Alba enjoyed her own new look too, and it was much commented upon. Cutting off her hair had been a dramatic expression of self-loathing but it became an outward display of her own emotional evolution. Now she was forced to appraise her life and its lack of purpose. She wanted to become part of the fabric of the community. She wanted to be useful.
Once the celebrations of Valentina’s life had passed and the visiting families had returned to their homes, Alba asked Falco if she could help out in the trattoria. “I want to work,” she explained over lunch beneath the awning, watching the coming and going of the little blue fishing boats.
Falco sipped his limoncello. His eyes were still solemn.
“I could do with some help, if you’re serious,” he replied.
“I am serious. I want to stay here with all of you. I don’t want to go back to my old self and my old life.”
He looked at her. “Who are you running from, Alba?” His words took her by surprise.
She stiffened. “I’m not running from anyone. I just like who I am here. I feel I belong.”
“Didn’t you belong in England?”
She lowered her eyes. “I can’t face Daddy now, not after what I’ve discovered. I certainly can’t face Margo, whom I’ve accused all my life of being jealous of Valentina. I can’t face Fitz, either.”
“Fitz?”
“The man who loves me, or did. He doesn’t deserve someone like me. I’m not a very nice person, Falco.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Three,” corrected Alba. “Valentina wasn’t nice, either.” She thought of Colonel Heinz Wiermann but said nothing.
“She was a whirlwind, Alba. A force of nature. But you’re young enough to change.”
“And you?”
“This dog’s too old to learn new tricks.”
“Can I draw you sometime?” she asked on impulse.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looked uncomfortable, as if he were too large for the small chair. “Your father was an artist. An extremely good one too.”
“I know. I found a drawing of my mother in my houseboat. He must have hidden it there a long time ago. Then there’s the one he drew of me and my mother that Immacolata has.”
“There was another one, I believe,” said Falco, casting his eyes out to sea. “I remember your father desperately searching for it in Valentina’s room after her death.”
“He never found it?”
Falco shook his head. “I believe not. When he left with you he gave one to my mother so that she would have something to remember you by.”
“Why didn’t he bring me back to see her? Surely he knew that she would miss her granddaughter?”
“I think you should ask your father that.” He drained his glass.
“One day, I will. But for now I’m staying here with you. Do I have a job, then?”
Falco smiled in spite of himself. Alba’s charm was disarming. “You have a job for as long as you want.”
And so began a new chapter for Alba. By day she worked in the trattoria with Toto and Falco and in her spare time she drew. Cosima, to whom she had grown deeply attached, was always happy to pose for her. They sat in the evening sun on the cliff tops by the old lookout point, or down on the pebble beach after exploring the caves.
As the months went by, Cosima began to look upon Alba as a kind of mother, slipping her hand into hers as they ambled up the path home through the rocks. In the mornings she climbed into her bed and snuggled up, nestling her curly head into the soft curve where Alba’s neck met her shoulder. Alba told her stories, then wrote them down and illustrated them. She found a talent she didn’t know she had. She also discovered an enormous capacity for love.
“I want to thank you for loving Cosima,” said Toto one evening.
“It is I who should thank you,” she replied, noticing that his expression was unusually serious.
“Every child needs a mother. She never says she misses her. We’ve never talked about it. But I know that if she does, then having you around makes it so much less painful.”
“Of course she misses her mother. She probably doesn’t want to talk about it, in case she hurts your feelings. Or maybe she’s too busy playing to give it much thought. One can never tell. But perhaps you should mention her from time to time. What hurt me about losing mine was that no one ever spoke of her. Cosima needs to be reassured that her mother didn’t reject her. That it wasn’t her fault. She needs to feel loved, that’s all.”
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “It’s hard to know how much a child that young understands.”