Over five years? What did years matter when the end result was the same? His daughter left motherless, his wife’s death a dark stain on his soul.
‘I know how long it’s been, Ciana.’ How long to the day, to the hour. Just as he knew how unhappy his wife had been. How, once she’d got over the initial excitement at living in a castle, she’d felt caged in by the mountains, isolated by San Tomo’s remote location, how much she resented him for travelling so much, working so much—although that work paid for her extravagant lifestyle. That unhappiness, that resentment, that isolation had killed her—and Dante knew exactly who was to blame.
It wasn’t the ice, or the car, or her lover, or the drink or the cocaine that had killed his wife. He had. And no matter how hard he worked he would never be able to atone, never make it up to his daughter. ‘I’m fine, Luciana. Looking forward to spending the summer here. To getting away from Roma for a couple of months.’ He glanced back towards the lake. ‘I’ve already been for a swim.’
‘The first swim of summer? How I miss it. I always knew it was the holidays as soon as I was in the lake. No study, no etiquette, no expectations for two whole months.’ Luciana’s voice was filled with melancholic nostalgia. Dante rolled his eyes, glad she couldn’t see him. He knew full well his sister’s house had stunning mountain views on every side, that she could walk down to a lake ten times the size of San Tomo in less than five minutes and her three sons spent most of their time on the water.
‘There’s plenty of room if you want to come for a visit any time.’ The offer was genuinely meant, but Dante knew she was unlikely to make the two-day flight back to her native country any time soon, not with three boys aged between five and eight and the extensive vineyard she owned with her husband to manage.
‘Grazie—it’s been too long since I saw my niece. Now, Dante, I wanted to ask you a favour.’
Here it was, the reason for the call. ‘Mmm?’ he said noncommittally.
‘My amico, Giovanna, you remember her? She recently got divorced—her husband was not a nice man—and she’s moved to Milan. She could really do with a friend. Will you take her out? Maybe for dinner?’ Luciana’s voice was sly and Dante didn’t try and hide his sigh.
‘I’m not planning to spend any time in Milan this summer,’ he said as repressively as possible. He should have known this conversation was coming; after all, it was at least three months since his sister had last tried to set him up.
‘She has a villa on Lake Garda and spends all her weekends there. That’s not far away. You could do with some time out as well, Dante. Just a few dinners, no expectations.’
‘Perdonami, Luciana, but I’m not looking to make any new friends, to date anyone. I know you mean well, but please, stop trying to set me up with your friends.’
‘I just hate to think of you all alone, brooding away.’ Luciana sounded throaty, a hitch in her voice. Dante knew those signs all too well; his sister was going to cry.
It would be different if she was close by, if she could just see that he and Arianna were both well, both happy. But he knew how much she fretted about being on the other side of the world, how much she blamed herself for promoting Dante’s marriage to Violetta. She just wanted him to be happy. How could he be upset with her for that? If only he could stop her worrying...
‘I’m not alone...’ The words spilled out before he had a chance to think what he was saying. ‘I met someone, but it’s really early days, so don’t get excited.’
A little, teeny white lie. What harm could it do? If it made Luciana happy—and stopped her trying to set him up with any newly single friend then surely it was allowable? Maybe even the right thing to do.
‘You met someone? Who? Oh, you man, you, why didn’t you say something before?’
‘It’s not serious. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’ Plus, the tiny point that he’d only just thought up his imaginary girlfriend.
‘So? Details?’ Luciana demanded and Dante stopped dead. Details? Of course his sister would want details. He swivelled, looking out over the lake for inspiration. His gaze fell on the jetty almost directly opposite, on the woman he had seen standing there, on the intense way she had watched him, as if he represented something she needed, something she yearned for.
Despite himself the blood began to heat in his veins, his heart thumping a little louder. He’d been annoyed, sure. His coming-home ritual interrupted, the sheer intentness of her stare intrusive. And yet... There had been something almost sensual about the moment. The two of them separated by hundreds of metres of water and yet connected by something primal. He’d felt a little like a stag in the prime of his life, preening for attention. She the doe, unable to look away, waiting to be claimed.
‘She’s English,’ Dante said slowly. ‘Tall, blonde.’
‘English? Okay. And? What does she do? Where did you meet? What does Arianna think?’
Dante seized on the last question gratefully, his inventiveness already giving out. ‘Arianna doesn’t know yet, so don’t say anything when you video-call her. Like I said, it’s early days. Luciana, I’ll call you later this week; I have only been here a couple of hours and I need to meet the new staff and look over the new event planner’s business plan.’ Hopefully by then he would have thought up a story that would pass muster. Planned out a summer-long romance, followed by a regretful breakup in the autumn and his sister off his back for a good few months.
‘Okay, but I want to know all about her,’ Luciana threatened. ‘Ciao, Dante.’
‘Ciao. And, Luciana? Thank you for calling. For always calling.’
‘Stupido,’ she murmured and hung up.
Dante slipped his phone back into his pocket, for once the smile playing on his lips unforced. He did appreciate every phone call; he just wanted Luciana to stop worrying about him. Now, thanks to the stroke of genius that was his imaginary girlfriend, he’d achieved that.
For now.
‘THAT’S GREAT. I look forward to meeting you in two weeks’ time.’ Madeleine replaced the phone handset and leaned back in her chair. There was no need for her to speak to Sally Capper again, but—she made a private bet with herself—there would be at least another four conversations before the bride arrived in San Tomo.
Of course, every bride put a lot of trust in Maddie’s hands. She organised their pick-ups at the airport, she allocated rooms to their guests, sometimes ensuring that larger parties were also accommodated in the village. She arranged ceremonies at the church, at the town hall and in the small chapel in the castello—always reminding the couples to have a legal ceremony at home first to cut through the extensive Italian red tape. She advised on menus, she organised the decoration of the hall or the courtyard. She booked hairdressers and make-up artists. She received wedding dresses and made sure they were pressed and stored properly. In fact she had four hanging in the cedar closet behind her right now.
She soothed tears and tantrums, listened to diatribes about selfish relatives; she was counsellor and advisor. Some brides fell on her as if she were their best friend when they finally met. Others treated her as if she were there to do their every bidding, with no thought of pleases and thank-yous. Maddie didn’t much care either way. She was here to do a job, that was all.
The truth was, most of the weddings left her cold, their very perfection unsettling. The only times she felt a glimmer of any emotion was when the bride and groom didn’t