‘So how does she feel about your father photographing the place for the Sunday Times?’
‘She won’t talk about it. My father teases her relentlessly. She shrugs it off, but I can tell she doesn’t like it. The thing is, my father always gets his way. She can’t deny him anything.’ She paused. ‘I wish my marriage was as solid as theirs.’
Luca finished his coffee and walked back to the car, heavy with diappointment at not seeing Cosima. Little by little she was seeping into his subconscious, carving a place for herself in his heart. Then it occurred to him that he might as well drive up to her house. There was no point skulking around hoping to bump into her. He didn’t want to impose, but he was sure she liked him too. Perhaps because he was the only link she had to her son; he hoped it was more than that. He knew he had to take things slowly; she was fragile. It was that fragility that aroused in him a desire to protect her.
He reached the house and parked the car beneath the twisted eucalyptus tree. He felt awkward, like a teenager on his first date, and his stomach churned with nerves. The laughter of children was carried on the breeze with the barking of a dog and the occasional braying of a donkey. He shouted to alert them to his arrival. ‘Hello! Is anyone at home?’ To his surprise it was Cosima who herself came around the corner to meet him, drying her hands on a tea towel.
She was wearing a pale yellow dress with a short ivory cardigan and flip-flops. Her dark hair was clipped up on the back of her head, leaving long tendrils around her face and down her neck. She wore silver bracelets on her wrists and a little silver crucifix that shone against the creamy toffee of her skin. As she approached, he could smell the warm lemon of her scent. He longed to touch her and thrust his hands in his pockets, not trusting himself.
‘This is a surprise,’ she smiled. ‘I was just baking a cake.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Of course not. You can help me ice it.’
‘Somebody’s birthday?’
‘Panfilo’s. He doesn’t care much for birthdays, but the children like to have a party. They made such a mess baking it, I think I’ll ice it myself. Are you any good at cake decoration?’
‘The last time I baked a cake was a hundred years ago.’
‘And the last time you ate one?’
‘Very recently. I’ve never said no to a slice of cake.’ He followed her around the house to the terrace. Beata was asleep in the shade, her sewing on her knee.
‘My grandmother is in no position to help me,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s lucky you showed up or I’d have had to do it all on my own.’
‘Where’s your aunt?’
‘Alba’s a law unto herself. When she’s not at the trattoria she’s out walking along the cliffs or on the beach. She’s very solitary.’
Luca wondered whether Alba’s refusal to discuss the palazzo was masking a deep fascination with it. She held the only other key to the folly. Could the mystery intruder be Valentina’s own daughter?
The kitchen smelt of baking and Luca’s mouth began to water. She poured him a glass of lemonade. ‘You know, there’s this beautiful old farm not far from here with a lemon grove that covers an entire hill. These lemons are from there.’ She watched him take a sip. ‘Good, isn’t it?’
‘Very good.’ She took an apron off the back of the door and tied it around her waist.
‘A wonderful old woman owns it called Manfreda. Of course she doesn’t harvest the lemons herself, she’s too ancient for that, but she always gets the boys to leave a basket for us. She knew Immacolata, you see, and is very fond of Alba. What she doesn’t know about Incantellaria and the war isn’t worth knowing. There’s something magical about that farm because whatever the weather, her lemons are always big, yellow and juicy.’
‘I’m beginning to think Incantellaria is magical.’
‘So, you know about the carnations . . . ?’
‘Yes, the morning the beach was covered with them.’
‘You should talk to Manfreda. Many strange things have happened here. Whether you choose to believe them or not is another matter. So, what do you do, Luca?’ She began to pour icing sugar into a bowl.
‘I worked in finance for twenty years, then I woke up one morning and realised I was spending my entire life on a treadmill that gave me no satisfaction. Sure, it made me rich, but it didn’t satisfy my creative side.’ He grinned bashfully. ‘I’m still looking for something that does.’
She listened as she stirred butter into the mixture with a wooden spoon. ‘If you could do anything in the world, what would you do?’