Setting Him Free (15 page)

Would it? He watched her disappear through the double
doors, feeling once again, like the naughty boy she'd scolded so
often for stealing her biscotti. That she loved him like a son was
beyond doubt. She just had a strange way of showing it.

Before giving himself time to change his mind, he
took out his phone and dialled the Rome office. Denaro Enterprises
could run itself for a while. Let the villa speak to him. Give his
leg time to heal. And find a way to charm Signora Renata Marcante
into selling the bungalow and the small plot of land that straddled
most of the access to Villa Cristina.

In other words, find a way to change five hundred
years of family history. They hadn't called the old witch Nonna
Strega for nothing.

A challenge, but not one he couldn't handle.
Breakfast on the terrace and then climb the old goat path to gather
some of the wild poppies for Signora Marcante. Add a little
personal touch to the smile and find out if his grandfather's death
might have miraculously brought years of animosity to an end.

"Hey!"

A whirlwind of white fur nearly knocked him off his
feet, lunging into the space between his legs and the doorframe
then hurtling down the corridor towards the open double doors.
Before he could gather his wits, the cat flew down the veranda
steps and disappeared into the bushes, his breakfast clamped firmly
between its teeth.

* * * *

Nonna Renata was dying.

Elena Marcante smoothed out the linen sheet covering
her sleeping grandmother and wondered if this time it might be for
real. The past year had seen her age alarmingly and there had been
none of the dramatics that usually accompanied one of Nonna's calls
to her deathbed. More than once the family had made the mad dash
from England to the Island of Sorellina, expecting the worse only
to find the old matriarch sitting on the porch, humming a tune,
miraculously recovered.

This time, Elena had been delegated to visit and
determine the extent of the emergency. She found Nonna asleep in
bed, a shawl about her shoulders, a white cat tucked into the curve
of her hip.

"How is she, Cristina?"

The cat's green eyes regarded her, unblinking. Nonna
Renata's cats were always white and always called Cristina, despite
it being the name of the hated villa at the top of the track. It
makes life easier, her grandmother would say, with a knowing smile.
Cristina gave a small meow of acknowledgement and set about
cleaning her paws.

What had Nonna been up to? The marble-topped
nightstand was heaped with papers and letters, some with waxed
seals, others with writing too faded by time to read. Atop the
pile, a newer document dated the previous month.

Proposed acquisition of Casa Marcante by Denaro
Enterprises.

Elena read the title with growing irritation. Little
wonder Nonna had taken to her bed. This was one battle the Denaros'
refused to stop fighting and one they would never win. Not while
Nonna Renata still breathed.

"Get well," she whispered, refusing to think of the
decision she might be forced to make if her grandmother died. She'd
call Genaro, the family lawyer tomorrow and ask him to send the
standard refusal letter along with another plea to leave the old
woman in peace. Denaro Enterprises could wait the few years she had
left and negotiate with the next generation who had more reason to
put money over tradition.

Elena crept from the room to make herself a
much-needed coffee, a to-do list already forming in her mind.
Better to drop into town to see Genaro personally and while there,
call on Dottore Vincenzo to find out how ill Nonna really was.

The store-cupboard in the lean-to kitchen was
uncharacteristically bare. Two cans of tuna and a half-pack of
dried pasta, salt and a dish of dried basil leaves. No rows of
preserves and bottled tomatoes. No strings of onion and garlic
hanging in plaits from the ceiling hooks.

She added a shopping trip to the list, ignoring for
now, the inevitable argument it would cause. Nonna would be
mortified at the thought of a guest having to provide for
themselves.

Elena rubbed her temples, massaging the pressure
points in a bid to ease the tension. Nonna had guarded her
independence so fiercely, flatly refusing to move in with her
sister or any of her relatives, insisting on living out her days
here at the house where she'd been born and raised and where she'd
remained after her marriage to Nonno Alberto.

"Elena. I knew you would come."

Nonna Renata stood in the doorway, the shawl hanging
loosely from her shoulders. Her gaze strayed to the silver-framed
photograph of Nonno Alberto, brow creasing when she realised the
votive candle had burned down.

"Light one for him, Elena. He would like you to do
that."

"I will, Nonna. Here, sit down and tell me how you
are."

Nonna Renata accepted the arm about her waist without
protest. Another bad sign. Elena swallowed a pang at the feel of
bony shoulders and a slightness she'd never associated with her
beloved Nonna.

"You're looking well, Nonna."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm not." Nonna
settled into the chair, adjusting her shawl with care. "Light the
candle. Nonno is waiting."

First things first. Elena bit back the smile. Forty
years a widow and not a day passed without a prayer and a candle
for her very late husband, Alberto Pasquadibisceglie. The
grandfather Elena had never known with the unpronounceable name
she'd always hated.

Nonna Renata used her maiden name, as all Italian
women did, a name Elena had adopted as soon as she'd been old
enough to fill in the official change of name forms. A professional
artist needed a name people could pronounce and remember. Elena
Marcante had a nice ring to it.

"You must take me to the cemetery this afternoon.
This week I have not…" Nonna pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve
of her cotton nightgown. "I'll be with him soon, Elena…"

"Now now, Nonna." Elena dropped to one knee at her
grandmother's side. "If you feel well enough, I'll take you this
afternoon, how about that?" She rubbed a thumb over the papery
softness of her grandmother's hand. "And then perhaps a drive to
the Grotto, if you feel up to it? We'll throw a coin into the water
and make a wish like we did when I was a child."

"I need to see Genaro, the lawyer. Call him. Tell him
he must come."

"I will. But you must calm down. All this agitation
isn't good for you."

Nonna's hand curled about hers. "That family up
there, they're trying to kill me with the worry. They think then
you will sell. But you must not. You are the only ones I can trust
not to sell. That's why I'm leaving the house to you and
Margarita."

So Nonna hadn't changed her will? The rest of the
family wouldn't be pleased to hear that.

"Nonna, you'll be around for a good few years yet.
Let's have some coffee and we'll decide what needs to be done."

"You must go to villa Cristina. With Giuseppe Denaro
gone, they will double their efforts to take my home."

"I will do that, too." Elena fended off the avalanche
of requests with patience borne of years of practice. "My first
call must be to Jacob back in England. To tell him I'll be a few
days longer than I thought. He'll need to organise someone to man
my stall while I'm away."

"So, you still don't have a proper job, then? You are
still living in sinfulness with this – Jacob?"

"He's my business partner, Nonna. And the
Craft-Collective is doing well, given the state of the economy. Did
I tell you that the queen bought one of my scarves when she visited
the village?"

"The queen will see great grandchildren before I
do."

Elena couldn't contain the laughter. A spark of the
old Nonna, at last. "Ahh, now there, I have good news for you.
Margarita is pregnant again and this time the signs look good for a
full-term delivery."

"Your sister at least is doing her duty. Go, pay your
respects to Nonno, then you must visit villa Cristina. I saw him go
up there yesterday, driving over my flower beds in his fancy red
car. You will tell him to leave me alone."

Elena rose from her crouch and rolled shoulders stiff
from travelling. Cristina appeared as if from nowhere and
immediately jumped possessively onto Nonna's lap. Who would take
her in if Nonna died?

"I see you still have Cristina," Elena said as she
rooted through a drawer for a new candle. "How old is she now?"

"Sixty-two." No hesitation in Nonna's reply.

"She looks well on it." No one ever contradicted
Nonna's assertion that Cristina moved in on her wedding day and had
been in residence ever since. "We'll have our coffee and then I'll
walk up to the villa and have a word with Stefano. I wonder how
long it will take him to fritter away the family fortune. Eh?"

"Stefano? When does that wastrel ever show up here?
No, it was Dario I saw. He sent the letter. He's the one who wants
my house."

"Nonna." Elena swallowed down the surge of emotion at
the mention of the name she'd last heard at the end of a lunchtime
news bulletin.

Dario Denaro, heir to the Denaro fortune was
tragically killed today when the vehicle he was travelling in left
the road on the Khardung La Pass.

"Dario is dead. Five months ago, in India. It was on
the news. Remember?"

Nonna's face set. "Well, he's back. Back from the
dead so he can drive me to my own death."

Cristina chose that moment to leap from her
comfortable lap and streak through the open door to the garden.
Elena turned to open the crockery cupboard, busying herself with
finding cups and locating spoons. Breathing through the shock of
hearing news she'd wished so desperately to be true.

Mistaken identity. Nonna's eyes were not what they
used to be. Stefano did look very much like his older brother.

"So, you will go?"

"Yes, Nonna. I will go." The fine hairs on the back
of her neck prickled. Whether from the thought of meeting a ghost,
or having to stand face to face with the man himself, she couldn't
tell. Both prospects were equally as frightening.

* * * *

How many times had she made this journey? Cristina
picked her way along the stony goat-path, eyes set firmly on the
softly muted stones of the ruined temple that sat near the top of
the mountain. The thrill of catching the first glimpse of her
beloved had only grown stronger over the years.

He sat, as always, on the edge of the outer wall, his
gaze fixed on the ancient path used now only by the adventurous and
the locals. To his right a double-edged sword, on his hands gloves
still stained with the blood of his last battle.

A weary prisoner of his own remorse.

She broke cover and leaped onto the tumbled stones.
He turned away and spoke words he'd repeated too many times to
count.

Tell me you forgive me, Cristina. I cannot look at
you unless you forgive me.

I forgave you long ago my love. How many more times
do I need to say it?

Until the sea below us runs dry and this mountain
crumbles to dust.

By Jupiter, the man was stubborn!

Bernardo. You are forgiven. Look at me, my love.

His shoulders tightened. How can I look at you when I
don't see you?

I'm here, my love. Trapped in this furry form but
here all the same.

"I cannot bear to see what I did to you."

But I have news, Bernardo. And this time, the signs
are good.

You really believe you can make a Denaro and a
Marcante fall in love?

Have I ever stopped trying?

If you'd come with me that night, none of this would
have happened.

If you'd waited for me, none of this would have
happened.

What kept you? Him?

There was no other. I was having my hair dressed.
Making myself beautiful for you.

So near, she could reach out a paw and touch him, yet
as far away as the stars in the heavens. They would meet and
sometimes feel the joy of reunion, other times relive the old
hurts. Then always sit here together on the warming stone, staring
at the curve of the horizon. He lost to his grief and remorse, she
increasingly wanting to scratch some sense into him.

The sun would rise for the start of another day and
Bernardo would fall silent, leaving her to pick her way back down
the mountain to whatever place she currently called home.

And tomorrow they would do this all over again.

When the last streaks of orange gave way to the
sparkling blue of the sea, Princess Cristina leaped silently from
the stones and crossed the veil separating the seen from the
unseen.

Back in the land of the living, she descended to her
name-sake villa and turned her mind to more practical matters.
Dario was no longer the lanky youth with the cheeky grin who'd
pretended indifference to the adoring looks and quiet devotion of
the young girl who visited the bungalow at the end of the
drive.

Indifference, until that last magical summer before
they stepped over into adulthood and different lives.

Twenty years separated the furtive teenage lovers
from the sophisticated divorcee and the free spirit. Did the flame
still flicker, somewhere in the depths of their hearts, or had it
been extinguished by life?

Cristina walked the length of the wall and jumped
down into the sunken garden. The formal pool reflected back the
shape of a cat, white with black-tipped ears, but if she stared
long enough, the image would change and the memories flood back.
Black hair hanging wild and free. Eyes the colour of a stormy sky.
Full lips, the hint of a knowing smile.

And behind her, Bernardo lifting her hair, bending to
kiss her nape. Fingers curling around the curve of her
shoulder.

Cristina dipped a paw into the water, breaking the
surface into a jigsaw of broken images.