The engines roared, the aircraft shuddered as it hurtled down the runway. Twisting Jacinta’s rosewood bracelet, Lucy pressed her head against the tiny porthole, watching the teeming rain run diagonally across the window, the hangars, parked planes and control tower disappearing as the Boeing 737 banked steeply, wings tipping. She put on her headphones, closed her eyes and drew some deep breaths.
It would be a relief to be surrounded by people who didn’t know her as the jilted bride and unlucky-in-love colleague.
And if she’d needed further proof that she was doing the right thing, the day before she left, she’d received a card from Stewart’s brother, depicting the medieval bridge over the River Doon.
I hear you’re off to Italy, Lucy. Scotland’s loss is Italy’s gain.
My brother’s a fool.
Wishing you lots of luck,
Hamish x.
How ironic that the same boy who’d asked her out on his brother’s behalf all those years ago on the school bus, was now giving her his blessing to fly free.
The brilliant sunshine forced Lucy’s eyes open. The plane’s shadow was reflected on a cloud, surrounded by a radiant halo of light.
Up there in the sky, away from all the angst and turmoil, she had an epiphany moment; she had been relying on someone else all these years for her happiness.It is you, yourself, who should make you feel complete,said a voice in her head.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we shall shortly be arriving at Naples Capodichino International Airport…’
Lucy fastened her seat belt and peered out of the window at the sparkling ocean and the islands dotted along the coast. Tingling excitement rushed through her. Was that Ischia? Or Procida? And where was Capri? Speedboats crisscrossed over each other, leaving foamy, white trails in their wake, tiny fishing boats bobbing on the swell. Crumbling buildings clung to the rocks like limpets, the rugged skyline giving way to an impressive football stadium that reminded her of the filmGladiator. Clusters of higgledy-piggledy, high-rise concrete buildings rose up either side of a flyover. This was not the dreamy Italy of Venice she’d once herded thirty schoolchildren around. From the air, this city looked to be a mixture of natural beauty and chaos, where ancient collided with modern.
Lucy had lived for too long in a chocolate-box charming world. Time to inject a bit of danger, excitement, spontaneity and unpredictability into her life. And there, bang on cue, coming into view, was mighty Vesuvius, brooding over the city like a sleeping giant, daring her to enter.
Chapter Five
Naples, Italy
‘Mamma!’ Stefano burst into the kitchen, proudly clutching a jam jar full of lavender, water sloshing onto the tiled floor.
Elena wiped her hands on her floral cotton frock and crouched down, taking the flowers from him and inhaling their sweet scent.
‘Beautiful, Stefano. Put it in Lucy’s room please. But don’t run. Slowly, slowly.’
She glanced at the kitchen clock. She should be here soon. Elena bit her lip. How she wished Giancarlo was about to walk through that door and not a stranger.
She still wasn’t convinced this was the right decision, but what choice did she have? It was either this or close the school for good. Surely it had to be worth one last try?
She uncorked the bottle of Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio, a local wine that would go well with the traditional dish of Pasta al Forno – baked pasta. After her long day, Elena felt sure Lucy would appreciate a hearty meal of home-made pasta with meatballs soaked in egg yolk, parmesan cheese and parsley, served in a rich tomato sauce with layers of mozzarella and ricotta. She sloshed some wine in the pot then poured herself a glass, swirling the ruby-coloured liquid so it rose and fell in thin sheets.
The moment Elena had heard Lucy’s melodious, soothing Scottish accent over Zoom, she couldn’t deny the instant connection: she was around the same age, loved children, which was a deal-breaker, could speak some Italian, enjoyed Austen, Puccini, romcoms, dancing and red wine. And oh, she was a mad keen baker too. What was not to like?
Despite never having set foot on Scottish soil, whenever she looked at Giancarlo’s photo album, she felt an inexplicable homesickness. During his time as a postgraduate student at Strathclyde University, he discovered one of his ancestors had left Naples in 1890 and settled on the west coast, where he’d opened Tony’s Ice Cream Parlour, which was still thriving to this day.
He said he’d left a piece of his heart in Loch Lomond and had promised to take Elena there one day.
The sliding doors to the arrivals hall parted. Lucy scanned the concourse for her driver. She eventually spotted the placard with her name on it. The placard bearer was a statuesque man with chiselled cheekbones that could cut glass, a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes and a dark, military-style uniform.Gosh, she thought,even the taxi drivers here are stylish.
‘Lucy?’
Lucy nodded.
‘Piacere,’he said in a make-your-knees-go-weak accent, then took her bags.
‘Piacere,’she mumbled. Nice to meet you was an understatement. Suddenly unable to remember any other words of Italian, Lucy lifted her eyes to his, the heat rising to her cheeks.
‘The car… this way,’ he said.
