The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries. Sara Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ store behind her. I had left it a darkened cave of fresh produce; now it was framed by flowering window boxes of vermillion geraniums, beautiful wicker baskets laden with lemons and fat peaches. Tall terracotta urns stood with pots of fresh herbs growing inside them. The plain wooden door had been replaced with glass, held open by slabs of granite beckoning you into the display of fresh legs of prosciutto and glass bowls filled with white clouds of fresh mozzarella. Behind the counter, upon the slanted wooden shelves, the last of the day’s fresh loaves beckoned, all the ingredients for a light dinner. I stepped inside.

      ‘We’ve become quite the talk of the town,’ she resumed, her chest puffing out. ‘Something all the new foreigners are seduced by, of course – so many of them coming now. All a little strange if I do say so, but money’s money, whatever your hair color, no?’

      I wasn’t sure what answer to offer.

      ‘You’ll be wanting something for dinner, no? I’ll call Paolino.’ She walked back to the skinny stairwell I had dreaded climbing each night, and yelled.

      She turned, heaving with heavy steps up to her burgeoning empire. I stood still, watching till she’d disappeared around the corner.

      I breathed in the salty prosciutto, realizing that it had been hours since I’d eaten. My mind took a bite of the fresh figs in the basket upon the counter, and I imagined the smooth mozzarella softening upon a hunk of the fresh bread. The sound of steps drew me out of my imaginings. Someone stood before me, with the air of familiarity but a face I couldn’t place. Only when he spoke did I realize the awkward Paolino I had fled had been replaced by a relaxed young man, proud purveyor of the beautiful creation around him.

      ‘Bet you don’t recognize it, Santina?’

      I smiled without thinking, wondering how to reconcile that gawky, rude teenager with the man who had chosen baskets for fruit, or laid out these terracotta bowls of charred eggplant floating in luscious green olive oil beside tall jars of green olives, scenting the shop with a herby air I could almost resist.

      ‘It’s beautiful, Paolino!’

      ‘I know. I can hardly believe it myself. These new people coming now, Santina. They like these things. We sell double what we used to. Artist types. They look strange. Act strange. But they spend on the good things, you know?’

      ‘I suppose, yes.’

      ‘But enough about me. You look…’

      I braced myself for one of his cutting remarks, hating myself for being lured in here in the first place. Now I’d be constrained to buy. It was only polite.

      ‘…English!’

      I laughed at that. Out of relief if nothing else.

      ‘And who is this?’

      ‘Elizabeth. I look after her.’

      ‘Really? You hold her like she’s your own – I thought you’d found some British prince already.’

      I smiled, feeling a twitch of disappointment prick the corner of my lips. I tried to ignore the surfacing memories: my last conversation with Mr Benn, the confusion of Adeline’s fall, the whisper of failure. All these things Elizabeth made me forget.

      ‘I’d like to buy some things for dinner,’ I said, focusing on the task at hand.

      ‘I didn’t think you’d come just to visit me!’

      His face cracked into a wide grin. I had remembered his eyes a hard brown, glassy with pompous adolescence; now they were warm, full of humor. I watched him wrap the bread in wax paper with deft hands, and fill a crate with other provisions I saw fit: a crisp head of bright romaine, a handful of red tomatoes clinging to their vine, several scoops of olives and charred eggplant and an etto or two of prosciutto, pancetta and coppa, wrapped between thin layers of paper. My stomach rumbled in anticipation.

      ‘Don’t worry, Santina, I’ll send this to your house with Gennaro – you remember him, no?’

      I’d tried to forget that toothless porter; he’d never been kind about mountain folk.

      ‘Where are you living now?’

      ‘Villa San Vito,’ I replied, watching his eyebrows rise in astonishment.

      ‘No prince you say?’

      ‘I know the Major and his wife will be wanting to dine early – is Gennaro free now?’

      ‘I’ll send him right away.’

      I set the small table on the terrace just outside the stone-walled kitchen and tried to keep Elizabeth occupied, bouncing her on my hip, hoping her cot was due to arrive with the first of the furniture shipment from London the following day.

      The heavy bell at the front door clanged. I jumped. I reached the door and heaved it open. Paolino stood before me. I looked down at the crate. It was loaded with several things I hadn’t ordered.

      ‘A welcome home, Santina.’

      I didn’t want it to feel that way. This year was my detour, nothing more.

      ‘Few things on the house.’

      I smiled, baffled by his kindness, then noticed his racing eyes dart past me, gathering information.

      ‘Grazie, Paolino – I’d better be getting on.’

      ‘Yes. No rest for the wicked.’

      I sighed a faint laugh; the travel day was beginning to wear me down.

      ‘Or donkeys,’ he added.

      The Major’s voice rattled down from the stairwell. I reached for the crate but Paolino shook his head. ‘Don’t be a crazy English girl. Let me.’ Before I could close the door, he strode across the terrace. My heart raced.

      ‘It’s fine, Paolino, really, I can manage,’ I insisted, breaking into a skipped walk to keep up with him.

      ‘I’m no barbarian,’ he replied, pushing on toward the furthest end of the terrace where the garden began. The Major met us there. Paolino stopped.

      ‘You are?’ he asked, looking down his nose at Paolino, his eyes flashing an icy blue.

      ‘Delivery from the grocery,’ I said, interrupting.

      ‘Very well. Do hand me the crate. Per piacere.’

      I watched Paolino take in the Major’s fiery red hair, the spray of freckles upon his cheeks, and wither a little under his sharp stare. I realized the Major no longer made me feel I was being interrogated. He reached for the box and walked to the far end of the terrace where double doors led to the kitchen, ‘He may go,’ he called back to us as he disappeared inside.

      ‘No prince, no,’ Paolino muttered, shuffling back toward the door. ‘They all like that in London?’

      I felt a familiar irritation rise and heaved the door open. Paolino turned before he began his descent down the first dozen steps toward the alley, flashing me a knowing smile. Then his footsteps СКАЧАТЬ