Sea of Lost Love (24 page)

C
elestria was at a loss for words. As if by remote control she introduced herself and allowed him to take her hand. The sensation of his skin against hers caused her stomach to flip. She returned his stare with defiance, but her entrails turned to jelly.

Finally he spoke, his Scottish accent soft and smoky. “I should apologize for shouting at you, but in my defense, you were trespassing. The woman in the photograph was my wife. As for sheep, I have little to do with them unless they are on my plate, medium rare, with a little mint sauce and red currant jelly. I don't brush my hair very often; I don't see the point. I'm an artist, not an office clerk. If you don't like it, don't look at it. I'm sure we can avoid each other if we try. I hope I have answered all your questions. If I see you again, I will endeavor not to shout.”

Celestria didn't know whether or not he was joking. His expression was deadly serious. How could she have known that he was next door, listening to her every word? When she didn't reply, he turned on his heel and left through the kitchen, disappearing out into the gardens. Celestria felt as if she had been hit by a tornado.

Mrs. Halifax picked up her fork and continued to eat the risotto. “Well, my dear,” she said casually, “I tried to warn you, but you did plow on.”

Celestria's appetite had disappeared. “What's he doing here?”

“He's Freddie and Gaitano's son-in-law.”

“Ah,” said Celestria. It all made sense. “He was married to their daughter.”

“Natalia. She died three years ago. It was a terrible tragedy. She fell from the cliff. Killed instantly.”

“My intrusion was unforgivable.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Halifax kindly. “The city of the dead is open to everyone. You are free to wander wherever you desire as long as you treat the place with respect. I can't imagine they'd welcome a band of noisy children kicking footballs, but you and Mrs. Waynebridge weren't causing any trouble. No, I'm afraid Hamish has been deeply troubled ever since his wife fell from that cliff. He used to be the funniest man you could ever meet. He had a wonderfully infectious sense of humor and a lightness of spirit that was a joy to be around. He's a gifted pianist and painter, but I don't think he's painted much since Natalia died. Dark scenes, I fear. A pity, when he's surrounded by such beauty.” She watched Celestria for a moment. “Don't worry, his bark is worse than his bite. He's just uncomfortable with himself, that's all. Death is a hard thing to get over. He must feel abandoned and alone. He loved her so very much.” She lowered her eyes and finished the last of the risotto. “My little boy died of polio. I've never got over it. Somehow the years pass, we look and sound older, but inside we're still the same, with the same hearts. I miss him as much now as I did that first, terrible year. I understand poor Hamish. But he will move on, eventually. Of course, he doesn't know that, does he? We all have to move on in the end. Life is for living, and the moment we all meet up in the next world will come soon enough.”

“I'm sorry about your son.”

“He was a dear little boy.”

“What happened to Hamish's leg?”

“He fell off his horse, hunting. It was years ago, when he was in his twenties. It's given him trouble ever since. Some days are better than others. He doesn't always need that stick.” She gave Celestria a conspiratorial look. “He's attractive, though, isn't he?”

“He's rude,” Celestria corrected petulantly.

“Yes, he is, but he can be so very charming.”

“I don't think I want to know.”

Mrs. Halifax smiled into her wineglass.

 

Federica was in the small stone folly that was to become Gaitano's library when Hamish's shadow fell across the floor. “You gave me a fright,” she said, forcing a smile. She knew why he was so cross and felt guilty for not having warned him.

“What is she doing here?”

“You mean Celestria?”

“Celestria Montague. What the devil is she doing in Puglia?” Gaitano took a tape measure to the wall.

“Hold the other end,” he instructed his wife, ignoring Hamish's indignant tone. If there was one thing Gaitano hated, it was confrontation. His son-in-law had been like a bear with a thorn in his foot even before Natalia had died. Gaitano had grown used to rising above it.

“I don't know.” Federica shrugged, taking the tape measure and holding it against the right-hand wall. “Why, have you just met her?”

“She waltzed into Natalia's tomb like the ghastly American tourist that she is. Without consideration.”

“It's a beautiful tomb. You should be proud of it.”

“That's not the point. She wasn't there to admire it.”

“I suppose you were rude.” She handed the tape to her husband while he jotted the measurements down on a notepad.

“She's Robert Montague's daughter,” he growled. “I hated the man.”

Federica looked nervously at her husband. “You had no reason to hate him,” she said, walking out into the sunshine.

Hamish followed her. “No, the women in my family threw themselves into his web with joyous abandon. Why should I hate him? I should have loved him, too?”

“You never knew him!” Federica hissed, glancing shiftily into the folly.

“I missed nothing.”

“You know why? Because your heart is closed, Hamish. Do you think that is what Natalia would want? You guarding her tomb like a dog, biting anyone who dares go near? Life is passing you by. She's gone. Either you live or simply exist, but the fact will remain: Natalia is dead, and you can't bring her back. None of us can. You think I live with my heart full of joy? No, my child is dead. I'll never hold her again. I'll never smell the orange blossom in her hair. I'll never touch her skin and feel that unique sense of being a part of another human being. I carried her in my belly, and I nurtured her into womanhood. I saw the happiness you brought to each other, and I saw your future together cut short. Do you think I don't regret her death every day? But I don't blame you. I resent your self-pity and your hatred. If Natalia is watching you, she will lament the loss of the man she fell in love with and married. Sometimes I don't recognize you, Hamish, and that hurts, because you are the part of my daughter she left behind. No, I don't live with my heart full of joy, but I try to be happy as a woman who has lost a limb tries to be happy. I suggest you do the same because your fury changes nothing.”

“You don't understand,” he said quietly, shaking his shaggy head.

“I'm tired of trying.”

“This isn't about Natalia. It's about Robert Montague.”

“Why don't you just talk to Celestria? You might find you like her.”

“You know nothing, Freddie. You see her through the same pair of rose-tinted glasses as you see her father.”

She stared at him suddenly, biting her bottom lip. “I think you'll find she's a very sweet girl,” she said quickly.

“I know the type, and I don't like it at all.”

Federica sighed. “Oh, what is the point? Your heart is so full of hatred. I just don't understand you anymore.”

Hamish hesitated a moment, during which time they glared at each other. Finally he spoke, and his voice was raw and sad. “I'm unable to enlighten you,” he replied. Leaning heavily on his stick, he began to walk away.

“I won't have you being rude to her, Hamish,” Federica called after him. “And don't forget, Gaitano needs you to help with the library.”

“What was all that about?” Gaitano emerged into the light, squinting behind his glasses.

Federica shook her head. “That boy!”

“He's a man,” corrected Gaitano.

“But he behaves like a boy.”

Gaitano put his hand on his wife's shoulder. “He's young. He'll fall in love again and look back on Natalia's death with more perspective.”

“Who'll want him, for God's sake?”

Gaitano chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “There's someone out there, trust me.”

She swung around to face him. “If you're thinking Celestria Montague, think again.”

“She's a beautiful girl, and a challenge for the strongest man, I should imagine.”

“She's the daughter of the man he hated.”

“Hated? Why anyone would hate a man like Robert Montague is beyond me.”

“Me, too,” Federica agreed quietly, walking back into the folly. Gaitano remained, watching his son-in-law's hunched figure disappear through the little gate, into the road where the city of the dead lay peacefully overlooking the sea, and scratched his head. It was all very baffling.

 

Celestria found Waynie in her bedroom. She had taken off her shoes and was stretched out on the bed, smiling contentedly.

“Waynie, you'll never guess who I've just met!”

Mrs. Waynebridge sat up with a start. “Good God, you made me jump out of me skin!”

“I'm sorry, Waynie, but I have to talk to you.”

Mrs. Waynebridge patted the bed. “You'd better sit down, then.”

Celestria sank down beside her. “You'll never believe it. That horrid man who shouted at me in the cemetery is none other than Federica and Gaitano's son-in-law, Hamish.”

Mrs. Waynebridge gasped. “Well, I never!”

“I was sitting at the dining table with Mrs. Halifax, telling her all about our unpleasant encounter this morning, when who should emerge from the sitting room but the very man I'm telling her about. He had heard every word.”

“Oh, dear. He didn't shout at you again? Not with Mrs. Halifax sat beside you, surely?”

“No, but he wasn't very pleased. I hadn't spared a single detail of his rudeness. He extended his hand and introduced himself coldly. He told me that Natalia was his wife and that if he sees me again he'll endeavor not to shout. I don't think he was joking.”

“He should have apologized at the very least,” said Mrs. Waynebridge indignantly. “Where are his manners?”

“I don't think he's got any at all. He didn't say a word to Mrs. Halifax.”

“How uncouth. You're both guests in his home.”

“Oh, I don't care, Waynie. I'll ignore him. I have no time at all for people like him. He's got no class, clearly. Mourning is no excuse for forgetting one's manners.”

“Quite right, my dear. It'll be his loss.”

 

Hamish knelt before his wife's tomb. He felt alone and lost. No one understood, not even Natalia. He considered Robert Montague. He remembered the handsome man in the panama hat and linen suit. His easy smile and laughing eyes. The attractive crow's-feet that dug deeply into tanned skin and that air of nonchalance that seemed to draw people to him like the smell of nectar drew butterflies. He remembered the way Federica giggled in his company, as if she were a young girl again, blushing and throwing him coy looks, playing with a stray wisp of gray hair between her fingers. He remembered Natalia watching him quietly, like a mouse mesmerized by a scheming cat. Curled up on the armchair in the garden, biting her thumbnail anxiously, gazing across from under thick eyelashes, her expression grave, barely blinking in case she missed something. How he had resented the man then—for stirring something dark and dangerous in his wife, something that would not have surfaced had the two never met. What did it matter now? Natalia was dead.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the hard stone surface of the tomb. He could still see Natalia's broken body at the bottom of the cliff, her mouth agape, blood trickling down her white cheek, her eyes wide open in surprise. Surprise at her sudden fall, or surprise at what she had become?

“Oh, Natalia,” he groaned, beating his brow on the stone. “What did you do?”

 

That evening Federica sloped off, dressed in a simple black dress, carrying her bead rosary in her pocket. Gaitano was with Hamish, who was helping him build the library. It was still warm, the sun a fiery ball of amber, sliding down the sky, turning it a watery shade of blue. The dogs tried to follow her, but she left them inside, closing the door on them so they wouldn't bark in the road and chase the cats in the cemetery. The air was thick and pine-scented, the dew already settling into the grass and foliage to make it sparkle. She crept around to the church door and slipped inside.

She was greeted by a miasma of smoke from the candles and incense, through which Padre Pietro turned to see who had entered his church. He glanced at his watch. Confession wasn't until eight o'clock. When he saw it was Federica, he replaced the Bible on its stand and smiled at her. The smile she returned was uneasy. She stepped lightly up the nave and crossed herself in front of the altar, kneeling devoutly as she did so.

“What troubles you?” he asked.

“I need to confess,” she replied gravely.

“But you are early. Confession isn't until eight o'clock.” He was a man who liked the comfort of routine.