Page 70 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘Zeld? Will you be okay if I go?’ Lennie looks down at his phone. ‘Matteo is giving me some work. His hod carrier, Paulo, is ninety-three, and, well . . .’
‘What? He’s too old to carry the bricks?’
‘No, he’s had to go and visit his sister on the mainland. Matteo has asked me to stand in and help out while he’s away.’
‘You’re going to work for Matteo?’ We all look aghast.
‘Don’t tell me you’re working on the new gym!’
‘Look, maybe this way we can get Romano onside.’ Lennie looks at Luca. ‘If he sees we’re here to work and get involved . . .’
I harrumph.
‘It’s worth a try, Zeld,’ he says.
‘Of course, of course,’ I agree, guilt washing over me again. Lennie is working so hard to make our new life happen. My heart is safe with him. There’s no risk of me being left, or hurt again. I must never, ever forget that.
I smile, and he kisses my cheek, then grabs a bottle of water from the table, slings his man bag over his shoulder and pulls down his shades from his forehead. I love the way Lennie has embraced Sicilian life. I just can’t see him moving back home.
Luca helps me gather and wash all the verdello. We’re exhausted, but happy.
‘Okay, well I think we have enough here,’ I say, looking at the crates of fruit.
‘I have more jars and bottles at the restaurant. Maybe collect them tomorrow?’
‘Good idea,’ I say.
‘But if you are not going to make the limoncello until tomorrow, when the bottles arrive, you need to keep the verdello somewhere cool . . . and safe.’ He looks at me seriously, and once again I feel the electricity shoot round my body.
‘What about the barn?’
Luca shakes his head.
‘How about an outside bedroom?’
He shakes his head again. ‘What if someone books to come tonight? You’ll have to move the fruit somewhere else.’
‘Well, a booking would certainly be very welcome,’ I say, thinking about our dwindling household fund.
He looks at me. ‘What about the tunnel? It is cool. No one will look for them there, especially now my father thinks he has put a stop to my lemon exporting.’
‘What, take them all to the tunnel? But how?’
‘I can help.’ Valerie is suddenly standing beside us.
‘Valerie! Where did you come from?’ I say with a burst of laughter. I feel like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin.
‘Well, I saw you two with your heads together . . . again,’ she says, and I feel my cheeks burn. She couldn’t have seen us earlier, could she? Guilt and shame wrap around me like a python and squeeze until I find it hard to breathe. ‘What are you planning?’
‘We’re trying to work out where to store the fruit,’ I say. ‘It’s important to keep it cool.’
‘And safe,’ Luca adds. ‘Lemon theft has always been a problem in Sicily. It’s how protection gangs started up. Lemons that had already been sold were being stolen before they had been picked, so farmers employed security staff to guard them. These guys then became the middlemen between the suppliers and the customers, running, how you say, the whole racket.’
‘The Mafia!’ Valerie’s eyes are on stalks.
Luca shrugs. ‘No one mentions that name here in Sicily. But yes, it is a part of our history.’
‘Doesn’t sound that far from your father’s business practices if you ask me,’ I say, thinking about Romano shutting down the lemon grove, cross on Luca’s behalf. Actually, on the town’s behalf. We have had such kindness from some people, but I’m so angry they can’t carry on their lives as they used to. They live in fear of the bully that is Luca’s father. It’s so sad that they are grateful for us arriving, but no one can tell us to our faces. All the gifts of food and drink that arrive under cover of darkness, practically every day.
