Summer at the Lake (49 page)

‘You’ve become distant with me. It’s because of Seb, isn’t it?’

He swallowed. He should have known that once he referred to the elephant in the room, even under the guise of an innocent query, Floriana would seize on it and answer with unnerving directness. ‘I was thinking the same about you,’ he said. ‘That you’ve been distant with me.’

‘And why would you think that?’

‘Because, without putting too fine a point on it, you’re the reason your friend abandoned his wedding.’

‘Are you saying I’m to blame?’

‘No. But it’s the consequences. I . . . I saw the two of you in the garden the other night and . . .’ He stopped himself from going any further; to do so would reveal just how pitifully jealous he was. He’d tried not to give in to it, he really had, but it had got hold of him and wouldn’t let go. Especially after he’d seen the two of them in the very same spot where he and Floriana had sat. The extent of his jealousy had brought him up short and made him realise the depths of his feelings for Floriana, that he had fallen in love with her. But what use was that when he knew he couldn’t compete with Seb?

‘And what exactly did you see, Adam?’ asked Floriana. Her voice was tight with recrimination.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Forget I said anything.’

He waited for her to say something and when she didn’t, he leant forward and peered round to her side of the pillar. She wasn’t there.

‘I knew this would happen.’

He turned on his heel and found her standing behind him. ‘You knew what would happen?’ he asked.

‘That Seb would ruin things between us.’

‘And has he?’

She gave him a long unsettling stare. ‘Only if you let it, Adam.’

‘You don’t think you need me to step back, to give you space to decide what you want to do?’

‘You think I don’t know what I want?’

‘I think you need to be sure,’ he said carefully. ‘I don’t want there to be any confusion. Nor do I want to get in the way of you making a reasoned decision.’

She frowned. ‘Sometimes reason doesn’t come in to it. You just know when a thing is right.’

‘Or sometimes emotions get in the way and—’ He broke off abruptly; his mobile was ringing in his pocket.
Damn!
Of all the times.

‘Go on,’ she said with a small sigh. ‘I can wait.’

Esme spotted him straight away. One look at the smartly dressed man walking purposely across the piazza in the blindingly bright sunshine, weaving his way through the crowds, and she knew at once that it was Marco.

Not because he was instantly recognisable to her, but because he walked with such deliberate intention, and directly towards her. Though, of course, what he was really doing was merely aiming for the bell tower.

She had half expected him to be dressed as a priest – not in full robes, but in a black suit with a clerical collar. He was actually wearing taupe trousers, chestnut-brown loafers, a cream polo shirt and a navy-blue sweater draped over his shoulders, the sleeves loosely tied at his chest. Tucked under one arm, he carried a slim wallet-style briefcase. His hair was salt-and-pepper grey but was still thick and abundant. He looked effortlessly suave, effortlessly Italian. In old age, as in his youth, his appearance was startlingly arresting, the passing of years and the acquisition of lines and wrinkles had done nothing to diminish it. He looked so very at ease.

In contrast, Esme felt flustered and full of nerves – just as she had as a young girl. She wished she could freshen her make-up with a dab of powder from her compact; she was perspiring like mad in the baking heat. ‘How do I look?’ she had asked Floriana earlier when she had been patting her hair into place for the hundredth time.

‘As elegantly composed as you always do,’ the dear girl had responded with a hug. ‘You’ll knock him for six!’

‘That’s hardly my intention, but thank you for your vote of confidence.’

He was a few yards from her when his step faltered, then resumed pace. Convinced he was thinking what a ghastly old crone she had grown into, she took a deep breath and swallowed down her nerves.

‘Hello, Marco,’ she greeted him when he was standing directly in front of her. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘My God,’ he murmured, as though not quite believing his own eyes. ‘It really is you, Esme. It
is
unmistakably you.’ He stooped to kiss her on the cheek, first her right, then her left. Standing back, he shook his head. ‘It doesn’t seem possible. All these years and here we are again. It’s incredible!’

‘And how very clever of you to suggest to Adam that we meet where we first saw each other.’

‘Forgive an old man a moment of theatrical sentimentality, but I could not resist it.’

‘I’m astonished that you remembered.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘
Cara
, how could I have forgotten? I can see you now, spinning around in your red skirt. Such a sight it was!’ He offered his arm to her. ‘Come, let us go for lunch, I have a table booked.’

And just like that, she found herself being propelled back in time to when she and Marco were young and had their whole lives before them.

Yet how could it be as simple as this, Esme thought when they had walked the short distance from the piazza to the welcome cool shade of the Calle Vallaresso and were settled at a table in Harry’s Bar.

After all these years, it defied belief that they could be sitting down for lunch as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the years had melted away and they’d been doing this all their lives. Indeed, a stranger observing them might even mistake them for an elderly married couple as they sat side by side on a comfortable banquette at a corner table – a table that was positioned so they faced out towards the other diners. At least they would have something to look at should they run out of conversation, she thought. Although she doubted that would be the case, now that she was with Marco.

While he chatted to a waiter – they clearly knew each other – Esme recalled the times she and her father had eaten here during their brief stay in Venice. On one occasion there had been a tremendous stir of excitement amongst the diners when word went round that Sophia Loren would be making an appearance. Much to her father’s disappointment, the great actress hadn’t materialised. Looking about her, Esme thought how extraordinary it was that the place seemed just the same, as though nothing had changed. The tables and chairs were the same, as was the decor. Or was she imagining that?

Breaking off from his conversation with the waiter, Marco turned to Esme. ‘What would you like to drink? A Bellini?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll have a vodka martini, please. With a twist of lemon.’

With a slight lifting of an eyebrow that was much darker than his hair and gave his expression extra definition, he said, ‘An excellent idea, I will have the same.
Due
,’ he instructed the waiter.

‘
Allora
,’ he said, when they were alone. ‘Where do we start in trying to catch up?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said cautiously, a thousand questions on her tongue hovering to take flight, ‘I should say I know about your cousin Angelo and how he died.’

He looked surprised. ‘How do you know this?’

‘It’s a long story, but my friends and I met Maria a few days ago. Do you remember her? She was the young waitress at your aunt’s hotel. She lives in Bellagio.’

Marco nodded, his expression suddenly grave. ‘Yes, of course I remember her. Did she tell you about her brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor Maria, she was so very angry with my cousin for what he did.’

Reluctant to waste any more time discussing Angelo, Esme changed the subject. ‘But what about you, tell me about your life as a priest. Are you still a priest? You don’t look like one. I don’t mean that as a criticism.’

His face softened with a smile. ‘I was a parish priest for over twenty-five years, then something changed in me and no matter how hard I tried to resist the doubts, I could not do so. I lived this way for nearly two years.’

‘Did you experience a loss of faith?’

‘No, a loss of belief that I was doing what God really wanted of me. I felt I was being called to serve in a different way. Eventually I—’

He broke off, interrupted by their waiter appearing and setting their drinks on the table with an unhurried pedantic preciseness that made Esme want to slap his hand and hasten him away. When at last he’d left them alone, she urged Marco to continue. ‘Eventually you did what?’ she prompted.

‘After much searching of my soul, I left the Church and retrained to be a teacher. I taught English and History to high school children in Turin for nearly ten years until I was offered the chance to teach English here in Venice at the university. Naturally I retired a long time ago and now I live simply and quietly, filling my days reading and occasionally tutoring students in English.’

‘It’s ironic that you should end up here, a place Elena was convinced was so harmful for someone with a weak chest.’

‘Ah, yes, dear Elena, she was such a worrier. But as you can see, I have survived perfectly well.’

He picked up his glass. ‘A toast,’ he said, his blue eyes poignantly faded with age and fixed on hers, ‘to survival, and to you, Esme, for giving me this opportunity today to do something I should have done a long time ago, but which, to my shame, I never had the courage to do.’

‘But first, I want to hear all about you.’

‘Goodness,’ she said lightly after taking a sip of her drink, its distinctive glowing warmth spreading through her, ‘there’s so little to tell. I’ve had a very dull life really.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true, I cannot imagine the young girl I knew living a life that was not rich with love and happiness.’

She tutted. ‘Shame on you for trying to flatter an old lady.’

‘Not so,’ he said with a tender smile that was wholly reminiscent of the smile that had once melted her heart. ‘You married, surely?’

She shook her head.

‘
No?
’ His voice was as incredulous as the look on his face. ‘Does that mean there’s a string of broken-hearted men in England?’

‘It means we should order lunch now,’ she said crisply. She reached for her menu. ‘What do you recommend?’

He took his cue. ‘The
carpaccio
is always excellent, as is the
scampi all’Armoricaine
, and the
Cipriani risotto
. And please, do me the courtesy not to look at the prices, they are for my attention only.’

Registering that the cost for anything was eye-wateringly expensive, Esme remarked, ‘Presumably a retired teacher of English here in Venice exists on a good deal more than his counterpart in Britain.’

‘I doubt that, but as the last of the Bassani family, I inherited Hotel Margherita from my aunt Giulia on her death. It was impossible for me to continue running the hotel, and with no need of such a large house to live in, I sold it. I kept a portion of the proceeds and divided the rest between two children’s homes in Milan where I was then a priest. In general I live modestly, but an occasion as important as this warrants a little extravagance, does it not? Although it is reward enough for me to be here with you again, something I never dreamt would happen.’

She tutted once more. ‘There you go again with your flattery, you really must stop it.’

He merely smiled and acknowledged the approach of their waiter.

Their lunch order taken, Marco leant in a little closer to Esme. ‘You have cleverly distracted me enough,
cara
, now I want to learn more about you.’ He laid a warm smooth hand on top of hers. ‘I want to know what sort of life
you
have experienced.’

It was such a seemingly simple question, yet freighted with immense complexity if she were to be wholly honest with him. She didn’t doubt for a second that he had matured into a man of considerable intellect and to be anything other than candid with him would be an insult. ‘It would be fair to say that at my own choosing, I have lived a life of compromise,’ she said at length.

His lips pursed together, he nodded solemnly, waited for her to expand. When she had given him an edited potted history of her life in Oxford, he said, ‘I once had the opportunity to visit Oxford with a group of students, but sadly I was ill and could not accompany them. Just think, our paths might have crossed!’

‘But would we have recognised each other if we had passed in the street? I doubt it.’

His soft beguiling gaze fell on hers. ‘I would have known you anywhere.’

From nowhere, she was filled with a burning sensation deep within her and to her alarm, she felt herself blush. Ridiculous, she told herself. Perfectly ridiculous that she could still react this way! ‘You’re not going to say you recognised me instantly in the piazza, are you?’ she asked, willing her voice to remain steady.

‘Certainly I did. Did you not recognise me?’

‘I’ll concede to a degree of familiarity, but let’s not fool ourselves, we were each waiting to spot someone our own age who vaguely matched the image we had in mind.’

He laughed. ‘I give in; my foolish vanity is no match for your pragmatism! Unwisely I was hoping for a
piccolissima
admission from you that I was still the same Marco that loved you.’

Hearing him use the word love, she felt another absurd rush of heat spread through her. She tried to quench it with a sip of her vodka martini. ‘You know as well as I do,’ she said, ‘we are not the same people we once were. Thank God, I am far less naive than I was when I was a silly young girl who thought she knew it all.’

His pale blue eyes narrowed as he studied her face. ‘We were both naive,
cara
, but we knew one very important thing, and that was how we felt about each other.’

Their waiter materialising with their starters conveniently saved her from responding. Identical plates of the
carpaccio
were set before them with an extravagant flourish, which now – now that Esme had relaxed – she felt no inclination to hurry, appreciating instead that their dining experience came with a generous side order of theatrical show.

‘
Buon appetito
,’ Marco said when once more they were alone.