Dressed in crisp shirt, tie and waistcoat, Stefano led his grandfather by the hand and lifted the wrought-iron latch. ‘Open your eyes, Nonno!’
Alfonso gasped in wonder and delight. He was struck initiallyby the scent: verbena, mixed with dry-leaf tea, freshly ground coffee and newly baked cakes filtered through the walls, replacing the cold and musty atmosphere with a sense of cosiness and well-being.
Clusters of tables, covered with Nonna’s hand-embroidered linen, were laid with mismatched vintage crockery, gleaming cutlery and jars of hand-picked flowers.
Drawn to the framed picture of his son, Alfonso lifted Stefano onto his shoulder. They each crossed themselves and planted a light kiss on his image.
Lucy dipped her head and bit her cheeks to keep the tears at bay.
Alfonso lowered Stefano to the floor and pointed to the Torta al Limoncello.‘Mmm. May I try?’
‘Oh, of course,’ she said, cutting him a generous slice of cake. ‘Buon appetito.’
‘Grazie.’ He smiled, taking the plate and neatly folded napkin, before disappearing to welcome several more guests drifting through the door.
‘And for you, Stefano?’ Lucy asked, cake slice at the ready.
Eyes like saucers, he pointed to the chocolate fudge cake. ‘This one,per favore.’
‘Alfonso says Imusttry one of your cream teas,’ cut in a shrill voice belonging to a heavily perfumed woman with a startlingly orange tan and frozen face.
Lucy shot Stefano a secret wink. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish serving this gentleman, and then I’ll be right with you.’
‘There you are, sir,’ she said, handing him his cake.
The corners of his mouth twitched as he reached up for the plate. ‘Grazie.’
Lucy watched him run over to his grandfather, fondness sweeping through her. Alfonso was holding court, proud to be host to the enthusiastic crowd now cramming into the small shop.
‘Ahem!’
‘Cream tea coming up,’ said Lucy to the now disgruntled woman – at least she assumed she was disgruntled, but it was hard to tell as her expression hadn’t changed.
Meanwhile, Elena was running around offering tea. Italians are not renowned for being tea drinkers – only if they’re unwell – so the coffee machine was gurgling away in the background as backup. However, much to their amazement, not one cup of coffee was drunk that afternoon.
Stirling Brew was the order of the day, so much so that guests were queueing up for seconds and thirds.
Elena blew aside a damp tendril of hair as she poured more boiling water into yet another teapot. ‘They’re drinking enough tea to sink a ship. Who’d have thought it?’
Lucy fired her a guilty smile, giving secret thanks to the kilt-swirling William Wallace and the tale of his mighty elixir for their undoubted contribution to the day’s success.
‘Scusi!’came an anonymous voice.
‘Yes, more tea is on its way,’ said Elena, without looking round, the tiniest hint of exasperation in her voice.
‘No, delicious as it is, I don’t want any more tea, thank you,’ said the dishevelled young man, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘More cake?’ asked Lucy. ‘We haven’t much left, I’m afraid.’
‘No, thank you. I’m fromLa Gazzetta. We would appreciate a little of your time to help us put together the story of your teashop for our readers. What inspired you, are the cakes home-made, where does the tea come from? You get the idea? I understand there are many Italians living in Scotland and vice versa. It will make a great story.’
Lucy and Elena looked at one another. Lucy’s eyes were sparkling. Elena rubbed the back of her neck and bit her bottom lip.
‘Signor Moretti said it would be okay – and to take some photographs too.’
‘Great,’ said Lucy. ‘Can you wait until we’ve tidied up?’
Drawing Elena aside, she whispered, ‘Are you okay, Elena? If something’s troubling you, please tell me.’
