* * *
Stella didn’t tell Lauren all of it. She didn’t want to let her daughter’s comments spoil the magic of that memory. It was still the best day of her life. Until it turned into the worst.
‘So, you went for a joyride to Sanremo and sat on the beach,’ Lauren said, picking up on the little she’d gleaned. ‘I expect you were in trouble when you got back. Did your parents ground you?’
‘No,’ Stella said. Sometimes she wished there had been a punishment, but no punishment could fit her crime.
22
1981
They pulled up in the village car park. It was all as they’d left it: Uncle Domenico’s Fiat Panda with the bent door panel in the far corner, the rusty Ape truck Signora Togliatti’s husband drove to and from the goat farm still in its usual place.
‘We did it!’ Gino said.
Stella nodded, biting her lip, still half shy, half excited after their exchange of ‘I love yous’. She was scared of looking at him, seeing wariness in his eyes but when she did they were full of love. This time they didn’t go their separate ways at the top of the road but recklessly walked through the village together, high on happiness, not wanting to hide away any longer, careless of the consequences. They reached the passageway beside Sant’ Agata’s. Instead of a quick goodbye, Gino pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. He pressed her up against the wall, uneven stone scraping against her sun-sensitive shoulders.
‘Ti amo, ti amo,’ he gasped out. She could feel he wanted more.
‘Ti amo.’ She sounded like a sexy temptress, nearly grown up, nothing like the virginal schoolgirl who’d sneaked out of the house that morning. She slid a hand beneath his shirt. Would she dare do something more?
‘Not here, we can’t.’ He seemed to come to his senses, backing away from her.
‘Where shall we go?’
Gino didn’t answer. A strange expression crossed his face.
Stella swung around. Fernanda stood at the entrance to the passageway, lips pursed, a tin of polish in one hand, an old rag in the other. All three of them stood frozen like actors in a strange, silent tableau, waiting for the curtain to fall.
Fernanda stuffed the polish into the pocket of her apron. The rag fluttered away; she didn’t seem to notice it.
‘Mamma…’ Gino began.
‘Don’t you “mamma” me.’ Fernanda’s voice was measured, cold. She grabbed her son by the arm, pulling him away so roughly that he stumbled on the cobbles. The key for the moped clattered on the ground. Puzzlement then understanding crossed his mamma’s face.
‘You disgusting, shameless girl, where have you been? Where did you take my son?’
‘Me? He was driving.’ Stella instinctively defended herself, immediately regretting getting Gino into more trouble.
‘Don’t blame him, you little tart.’
‘Don’t call Stella that.’ Gino’s eyes flashed.
‘I told you not to see her, I told you not to get mixed up with her.’
Gino opened his mouth but the look on Fernanda’s face would have silenced a mafia boss.
‘Go home!’ Fernanda said. ‘Now!’ She gave him a small shove.
Gino looked at Stella helplessly. She gave him a tiny nod.
Fernanda waited until Gino had reached the end of the passageway. Stella knew how much it had cost him not to turn around.
‘Say what you want to me, I don’t care.’ Stella raised her chin.
‘You’ll care by the time I’ve finished with you, young lady. We’re going to see your papà.’
Stella’s stomach lurched. She’d be grounded for a month; she wouldn’t be able to see Gino. She had to stop Fernanda.
