One Summer in Italy Read online

  ‘Eh, eh!’ protested Davide again. ‘She dropped it. She is clumsy. It’s not my fault.’

  ‘She did not drop it!’ Sofia glanced at Biker Man, hopeful that this English tourist would continue to support her. ‘You’ve been brushing your … the front of your trousers against her and when she hit you with her tray, you got your revenge. And you went in and told tales to your mother.’ For Benedetta’s benefit, she repeated her allegation in Italian. Biker Man nodded, arms folded, interposing at intervals, ‘That’s absolutely right!’ even at the Italian bits.

  Benedetta, visibly dismayed by the way things were going, dropped her voice to a confidential murmur. ‘We talk indoors, Amy.’ Rounding on Davide she snapped at him in Italian to give Mrs Coffee Trousers and her coterie their drinks on the house in lieu of paying the cleaning bill and then take over Amy’s tables as well as his own.

  She made to usher Amy inside but Biker Man began to follow. ‘I’m here to check into the hotel, but I won’t be doing so until I have your assurance that this young girl still has a job.’

  Sofia felt her mouth drop open. Biker Man was certainly taking his support of Amy seriously. What was it about blondes? Men all seemed to act like fools where they were concerned.

  Benedetta hurriedly backtracked to pat Amy’s arm and turn her in the direction of her tables. ‘You stay. It’s OK. You work. I ’pologise for my son.’ She turned a smile on Biker Man. ‘You are a hotel guest? Welcome to Casa Felice. Please follow me.’ Glaring at Davide as she passed, she ushered Biker Man towards the cool interior of the hotel.

  Just before he disappeared, the man turned and gave Sofia a grin and a wink.

  She gazed after him, lips parting in astonishment.

  A scowling Davide silently cleared up the mess of spilled coffee and broken crockery and Sofia gave Amy’s arm a quick pat. ‘How about you pop and get these lovely ladies cake to go with their fresh coffees. Signora Morbidelli said it was on the house.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ the prosecco ladies said to Sofia, and ‘Isn’t that good of her?’ to each other.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amy whispered as they both headed to the bar. She was clinging to Sofia’s arm as if she were even younger than her eighteen years. ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if she’d sacked me. That man turned up just at the right time.’

  ‘Yes, it was lucky the guest saw everything.’ Sofia placed a slight emphasis on the word guest, but decided that now was not the time to point out more clearly that the residents of the hotel were always referred to respectfully. ‘If you want to clear tables for a bit I can take orders from your section until you’re feeling better.’ Or feeling a bit less Jekyll and Hyde. She would never have suspected Amy of being capable of swinging so rapidly from sweet and mild to angry and vengeful if she hadn’t witnessed it.

  A few minutes later, encountering Davide at the kitchen hatch, Sofia treated him to her widest smile. ‘Shall we forget that all happened and just be friends?’

  Davide spat out a word Aldo had told Sofia never to use, prompting the dad of a nearby Italian family to berate him for his language.

  ‘So that’s a “no” then.’ Sofia turned briskly and headed off towards a new table of red-faced, sweaty tourists to fulfil their urgent requests for cold drinks.

  Levi left the storm in a teacup behind him and followed the woman indoors to the reception desk, bemused by her speedy change of mood – only seconds ago she’d been bandying about threats of the sack but now she was beaming benevolently as she indicated the well-groomed young woman behind the reception desk. ‘My daughter Aurora will be delighted to check you in.’

  Aurora, looking to be in her twenties and oozing Italian chic – or whatever the Italian for chic was – smiled at Levi as if nothing would give her greater pleasure. ‘May I take your name?’

  ‘Levi Gunn.’ He was glad the personnel at the hotel spoke English as he’d had no opportunity to brush up on even a few Italian phrases before rushing off on this trip. While Aurora took him through the check-in process, he planted his Joe Rocket textile jacket and unpleasantly sweaty crash helmet on the desk. The armour in both jacket and his bike pants was essential for the road but less suitable for the blazing sun at a journey’s end. At his last stop-off, near Verona, he’d wrung his T-shirt out in cold water before putting it on beneath his bike jacket, but he still felt like a steamed fish.

  Or was he just hot with anger at the scene he’d witnessed? His instinct to help the sobbing girl had seized him like a giant hand. Supporting the protests of the other waitress had done the trick. The blonde waitress’s job seemed saved and the dark-haired one had smiled at him, even though her eyes had been alive with curiosity.

  Aurora finished tapping at her computer keyboard and took a printout from the printer tray. ‘You have room 303, which has a balcony looking over the town of Montelibertà. Hotel residents have use of the terrace at the rear of the hotel, with a fantastic view across the valley and of other peaks in the Umbrian mountains. The terrace leads from the dining room on the lower level and many guests choose to take their breakfast there.’

  ‘Sounds great. I like to paint landscapes so the terrace sounds wonderful.’

  Aurora smiled as she turned the printout towards him and passed him a pen. ‘You will find many beautiful views to paint here. Please, if you need information or recommendations, let me know. Casa Felice is a family concern. My mother expects us all to work hard at pleasing our guests.’

  ‘I’m sure she always puts the guests first,’ Levi said dryly, thinking again of the crying waitress. Once he’d been given a key card he reluctantly closed his ears to the call of a frosty beer in Il Giardino and clumped across the small lobby in his biking boots, back out into the sun that blazed down on his fair English head. In the car park his Ducati Diavel, black with a red sub-frame and flashes, still radiated heat from the long trek across England, France, Germany, Austria and Italy in three days of hard riding. He didn’t hang around as he transferred tightly rolled underwear, T-shirts and shorts out of his panniers, the nearest things to luggage compartments on a bike, and into the cotton sack he kept for the purpose. All the while, he kept an eye on Il Giardino and the staff weaving their way between busy tables.

  The teenage girl – Amy, the owner had called her – although appearing in danger of buckling under the weight of a well-laden tray, moved briskly, her face pink with exertion. After watching her for another few moments and deciding she was fundamentally OK, Levi checked out Davide, who, as he swept tables clear with angry movements, didn’t seem to be able to make up his mind which of the waitresses to glare daggers at. A man who’d sexually harass a younger colleague found no favour with Levi and that he’d proved to be the owner’s son made it worse. Little shit. Levi was usually a live-and-let-live kind of guy but his old man, ‘Bullet’ Gunn, had run a repair garage all Levi’s life and treated his workers with friendly respect. Levi had followed his dad’s example when it came to his own business.

  Emptying the second pannier, he glanced at the dark waitress, her upswept hair glossy beneath the sun. She looked about thirty to his thirty-five. A crisp black dress emphasised her shape and a white apron hugged her hips. As he watched, she paused to speak with Amy, tray of empties aloft. She seemed to have the younger girl’s back, judging by the way she’d launched into battle in – impressively – both Italian and English. After watching for another second, he locked his panniers, grabbed his paintbox from the bungees securing it and took himself indoors.

  Now he had the opportunity to study Casa Felice as he returned to the cool of the reception area, he found it charming. Where the walls were plastered they were painted white, but large areas of craggy russet stone had been left exposed, a contrast to the dark grey marble of floor and front desk. A wooden banister curved up alongside the stairs.

  Room 303 proved as pleasant a surprise as the foyer had been, though oddly shaped. It held a modern bed and an eclectic mix of graceful furniture, and the ba
throom was up to date and clean. Levi had booked a ‘superior’ room, all that was available at short notice, so was glad to see something for his extra seventy euros a night, especially the balcony that gazed over tiers of tilted terracotta roofs and the road curving down the hill into a jumble of buildings.

  Montelibertà was a select but significant tourist destination, much of it made from the same rock it perched upon, like a little brother of the city of Orvieto to the north. Casa Felice stood on the edge of the town, secluded in its own grounds yet only a ten-minute walk from the centre. According to the website it boasted fifty guest bedrooms over three floors. The road outside, Via Virgilio, led out of town to an extensive country park. Il Giardino, he reflected, was neatly positioned to tempt those who’d worked up thirst and hunger with a country walk.

  The ground fell away from the hotel at the back too, and he paused to drink in the view over the shrubs and lavender of the gardens below the terrace where the valley steepened. Large tracts of the slopes were darkly clothed with trees below the hazy purple peaks, some with other towns on the summit. He itched to get out the watercolour paints that had provided his major means of relaxation since his school days. Instead, conscious of his rumbling stomach, he returned to the cool indoors to take a shower and make his way downstairs to seek refreshment.

  Half an hour later he was seated beneath the shade of one of Il Giardino’s off-white parasols. He had no trouble finding a vacant table. It was now three o’clock so perhaps many tourists had lunched already. Both waitresses were still working and the dark one appeared before him, producing her pad and pen from her apron pocket.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ she greeted him brightly. ‘Would you like to order?’ Her eyes were brown and her skin golden. If he hadn’t heard her speaking English he would have taken her for Italian.

  ‘Buon giorno.’ He ordered a large beer and an arancino rice ball stuffed with ragù.

  ‘Coming right up.’ She returned in a couple of minutes bearing a tall glass of pale beer and deposited it on the table. ‘Your arancino will be ready shortly.’ She shot a swift glance around and then lowered her voice. ‘Thanks for your help earlier. It made things a lot easier.’

  ‘It felt like the right thing to do.’ He took a long, satisfying draught of his beer, the chill liquid cutting through any remaining journey dust in his throat. As she’d raised the subject he asked, ‘Is the other waitress OK?’

  ‘I think so.’ Her eyes smiled. ‘I’m not sure how you saw the incident when you and your motorbike didn’t arrive until after it had taken place but I’m grateful, and I know Amy is.’

  Levi shrugged off the first part of her sentence. ‘That guy – Davide? He’s not around right now?’

  She grinned, her teeth white and even. ‘Benedetta thought it was a good idea to send him on his break.’

  He chuckled. ‘I suppose Casa Felice’s not like one of those massive places where it’s easy to assign staff members to opposite ends of the building and know they’d be unlikely to see each other.’

  She nodded. ‘Especially as Amy and I live in at Casa Felice.’

  ‘Do all the staff?’

  ‘No, most of the kitchen and housekeeping staff are local and many of the wait staff are too, but Benedetta likes some native English speakers for the tourists. Amy speaks German as well.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘What time does your shift end?’

  Her smile faltered. ‘I’d better get back to work.’ She turned smartly away.

  Watching her glide off to a nearby table and begin to clear, he realised that she’d taken his question as a prelude to asking her to join him once she’d finished for the day.

  He hid a rueful grin as he lifted his beer glass. Her hasty evasion had certainly put him in his place.

  Chapter Two

  Promise #4: Lay flowers for your grandparents

  It was Monday before Sofia got a break after seven straight days on duty.

  It was a shame that, as long as Sofia and Amy both worked in Il Giardino, their time off together would be limited. They’d bonded right from their first evening when Sofia, thinking Amy looked a bit lost, had suggested eating together. Over pasta, Amy had been wide-eyed to hear about the string of waitressing jobs Sofia had fitted around caring for her dad. In turn, Sofia had been green with envy over Amy’s tales of living in Germany with her expat British family.

  The evening had ended in giggles as they pored over the list of rules that had awaited them in their rooms, Benedetta’s name printed in capitals at the foot. ‘Wow,’ Sofia had commented. ‘Staff are required not to go here, wear that, do the other. We’ll be sacked for sure.’

  They’d each managed not to transgress so far.

  Benedetta had given Amy the weekend off as Amy was used to handling euros, but her Italian was sketchy so she needed to concentrate hard when serving the locals. Also, she was visibly exhausted by long shifts on her feet in the bright sun or late into the evening.

  Sofia hadn’t minded waiting until training was over and she was established on the staff rota for her precious two days off – and now they were here. She could catch up on laundry in the staff kitchen-cum-utility-room this evening but this morning, after a couple of extra hours in bed, she meant to embark on the fulfilment of another promise to Aldo, one that had felt too important to be squeezed into the few off-duty hours she’d enjoyed so far.

  It meant flouting Benedetta’s rule that staff should avoid any area of the hotel where their duties did not take them, especially when not in uniform. However, Sofia risked entering the coolness of the reception area when she saw Aurora on duty because she was thought Aurora would be less wedded to the rules than Benedetta. Sofia had learned to like Aurora as readily as she’d learned to dislike her brother Davide, who seemed to go through every day resenting working for his mum and serving food to pink-faced tourists.

  In contrast, Aurora obviously loved working in Casa Felice and had the happy knack of getting on with everyone. Like many Italian women, she had an air of effortless glamour. Her nails were immaculately crimson, her makeup pristine and her not-a-hair-out-of-place plait hung dead centre down the back of her smart black jacket. She beamed when she saw Sofia. ‘Now you have some time to explore Montelibertà?’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Sofia returned frankly. ‘Is there somewhere in town I can buy a map?’

  Aurora opened a drawer. ‘Of Montelibertà? Informazioni turistiche gives to us their maps.’ She brought out a neatly folded rectangle and shook it out to display a colourful street plan. ‘See, here is Casa Felice.’ She tapped with a perfect fingernail. ‘Follow Via Virgilio down the hill and into the town and you see the church, many restaurants and museums. Here for good Italian ice-cream.’ She tapped a different point on the map. ‘Gelateria Fernando – my favourite.’

  ‘I’d like to find the cemetery.’ Sofia tried to sound as if this destination was on the ‘must see’ list of every seasonal worker.

  Aurora’s wide eyes and flipped-up eyebrows suggested interest. ‘Your family name, Bianchi, it is unusual for Umbria. But there are others in Montelibertà.’ Her expectant pause invited Sofia to fill in any blanks.

  Sofia saw no reason to be secretive. ‘My father was from Montelibertà. I promised I’d put flowers on his parents’ graves. He was ill for a long time before he died so hadn’t been able to return to Italy.’

  The corners of Aurora’s mouth turned down. ‘I’m sorry you have lost your papà.’

  Sofia tried to smile but it didn’t quite come off, though the memory of Aldo’s breathlessly cajoling ‘Non frignare, Sofia,’ reverberated in her mind. It was hard not to mope when, as now, grief gripped her like a fist around her lungs. Sofia swallowed hard and forced her voice not to tremble. ‘Thank you. He’d be glad I’m here.’

  Aurora switched her smile back on. ‘It is a large cemetery. Did your grandparents die long ago?’

  ‘In 1994. They were together in a car accident between here and Turin.’

>   ‘Many people from the villages around this town also rest there. It will be necessary to find exactly where are your grandparents.’

  Sofia sighed. She’d hoped the cemetery would be of a size she could stroll around and chance across the names of Agnello and Maria Bianchi. ‘Dad said I should ask at Santa Lucia church, but I wonder if the records are available to the public online?’

  Aurora nodded. ‘Of their passing, yes, but I agree with your papà. It will be better to ask Ernesto Milani at Santa Lucia. He is the one who writes down every funeral. He will find it for you.’

  Sofia’s stomach did a loop-the-loop at Aurora’s matter-of-factness. It made the prospect of making this connection to her unknown family excitingly real. ‘Is Ernesto the parish clerk?’

  ‘Si, è il responsabile del registro.’ Aurora was already reaching for the telephone, her plait swishing with her movements. She looked up something on the computer on the reception desk, dialled a number and began speaking into the phone in rapid Italian.

  Sofia listened, noting unfamiliar vocabulary relating to the function of record keeping and registries. By the time Aurora put down the phone she didn’t need much additional information. ‘Ernesto has agreed to meet me? Today?’ It was that easy?

  ‘Yes, at the church. There is no service until evening so you can find him now in the rooms at the back.’ She marked the church on the map, although Sofia already knew it was on Piazza Santa Lucia, one of the two major squares in town, because Aldo had taken her on imaginary walks through Montelibertà so many times. On a sheet of paper, Aurora wrote Ernesto’s name and drew a diagram of where Sofia would find the rear door.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gratefully, Sofia folded up the map, smooth and flimsy beneath her fingers. ‘Ciao.’

  As she turned away, she caught sight of the guest she’d mentally christened Biker Man across reception. He’d adopted a more orthodox approach to holiday wear now, black cargo shorts and a T-shirt that stretched across his chest. He was starting to tan even after a couple of days, she noticed.