‘But I…’
The doorbell jangled.
‘Buongiorno!’ A man in paint-splattered overalls entered the shop. He looked like a local who’d hopefully find what he wanted without Stella’s help.
Stella signalled a ‘be with you in a moment’.
‘You know what the problem with you is, Mum?’ Lauren’s head continued to spout. ‘You’re a soft touch. For once in your life will you stop thinking about other people and do what you want.’
It was a creed Stella had once lived by. She’d ignored everything but her own feelings the day she’d jumped on that moped with Gino and sped off to Sanremo. Doing what she wanted had caused nothing but heartache.
The customer was picking up an electric strimmer. He turned it over to read the back of the long oblong box. Stella had to finish up this call.
‘I’m not running after Joe. I’m staying here, looking after the shop. Thisiswhat I want.’
‘But you’ve had nothing to do with your family for decades.’
‘I have to do this, Lauren. I have to do this for Uncle Domenico… to make up for the awful thing I did to his brother.’
‘Whatever are you talking about, Mum? You’re the kindest person. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone your own father.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Stella’s voice shook. ‘I did something terrible…’
‘Oh, honestly! I expect you’re worrying about some bit of nonsense everyone else probably forgot about decades ago.’ Lauren tutted. ‘But if you’ve been brooding about it all these years, you’d better tell me about it. You won’t move on until you’ve opened up.’
‘It’s not that easy.’ Stella gripped the counter with her free hand. She’d never move on. Never forget.
The man with the strimmer had swapped the box for another model, opening up the packaging and pulling out the operating instructions. Seemingly satisfied, he came forward and placed it on the counter.
‘Wait a moment, Lauren.’ Stella took the man’s cash, handing over a few euros’ change. He nodded, departing with a cheerybuona giornata. She picked up the phone.Laurenwas wearing her best ‘I’m listening’ face.
‘I’m waiting, Mum. Talk to me! Get it off your chest.’
Stella sighed. After all these years, it had taken less than twenty-four hours back home to bring everything to a head.
‘I killed him,’ Stella said. ‘I killed my darling Papà.’
15
It was dark, the shutters blocking any light. Amy had slept remarkably well in Fernanda’s narrow single bed. It was only the sound of the front door clicking that had broken her dreams. The old lady must have left for church; she’d mentioned the night before that she attended morning mass every day.
Amy scrambled out of bed and fixed back the shutters. Fernanda’s small house lay on the outskirts of the village. Beyond the mesh that kept the insects out, the view across the hillside took her breath away. It was so calming, Amy felt she could stay there all morning with her nose pressed up against the window, but she had a funny feeling Fernanda wouldn’t approve of her wasting the day away.
There was no reason to hang around the house. Fernanda wasn’t providing breakfast; Amy would have to go to the local bar for that, though she was welcome to use the kitchen to fix herself a drink. Last night she’d been shown a fiddly-looking coffee pot and a jam jar full of rather dusty-looking teabags that she decided she wouldn’t bother with once she’d learnt Fernanda didn’t keep any milk in the fridge.
She put down her phone on the Holy Bible Fernanda had left on the bedside table. Pulling down the edge of Jack’s old T-shirt she was using as a nightdress and dragging a hand through her tangled hair, she picked up her towel and washbag and headed for the shower. It would make sense to use the shared bathroom whilst the old woman was out.
Gurgling sounds came from behind the bathroom door, the plumbing no doubt as ancient as the terracotta floor tiles and well-worn rug in the hall. Amy turned the round handle. The door flew open, sending her tripping over an uneven tile and almost pitching her straight into – what the heck! – a rather fit young man, naked from the waist up.
Amy let out a shriek. She folded her hands across her body, relieved she’d packed her brother’s baggy old top to wear in bed rather than the pink T-shirt with a hem that barely reached her knickers.
‘Che diavolo!’ The young man grabbed at his towel as it threatened to fall to the floor. Amy couldn’t prevent a nervous giggle escaping, her initial fear tempered by his obvious embarrassment.
The man ran one hand through his damp hair, clutching the edge of his towel with the other. She tried not to stare at his golden-brown chest – whoever this was, he definitely worked out or did some sort of physical job. The rest of him wasn’t bad either: medium build, medium height, strong tattoo-covered arms and a smile that lit up his golden-brown eyes.
‘Scusi… umm…’ The few words of Italian she knew weren’t any use to her. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she said instead. Amy was sure Fernanda would have mentioned if she had another guest staying. In a house this size, three people would be constantly under each other’s feet.
‘You’re English.’ He frowned into the mirrored cupboard on the wall, retrieved a comb and swept it roughly through his hair; a pointless exercise as the strands that had fallen over his eyes flopped straight back down again.
