She felt lucky to have known him, to have loved and been loved by him. Giancarlo would live on in their son, she kept telling herself. But that didn’t stop her wondering why his number had been called so early. She was a believer in things happening for a reason; but not this. This was unfair. He was a good man, a family man, a loyal friend, always ready to help others. Why him?
Were it not for his support and belief in her, she wouldn’t have had the courage or determination to fulfil her dream of opening her own school of English. She smiled at the memory of those early days; the two of them in paint-spattered overalls, lovingly restoring the 1930s railway carriage that was to become the classroom. How it had ended up in the grounds of the mozzarella factory was a mystery. Elena liked to believe it was simply another case of serendipity.
Eager students, young and old, and from all walks of life had entered its doors. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to close them one last time. There had to be a way.
She drew a heavy sigh, planted a gentle kiss on Stefano’s forehead, and began to turn off the lights.
As she entered the kitchen, she stood frozen to the spot. Her skin tingled. That song! Playing on the radio was ‘Come Prima’,their wedding dance song. She smiled through her tears. Tomorrow was their anniversary, so surely this was a sign, or was she losing her mind? Leaning against the kitchen table, she swayed in time to the music, silently mouthing the lyrics, Giancarlo’s voice echoing in her ear, ‘We must cherish every day,cara.’
Chapter Three
The following evening Elena was in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes for the bolognese sauce she was preparing, when she heard a loud knock at the door.
‘Stefano! Can you see who that is please?’ Muffled music pulsated through his bedroom door. ‘Stefano!’
She sighed, wiping her hands on her apron and tentatively opened the door to find Dario clutching a bunch of flowers, a bottle of Valpolicella and a pot of something aromatic and mouth-watering.
‘Giancarlo sent me.’
She ran her hand through her tousled hair. ‘Not tonight, Dario. I’m sorry.’
‘You are not spending your wedding anniversary alone—’
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Dario, but much as Stefano and I love to see you every day, it’s time you stopped worrying about us and concentrated on getting on with your own life. We’re okay. Really.’
‘I don’t doubt you’re okay, Elena. That’s not why I’m here. I have a great idea I want to put to you.’
Elena grimaced in mock despair. ‘Uh oh.’
‘But first,’ he said, holding up the wine, ‘I’m going to pour youa glass ofvino rosso,then you run yourself a bath and relax. You look exhausted. Leave the cooking to Stefano and me.’
‘But—’
‘We’ll call you when it’s ready. Now, go!’
Dario Bianchi had known Giancarlo Moretti since childhood. They had learned to swim and ride their bikes together as small boys and, as they’d got older, had played truant from school, sneaking into the local cinema to see the latest blockbusters, and reared up their mopeds like cowboys down the Via Roma, hoping to impress girls. They would always be found at the San Paolo football stadium whenever Napoli were playing at home.
As free-spirited, idealistic students, Dario and Giancarlo had tramped the streets in protest against organised crime and supported the Addiopizzo – farewell to protection money –movement.
In his professional capacity as a member of the Carabinieri police force, Dario strongly supported family businesses like the Mozzarella Moretti Factory, in the fight to loosen the stranglehold organised crime had over the city.
In his personal capacity as Giancarlo’s best friend and aware of his fierce determination to keep the business clean, he’d known enough to fear for the future.
He had been thrilled (if not a little envious) when Giancarlo suddenly announced he had found his soulmate and was to be married a few months later.
When Giancarlo and Elena asked him to be godfather to their longed-for baby son, he couldn’t have been more delighted had he become a father himself. As he vowed to protect and support Stefano throughout his life, he meant every word, and looked forward to babysitting, taking him to football matches, fishing in the Bay of Naples, and maybe in time, even offering his advice on dating girls.
He hadn’t imagined back then what a major role he would be called upon to play in the boy’s future, or how soon.
Elena lit a candle and submerged herself into the warm, soapy water.
As she allowed her heavy eyes to close, hazy images of this day seventeen years ago flickered through her consciousness: arriving windswept at the cloister of St Francis of Assisi on the back of Giancarlo’s vintage Vespa, the ten-course, al fresco reception at her father’s green-gold olive and lemon grove, the lawn scattered with rustic tables and chairs, the bunting flapping in the warm breeze, dancing barefoot in the grass under white fairy lights, singing Italian folk songs to the mandolin and accordion. She could once again smell the flowering verbena, taste the limoncello, hear the music, the laughter…
‘Mamma! Mamma!’came Stefano’s bubbly voice from the other side of the door. ‘A cena!Dinner is ready!’
She hauled herself out of the now cool water. ‘I’m coming,cucciolo.’
As she pulled on her jeans and shirt, the aroma of sweet tomatoes, garlic and fresh herbs wafted under the door, tingling her taste buds.
