Summer at the Lake (22 page)

‘You know the song?’ Angelo asked, blowing a long stream of smoke into the air.

She nodded.

‘You like it?’

‘Very much.’ And deciding to cut herself loose once and for all from the immature Esme of her childhood, she said boldly, ‘Shall we join in and have a dance?’

To her surprise and embarrassment, he regarded her with a deeply saturnine air as if she could not have disappointed him more. Crossing one leg over the other while absently flicking ash from his cigarette onto the grass to his right, at the same time attracting the attention of a waiter, he said, ‘I would rather not.’ Then to the waiter now standing to attention by their table, he said, ‘
Due martini. Grazie.
’

When the waiter left them, and feeling deflated and almost in tears with humiliation, Esme said petulantly, ‘I might have liked to choose my own drink; I’m not a child.’

Angelo’s jaw tightened and he stubbed his cigarette out with considerable force, even though it was only half smoked. ‘
Scusa
, I was forgetting my manners, of course I should have asked you what you wanted, after all, you are the independent and sophisticated young woman.’ His tone could not have been more sarcastic or cutting.

Too stung to respond, Esme watched him fiddle with his packet of cigarettes, lining it up against the small silver lighter that was engraved with his initials. An eternity seemed to pass before he raised his gaze and, seeming to have regained a more insouciant manner, he said, ‘I’m sorry, but I think it is not the cocktail that has made you cross, is it? Is it because I refused to dance with you?’ He put a hand on her wrist and stroked it with one of his fingers. ‘Is that it,
tesoro
?’

So much for shaking off her childish self! Now Esme felt infinitely more immature and about as sophisticated as a wet sock.

When she didn’t reply, he stared at her with patent intent and leaning in close, he pressed his lips very lightly against hers, then slowly increased the pressure, in the same way he had increased the pressure of his hand around her waist on the boat earlier.

Her first kiss, she thought as she melted against the warmth of his mouth and tasted the bitter tang of tobacco on his breath. Remember this moment, she told herself, remember the smell of his cologne, the feel of his rough chin grazing her mouth, the firmness of his lips. Remember it all!

With her eyes closed in rapture and wonder, and her mind racing to capture the experience, she almost missed the moment when Angelo pulled away. It was the band striking up with their next song and adopting a change of tempo, causing a delighted cheer to go round the garden, that brought her to her senses with a sharp and embarrassing jolt.

What a strange day this was turning into, she thought when she tried to think how she felt about Angelo kissing her. But there was no time to measure her reaction, for their drinks arrived and after the waiter had left them, Angelo was raising his glass to her.

‘
A te
, Esme,’ he said, ‘may you always be as
carina
and may you never forget your summer here at the lake.’

‘I won’t,’ she said, chinking her glass against his, her composure very nearly restored. She took a fortifying sip of the drink, enjoying its cool dry flavour and the warmth that then spread to her throat. ‘As good as the ones I had in Venice,’ she declared, deliberately trying to show Angelo she wasn’t as naive or inexperienced as he thought. ‘How did your meeting go?’ she asked.

‘
Bene
,’ he said lightly, his hand reaching for his cigarette packet and fiddling with it again.

‘No problems, then?’

He shook his head and took another sip of his martini. ‘
Tutto a posto
. All is in order.’

As the music played on and people danced with ever more carefree enjoyment, Esme remembered Angelo’s briefcase and, seeing it close to his chair, she suddenly understood why he wouldn’t dance with her: he couldn’t leave the case unattended when it was full of money, could he?

The realisation instantly lifted her spirits, and scolding herself for thinking the worst, that he had deliberately and cruelly snubbed her, she said, ‘Perhaps we could go dancing together another time?’

He smiled broadly. ‘
Sì
, I would like that. It is just that today I am not in the mood to dance.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said airily. ‘I quite understand.’ And without meaning to, her glance dropped to the ground where his briefcase lay. His reaction was to tuck it further under the table completely out of sight.

Out of sight was what Angelo became in the following week, but he was far from being out of Esme’s thoughts.

Her father clearly suspected this and as they relaxed on the terrace, he looked up from the book he was reading and repeated the question he had asked her last night, a question she had hoped she’d answered sufficiently well to satisfy him. It appeared she had failed in that.

‘You’re absolutely sure you’re not bored, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Only you’ve been very quiet since Monday when Angelo went back to Milan. I suppose it was much livelier here for you having him around. He’s a . . . a very compelling young man.’

Watching Alberto dead-heading the roses at the far end of the terrace, and all too aware that her father had chosen his words with considerable care, she said, ‘I’m perfectly happy, you really don’t need to worry about me.’

‘But I do, Esme, your happiness is of paramount importance to me.’

‘As yours is to me,’ she said, turning away from Alberto to look at her father. ‘What shall we do today?’ she asked, changing the subject.

He drank the last of the strong black coffee which he had grown so fond of since coming to Italy. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘Do you want to paint? You still have that portrait of the Kelly-Webbs to finish.’ So pleased had the honeymoon couple been with the picture of the lake William had sold them, they had implored him to paint another, this time a picture of the two of them with the Hotel Margherita in the background. ‘It will be something for our grandchildren to remember us by,’ they had joked.

‘I asked what
you
would like to do,’ her father said. ‘As for the Kelly-Webbs, they’ve extended their stay by another week so there’s no hurry. Actually, what I should like to do is paint you.’

‘Again?’

He smiled, making the lines at the corners of his eyes in his tanned face – caused by squinting into the sun while painting – deepen. ‘You’re changing on a daily basis and I want to capture this latest change in you.’

Without asking him what change it was he could see in her, she said, ‘Then seeing as we plan to go to Varenna tomorrow, let’s do it today since everyone else has gone out for the day and we have the place more or less to ourselves.’ Even Angelo’s mother, Giulia Bassani, had disappeared first thing that morning for the day, something she hadn’t done in all the time Esme and her father had been here.

After she had changed into a prettier dress than the one she had previously been wearing, Esme took up her position in the leafy shade of the chestnut tree, which her father had selected as the ideal location for the picture. While she made herself comfortable, she fondly watched him set up his easel and methodically lay out his brushes and paints on the wooden table placed to his right.

Settled now with her hands decorously placed in her lap, Esme considered how blessed she was to be here with her father in this wonderful place. Was it terribly wrong of her to be glad her mother had died? It was not a thought she would ever utter aloud, but one thing she knew with resolute certainty: if her mother were still alive, she would not be here experiencing this enchanting place. Nor would she and her father have become as close and as intuitively in step as they were now.

She closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander to Angelo. During dinner last night Giulia Bassani had said that he had telephoned to say he wouldn’t be returning to the lake for the weekend as he’d hoped he would. Esme had tried not to show her disappointment and later in bed she had comforted herself with the thought that Angelo would surely return the following week. She had then indulged herself in imagining all sorts of romantic possibilities and scenarios for his next visit.

‘I had rather hoped to paint you wide awake, Esme.’

She flicked her eyes open. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away.’

Her father raised an eyebrow at her. ‘I can’t think where.’

Minutes passed, during which Esme followed her father’s instruction and tilted her head so that the light filtering through the canopy of leaves and branches of the tree fell in exactly the right place. She never minded posing for her father; she enjoyed the quiet time it gave them together. It also gave her the opportunity to daydream unashamedly of Angelo. Yet her thoughts about him were mixed, coloured by their outing to Bellagio and the scene she had witnessed between him and those sinister men in the alleyway. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, because what was there to say, other than she had observed a mysterious transaction of money? What business was it of hers what Angelo got up to?

‘You’ve moved your head,’ her father said, when he’d been painting for a while. ‘More to the right, please. That’s better. You’re thinking of Angelo, aren’t you?’

‘I was thinking of my trip to Bellagio with him,’ she said with partial honesty. ‘You and I must go there together,’ she added. ‘You’d like it.’

‘I’m sure I would.’ He paused, removed his gaze from the canvas in front of him, wiped his paintbrush on a bit of cloth, then looked directly at her. ‘Will you promise me something?’

‘I’ll do my best. What is it?’

‘I know that Angelo has had a great effect on you, but please don’t let him change you too much.’

‘If I’m changing, Father,’ she said, choosing her words with care, ‘it’s because I’m growing up.’

‘I’m aware of that, just so long as you don’t do it too fast.’

‘Meaning I must take care with Angelo?’

His brows drawn, his lips pursed as he selected a tube of paint from his box, he said, ‘Yes, I believe you should.’

‘You don’t approve of him, do you?’

‘Let’s just say I would want to know him a lot better before I trusted him completely, especially with something as precious as my daughter.’

Esme was about to ask why her father felt the way he did, when her attention was distracted by the appearance of a figure up on the terrace. It was a figure that was vaguely familiar. But surely she was mistaken? Turning her head to get a better look and ignoring her father’s protestations, she saw that she was indeed correct. ‘It’s Elizabeth St John!’ she cried. ‘Look, there on the terrace.’

‘Good God, so it is.’

‘My dear, this is just too thrilling! I remembered you saying you hoped to come to the lake, but I had no idea where you planned to stay. But fate has brought us together again. How simply marvellous!’

‘It’s good to see you again, Mrs St John,’ Esme said, and meant it. There had always been something wonderfully refreshing and engaging about their jolly friend from Rome. Even so, and fearing the woman’s voice could be heard on the far side of the lake, she was glad there were no other guests around to be disturbed. Besides Elena in the kitchen, Maria their waitress who had laid a table for three for lunch and Alberto and his grandson Cesare who had carried the woman’s things up to her room, the hotel was still deserted.

Grabbing hold of Esme’s hand, the woman said, ‘I’ve told you before; you must call me Elizabeth. I don’t want any formality between us. Now where has your father got to? Such a dear sweet man. He’s looking well; the lake obviously suits him. How tanned he is!’

Smiling to herself, and picturing her father fending off Elizabeth’s attention in the coming days, Esme said, ‘He’s putting his painting things away. He’ll be back any minute for lunch. How long do you plan to stay?’

‘Heavens! I’ve only just arrived and already you’re trying to get rid of me!’

Esme laughed. ‘Not at all. It’s going to be lovely having you here with us.’

‘That’s more like it. Now tell me everything. How was Florence and what did you think of Venice? And what about the other guests here? Please tell me they’re more fun than that stuffy lot in Rome. Goodness, one can do without another mob of that order! And have you fallen in love with a beautiful Adonis yet? I so hope you have.’

Seeing her father emerging through open French doors behind them, Esme said, ‘There is somebody, but I’ll tell you about him later.’

Grabbing hold of Esme’s hand again, this time clutching it to her cushiony bosom, she said, ‘How splendidly thrilling, my dear, I can’t wait to hear about him!’

Elizabeth St John wasn’t the only surprise arrival at Hotel Margherita that day.

Already dressed for dinner that evening and making her way downstairs with her father, and Elizabeth who would be joining them, she heard voices, one of which belonged to Giulia Bassani. She was speaking in Italian and so fast Esme had difficulty in understanding her. But when she descended the final flight of stairs that led directly to the tiled hallway, her heart gave a little leap.

But how different he looked compared to the last time she had seen him. The transformation was shocking. Shoulders hunched, his face pale and gaunt, dark shadowy arcs beneath his eyes, he looked alarmingly unwell. A handkerchief pressed to his mouth, he coughed and as though the effort was too much, his body sagged and he dropped into the nearest chair; Giulia Bassani was immediately at his side. Caught between wanting to know what was wrong with him, but feeling she was intruding, Esme didn’t know what to do. But then he raised his head and spotted her.

And again, her heart gave another leap as her gaze connected with that of Marco Bassani.

It was early in the afternoon and the doctor from Menaggio – a personal friend of the Bassani family – had been and gone.

It was his third visit to check on Marco since he arrived four days ago from Venice with his aunt. The diagnosis was chronic bronchitis and instructions had been given that his patient was to be confined to bed in a well-ventilated room with regular steam inhalations given, poultices applied to his chest and medicine taken three times a day to ease his cough. A light diet was advised and only when Dottor Romano permitted it would Marco be allowed to venture outdoors.