Stefano appeared in the doorway, hair spiked up with too much of his father’s gel.
‘Andiamo! Let’s go.’
Elena switched on a smile, shook her head and tutted.
‘Cool.’ Dario gave him the thumbs-up, grabbed his car keys and headed for the door.
‘Ciao.’ Elena held out her cheek to Stefano, waiting to be kissed.
He hesitated, then screwed up his face as if sucking on a lemon. ‘Policemen don’t kiss their mummies.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Elena reached inside the fridge. ‘But would Officer Moretti like his lunch box?’
Stefano took it from her and placed it in his satchel. ‘Grazie. Ciao,Mamma.’
‘Ciao,’ she replied, dropping a sneaky kiss onto his head.
Dario was opening the door when his phone started ringing. ‘Pronto.’
‘Grazie,’Elena mouthed to him,
He smiled, pointed to the phone and made a talking gesture. ‘Sì,Francesca.Che cosa?’
Elena followed them downstairs, along the cluttered hall to the front step, waving as they disappeared in a spray of gravel and dust, blue light flashing.
Resisting the urge to check her mailbox, she headed back upstairs. As she turned to shut the door, the apartment suddenly seemed cold.
Her arm brushed the sleeve of Giancarlo’s leather jacket, which still hung on the coat stand. She held it to her face. His scent immediately struck her, a tsunami of grief washing over her. She was exhausted from putting on a brave face, trying to stay strong for everyone. She sank to her knees, sobbing a great river of tears onto the tiled floor. She’d felt almost happy this morning, then ithit her once more. Giancarlo was gone and would never walk through that door again.
It had been strangely quiet on the graveyard shift: just the usual traffic chaos, ascippatoriincident (muggers on mopeds), two British tourists who fled a pizzeria without paying and a street brawl involving Signora Marcello, the butcher’s wife, and SignorinaLombardi, the hairdresser and Signor Marcello’s mistress.
Back at the station, Dario filed his incident reports and glanced at the clock. Another ninety minutes until he could lock up and head home. He made himself an espresso, raked a hand across the back of his neck, and sank into his swivel chair, propping his long legs up on the desk. His thoughts drifted to the school. To walk away from it was of course ultimately Elena’s decision, and he didn’t blame her for wanting to quit. But as everyone knows, when you’re grieving, you don’t think straight, and he didn’t want her to regret this decision in the future. She and Giancarlo had built that school together from such humble beginnings.
They had nurtured it and watched it grow. It had rewarded them in return; not just financially, but it had given them a positive focus, a shared project during those rollercoaster years of fertility issues and IVF, before Stefano was welcomed into the world.
Could the school weave its special magic once more and guide Elena along this unfamiliar and scary path?
Undoubtedly the most practical thing would be to close the school, but Dario couldn’t let that happen – not without a fight. He hadn’t been able to save his friend the night of the accident, but he would do everything in his power to keep his legacy alive.
The fluorescent light above Dario’s head buzzed and flickered.He felt a light breeze slither down his back. He jerked forward, swung his feet to the floor and spun around.
‘Giancarlo?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’
Dario sat very still for a long time, his soulful, molten-chocolate eyes scrutinising the ceiling. The light flickered again.
‘I won’t let you down, my friend. I promise.’
Chapter Four
Ayr, Scotland
As Lucy waited for her luggage to arrive on the carousel, a queasy feeling flooded her stomach. How would she react when she saw her parents? How would they react? The neighbours? Her colleagues? How best to explain to her wee, innocent pupils that Miss Anderson didn’t have her fairy-tale wedding after all?
Thetingggof her phone infiltrated her scattered thoughts. New message:
Stewart:Hope you’re okay. Sorry about everything. I’m away in Perth for the next 2 weeks on a fishing trip. Maybe a good time to pop over and pick up your stuff? Take care x
Whaaat? Twenty-two years deleted by text? Was this the same Stewart who, only a few days ago, had left her numerous messages begging her for forgiveness and to let him pick her up from the airport so they could talk things through? There was no going back now of course, but to not even have the decency to meet face to face? What a basta—coward!
