‘I know,’ Beata agreed. ‘The children play around her and she barely notices them. Little Alessandro follows her like a lost dog, as if he senses the reason for her unhappiness and is trying to compensate, but she ignores him. It’s the guilt, you see. She blames herself for Francesco’s death.’
‘They say those who drown don’t suffer.’
‘How can they know?’
‘I hope it’s true.’
‘I wish she had faith.’ Beata put down the shirt she was mending and a frown drew lines across her smooth forehead. ‘Then she would know that Francesco is with God and that God is looking after him as He is looking after Immacolata and my dear Falco.’
‘And Valentina,’ Alba added gently. Her family still had trouble saying her mother’s name, as if to mention it was somehow sacrilege. ‘But she has lost her faith. Death often brings a person closer to God, but Francesco’s has taken her away from Him.’
‘One has to accept what comes. How can we presume to know God’s plan?’
‘Do you know what Rosa said to me today?
‘That she wants to move out? Don’t listen to her, Alba. She’s headstrong and passionate, just like you were at her age. Rosa’s quite a handful. It’s no surprise that she doesn’t like her cousin getting all the attention. After all, it always used to be Rosa everyone talked about. She was the noisy, excitable, vivacious one in the family, and so much younger than Cosima. We all spoiled her terribly. Now she’s having to watch while Cosima steals the limelight, wandering about dressed in black, weeping and wailing.’
‘Do you think Cosima’s self-indulgent?’
‘I would never say such a thing about my granddaughter. How can I pass judgement on a young woman who has lost her world? My heart goes out to her.’ Beata crossed herself.
‘It’s the Festa di Santa Benedetta next week. I’m going to encourage her to come with us.’
Beata resumed her sewing. ‘That statue hasn’t bled for over fifty years. The last time was the year your parents met. Your father was so dashing in his naval uniform. They made a handsome couple.’
‘Then it failed to weep blood the following year, the day before they were due to marry. The day she was found on the road to Naples in furs and diamonds, murdered with Lupo Bianco.’
‘But still we keep celebrating the miracle even though the statue has dried up.’
‘You never know, it might happen again.’
‘God works in mysterious ways. Anyway, you must take your place in the festival as your grandmother did. You are a descendant of Saint Benedetta.’
‘It’s hard to keep a straight face, Beata. They all take it so seriously. The disappointment when Christ’s eyes remain dry is terrible. It was probably a hoax in the first place. Father Dino and a bit of tomato ketchup.’
‘May you be forgiven, Alba!’ But Beata’s mouth curled up at the corners as she suppressed a smile.
‘Ah, Cosima,’ said Alba as her niece came out to join them. ‘Is everything in its proper place now?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, taking a seat in the wicker armchair that used to be Immacolata’s. ‘Everything is where it should be.’
Alessandro stopped playing and stood watching his aunt, his face serious. Then, inspired by a feeling he couldn’t understand, he plucked a rose and walked tentatively up to her. ‘For you.’
Cosima frowned. ‘For me?’
‘Yes, from Francesco.’
Cosima’s eyes welled with tears and for a moment she was unable to speak. Alba exchanged glances with Beata. They held their breath, waiting for Cosima’s reaction – anticipating the worst. But she took the rose with a little smile. It was yellow; Francesco’s favourite colour. She looked at Alessandro with such tenderness his heart swelled. She touched his face with her fingertips.
‘Thank you, carino,’ she said. Alessandro blushed a deep crimson and looked to his grandmother for approval.
‘That was very sweet of you,’ said Alba encouragingly.
‘He’s a darling,’ agreed Beata, relieved that Cosima hadn’t taken it the wrong way. Alessandro returned to his siblings and cousins, making off through the olive grove.
‘I’m so touched,’ said Cosima, twirling the flower between her thumb and forefinger. ‘He’s very good to apologise.’
Alba was pleased Rosa wasn’t around to hear her. As far as she was concerned, her children had nothing to apologise for.
‘Yellow is a good colour on you,’ said Alba, tired of seeing her niece look so pale and ill in black. ‘Do you remember that pretty dress with little yellow flowers?’