Mrs. Halifax continued. “They speak their minds with a good dollop of warmth and humor.” She shook her head, sending the little cluster of purple feathers she had pinned in her hair into a floating dance. “I'd love a cup of coffee, Luigi,” she said. “And an egg. Could I trouble you for an egg? Four and a half minutes and a piece of toast, lightly browned, not burned. I do hate it when they burn the toast, don't you?”

Luigi, who understood her request only because it was what she had ordered every morning for the last month, went into the kitchen, leaving Gaitano alone with the women.

“If there is anything you want, Luigi will be happy to oblige, and Nuzzo will take you anywhere you wish.” He directed his speech to Celestria, but it was Mrs. Waynebridge who blushed at the mention of Nuzzo's name. “He can be your personal guide.”

“That would be very kind. We'd like to take a look around, wouldn't we, Waynie?” Mrs. Waynebridge nodded enthusiastically.

“He will be back at midday. I have had to send him into Castellino on an errand. Might I suggest a ride up the coast and a picnic lunch on the beach?”

“Sounds just like Cornwall,” she replied. “We'll be waiting in the courtyard at twelve.”

“Good. Luigi will prepare something to eat. Now I shall leave you to get to know one another,” he said, bowing again. His face twitched with an ironic smile. The three women must have seemed to him a rather incongruous group.

Luigi brought Mrs. Halifax her egg and a small cup of black coffee, the smell of which was too much for Celestria to resist. “I don't usually like coffee, but that smells delicious!” she said, leaning across the table to breathe it in.

“They grind it fresh, you see. They don't make it so well anywhere else in the world, I assure you. Why don't you try it with hot milk?” Mrs. Halifax suggested. “It's like hot chocolate.”

“That's a good idea, I shall. Luigi?” When Luigi returned, Celestria pointed at Mrs. Halifax's coffee, then at the jug of milk. “Lots of milk,
mucho mucho,
” she said, tossing him an enchanting smile. As she turned her charm on him, his ears turned red and his stomach flipped over.

“Si signora, molto latte,”
he replied enthusiastically. He returned to the kitchen with the intention of making her the best
caffé latte
ever made.

“Have you been here before, Mrs. Halifax?”

“Yes, every summer for the last four years. I met Freddie and Gaitano when I was staying near Pisa about six years ago. They used to live in Tuscany, you see. Then they discovered this wonderful place and bought it. It's been a labor of love putting it back together again. It was a ruin. Recently things have gotten difficult, and they've had to open it to paying guests.” She lowered her voice. “With all due respect to nice people like you, I don't think it's been easy for them. They won't ever leave it, though. Too many memories. That's another story, and it's not my place to tell it.” She sighed heavily and straightened up. “I like to paint, you see. I find a place I like and return every year, like a swallow, I suppose. I used to travel with a couple of friends, but then Debo passed away, and it was too miserable just being the two of us. Besides, Gertie and I fought all the time. It worked when we were three—Debo was a good buffer—but then just being two, I don't know, it wasn't the same. I've tried many different places, but after Maurilliac in France, nothing was as lovely or as special until I found the Convento. Freddie and Gaitano are like family to me now.”

“Did you live in France?” Celestria asked.

“No. We painted there after the war, at a gorgeous château that had been converted into a hotel. England was so gray and miserable. France was beautiful. We returned the following year, but it had changed.” She looked sad, as if her jolly face had suddenly melted, and took a sip of coffee. “I'm a silly old woman with too much attachment to the past. It's a long story, and one evening I might tell you if I feel up to it.”

“I'd like that,” said Celestria softly.

“So this is your first time here?” Mrs. Halifax rallied.

“Yes.”

“There's so much to see. The church next door is lovely, and over the road is a rather magical city of the dead.”

“City of the dead?” said Mrs. Waynebridge a little uneasily.

Mrs. Halifax's eyes lit up. “The cemetery. It's simply magical. Can't you smell the lilies? You must go and visit. It calms the soul. I have painted it a few times. It looks different depending on the light. I find it feeds something inside me and fills me up. I don't know, perhaps as I am old, it gives me a rather reassuring feeling about death.”

“Who's buried there?” Celestria asked, crinkling up her nose at the distasteful idea of death.

“Everyone from around here. It's a walled city of beautifully built, white stone and marble crypts: big ones, small ones, communal ones, plain ones, ornate ones, all alive with candles and flowers. The extraordinary thing is that you won't find a single dead flower there. Not one. They take care of their deceased with love and devotion. That's the way it should be. Not like in England, where graves are left to rot.”

Celestria was immediately curious, though Mrs. Waynebridge was more than a little spooked by the idea of a city of dead bodies. Graveyards were lonely, bleak places where she didn't like to linger if she could help it. A whole city of graves was another matter altogether. “I think I'll let you go on your own,” she said to Celestria.

“Don't be silly, Waynie. You're coming with me whether you like it or not. It's important for you to soak up the whole experience.”

“Don't imagine it's anything like English graveyards, Mrs. Waynebridge,” interjected Mrs. Halifax. “It's nothing of the sort. You'll see. It's magical.” She smacked her lips. “Simply magical!”

After breakfast, Mrs. Halifax hobbled off to paint, leaving Celestria and her companion to the wonders of the city of the dead. They stepped out of the building into the dazzling sunshine. Celestria, already hot, untied her scarf and threaded it through the belt loops of her slacks, tying it at the side. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and breathed in the scent of the sea, which she could now see sparkling in the distance behind the cluster of little houses that had been built outside the walls of the city of the dead. Mrs. Waynebridge put on a white hat and withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab the sweat that had already begun to seep through her face powder and gather in little drops on her nose. All was quiet; the people of Marelatte were attending Mass in the little church attached to the Convento.