The Villa (11 page)

She started a slow breaststroke towards the rock islands. Tess did very little drifting – when she wasn’t in the sea. She worked hard; she’d even applied for promotion to supervisor at the water company last week – Janice was retiring and it had been suggested that Tess was her natural successor. It would mean a good pay rise and more leave. So, the job was OK; she got on well with all her colleagues – with the exception of Malcolm. And if sometimes she thought to herself,
I always wanted more from life than this
, she quashed it immediately and told herself to grow up. She had her health, she had Ginny, Muma and Dad, and she had a decent job.
Count your blessings, girl
…

Giovanni had touched on the subject of her plans for the villa over coffee. He had leaned back in his chair like the well-fed tiger that he probably was, lit a cigarette and said, ‘So, Tess, you will sell the villa, yes? You want to sell it as it is perhaps, or you want me to organise builders to sort the damp, to repaint, to fix up the place, before you put it on the market?’ His expression relaxed, but expectant.

Tess felt blown out with the food and wine and suddenly as if she had been primed for the kill. ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just arrived, remember.’

And after all, Giovanni may have provided her breakfast (and lunch), but what connection did he have with Villa Sirena and what did she know about him anyway? He had assured her that her mother’s family and his family had always been close, but she only had his word for that, didn’t she? She couldn’t help feeling that he was just a bit too eager to help out. Or was she – heaven forbid – indulging in some sort of Sicilian Paranoia Syndrome?

Giovanni remained unruffled, sleek as that big cat that kept appearing in her mind’s eye. ‘Of course, of course.’ He waved his cigarette in the air. ‘First you must take the holiday, mmm? Explore our wonderful west coast of Sicily. You must take your time. These things, yes, they take the time.’

If only she had more time …

Now that she was closer to them, Tess could see how fascinating the rock islands were – formations of brown, white and red-streaked granite that must once have been attached to the mainland of Sicily, she guessed. The bits thrusting out of the sea were pitted with cracks and crevices that housed succulent plants and herbs and had also become home to sea swallows and gulls. Maybe she’d hire some diving equipment and find out what was going on under the surface …

Tess trod water and chuckled to herself. She hadn’t been fooled by Giovanni. He had a vested interest – he was
probably hoping to make some money out of it, out of her. And why not? What did she care? He and his family had been kind, hospitable and helpful. So …

There was no one else in the sea. As far as she could see, she was alone in the ocean. How wonderful was that? Robin didn’t know what he was missing.

She turned around and began to swim to shore. The villa – her villa – stood imposing on the cliff, its sweeping, curving dusky-pink walls outlined against the azure sky. And yet … She did care. Already she felt a pull to the place. This landscape was, in some strange way, familiar. And unnerving. Had Edward Westerman known then how it would be? She closed her eyes again, feeling the tide gently pushing her to the shore. Caressing. Then a sudden sense of darkness. She opened her eyes.

Mosaic-man was standing on the shoreline, arms folded, scowling. If Giovanni was a tiger, Tess thought, then this man was a wild panther. Untameable. He was wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts. Bloody hell. What crime had she committed now?

Tess stood up in the water. Her hair was wet, her mascara must be smudged and she was feeling at her least elegant. But what could she do? He was clearly waiting for her.

‘
Ciao
,’ he said, as, predictably, she stumbled on the slippery stones.

He held out a hand. She eyed it cautiously. An artist’s hand. Long, tapering fingers, nails cut straight across, a narrow-boned wrist … But she grabbed hold anyway, and he
escorted her across the pebbles towards the stone wall by the jetty where she’d left her towel. He was just an inch or so taller than Tess, she estimated. He passed her the towel, grazing her bare shoulder with his hand as he did so.

Had he had a personality transplant? ‘
Grazie
,’ she said.

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Tess towelled her hair and assumed a look of casual curiosity. Did he also want to sell the villa for her, or organise some builders perhaps? Or did he want to tell her about a long-past theft or betrayal?

‘It is the jellyfish,’ he said, looking stern. ‘There are many.’

‘Jellyfish?’

‘Here in the bay.’ He made a gesture – of a jellyfish scraping trailing tentacles along his arm. He jumped dramatically from the supposed sting.

She laughed. ‘Ouch.’

‘Yes, ouch!’ He smiled at her. ‘I work here all the time. I see it.’

She nodded. It was quite a smile … OK, so maybe he wasn’t the enemy after all. At least, not her enemy. ‘Any other predators I should know about?’ she asked.

He waggled an eyebrow. Despite the scar on his face – or maybe because of it – he was, she realised, very attractive, in a dark, brooding sort of way. Autobloodymatically she thought of Robin. Damn it.

‘The rest I expect you will find for yourself,’ he said.

Right. ‘I expect I will.’ She smiled.

‘You are here alone?’ he asked.

‘Uh-huh.’ His skin was that complete nut-brown all over – well, everywhere that she could see – that could only happen when you lived all year round in a climate like this one.

‘And how long do you stay?’ he asked.

Tess wrapped the towel closer around her shoulders. What was with all this sudden friendliness? Or was the scowl his default expression, and he just didn’t do mornings …? She wanted to like him, wanted to respond. But … Giovanni’s warning hung in her head. She was fed up with being taken for a ride. Giovanni had invited her to dinner again tonight, but enough was enough. She needed just her own company – certainly not that of any Sicilian man – no matter how helpful or attractive. God. Anyone would think she’d inherited a millionaire’s fortune rather than just a villa, with all these men sniffing around.

‘A week,’ she said, ‘for now.’

The eyebrow was off again. ‘For now?’

Tess shrugged. What she didn’t know herself, she couldn’t tell to any handsome stranger. A thought occurred to her. ‘What were these buildings used for, by the way?’ She pointed.

He followed the direction of her gaze. ‘This was a tunnery. For tuna fishing.’ His good mood had already evaporated and his expression darkened. ‘This was the Tonnara, these the warehouses.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She sensed that it wouldn’t be prudent to pursue the subject. ‘
Ciao
then. And thanks for the warning about the jellyfish.’

She waved him goodbye and headed for the steps up to the villa. She wouldn’t phone Ginny again tonight, she decided. She had to show some trust; that kind of thing was important to teenagers. She’d phone her mother instead. She would ask her, she decided, about Santina and the Sciarra family.

But as she ran up the steps, something made her look back over her shoulder towards the ancient
baglio
. Standing by the eucalyptus tree was Giovanni. Body language: pissed off. Well. Tess did a mental shrug. His family feud wasn’t her family feud – although he’d suggested it should be. She could speak to whoever she liked, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

The almond – brought to Sicily by the ancient Greeks.
The nuts should be plump and rich, oozing with sweet oil
.

Almonds were perfect for
spuntini
– the mid-morning snack. There were sugared almonds (white for weddings, green for engagements, pink and blue for births) toasted almonds and
biscotti
. The scented blossom of the almond tree was the first to come and the first to go, the petals falling like a late snowdrift in February. The nuts were not picked until late summer; until then they stayed on the trees, deepening in intensity under the protection of their hard shells, warmed from the sun, moistened by their oil.
Mandola
…

There was a story … Flavia picked up her pen. She would tell her daughter.

In Sicily the association of the almond tree with love and fidelity is rooted in Greek mythology. Phyllis, a noble maiden, wed Demophon, and waited for him to return from the Trojan War. He never came, and after some years, she died of a broken heart. An almond tree sprang up at her grave. The tree finally bloomed when Demophon eventually appeared and visited the grave of his beloved wife.

Flavia decided to give her daughter the recipe for
taglignozo
– a type of
biscotto
. Tess had loved them when she was a child, still did.

Mix flour, sugar, eggs, butter, cinnamon and cut almonds. The trick
, Flavia wrote,
is in the consistency. Use
la pazienza,
the patience of the almond tree. Test it with your fingers, with your heart. If it feels too stiff then add more egg, if too sloppy, more almonds. Then, and only then, will it be perfect
.

Bake in the oven until golden. Wait. Eat cold with a small glass of Marsala …

For three days Flavia returned with water, food and fresh dressings for his wounds. She visited in siesta in the early afternoon when most people were sleeping or resting in their beds, and again as evening came and she could fly there under the camouflage of darkness to see him. It was a kind of madness, she knew, as if she were gripped by something only the Devil would understand. But she couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t not go. In the hours between her visits, she ached to be running across the fields, longed to be there, washing and tending his wounds, listening to his strange speech, looking into the blue waters of his eyes. Had he bewitched her? She didn’t consider the consequences of her actions. Nothing else seemed to matter.

On the fourth day his forehead was hot, too hot, and she knew he had a temperature. He ate hardly any of the food she brought and his smile was so faded that she was afraid. He hardly spoke to her. She felt that he was slipping away. And when she walked back through the olive grove, she sensed that something else had changed.

Back at the house she found them waiting for her – Papa, Mama, Maria – like a deputation.

‘Where have you been, daughter?’ her father asked. His eyes were black as thunder.

‘Just walking,’ she stammered. But she looked at Maria and she knew. Had Maria seen her run to him? Had she followed her? Her sister was so self-righteous, so holier-than-thou. Flavia stood straighter. What did she care that there had been no chaperone, that she had risked her honour? His life was at stake. Life, death; they were the real things – the only real things.

‘What have you done?’ Her mother approached her. ‘Holy Mother of God, what have you done?’

‘Nothing!’ Flavia was stung. ‘I have done nothing wrong. It is just … ’

And then suddenly it was all too much for her; her fears for his health, her worry that he would not recover, that the fever would worsen and that he would die there in the field, and she would not know until she went there the next afternoon only to find him …

Haltingly, she told them about the airman. About how he had sworn her to secrecy and begged him to help her. It was his only chance of survival, she felt.

At this, her father’s expression changed. He muttered an obscenity under his breath and he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. ‘I must tell the others,’ he said.

Flavia knew he meant his special cronies – Alberto and those who talked with him in the bar Gaviota. Could they be trusted? She thought of Santina’s father, Enzo. Now him, she did not trust. He had a thin-lipped, dark and cruel face and she did not think that he shared her father’s sympathy towards the English. He was the sort who thought only of himself and the Sciarras.

‘Papa,’ she called. ‘You won’t hurt him?’

He turned to her. ‘I cannot decide alone,’ he said. ‘We will see. If
Alberto agrees, we will bring him here. Help your mother prepare a bed.’

‘Papa!’

But already, he was gone.

Flavia sank to her knees. She would pray for him, the airman who had fallen from the sky and who called her his angel. Pray that he would be safe. Safe … She frowned. But even if they brought him here, even if he did not die, now that she had betrayed him, would the airman ever speak to her again?

The following morning, Tess took her breakfast out on to the terrace. The house was well-equipped. She’d found linen, crockery, silver, cutlery, anything you could wish for. And it was fully furnished, although shabby and untidy. There were faded but gorgeous rugs for the flagstone floors – with bold patterns in fuchsia, indigo, maroon – and creamy linen napkins. It was as if Edward Westerman had just walked out one day, never to return. Which in a way, he had.

Tess sipped her coffee. She could, she supposed, let out the villa rather than sell it. This seemed a better idea. She didn’t want to part with it – not yet. It seemed too special a gift. The disadvantage, of course, was that money needed to be spent on it – a commodity she wasn’t rich in right now. Perhaps she would broach the subject to Giovanni, get some idea of how many holidaymakers came to Cetaria and how successful such a venture might be.

The wow factor would always be its view … She got to her feet and wandered across the terrace to look down at the
baglio
and what she now knew to be the old tunnery in the bay with its army of rusty anchors stationed outside. One of the rock islands out to sea, she noted, was shaped like a ruined castle. And in the misty morning light the stone was
almost silver as if the rocks had been touched with a magic wand, while the sea swept around them, smooth and nonchalant. And inviting, she thought, feeling the familiar twitch of longing to get in there.

In the harbour was a fishing boat, and next to the stone jetty someone was gesticulating wildly and shouting in Italian. Mosaic-man, she realised, letting out a snort of laughter. He certainly had a temper. She shook her head. Perhaps Giovanni was right about the guy after all. He did look a bit manic.