Page 45 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘Quite right,’ agrees Valerie.
‘I think I’ll go and see him now.’
‘So what are you going to do about a dress? You need something to get married in.’
‘Actually . . .’ I have no idea why I’m hesitating. ‘Actually, I’ve been offered . . . well, someone has offered to make me one.’
‘Make you one?’
‘Yes, to say thank you for staying and wanting to get married here.’
‘There’s this old legend, you see,’ Barry informs Valerie. ‘Unless the town sees a wedding every ten years, Etna isn’t happy.’
‘A legend?’ Valerie laughs. ‘Well, if it gets you a dress for free . . . What are you waiting for? Go! Go and say yes please!’
It’s for the wedding, for Lennie and me and Città d’Oro, I tell myself as I walk into town. He’s just doing it to make sure the wedding’s a success and for the town. It’s his gift to the town, I tell myself. He said it was a gift to apologise for his father’s bad manners. I shouldn’t feel guilty about accepting such a generous offer. There’s no harm in that. He might be attractive and make me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush, but nothing is going to happen. I’m marrying Lennie, and Luca’s helping me do that. We’re finally starting to be welcomed into the town.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Giuseppe?Ciao,’ I say, slightly out of breath from climbing the steep steps up to the town hall.
‘Zelda!’ He gets up from his desk and walks over to me, kissing me on each cheek. I’m surprised at how quickly I have found this a totally natural way of greeting people. ‘How are you? I am so delighted you have decided to stay. And of course the farmhouse is yours as long as you need it. There is very little selling around here right now.’ He tries to smile, but I can tell he’s still worried about the town and its fortunes. He’s running his hands through his hair again.
‘Actually, Giuseppe, I have something for you. When we were clearing out the outside bedrooms, we found boxes full of clothes. They’re lovely. I just wondered what you wanted us to do with them.’
I open up the box I’ve brought with me.
‘Ah . . .’ A tear springs to his eye. ‘These are my late wife’s clothes. I put them in the outside rooms after she died. I couldn’t bear to see them. She was a beautiful woman, dressed immaculately.’
He smiles sadly and puts his hand into the open box, resting it there for a minute as if transported back to a time before she died.
‘We were very much in love,’ he says. ‘But she was taken from me too early.’ He sniffs and takes his hand from the box. ‘I’ll get them taken away,’ he tells me. ‘Try and find them a good home. Some of the clothes were her mother’s.’
‘Do you have any children who might like them?’
‘Sadly, no. We didn’t have a family of our own. Once upon a time, it didn’t matter. This town felt like one big family. We all had each other. Nowadays . . . well, it’s very different.’
‘Actually, Giuseppe, if you don’t have anyone to hand them on to, I could sell them for you. Vintage clothing was my old business, and the one I had hoped to set up here. I could sell them online and split any profit with you.’
‘You could start a business with them? People will want to buy second-hand clothes from you?’
‘Yes, of course. I mean, these are beautiful pieces. These days, everyone realises the importance of recycling, upcycling, especially given the quality of the workmanship that went into these clothes. Lots of them are hand-made. Like this bag.’ I pull the handbag from the box and open it to look at the lining again. The folded postcard is still in there, and the ribbon. ‘Oh, and I found this,’ I say, and hold out the card. ‘I’m not sure what it is.’
He takes it and unfolds it.
‘Ah . . .’ Again his eyes fill with tears. ‘Limoncello.’
‘Your wife’s limoncello?’
He shakes his head. ‘Her mother’s. Andhermother’s before that, no doubt. Nonna’s limoncello. She must have written it down for my wife before she died. She was always very exact in her measurements. As the years went on, she wanted to make sure the recipe wasn’t forgotten.’
He hands the postcard back to me. ‘Sad to imagine what she would be thinking if she could see Città d’Oro now. It isn’t the same place any more. We don’t have the lemons like we used to. But Sicily has had many influences over the years: the Greeks, the Romans, medieval Arabs. We must move forward and make it a new town, new people, new families, and share the traditions that they bring. Like Marmite. I love Marmite!’ He beams. ‘And tea! Would you like some tea now? I can make some.’
‘No, really, I have to be getting on. I’m going to . . .’ I smile and think about being part of a new town, sharing new traditions. ‘I’m going to sort out my wedding dress.’
I’m going to accept Luca’s offer, his welcome present. I’m going to trust him. Offer to pay him what I can. I’m doing this for the town, for all of us. For our new beginnings.
I walk towards the lemon grove, down the steep cobbled lane on the outskirts of the town. The soft citrus smell of the blossom guides me to the gates. Lemon with a hint of sea air. I look at the initials engraved there, ‘F’ and ‘A’, and realise that it is Luca’s grandmother who is the owner of some of those clothes. The owner of the handbag and the recipe. Nonna. I run my hand over the initials and then push open the gates and walk in.
