Page 76 of A Place in the Sun
On the table there is a coffee pot, with a basket of bread, freshly squeezed orange juice and a small jug of olive branches and rosemary, smelling lovely.
‘Hello? Giovanni?’ I call up the stairs to his apartment. By the bottom of the stairs I notice a rucksack. I’m assuming it’s Stella’s and my heart twists.
‘Hey,ciao,’ he says, coming through the front gate and lightly kissing me on both cheeks. ‘I got your message.’
‘Oh, hey,’ I say, not sure which one. I’m confused as I’d sent only a quick reply to his.
‘Just out for his walk.’ He gestures towards Bello.
‘Ah. How’s Stella?’ I ask.
‘Still asleep on my sofa when I last looked.’
A wave of guilt washes over me again. What will happen to her once we go? We won’t be here. The house will sell.
‘So,’ he says, glancing at the back door and then at the little table for two, ‘this looks nice.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ I say, wondering why he would go to so much effort, wondering what he wants to tell me.
‘Shall we?’ He holds out a hand to the wrought-iron table and chairs.
We sit. The coffee in the pot is hot and suddenly I’m as nervous as if I was on a date.
‘Here.’ I switch into hosting mode and pour coffee for us both, the sun warming our faces as it rises. He’s smiling – and it’s as if a thunderbolt has struck me.I pass him his coffee, as well as I can with a shaking hand.
He offers me the basket of bread and I take a piece, feeling anything but hungry.
‘Good marmalade,’ he says. He sniffs it. ‘I think it’s Nonna Teresa’s.’
I could have sworn I heard a rustle from the kitchen, perhaps the storeroom.
‘It was kind of you to do this,’ he says. ‘You didn’t need to thank me. I’ve already told you, it’s me who should be thanking you. With the money from this weekend, La Tavola should be able to keep going for a good while longer. And if we can run more of these weekends …’
‘I – I didn’t do this.’
He laughs. ‘Well, whoever you got to do it, it was kind of you and unnecessary.’
‘No, really, you texted me!’
He stops spooning marmalade from its little terracotta pot onto his plate, still smiling his lazy, lopsided smile … He frowns and puts down his knife. ‘Only to say I’d meet you, replying to you.’
He looks sideways and the other way.
Something feels amiss. Giovanni hadn’t asked to meet me. And I was excited that maybe he wanted to talk to me about something other than the house or La Tavola. How stupid am I? What else is there to talk about?
Does he still think I’m going with Sebastian? Considering returning to the UK to live by the sea with my two children, three stepchildren and a black Labrador called Bert?
‘You did text me to talk to me, didn’t you?’ I say slowly.
He shakes his head. ‘You texted me!’
We narrow our eyes and, suddenly, hear a sneeze.
And a load of shushing, followed by a very quiet ‘Bless you.’
We stare at each other, then jump out of our seats, abandoning the coffee and bread in the sun. We run into the kitchen and pull open the pantry door where everyone is hugging and kissing and smiling.
‘It was Pietro! He spoke!’ says Caterina, with tears in her eyes.
