Page 32 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘We have paying guests coming to the farmhouse tonight. We need to make some money to keep us going until the dust settles and we can get our flights home. But the woman in the shop wouldn’t sell me any groceries.’
‘Ah, my cousin Carina.’
‘Another relative?’ I roll my eyes. ‘Working for your father?’
He nods, and has the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘The uncle who owned the restaurant – it’s his daughter. She’s close to my father, as is Sophia, her little girl. He took on the role of grandfather to her. We all call him Il Nonno, The grandfather. Carina won’t like the idea of competition.’
‘But we’re not competition. We’re bringing business. All right, only a little bit, but it’s still business for the town.’
He shakes his head. ‘My family will do what my father says, and if he says you’re competition, they’ll all follow his wishes.’
I frown. ‘But Giuseppe has worked so hard to get this all sorted. To bring new families to the town to keep it going.’
‘My father won’t look at it like that. He and Giuseppe haven’t seen eye to eye for a long time. They haven’t spoken for years. He’ll think Giuseppe’s trying to put him out of business.’
‘But aren’t they . . . aren’t they related? Brothers-in-law?’ I try and keep up with all the family connections.
He nods.
‘You look hot . . . Some gelato?’ he suddenly asks. ‘It will help with the horrid taste in the air from Etna.’
I look at him. I’m supposed to be cross with him. It’s his family putting us out on the streets. But somehow, my mouth says otherwise. The idea of ice cream on my dry throat is very tempting.
‘Gelato would be lovely,’ I find myself saying.
I follow him through the gates and down the steps into the wonderful cool restaurant. I sit at a table, and he brings me ice cream in a bowl.
‘Here,’ he says with a wonderful smile. ‘It’s the least I can do to make up for my family’s bad behaviour. But you have to guess the flavours.’
I take the bowl from him and taste a green scoop.
‘Pistachio?’ I guess.
‘Pistacchio,’ he says, and I smile and repeat it.
‘Good, and the next?’
‘Strawberry,’ I say confidently.
‘Fragola,’ he tells me.
‘Fragola,’ I repeat.
‘Good! And finally, to complete the Italian flag, the white one.’
‘Lemon!’ I announce. ‘Limone!’
‘My favourite,’ he tells me. ‘The taste of Sicily, the taste of Città d’Oro . . . well, it used to be. Certainly the taste of my childhood.’
We both tuck in and I suddenly find myself asking the question that’s been playing on my mind.
‘Luca, why do you stay here? Don’t you want to leave, get away? I mean, you said about marrying your cousin. Don’t you want to find someone for yourself?’
He puts his spoon into the ice cream and it stands upright.
‘It’s not easy getting away from a father like mine. As I told you, he’s not well, and upsetting his plans would mean pressure on his heart. It’s very hard. But yes, it was my plan to get away, before . . .’ he takes a breath, ‘before my mother left.’ He looks down and then up again. The words hang in the air. He doesn’t expand and I don’t feel I should ask.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say. ‘I need to find somewhere to buy some food, away from the town by the sounds of it.’
