Sea of Lost Love (32 page)

“It isn't too late,” said Melissa. “She might change her mind.”

“I hope she doesn't,” retorted her mother fruitily. “The damage is already done.”

“You can't let her be penniless!”

“She has made her choice; let her suffer the consequences. We will have to suffer the shame.”

“Everyone will talk about it,” said Melissa miserably.

“They're already talking of nothing but Monty's death. Really, we have never been so fascinating.” She heaved a sigh, her bosom rising to meet her third chin. “Don't you dare entertain ideas of doing the same thing, Melissa. I can only suffer this once.”

Melissa thought of Rafferty O'Grady and simply nodded obediently.

 

That evening, Father Dalgliesh dined with Archie, Julia, and Elizabeth Montague in the dining room at the Hall. He arrived on his bicycle and leaned it up against the wall. As was his custom, Soames appeared in the doorway, but it was a very different Soames from the sour butler who never greeted him without a scowl. There was something different about his face. His nose seemed to have grown smaller. Father Dalgliesh looked at him more closely as he climbed the steps. It was then that it struck him. The butler was no longer looking down his nose.

“Good evening, Father,” he said, and even his voice was different. It had a slight bounce to it, as if his words were made of rubber.

“Good evening, Soames,” Father Dalgliesh replied. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he added, referring to the late invitation to dinner.

“It is indeed, Father. Mrs. Elizabeth insisted you come.”

Father Dalgliesh felt his stomach churn. He was rather intimidated by that overbearing woman. But Soames led him into the hall, and there was no time to dwell on their dreaded meetings in the parlor. To Father Dalgliesh's surprise, the drawing room door was open, and laughter spilled out. He heard the voice of a child, and his spirits rose; he couldn't help but love that little boy who ran tirelessly up and down the nave every Sunday morning.

“Ah, Father,” said Archie, getting up. His face was ruddy and his eyes red rimmed, but he was smiling enthusiastically. “Do come in.”

Julia and Elizabeth were sitting on the large sofa, watching Bouncy jump off the upholstered coffee table onto the smaller sofa. He wore blue-and-white-striped pajamas, and his hair had been brushed with a side parting. His chubby face was rosy, and his brown eyes sparkled. It was a joyous sight. What surprised Father Dalgliesh the most was that Elizabeth was smiling. He had never seen her smile. It was unexpectedly captivating.

“Do come and watch Bouncy,” she said, waving him over. “We put him to bed, but the little monkey escaped and made a break for it.”

“I'm pleased to see him,” said Father Dalgliesh.

“Oh, we are, too. It's always a joy to see that darling child!”

“Hello, Father,” said Julia. “He'll go back to bed shortly. He's very tired.”

“That's because he's played with me all day,” exclaimed Elizabeth proudly. “He's my little friend, aren't you, Bouncy?” The child grinned at her before launching himself off the table and landing on the sofa with a squeal of glee. When he smiled like that he looked so like her younger brother.

“How are you all?” Father Dalgliesh asked, sitting down in an armchair, his view of the two women obscured every few minutes by the flying child.

“Actually, not good,” said Archie, rubbing his mustache. “Not good at all.”

“Oh, dear,” he replied.

“We're in a bit of bother,” Archie began, then stalled.

“We are struggling to maintain the house,” Julia continued. “We don't want to sell it, of course, but we're going to have to do something if we want to keep it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Father Dalgliesh again. “Can I help?”

“Of course you can!” exclaimed Elizabeth heartily. “You say yourself that the power of prayer is very strong. Well, you can put in a good word for us. Prayer couldn't bring Monty back; I was a fool to think it could. One has to accept what has happened and move on. However, my son and husband would turn in their graves if they got wind of us struggling to hold on to their family home. No, it simply won't do. You're our last resort.”

“God usually is,” said Father Dalgliesh dryly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I will do my best. I find that miracles do happen, but in the most unlikely ways. If God grants you your wish, expect to be surprised.”

He was uneasy that they were pinning all their hopes on him. He averted his gaze, resting it quite by chance on a photograph of Celestria that stood in a frame on the table beside him. She was radiant and smiling, her blond hair blowing in the breeze, dressed in her polka-dot halter-neck top, sitting on the sand with the sea glittering beside her. His heart stumbled a moment as he remembered that awkward moment in the parlor. It had shaken him to the core, not because of any wrongdoing on his behalf but because, deep down, in the pit of his belly, it had excited him.

“Isn't that a lovely picture of Celestria?” said Julia, pulling Bouncy onto her lap. “That was taken before her father died. She was still happy.”

“How is she now?” he asked, hoping that the tremor in his voice did not betray him.

“She's still in Italy. I haven't heard a squeak. But no news is good news.”

“The distance will be good for her,” he added, pulling his eyes away. The distance is good for me, too, he thought with a sense of relief. And when she comes back I will be strong again.

Marelatte

I
n the morning Celestria found Armel and Federica talking in the garden over cups of coffee, their voices low. When they saw her, they stopped talking and smiled broadly. “Come,” said Federica excitedly, waving her over. “I have something to tell you.” Celestria took a seat beside them.
“Luigi, un caffé latte per la signorina, per favore,”
she called to Luigi, who immediately spooned ground coffee into the
caffetiere
and placed it on the stove. “We have some developments,” she said, toying with the large silver Madonna that lay on her bosom.

“It is all thanks to your son-in-law,” Armel added. “The mysterious Hamish.”

Celestria felt herself blush. However, the two women were so absorbed by their discovery that they failed to notice.

“This morning, while I was preparing the table for breakfast, Hamish came in looking quite a different man,” said Federica. “He asked me about Salazar. He said he saw you with him yesterday and was worried. Salazar is a very dubious character. Not to be trusted. I hope you don't mind, but I told him the whole story, as I understand it, and he said that if we want to learn the truth from Salazar we have to elicit the help of his mistress, Rosanna.”

“Salazar is a family man,” continued Armel, her fingers running absentmindedly up and down her scar. “He has five children and a good and loyal wife whose family are well respected in this region. He would not want them to know about Rosanna.”

“How do we persuade her to help us?” Celestria asked.

“Because she is Nuzzo's sister,” said Federica.

“Nuzzo knows?”

Federica nodded. “Not only does Nuzzo know, but he is in love with Mrs. Waynebridge. He will do anything for her. He has told Luigi, and Luigi's wife has told me.”

“The Marelatte grapevine,” said Celestria. At least the grapevine had not yet communicated her nighttime adventure to the bar.

At that moment, Luigi emerged from the kitchen with a silver tray carrying Celestria's milky coffee. They paused while he put it down on the table, asked if there was anything else they required, then returned inside.

“What do we do?” Celestria said impatiently.

“Nuzzo will talk to his sister today.”

“What if she doesn't agree?”

“We are going to appeal to her, together. Women to woman,” said Armel.

“We Italians take death very seriously, Celestria,” said Federica gravely. “If Salazar has indeed induced the suicides of two men, Rosanna will not want to shelter him.”

Celestria stared at Armel in confusion. “Benedict committed suicide, too?” Armel nodded. “You didn't say.”

“I didn't think it relevant.” She shrugged.

“The parallels are too striking to ignore.” Celestria shook her head. “There's a pattern, but I can't make it out. Am I alone here? Can you see something I can't?”

Armel shook her head. “Only that both men were not the type to take their own lives. I say they were murdered.”

“So do I,” Celestria agreed emphatically.

“Let's get to the bottom of it,” said Federica, rubbing her hands together energetically. “Besides, I've never liked that man. He's much too pleased with himself.”

Armel lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the warm air. She narrowed her eyes. “If Salazar killed my husband,” she said solemnly, “I will kill him.”

“There are ways to take revenge without resorting to violence,” said Federica seriously. “It is far harder to live with guilt than escape it through death.”

Celestria thought of Hamish and knew that was true. Did he often wish to escape? Is that why he spent so much time in the mausoleum, praying for death to unite them and rid him of his guilt? Was death the light behind the door?

 

That evening, as Celestria was changing for dinner, she heard the melancholy notes of the piano. She knew at once that it was Hamish. She hadn't seen him all day, in spite of having looked for him in every shadow. With growing disappointment she had sensed his pulling away. This was not the reaction to their kiss that she was expecting. With Hamish, there was no internal map to follow; she had only her instincts and the faith that they were destined to be together. She slipped into a pale blue dress and hurried down the corridor, her heart suspended until she knew whether or not he wanted her.

The sound grew louder as she turned the corner. There, amid the piles of books and the figurines his mother-in-law collected, he sat at the piano on a stool that was far too small for his long legs. She smiled tentatively and he smiled back, as if there had been nothing odd about his absence.

“Where have you been?” she asked, leaning on the piano lid. He continued to play.

“In my head, thinking of you,” he replied, and her stomach leapt with joy. He lowered his eyes, his fingers finding the chords with ease, and grew suddenly serious as his whole body moved with the music, now more dramatic.

“You're playing a sad tune,” she said.

“But I feel happy. You're right, music is a release. It penetrates the soul and relieves it of pain. It fills me up inside and makes me believe that anything is possible.” He closed his eyes and continued to play for a few minutes.

Suddenly he stopped, midphrase. “Come,” he said, rising from the piano and taking her hand. He led her down the corridor to the little stairs that took them up to his studio. The paint smelled fresh. She realized that this is where he had spent the day. She longed to see what he had done, but the easel was facing away from her.

He closed the door behind her, swung her around, and kissed her hungrily. She wound her arms around his neck, melting against his body, no longer feeling out of place. In the studio, with the window wide open to the soft evening sunlight and calm sea, there was no darkness for him to hide in, no night to blame for his rashness, no moon to fabricate a magical limbo in which reality is suspended. He kissed her honestly and openly and without regret.

Celestria no longer compared him with other men she had kissed; there was no comparison. He was a different beast, as removed from the London food chain as it was possible for him to be. And there, in the succulent, pine-scented air of Italy, she, too, felt removed from all that she had left behind.

“You're an angel, Celestria, come to drag me out of myself. I misjudged you. I see that now.” He nuzzled his face in her hair. “I need you.”

“And I need you, too,” she conceded.

“Let's not dwell on the past. It's time to let it go.”

“If that is what you want.”

“It is what I want. I want you and I to start afresh. I want you to forget that I ever shouted at you. And I want to forget, too.”

Celestria longed to ask him about Natalia. She wanted to know how she died, why he felt such guilt. But she knew not to push him. If he wanted to tell her, he would, in his own time. For now, she was content just to be with him, even though she sensed that those two candles burned brighter than ever in the mausoleum across the road, unwilling to be ignored.

 

That night, after dinner, they sneaked out to light a fire on the beach in the little bay that had captured her heart that first day. It was sheltered against the cliffs like a haven from the rest of the world, big enough only for two people and the dance they made together. The light of the moon bounced off the ripples on the sea, and the fire crackled and burned, sending sparks into the damp and salty air.

“I'm sure living by the sea does my leg no good at all,” he said, holding her close as they moved slowly across the stones. “I should have remained in the highlands.”

“Why do you stay here?”

He shrugged. “Because my past is here.”

“But your past is sad. Why don't you move away? Start again. Leave it all behind.”

He looked down at her, his eyes tender and full of affection. “Because I love it. I love the sounds, the smells, the peace. It has a deep magic embedded in the soil that holds me to it.” He turned his gaze out to sea and frowned. “I could never leave it.”

“You said I was your angel to take you out of yourself. Perhaps I'm your angel to take you away from all this.”

He grinned at her and stroked her cheek with his fingers. “Perhaps, but I'd always come back.”

“You don't miss Scotland?”

“Not at all.”

“You don't feel the desire to go back, ever?”

“There is nothing in the world that would make me go back there. All the happiness I have ever known is here. I lost it for a while, but you've brought happiness back into my life. You brought it here, and here it will stay.” His smile faded, and he grew suddenly serious, his eyes wandering over her features. “You know, I could love you,” he said in a very quiet voice. “I could love you very much.” Before she could dwell on the significance of his words, he kissed her again, and she forgot all about them, lost in the milky light of the Marelatte moon.

 

The following morning Celestria met Rosanna in the little church that stood next to the Convento, with Federica, Armel, Mrs. Waynebridge, and Nuzzo. The daily Mass had been celebrated. The priest had retired. Only the candles remained lit on the altar, representing whispered prayers and solemn wishes, flickering among the spirits who hovered about to gather them. Celestria followed them down the aisle of simple wooden chairs, her espadrilles padding softly across the mosaic floor that depicted, surprisingly, the signs of the zodiac. She crossed herself before the altar and lit a candle. She thought of her father and mumbled a prayer: that his spirit rest in peace, wherever it was. Glancing to her right, she noticed Armel do the same, but her eyes filled with tears that squeezed out between her lashes when she closed them.

They sat in a small chapel that was separated from the rest of the church by a black railing and gate. The altar was covered in a white cloth, on top of which were placed two fat ivory candles and a large silver platter beneath a marble statue of Christ on the cross. She wondered what Father Dalgliesh would make of their plotting in God's house and felt a stab of guilt as she recalled the moment she had compromised him as well as herself. However, she hadn't time to dwell on Pendrift, for Rosanna appeared at the gate, dressed in black, with a black lace shawl draped over her head, hiding her face. She appeared nervous, hunching her shoulders, darting her head from side to side like a bird to check that she was not being watched. Nuzzo sprang to his feet and took her hand, introducing her to Armel and Celestria. Rosanna's hand was small but soft, with neatly manicured nails. She did not lift her veil, but sat down beside her brother, interlocking her fingers in her lap.

Federica did most of the talking. Armel's Italian seemed flawless, and she interrupted Federica every now and then in a loud hiss, gesticulating wildly, unable to hide her fury or her grief. Celestria noticed Mrs. Waynebridge's attention was permanently focused on Nuzzo. His face was mischievous, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion and place, as if it cost him to be serious.

Mrs. Waynebridge had changed, Celestria observed. Nuzzo had given her back her youth, her independence, and her spirit of adventure. Celestria had rarely seen her since they arrived. She spent the days out exploring the countryside with Nuzzo in his horse-drawn cart, returning with an enlarged vocabulary of Italian words and more flowers to press in her book. She looked so much lighter now she was no longer weighed down by apprehension, and the twinkle from Nuzzo's eyes was now reflected in hers.

Federica began explaining Benedict's and Monty's deaths and how they connected to Salazar. Rosanna listened, saying nothing, her large eyes blinking behind her veil. Then Nuzzo said his bit, his voice persuasive and beseeching. He raised his palms to the sky, shrugged, pulled faces that were intended to look sad, but still his mouth turned up at the corners. Finally, there was silence. They all looked at one another. Celestria was afraid that she wouldn't help. She seemed far too timid.

Slowly she raised her hands to her veil and lifted it. Beneath the disguise her face was the color of
caffé latte,
with thick eyebrows and long, glossy lashes around big brown eyes. Her lips were sensual and bow shaped, enhanced by the red lipstick she had carefully applied to match her fingernails. Her face was full and soft, and it was clear from her compassionate expression that she was moved by their story and fearful of her lover. Celestria could deduce from the urgency of her voice that she was giving them vital information. Rosanna then replaced the veil and stood before the altar, crossing herself. In a blink she was gone, like a bird flying off into the shadows.

The small group left ten minutes later and congregated in the Convento, where Federica debriefed Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge. “She took a little persuading. She is afraid; Salazar is a dangerous man. However, she has agreed to help us. She meets him in a little house in Castellino. You and Armel must be there at five o'clock this evening. I will send Hamish with you. He is a big man. Salazar would not want to get into a fight with him.”