Sea of Lost Love (38 page)

“What's on your mind, Hamish?” Leopoldo asked gruffly, rubbing his bristly chin. “Your eye hasn't been on the game tonight.”

“It's love,” said Vitalino with a smirk. “Another drink to drown your sorrow, friend?”

“I have no sorrow,” Hamish replied, smiling devilishly. “I'll outwit you all, you'll see!”

“You think your luck's in?” Manfredo teased. “You've lost every game so far!” He caught his father's eye and shrugged.

“Can't you see he's shaved his face? Only a woman could do that to a man. It's a tragedy, it really is.” Vitalino laughed, shaking his head. “His eye's not on the game because his mind is on a beautiful angel of a woman.”

“If she can make you shave, how much lower can she drag you?” Leopoldo growled.

Hamish laughed, throwing his head back like a shaggy lion, but inside he was riddled with doubt. “She has the power to do anything she chooses,” he said, giving in.

“Even take you away from us?” Vitalino ventured. His smile sat uneasily on his face. “She wouldn't do that, surely?”

“Would you miss me?” Hamish joked, slapping him on the back.

They all laughed, but Hamish remembered his promise to Celestria with foreboding. He belonged in Marelatte.

He left the bar with Vitalino. The rain had stopped, leaving the wet earth sugar-scented and glittering. The clouds had drifted out to sea, exposing a great black hole in the sky studded with stars, and there, shining in the midst of such splendor, was the moon. Hamish knew that that moon would always make him think of Celestria.

“I'm going crazy,” he confided to his friend. “Marelatte seems incomplete without her.”

Vitalino chuckled. “
You
seem incomplete without her.”

“I'm afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“That I didn't give her a good enough reason to come back.”

“Aren't
you
a good enough reason?”

“I should have told her how I feel.”

“Didn't you? Women need to know.” Vitalino considered himself an expert.

“Not enough.”

“Women need a bit of poetry. You've lived here…how long? And you still haven't picked up the Italian way of wooing women? It's all in the words and the way they're spoken. That's why the Italians are the best lovers in the world. We're famous for it. You're too economical with your words, that's the problem. Perhaps it's because you are Scottish. But trust me, women like it laid on with a trowel.”

“You talk a lot of shit, Vitalino.”

“It's shit that works.” He puffed out his chest, but Hamish still dwarfed him. “So you think she'll return to her world and forget about you?”

“Yes.” Hamish's voice cracked. “It's only when they leave you that you realize how much they mean to you.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. If she loves you, she'll come back.”

“She's very young. The young are fickle.”

“They also love with passion.”

Hamish smiled, recalling the times they had made love on the slope above the old fortress. “That is true.” He turned to his friend and shook his head apologetically. “I'm doubting myself. I've found someone special. I'm terrified of losing her.”

“I understand. I envy you. No sooner have I settled my heart on one woman than another steals it away. I spend my life chasing it around town!” They both laughed. Vitalino noticed that Hamish walked without his stick. “Where's the old man's wand?” he asked.

“Don't need it,” Hamish replied.

“I'd get it back if I were you. Women are suckers for a vulnerable man.”

“I can't. Saverio's wife has flown off on it!”

Vitalino chuckled affectionately. “You might have lost your heart, but at least you haven't lost your sense of humor!”

T
he day of Richard W. Bancroft II's funeral it rained. The sky was heavy with thick gray clouds and drizzle that fell without pause. The countryside looked bleak. The trees were shedding their leaves, and the sodden ground was covered with rotting foliage. But on her lapel, Pamela's diamond stars shone as if they contained rainbows.

The funeral took place in a cold stone church in the nearby village. Pamela had organized flowers, but still the church looked austere. Everyone from the estate attended, and many people from the town, even though they had never met the eccentric American who owned the big castle but rarely visited. Neighboring gentry, with whom he had shot grouse and stalked deer over the years, stepped out of shiny cars in black hats and suits to say farewell to a man whose large but rare presence had nonetheless left a big indentation in their world. Harry comforted his grandmother, who had flown over from America. Pamela assured her father in her prayers that she would give him a big memorial service in New York, where he would be remembered in a way that was more fitting than this miserable place. But her father was now in spirit and no longer cared about such earthly trifles.

To Celestria's delight and surprise, Lotty and Francis attended. Pamela greeted them warmly, determined to be a good person, especially in God's own house. The cousins embraced, realizing that they now had more in common than they ever had. Lotty showed off the small engagement ring she wore alongside her gold wedding ring.

“We married two days ago in Kent,” she said. “It was small but utterly beautiful. Mummy and Daddy didn't come, which was their choice, but David and Melissa did. Oh, Celestria, I'm so happy!”

“How is Melissa?”

“If you're wondering whether she and Rafferty are going to follow in my footsteps, I'm afraid Melissa has backed out.”

“The romance is over?”

“She's buckled under the pressure.”

“Aunt Penelope?”

Lotty nodded. “She was always going to do the right thing.”

“Not necessarily,” Celestria said with a smirk. “There's still plenty of time for her to do the wrong thing.”

“I've missed your barbed sense of humor, Celestria. I feel we've been apart for a very long time,” said Lotty. They sat together in the pew, and Lotty held her hand.

Back at the castle they drank cups of tea and shared stories. Lotty was delighted that Celestria had also broken away from convention. “It makes me feel better that I'm not the only rebel in the family,” she said.

“They didn't expect it of you,” said Celestria. “You were Miss Goody Two-shoes. I was always going to do something rash.”

“Like marrying a prince or a duke. No one expected you to fall in love with a penniless artist, like I did.”

“Mama still hasn't got over it. She's appalled. What is it about our family?”

“It's not
our
family; it's
your
father. If he hadn't died, I would never have been bold enough to run off with Francis. Uncle Monty's death taught me that life is short and precious and that one should seize the day. I'm so happy that I followed my heart and not your advice. Eddie Richmond could never have made me happy.”

“Aidan Cooney could never have made me happy, either,” Celestria agreed. “I created a few ripples there, I can tell you. I hope he forgives me one day.”

Lotty leaned forward. “Tell me, Celestria. What is Hamish like?”

“He's like no one else,” she replied. “Grandpa would have approved!”

 

Pamela sat in her father's library, in the worn leather chair he must have sat in after dinner to smoke a cigar beside the fire, and contemplated her life. Celestria's decision to return to Italy to marry a man who had been married before had come as a great disappointment. She should have followed her mother's advice and married Aidan, but she'd find that out later. Pamela always knew best. At least Harry hadn't flown the nest. He was a sensible boy, right at the very top of the food chain, like his father.

While she was ruminating, she noticed a small pile of letters on the desk. She stood up and walked over with the intention of throwing it all into the fire. However, an envelope, addressed to her father in Celestria's handwriting, caught her attention. She picked it up and looked at it for a long moment. Her daughter hadn't bothered to write to
her
from Italy. She felt mildly offended and turned it over, sticking her nail into the fold to open it. As she did so, she was suddenly aware of her error. She was, after all, trying to be a good person. The letter was not addressed to her; it was none of her business. She heaved a sigh, her curiosity mounting with her frustration. I bet she told him all about this Harry McCloud character, she thought crossly. She tapped the letter on the palm of hand, deliberating what to do, struggling between the bad person she was and the good person she longed to be.

She raised her eyes to the fire that flickered in the grate. “God,” she said in frustration. “It's so bloody difficult being good.” She strode over to the fireplace, longing just to take a peek at the first few lines. Celestria would never know, and she was her mother, after all. But God would know. She sighed again and shook her head. “This better get me to heaven,” she said, looking up to the ceiling. Closing her eyes, she threw the letter into the fire and watched the flames consume it. Feeling virtuous, she returned to the reception. Now I have to celebrate my daughter's decision to marry McCloud, she thought to herself. Then, as an afterthought, she muttered, “With this one, God, you just might be pushing your luck!”

Pamela wandered back into the hall to find a large bear of a man standing dripping wet on the rug. His hair was long, his skin brown, his clothes shabby. On his feet were light summer shoes, impractical for Scotland and splattered with paint. She looked horrified and stopped a good distance away, in case he was a tramp who had found his way in uninvited.

“Who are you?” she demanded, looking him up and down with distaste.

“Never mind,” he growled, turning his attention to the drawing room, from where the drone of voices drifted out on the smoke-filled air.

“You can't go in there!” she exclaimed. “Good Lord!” At that, he turned and stared at her, narrowing his eyes. A glint of recognition lit up his face and he smiled in amusement. Pamela was startled by the sudden transformation, and felt the color rise in her cheeks. His smile had the devil's charm. She crossed herself. “Don't be alarmed,” he said. “I've come for Celestria.”

“My daughter?” she gasped. “You've come…for Celestria?” Pamela felt faint. The devil himself had come to carry off her child.

“The name's Hamish McCloud.”

Celestria was still sitting on the sofa with Lotty when Hamish's unruly presence filled the doorway. She stopped midsentence, sensing a change in the air. Lotty looked past her to the door, and her jaw dropped. She gasped. “Who is he?” Celestria felt her heart stumble even before she turned to look. Scarcely daring to hope, she turned around. She saw him before he saw her. He was searching the room, a deep frown lining his brow. Her heart flooded with joy and compassion; he looked so out of place, standing there in his odd clothes, among funeral guests dressed in their very best. She stood up. He saw her at last, and his expression softened and a wide, infectious smile flowered upon his face. With outstretched arms he strode through the throng of people, who parted in bewilderment to let him through.

“You've come for me,” she gasped, allowing him to wrap his arms around her, sweeping her off the ground so her black heels hung suspended in the air. She raised the veil pinned to her hat and pressed her lips to his. The smell of him brought back all that was good about Marelatte. She closed her eyes and felt the tide moving slowly within him, pulling her back to the old fortress, the little bay, and that special place beneath the gnarled evergreen tree.

“You've come to take me back,” she murmured happily.

“No, I've come to be with you.”

She drew away and stared at him in disbelief. “You'll stay here for me?”

“I love you, Celestria. I just want to be with you. I no longer care where that takes me. I just want to make you happy. You see, your happiness is intertwined with mine.”

She saw in his eyes something fresh and new, like the sparkling blue sky the morning after a storm. “I thought you said you'd never leave Marelatte?”

“Only you could make me leave.”

Pamela stood in the doorway, staring at them with the same bewilderment as the rest of the guests. A hush had fallen over the room, and a brightness had filled it, as if the sun had finally come out and tumbled through the windows. Yet outside, it was still raining. So this was the man who had stolen her daughter's heart. She sighed, gazing at the strange, golden light. He wouldn't have been her personal choice, but, she conceded, sensing the loving presence of a spirit, her father would have approved.

“Let's go home,” Celestria said, her feet touching the ground again.

“And where would that be?” Hamish asked, taking her hand.

“Marelatte,” she replied nonchalantly, watching for his reaction.

He looked astonished. “Marelatte?”

“Yes. We belong there with all the memories, good and bad.”

“You mean that?” The happiness on his face filled her with joy. “I'm not making a sacrifice, Hamish. I want to belong there. I want to raise our children on that pebble beach. I want to show them that vast mozzarella of a moon. You said our happiness is intertwined. Then Marelatte is where we both belong.”

“Then you'll marry me in the church beside the Convento?”

“Waynie can be my bridesmaid,” she replied with a mischievous laugh. They stopped in front of Pamela, who still looked like she had just met the devil. “The name's Hamish McCloud,” he repeated, extending his hand. “We haven't been properly introduced.”

 

Pamela liked Puglia. The journey had been long, and Gaitano's Lancia Flaminia could have done with a good cleaning. But the weather was warm, the Convento enchanting, though rustic, and the wedding one that neither she nor Harry would have missed in a million years. Celestria looked as beautiful as Pamela had on her own wedding day, even though her dress had a rather homemade charm about it, having been made locally. She found Hamish a little alarming, but he made her laugh, which she hadn't done in a while, and he made Celestria happy, which was the most important thing. Her daughter might have saved Pendrift, but she hadn't given away all her inheritance. It was terribly romantic to be married to a painter, but his forthcoming exhibition in Venice might not lead to anything, and the two of them needed to live. Though, judging by the simplicity of their life in Marelatte, they wouldn't need much.

She visited the city of the dead on the suggestion of that eccentric lady, Mrs. Halifax. The place smelled of pine and melting wax and was very peaceful. She was pleased to feel God in the narrow avenues of stone crypts and surprised by the warm allure of the place. She came across a crypt that was set apart from the others and climbed the stairs to take a look inside. There was a small altar and two candles, whose flames had not been lit in a while. Although pretty, the place felt empty and smelled of damp. She turned to the stone tomb that depicted a vine heavy with grapes. It made her think of fertility and immortality.

 

Celestria and Hamish sat alone on the bank above the old fortress, gazing over the sea that stretched out before them, as they would do in the many years to come. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he held her hand in his, toying with the simple gold ring that she now wore on her finger to symbolize a bond that would never break. They said nothing. Words were superfluous when their hearts were so full.

A bright crescent moon rose into the darkening sky. It didn't matter that it wasn't full; there would be many more full moons above Marelatte. Celestria closed her eyes and let him wrap his arms around her, knowing that at last she had come home. Home was where he was.