‘What does it say?’
‘In memory of our seventeen innocent citizens. Cruelly struck down, they live forever in our hearts.The doves are a bit of a cliché but Father Filippo and the others on the committee wanted an easily recognisable symbol of peace. We need to remember who died at the hands of the Germans and their collaborators but we must come together as a village so that their souls rest untroubled.’
‘I think it’s utterly beautiful. I saw a butterfly just like that one earlier today, a yellow one.’
He swept his hand across his work. ‘All the plants and creatures I chose are native to this area. It is a reminder that the beauty of the place lives on, that Mother Nature provides, whatever terrible things humans do. That peace will always win. Of course, not everyone appreciates the sentiment.’ He rubbed his hand across his jaw.
‘Whyever not?’ She studied the carving of the doves, trying to distract herself from the enticing scent of his woody cologne which mingled with the scent of the damp and the stone dust.
‘Some people believe that something full of life and beauty is an inappropriate way to commemorate a massacre.’
She felt a surge of indignance on his behalf. ‘What do they want depicted? Blood and gore?’
‘The alternative design had a pair of doves at the committee’s request. But they were perched on a fascist helmet and swastika broken in two.’ He made a face.
‘I can’t imagine it was a difficult choice,’ she joked.
‘Closer than you think. The other proposal was submitted by the mayor’s nephew. He lives in Florence, he has rarely visited the village.’
‘People must be glad that someone local got the job. It seems only right that they chose you.’
‘That is not what everyone thinks.’ An odd cloud passed across his face.
‘Why not?’
He did not answer, just picked up his chisel. Had she overstepped some invisible line?
‘Well, thanks for showing me the plaque. I’d best get going, you’ll want to get on.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘It is a complicated question to answer. Let us just say that people here have long memories.’
Amy nodded. ‘Well, I’ll see you then.’
‘Amy?’ He stopped her as she reached the door. ‘I was planning to walk up to the Old Chapel tomorrow morning. Have you been there? Only, I was wondering…’
She smiled; he looked so awkward, fiddling with the handle of his chisel. ‘I haven’t been there, but I’d love to.’
‘Shall I see you at Nonna Fernanda’s around nine o’clock?’
‘Will you be wearing more than a towel this time?’
He laughed. ‘Maybe…’
‘See you tomorrow.’ Amy made a quick exit. What had possessed her to make a quip like that? It would make it even harder to get that image of him half-naked out of her head. She carried on her walk, smiling to herself.
20
Stella ground rock salt and garlic to a smooth paste; Domenico’s small kitchen filled with its tantalising scent. The bunch of basil she’d picked up on the walk home lay waiting on the old wooden chopping board, she’d found a hunk of parmesan in the larder and supplemented this with a triangle of pecorino. She concentrated on the rhythm of pestle against mortar, humming the tune of an old Ligurian folk song as she worked. She could almost be back in her mother’s kitchen at a time when struggles with mathematics and teenage spots were her only cares. Mamma always gave her the job of preparing the cheese ready for the pesto, a task Stella rarely accomplished without scraping her knuckles on the grater. How she wished she’d known to cherish those days instead of rushing through her chores, longing to escape, jump on her bike and cycle up the mule path to meet Gino at their secret hideaway.
She began picking off the basil leaves, tearing them roughly, inhaling the scent of home. Her phone lay just in reach. She couldn’t quite believe Joe wouldn’t follow up his earlier message with another. He’d sent a photograph from the hotel in Portofino: a bare-chested selfie, a lurid coloured cocktail in his hand. A James Patterson novel rested on his pink swimming trunks. An attractive blonde woman, face half-hidden behind oversized sunglasses, occupied the adjacent lounger by the turquoise pool; she appeared to be in the process of rubbing suncream into her caramel-coloured thighs. Stella felt a frisson of irritation. Had Joe deliberately angled the camera to capture his shapely neighbour? Was he trying to make her jealous? Stella didn’t play games; she’d had enough of that with Ricky.
She couldn’t resist picking up her phone again, even though it meant she’d have to re-wash her hands to finish preparing the basil. She read Joe’s message once more in the vain hope she’d somehow got the wrong end of the stick but his words were plain as the nose on his now slightly sunburnt face.
Joe
Waiting for you to join me x.
Nomissing you,nohow are you?No hint of apology for leaving in a strop, no enquiry after Domenico’s wellbeing. Just an assumption she’d hotfoot it to Portofino, strip off down to her swimwear and grab an Aperol Spritz, leaving her papà’s beloved younger brother in the lurch. She knew her insistence on staying in the village was frustrating for Joe, but her gut told her she had to stay, whatever Joe, Lauren and Carol – if she ever found out – might think.
