Sea of Lost Love (25 page)

“I know, Father, but I am unable to come then. I have guests to entertain.”

“I see.”

“Please, Father. I need to unburden my sins.” She looked at him, and the desperation in her eyes moved him.

“If it is a matter of urgency, then you must confess.”

She breathed deeply with relief. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

 

On Sunday morning Celestria awoke once again to the sound of the church bell summoning the people of Marelatte to Mass. She lay in bed and stretched, not feeling in the least bit inclined to fulfill her Sunday obligation. She recalled Father Dalgliesh, a distant figure in her thoughts, so far away. Having removed herself physically, she had detached herself mentally, too. It felt good to be alone where no one knew her, except Waynie, of course. The sense of freedom was intoxicating. It filled her body with bubbles, so she felt light and buoyant and happy as never before. She closed her eyes and listened to the light chatter of birds, the sound resonating from the little stone bell tower and the sudden sporadic burst of barking from Federica's pack of dogs. The light morning breeze brushed her skin with the floral scent of lilies, and she lay unmoving, prolonging this moment of peace.

Federica and Gaitano had gone to Mass. Mrs. Halifax was drinking coffee in the garden, reading
An Enchanted April,
while Mrs. Waynebridge wandered down the avenue of orange trees, lost in pleasurable thoughts. The dogs trotted in, panting from their morning excursion, tails wagging at the satisfaction of once again marking their territory and frightening off would-be intruders. Celestria bent down to pat Maialino, who snuffled her feet like the little pig he was named after. Mrs. Halifax raised her eyes briefly, then lowered them again, not wanting to be interrupted from reading her delightful book.

Celestria grabbed an apple from the bowl in the dining room. She wasn't hungry. She walked down the gravel path, past pots of herbs and borders of pink roses enjoying the last of their bloom. Maialino followed, leaving the other dogs to lie in the shade, drink water from the fountain, and gaze hopelessly at the large orange fish that swam there. She opened the gate into the road and stood a moment, gazing across at the pale walls of the city of the dead. The scent of lilies was stronger than ever. She turned and closed the gate behind her. She felt her heartbeat accelerate, certain that, even though she couldn't see him, Hamish was there, haunting his wife's crypt more jealously than the dead.

She began to walk beneath the paved avenue of pines that led into town. She hadn't been into Marelatte itself since she arrived. There was nothing else to do on a Sunday but explore.

At that moment a movement over the wall caught her attention, and she turned. Hamish was standing outside the little stone folly that was to be Gaitano's library. He was wearing only a pair of khaki trousers hanging low on his hips and a crumpled straw hat that cast a shadow across his face. His body was muscular and tanned the color of leather. She couldn't help but catch her breath at the sight of him. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, silently challenging him. They stared at each other for what felt like a very long while. She tried to make out his expression. Even though his features were shaded she could see a pensive twist on his lips. He raised his hand and rubbed the bristles that grew on his cheeks. For a second she was sure he was about to walk over to her, and she braced herself expectantly, ready for confrontation. He made a slight movement. She felt a stab of adrenaline. Then he changed his mind, expelled the thought with a subtle shake of the head, and walked inside.

Celestria was deflated and furious. Why was he avoiding her? Had her intrusion been so dreadful? Maialino snuffled her feet again. She clicked her tongue, resisting the temptation to follow him, and turned around and made for the little gate. She no longer had the desire to explore Marelatte. Her morning had been spoiled.

Hamish stood in the cool shade of the folly, the saw in his hand hanging limply against his trouser leg as if he had forgotten all about it. He heaved a sigh, took off his hat, and rubbed his forehead, which was hot and itchy. The mere sight of Robert Montague's daughter inflamed his heart with fury. What was she doing here? Why had she come? How did she dare? He wasn't taken in by her beauty or her obvious charm, like Federica. She was like her father. She had the same superficial beauty, the same shallow light in her eyes, the same petulant mouth of someone used to flattery and adoration. He despised her as he despised her father, and he resented Federica now more than ever. Once again, she had made a grave misjudgment of character.

With a decisiveness typical of the old Hamish, the Hamish he was before Natalia's death had knocked the confidence out of him, he hastened to Gaitano's dusty Lancia Flaminia, which sat outside the Convento in dire need of a wash. He drove to Castellino, his jaw set in a determined grimace, his thoughts so full of Celestria there was room for little else. He hadn't visited Costanza in over a month; he hadn't had the will. Now he was wound up like a ball of string, he needed her soothing touch to untangle him.

Costanza had returned from Mass. A voluptuous woman of easy virtue, there was an awful lot for her to repent of. She was a widow, her husband having died of gangrene ten years before, leaving her alone and childless. However, she had grown to relish her independence and had no desire to marry again, even though she could boast countless offers. There was a jealousy in Italian men that she found unsatisfactory. They wanted to possess their women. Costanza was now her own keeper, but she was happy to loan herself out periodically, when the right man came along. She had various lovers, but none as handsome and vigorous as her Scotsman, nor as tormented.

She was delighted to see him when he appeared in her garden. She tossed off her black hat and veil and any remaining residue of repentance and allowed him to take her in his arms. He wore only a pair of trousers. The skin on his shoulders was hot and tacky with sweat. She kissed him, laughing at the surprise his visit had given her and tasting the salt on her lips. They didn't speak. She took his hand and led him through the house to her bedroom, which was as familiar to him as his own. He walked with the support of his stick, feeling the stiffness in his knee joint more keenly than ever.

They lay naked together and made love. She kissed him tenderly and stroked his hair, opened her velvet body to him, and let him release his frustration with energetic thrusts and rasping groans that came from the very depths of his being. He took her with a fury that Costanza mistook for passion, and several times. Then they parted with the same wordless understanding: a kiss, an affectionate look, a smile of gratitude, a wave of the hand. She watched him drive off with regret. He never stayed very long. He never talked to her. She longed to penetrate his thoughts and understand him. She knew she could make him happy if only he'd invite her in. But he had lost his beloved wife. Perhaps he had lost the will to love again. She waved until the car had turned the corner, then returned inside with a smile; in all the times they had made love, he had never been so ardent.

C
elestria spent a fitful night, her belly aching in anticipation of her meeting with Salazar the following morning, her spirit disturbed because Hamish hadn't dined with them yet again. She knew she shouldn't focus on him but on seeking vengeance for her father's killer, but she was unable to evict him from her thoughts. He filled them and dominated them and made her blood simmer with fury.

 

“Right, are you ready to take me to meet Salazar?” said Celestria to Nuzzo, standing in the courtyard the following morning.

“Salazar,
si signorina.
” He nodded eagerly, then turned to Mrs. Waynebridge.
“Ciao, signora,”
he said, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Good morning, Nuzzo,” she replied, watching him make for the door, his gait bow-legged, as if he had spent most of his life on a horse. Celestria raised her eyebrows at her friend.

“I think he rather likes you,” she said.

“He's quite a charmer,” Mrs. Waynebridge conceded.

“Don't fall for it. I've heard that Italian men can't be trusted.” Mrs. Waynebridge looked crestfallen for a moment, before noticing the ironic look on Celestria's face.

“Did I say that?” she gasped, the color restored to her cheeks.

“You did.”

“Oh dear, I'm ashamed of myself. I like the Italians.”

“You certainly like one of them.”

Mrs. Waynebridge cast her eyes up to the little window in the convent wall, to where the dove had cooed the night they arrived. Could the bird have sat there for her?

“Good luck, love,” she said, patting Celestria's arm. “I hope you find what you're looking for.”

“So do I,” Celestria replied. “Then we can go home.”

Mrs. Waynebridge's face fell. Celestria wished she hadn't said it, because she didn't want to go home, either.

Celestria slipped on her sunglasses and followed Nuzzo through the little wooden door into the burning hot sun. Nuzzo pointed out small attractions he thought the
signorina
might enjoy. She threw a glance at Gaitano's little folly, half expecting to see Hamish there with his saw in his hand and his brown torso glistening in the sun.

Marelatte was dominated by the Piazza della Vittoria. Tall palm trees stood among olive and orange trees, paved walkways lined by iron benches, stone water fountains, and borders glittering with brightly colored flowers. The trees were alive with birds, chirping loudly from the branches. A young couple walked hand in hand across the shadows, and a pair of toothless old men sat on a bench in the shade, watching them enviously. Celestria and Nuzzo walked on passed the piazza, up a wide street where the baroque town hall stood proudly in the center, larger and more ornate than the more humble buildings that surrounded it. A narrow street branched off to the left, where a plain-fronted house stood, its iron balconies hanging with terra-cotta pots of red geraniums, and, beyond, a pale pink church rested in the shade, the curvature of the pediments on the roof giving the skyline a pleasing harmony.

Nuzzo greeted people as they walked. Celestria noticed the appreciative glances in her direction. A group of small, brown-faced boys stopped kicking their ball, their playful squeals fading as they stood in a huddle, watching the angelic blond lady with wide, curious eyes. She smiled at them, and they proceeded to nudge one another, fighting to lay claim to her affection. “
I ragazzi
like you,” said Nuzzo, grinning. Celestria laughed, not understanding the words they now began to shout after her.

Finally, Nuzzo turned off down a cobbled street where the sun didn't reach. It was cooler there in the shade. A cat scratched her gray back against the wall, hopping lightly off on her three good legs when she saw them approach. Nuzzo stopped outside a wooden door on a plain-fronted, flat-roofed building. The window to the right was misted by a net curtain, but Celestria could make out the vague lines of an office.
“Ci siamo,”
he said. On the wall beside the door was a bell and a brass plaque: F.G.B. Salazar. Celestria hesitated a moment, gathering herself. She hadn't worked out what she was going to say. Now she had no time. She pressed the bell and, with a racing heart, waited for a reply. After what seemed like a long time, the door opened and an anxious-looking woman peered out.

“Buon giorno, signora, è arrivata la signorina Montague per il signor Salazar,”
said Nuzzo, taking off his hat respectfully.

“Non c'è,”
the woman replied, shaking her head. Nuzzo made some inquiries. The woman replied briskly, shrugged, and closed the door.

“What did she say?” Celestria asked.

Nuzzo looked at her sympathetically. “
Il signor Salazar,
no.”

“He's not here? Well, when will he be back?” She stared at Nuzzo irritably. The poor man pulled a face. He didn't understand her question, and, even if he did, he was unable to reply in English. “This is ridiculous!” she snapped. “I've come all the way out to Italy to see him. How long is he going to be away? How long do I have to hang around waiting for him?” She was filled with disappointment. Nuzzo looked terrified. Celestria felt sorry for him; it wasn't his fault. “Let's go back to the Convento and ask Federica,” she added more gently.

“Convento? La signora Gancia?”
Nuzzo's eyes lit up. He replaced his hat and strode into the sunshine.
“Andiamo!”
he said, beckoning her to follow. She remained a moment staring at the window, willing Salazar to appear. With an impatient sigh, she set off after Nuzzo.

Celestria arrived at the convent hot and irritated. She found Gaitano in the courtyard talking to the old man with the cart full of timber that Nuzzo had chatted with on the road the day before. Gaitano smiled at her, and the old man took off his hat respectfully. They wound up their conversation and parted, the old man delighted to find Nuzzo hovering in the entrance hall with nothing to do. Gaitano raised his eyebrows kindly.

“You don't look very happy,” he said as Celestria approached.

“I was hoping to have a meeting with Mr. Salazar today,” she replied. “He's wasn't in. No one speaks English around here. Can you ask Nuzzo what the lady said?” Gaitano shouted across the courtyard. Nuzzo broke off his conversation with his friend and hurried out of the shadows. They exchanged a few words. Gaitano nodded gravely. He turned to Celestria and shrugged apologetically.

“This is Italy for you. He's away on business, and she doesn't know when he's going to be back.”

“What am I to do? I have to talk to him. It's important.”

“I'm sure he'll be back in a few days,” said Gaitano, trying to sound positive. The girl's face remained taut with frustration. Gaitano nodded at Nuzzo, who disappeared back into the shadows.

“In a few days? What am I going to do while I wait?”

“Do you like books?” Gaitano asked.

“Yes,” she replied sulkily.

“So do I. I'm in the process of constructing a library in the garden. Come, I'll show you my English collection.” He led her across the stones to a small door that opened into a large, vaulted room full of books. They were piled against the walls, on the tables, and balanced in unsteady towers in the middle of the room.

“These are all English?” she gasped in astonishment.

“I like to read in the original language where possible.” Gaitano gazed upon them lovingly, as if they were his children.

“I can see why you need to build a library,” she said, feeling better in the cool, out of the sun. She wandered among them, bending down to read the spines, forgetting all about Salazar.

“I see you like books, too.”

“I lose myself in literature,” she replied, picking up a book of poems by Wordsworth. “My grandfather buys me books. He has the best taste. He has never given me a book I haven't loved. I've always loved Wordsworth.” She ran her fingers over the dusty cover in a caress.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud/That floats on high o'r vales and hills,/When all at once I saw a crowd,/A host, of golden daffodils…”

“Beside the lake, beneath the trees,/Fluttering and dancing in the breeze,”
Gaitano finished the verse for her. His eyes lit up with admiration. “Which is your favorite book?” he asked.

“The Count of Monte Cristo,”
she replied without hesitation.

“Alexandre Dumas,” said Gaitano, raising his eyebrows. “That's Hamish's favorite book, too.”

“Oh,” she muttered dismissively, finding it hard to believe that such a crude man could appreciate good literature.

“Did he read it in the original language?” she asked, replacing Wordsworth on his pile.

Gaitano laughed. “I very much doubt it. When he arrived in Italy, he spoke nothing but English. However, he discovered a talent for languages, which wasn't a great surprise to me because he is musical. Musical people are often gifted linguists.”

“My grandfather made me read it in French, but I have to confess I read it again in English later. It was only then that I fell in love with it.”

“That, of course, is the test of a good book. You can read it over and over and find new things each time. A good book never loses its appeal.”

“That is so true.” She threw him an enchanting smile. “Which is your favorite?”

“Proust,
A la Recherche du Temps Perdus.
” His French was flawless. “I love many, but I love Proust the best.”

“I wish I could read them all in their original languages,” she sighed, picking up
Anna Karenina.

“Russian defeats me,” he said, watching her with new eyes. “Latin languages are very easy for us to learn. They are all very similar. Russian, on the other hand, is a world away. I have to read Tolstoy in English.”

“I think the job of the translator is a much underappreciated skill. They are unsung heroes. It is thanks to them that I have enjoyed so many foreign books. I'm ashamed to say I wouldn't know any of the translators by name.”

“Let me lend you a book to keep you entertained while you wait for Salazar to return,” he suggested enthusiastically, wandering around the books in search of one that would please her.

“I would love that. Thank you,” she replied, feeling the familiar sense of excitement at the thought of a new book.

“I find the experience of diving into a new world the most exhilarating of sensations,” he said.

“I agree. Each book is like a little world. You can carry it in your hand, and, yet, the space it creates in your mind is infinite.”

He stopped, crouched down, and traced his fingers up the spines of another stack. “This is my American section,” he said. “Have you read
The Age of Innocence
?”

“Edith Wharton. ‘Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.'” She laughed huskily. “I've read it.”

“So I see.”

“My grandfather is American.”

“Then perhaps that is not the section I should be looking through.” He walked to the other side of the room, pushed his glasses up his nose, and bent over. “This is my English, twentieth-century section,” he announced, then proceeded to mutter to himself as he glanced up and down thoughtfully. Finally he seized upon the perfect novel.
“The Forsyte Saga.”

“I haven't read that,” she said, watching him ease it out then rearrange the books so the towers remained standing.

“John Galsworthy. A fine writer. You will enjoy him.” He passed it to her.

“This will keep me entertained for days!” she exclaimed. “It's the size of
War and Peace.
”

“But infinitely more readable!”

“If I disappear for a week, I will blame you.” She laughed.

He looked at her fondly. “If you disappear for a week, Celestria, I will blame myself!”

He watched her cross the courtyard. What a surprise, he thought, dazed from the pleasure of their encounter. I would never have taken her for a reader. He was still grinning when Hamish found him.

“I've been looking for you,” he said to his father-in-law.

“Oh?” Gaitano replied, taking off his glasses and slipping them in his breast pocket.

“I need to know how deep you want those shelves.”

“I've just been talking to Celestria,” he said casually. “We've been sharing our love of books.” Hamish didn't reply, so Gaitano continued. “Guess what her favorite novel is?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged dismissively.

“The same as yours.”

He looked taken aback.
“The Count of Monte Cristo?”
Hamish frowned. He couldn't imagine a girl as superficial as her getting through a novel like that.