Page 82 of My Lemon Grove Summer
Early the following morning, as the last of the verdello are gathered in, I’m standing right at the top of the hill, looking out at the orange sky over the sea and the golden path across the water there. Behind me is Etna. It’s an amazing view, the lines of lemon trees crowded with people working and chatting.
Giuseppe and Valerie have paired up, and Il Nonno and his great-niece are a team; him carrying her on his shoulders and Sophia picking the fruit. Matteo has arrived, and he and Lennie have gathered the high fruit that the older, bent-over members of the community can’t reach. The couple who gave me the flowers are holding hands and helping each other from one tree to the next. Harry, the little dog that Sophia found in the tunnels, is running with Rocca through the overgrown grass and wild flowers. Rocca has found a whole new lease of life since Harry turned up. The sun is at a comfortable heat, just warming the soil and our souls before the intense rays of the day kick in.
Luca comes to stand with me. I can smell him before I hear or see him. I know he’s there and my heart starts racing.
‘Good to see,’ he says, looking straight ahead at the lines of lemon trees. ‘If only it could always be like this.’
He’s right beside me, our hands next to each other; barely touching but enough for me to feel connected to him and the moment.
‘Yes,’ I say, my heart banging away. ‘If only it could always be like this.’
We say nothing more until Lennie turns to indicate that they’re finished and are taking the last of the verdello to Matteo’s truck to drive them to the farmhouse.
‘Don’t forget we have the fitting for your wedding dress,’ says Luca, the moment broken and real life beckoning. ‘Meet me at the lemon grove once you’ve finished making the limoncello.’
I nod, knowing it will be the last time we will be alone together. The wedding is only two weeks away.If only it could always be like this. His words repeat in my head as, with one last deep intake of breath, as though drawing in the moment and making it last, imprinting it in my memory, I step forward in the soft soil, a basket of verdello under my arm.
As we reach the truck, Il Nonno is waiting there. He slowly lifts Sophia off his shoulders, smiling and laughing.
‘Had fun?’ I ask her.
‘It’s been great! We never come into the lemon groves. I love it!’ She beams, and I think about the little girl I first met, sitting at home doing her studies. Never allowed any further than the town square. All this land around, and yet she has been as caged as the bird that keeps her company.
‘It seems I am in your debt again,’ says Il Nonno. ‘You have worked a little magic here today.’ He smiles as he watches the child running around in the long grass with the dogs. ‘What can I do to repay you this time?’
‘Really, there is no need. I have everything I need right here.’ I gesture to the basket of verdello.
Carina walks over to us.
‘Zelda,’ she says, and I lift my chin warily. ‘Thank you, for everything. For finding my daughter and, well, bringing a little fun back into our lives. You are welcome here. I’m sorry for my earlier . . . apprehension.’ She smiles at me, and suddenly I feel a big ball in my throat.
Giuseppe and Valerie are chatting together, bouncing off each other’s shoulders as they make their way from the lemon grove. Then Valerie looks up at me and her smile drops. There is still a lot of pain there between the two of us.
‘Is there nothing I can do to repay you?’ Il Nonno asks again.
‘Really,’ I say, ‘just the chance to make the limoncello, to try to find a way to stay, is all that matters.’
He smiles, a long, slow smile.
‘I tell you what, that street party you put on a few weeks ago . . .’
‘What, the one no one came to?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Put it on again. Tomorrow night. What do you say, Giuseppe?’ he calls over.
Giuseppe looks up from listening to Valerie, her big hips swaying through the long grass as though she has spent her life picking lemons.
‘What’s that?’ he calls back.
‘Tomorrow night, a street party in the square, to welcome the new arrivals.’
‘A magnificent idea! And to celebrate the soon-to-be wedding!’ He grins broadly, but I don’t return his smile. I am full of nerves. Pre-wedding nerves. Or should it be pre-married-life nerves?
‘Tomorrow, after the limoncello has been made,’ I agree.
‘And after your final dress fitting,’ Luca says, looking at me, and the nerves bubble up like a shaken bottle of Prosecco, fizzing and spilling and spoiled.
As the sun starts to rise higher in the sky, the last of the lemons are loaded. This time, I think proudly, they’re leaving not through a secret tunnel, but right through the heart of the town, where they belong.
