The Mermaid Garden (59 page)

at any minute.”

“Rafa?”

“He’s an Argentine artist who’s come for the summer to teach paint-

ing to our guests. My husband wasn’t happy for me to come on my own.

I told him to drive into Herba for a couple of hours.”

“I’ll ask Lavanti to look after him when he comes back. Don’t worry.”

Dante called the butler and instructed him to show Rafa into the draw-

ing room. Then, as Lavanti left the terrace, Dante’s gaze fell fondly

on Marina again. “When you spoke to my secretary and told her that

you had information about Floriana, I realized that although I thought

I gave up looking for you long ago, in my heart I had never stopped,” he said. “But I had to cut you out of my consciousness eventually.”

“Did you marry?”

“Forgive me.”

She frowned at him. “What is there to forgive?”

“I married Costanza.”

Rafa parked the car and wandered around the town. The air was thick

and damp, the evening light turning the old Etruscan walls orange.

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Pigeons flocked on the cobbles, bony mongrels scavenged in packs,

women gossiped on their doorsteps while children played. He reached

the Piazza Laconda, where locals sat at tables under umbrellas, drink-

ing Prosecco. He felt the allure of the church and walked inside. In-

cense still lingered from Mass, and a gaggle of old widows remained

in their chairs, chatting quietly. He put his hands in his pockets and

stepped slowly over the flagstones, remembering Clementine and their

first visit to the house that God forgot. He felt the pain of longing in his heart.

A young couple stood in front of the table of candles, holding hands.

He envied their happiness. The man smiled at him and handed him a

taper. Rafa took it and thanked him. The couple walked away, leaving

him alone in front of the table of dancing flames. He thought of his

deceased father, who must have lit candles here as he was now going

to do. Then, as he lowered the burning taper onto the wick, he thought

of his purpose and asked God to give him the courage to go through

with it.

Marina felt as if a cold hand had squeezed all the air out of her lungs.

For a while she couldn’t speak. She stared at him in disbelief.

Dante was quick to explain. “Oh, Floriana, it’s not like it sounds.

I never set out to marry your friend. It just happened by default be-

cause, I suppose, in a way I was always trying to find my way back to

you. I couldn’t leave the past alone. Constanza was my only link to you.”

He raised his eyes and gazed at her sadly. “Every time I looked at her, I thought of you, Floriana—until it dawned on me that she was a dead

end, leading nowhere.”

“Costanza,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

“We made each other utterly miserable.”

“Where is she now?”

“We divorced after fifteen years of marriage.”

“I’m so sorry.” She reached out and touched his hand. He squeezed

it and smiled sadly.

“Fifteen wasted years, Floriana. Years I should have spent with you.”

“I have learned that nothing is a waste, Dante. Do you have chil-

dren?”

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“Three daughters, who bring me trouble and joy in equal measure.”

The fondness he felt for his daughters restored the color to his cheeks.

“But mostly joy,” he added.

“Costanza, a mother,” Marina said wistfully. “I’m happy for her.

Whatever became of the countess?”

“The countess.” He grimaced. “I loathed her, until my loathing grew

so great that I could no longer bear to be in the same room. Her hus-

band worked for my father for a while, but he was useless, and finally, when my father retired, I cut him loose. I bailed them out a few times

until I lost patience. They live with Costanza in Rome, and she takes

care of them. But the countess is old and unhappy, and her disappoint-

ment has made her ugly in every way.”

“She was always going to be unhappy. Materialistic people are never

satisfied.”

“Costanza talked of you constantly. She missed you. I could never

let on the extent that I missed you, too. I had to hide my sorrow in my work. I thought if I worked every hour God gave me, there would be no

room to think of you.”

“Oh, Dante.”

“Perhaps Costanza sensed it and talked about you in the hope of

making me happy, but it only made it worse, like rubbing my wound

with sandpaper.”

“The only thing wrong with Costanza was her mother. When I ar-

rived in England, I had no one. I pined for her, too.”

“I could never have been happy with Costanza, Floriana. I married

her to please my father and to maintain some sort of link with you. I’ll never love anyone else but you.” He smiled at her forlornly. “The only

one who knew the secrets of my heart was Mother, although we never

discussed it.”

“Violetta. Is she well?”

“Yes, but in a world of her own. She doesn’t come here any more. She

lives in Milan and rarely goes out. Tell me, do you have children?”

“No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“God punished me for giving away the one entrusted to my care.”

“That’s not true.”

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She lowered her eyes, ashamed. “I turned my back on God.”

“But Floriana, you had no choice.”

“I should have fought harder for him.”

“You were a child yourself.”

“I begged to be allowed to keep him. I loved him with all my heart.”

Her shoulders began to shake. “So I put the bracelet your mother gave

me, and the ring, along with a letter from me, in a box and . . .”

He wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay. We’ll find him.”

She gripped his shirt and gasped for air. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even your husband?”

“No one. I couldn’t speak of it. I ran away from myself, Dante—from

my guilt.”

He held her tightly, and she shut her eyes. She remembered the little

baby she had nursed against her breasts. The new soul she had watched

as he lay sleeping, humbled by the miracle of his birth. She tried to picture his face but she couldn’t. As much as she tried, his face was veiled in mist, which grew denser the more she tried to lift it.

As the shadows lengthened and the light grew dim, they talked. She

told him about her life in England and how Grey had appeared like

a guardian angel to lift her out of her dark pit with love and under-

standing.

“I’ve never told him about my past. He doesn’t even know I am Ital-

ian. I lived with a foster mother who taught me English and helped me

build a new life. I set about learning the language with such dedication that by the time I met Grey, I spoke English so well that he never suspected I was in hiding. I tried to look forward and become a different

person. I thought if I left Floriana behind in Italy, I’d leave her pain there, too. I tried to forget our son. I tried to forget you, too, Dante.”

She closed her eyes. “But the heart can never forget, and wounds never

really heal completely.”

“So, what made you come back? Why, after all these years, did you

choose now to come home?”

“Because I need help. You always said I could turn to you, no matter

what.”

“You still can, Floriana.” She took a deep breath. But then some-

thing stopped her before she could ask. “What is it you need?”

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She wiped her eyes and smiled to herself. “Nothing,” she replied

firmly. “I don’t need anything at all.”

He frowned at her quizzically. “Are you sure? You know I’d do any-

thing for you.”

She had thought the Polzanze was her life, but suddenly, in that

joyous moment of self-discovery, she realized that bricks and mortar

could never be more than bricks and mortar. Material things were

meaningless without their associations; hence, the Polzanze was noth-

ing without her longing.

She took his hand and held his eyes in her gaze. “Find our son,

Dante, wherever he is.”

As they walked back inside, Dante put his hand in the small of her

back. “Floriana, this has been one of the happiest days of my life.”

“I should never have left it so long.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to return to England and tell my husband everything.”

“Is he the sort of man who will understand?”

“I know he will. He’s a good man, which is why I owe him an expla-

nation for all my irrational behavior over the years. He’s been incred-

ibly patient.”

“Do you love him, Floriana?”

She looked at Dante, aware that her answer would wound him. But

she couldn’t lie to spare his feelings. “Yes, I do. I love my husband very much.”

“I’m happy that you found love with a good man,
piccolina
.” He

smiled to hide his disappointment. “Why don’t you stay the night?”

“Rafa doesn’t even know I speak Italian.”

“Does it matter?”

She shrugged. “Not anymore, I suppose.”

“Then we will have a nice dinner with fine wine and good food, and

you and I will not talk about the past. You will rest and recover. You’ve just climbed an emotional mountain. It wouldn’t be right for you to

stay in some impersonal hotel on the road back to Rome, and any-

way, it’s late.” He grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

“Please, stay.”

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“All right. We’ll stay. But you have to call me Marina.”

He looked appalled. “That is too much to ask. I will call you nothing

at all.”

Rafa returned in a somber mood. He had taken a table in the square

and sat for an hour over a glass of wine, wondering whether his revela-

tion, when he finally told Marina, would be gratefully received. The

butler met him at the steps and showed him into the drawing room.

He waited a while, wandering around the room, looking at all the fam-

ily photographs. Tanned and glossy people smiled out of silver frames,

and Rafa got the impression of a rarefied world where it was always

summer and always happy. He gazed at the impressive paintings on

the walls, then lingered a long time in front of the large family portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was dated 1979: mother, father, and their three little girls in pretty white dresses and pink satin shoes. He moved closer and scrutinized the man. So absorbed was he in the picture, he

didn’t hear the door open as Marina and Dante stepped into the room.

“Rafa.” Marina’s voice extracted him from his thoughts with a jolt.

“Come and meet Dante, my old friend.” Rafa wasn’t surprised to hear

Marina speaking fluent Italian, it just confirmed what he had suspected all along.

But Marina misinterpreted his pallor and felt the need to explain.

“I grew up here,” she said. “Dante is part of my past.”

Rafa took Dante’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“We have agreed that you will both stay the night here at La Mag-

dalena, then return to Rome in the morning,” said Dante.

Rafa was unable to tear his eyes off him. He was older than the man

who smiled out from the family photographs, but he was still hand-

some, with a powerful charisma that filled the room.

“I gather you are an artist. Come, let me show you some of the works

of art my family has collected over the generations, and then I’ll take you around the gardens before it gets dark. I find this time of day particularly beautiful.”

Rafa followed Dante into the hall. He caught Marina’s eye and

frowned, but she averted her gaze, leaving him to ponder the nature of

their relationship.

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He was enchanted by La Magdalena, and felt his fears subside when

they wandered out into the serenity of the gardens. Marina hung back,

allowing her memories to float about her in the smells and sounds of

the place she had loved above all others. Some she held on to while

others she let go, but with every recollection she felt a little lighter.

They strolled into the mermaid garden, where she and Dante had first

become friends, and into the olive grove, where she had tamed Michel-

angelo the peacock. They walked around the fountain and admired the

statues, but they didn’t approach the wall where it was still crumbling.

The memories that lingered there were too raw for both of them.

They dined on the terrace in the candlelight, and Marina told Dante

about Clementine and Jake. Rafa went quiet, remembering his clash

on the beach with Clementine. He wanted to text her—she’d love to

hear that her stepmother spoke fluent Italian—but he couldn’t act as

if nothing had happened. He had to come clean and tell her the truth,

now that he knew for sure.

He watched Dante and Marina, the way they interacted with the

ease of intimate friends, the way she moved her hands when she spoke

Italian, the way she didn’t really have much of an accent at all. Al-