The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset

CHAPTER FOUR

CARLO was there next morning, before she had quite finished her breakfast, spreading the map before her, and explaining that Italy was divided into regions—’As England is divided into counties’.

‘I thought we’d head for the region of Calabria,’ he said. ‘It’s here, where the shape of the land becomes a boot. Calabria is the ankle and the toe, eternally poised to kick the island of Sicily. There are some little mountain villages full of history in Calabria that I think you’d like. After that—well, we’ll see.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll see.’

They left half an hour later, heading back down the coast road they’d travelled the day before. But soon the familiar scenery was behind them. The further south they went the more conscious she became that Italy had been one country for barely a hundred and thirty years. Before that it had been a collection of independent kingdoms and provinces, and even now the extreme north and south seemed to be united only in name.

Calabria was like another world—so different that it was sometimes known as the real Italy, Carlo told her. In contrast to the sophistication of the elegant northern regions, here there was wildness, even savagery in the countryside. The mountains were higher than anywhere else, their sides dotted with medieval towns.

At last they were climbing, going so high up a mountain road that she hardly dared to look, and finishing in a small, ancient village, with cobblestones and one inn. As he brought the car to a halt Carlo gave her a questioning smile, which she returned, nodding.

‘What is this place called?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t notice. It’s so tiny it may not even have a name.’

That made everything perfect—an unknown place, set apart from the rest of the world, where they would find each other.

A cheerful man in shirtsleeves appeared as they entered. In answer to Carlo’s query, he confirmed that he had two vacant rooms, one large, one small.

‘The small for me, the large one for the lady,’ Carlo said.

A perfect gentleman, she thought, charmed by his refusal to take her for granted, even after the understanding that had passed between them.

Their doors were immediately opposite, on a tiny landing, so that she gained a brief glimpse of his bedroom with its single bed, so different from the huge double one in her own room.

They were the only guests. Donato, the proprietor, said that his wife would cook whatever they liked, so they dined on macaroni and beans in tomato soup, pickled veal, sausage with raisins, and cuccidatta—cookies filled with figs, nuts and raisins—washed down with the full bodied wines of the area.

They talked very little, because their table soon became the focus of attention. Every few minutes one of Donato’s two pretty daughters would appear, to ask if there was anything else they wanted. Before leaving they would give the handsome Carlo a lingering look.

Della choked back her laughter while he buried his face in his hands.

‘I expect this happens everywhere you go,’ she said.

‘What do I say to that? If I agree I sound like a conceited jerk.’

‘And if you disagree it wouldn’t be true.’

‘Can we drop the subject?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

‘I’ve been watching the girls giving you the glad eye everywhere we go. Some of them are being hopeful, of course, but some look as if they’re trying to remind you of something.’

He had the grace to blush, but said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke it was in a different voice.

‘That was another life,’ he said quietly. ‘Too many passing ships—but that was just it. They all passed on their way, leaving no trace here.’ He laid his hand over his heart.

Then he refilled her glass, and didn’t look at her as he asked, ‘What about you?’

‘Two husbands, a child and a career,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ve had no time for distractions.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said quietly.

There was no mistaking his meaning. She met his eyes and nodded.

Soon after that they rose and went slowly upstairs. At his door he paused, half turning, waiting for her to make the next move. She put out her hand to him.

‘Come,’ she whispered.

He came to her slowly, as if unable to believe what was happening. She took hold of him, drawing him into her room and closing the door behind him, not putting on the light. With the curtains drawn back at the tall windows the moonlight came softly in, holding them in its glow while they stood, entranced.

His fingertips brushed her cheek softly, and it was the sweetest feeling she had ever known. She wanted him now with her whole body. Every inch of her was eager for him to hurry, to take her to the next moment of passion, and from there to the next.

Yet, contrarily, she wanted to prolong the leisurely tension of this moment, enjoying it to the full before it dissolved into urgency. He seemed to want the same, because he laid his lips over hers with a gentleness that suggested he was in no hurry. She leaned against him and felt his fingers in her hair, while his mouth explored hers slowly.

She relaxed into the kiss, letting it invade her subtly, then offering it back with all of herself. She began to explore his body, finding it just as it had been in her dreams: hard, strong, and all hers. He wanted her more than he could bear, and that knowledge was the sweetest aphrodisiac.

Neither knew who first began to undress the other, but her fingers were working on his buttons just as he was doing the same for her. Every moment there was some new revelation—smooth skin, a seductive curve—all managed in leisurely fashion until suddenly the delay became unbearable and they started to hurry. The hurry became urgency, and they had reached the bed before they’d quite finished undressing each other. There was barely time to strip off the last garments.

As passion mounted she became less aware of his gentleness and more aware of his vigour. For her sake he’d restrained himself until the last moment, but now he was beyond even his own control, and he held her in a strong grip as he moved over her, claimed her totally.

She had lived without lovemaking long enough to find the experience unfamiliar, but even as distant memories returned she knew that nothing had ever been like this. No other man had held her with such urgency and reverence combined, or taken her as deeply, satisfyingly, powerfully. It was like being reborn, or born for the first time.

Nothing had ever been like it before, and nothing would ever be like it after him. She knew that even then.

When their moment came he looked into her eyes, seeking complicity as well as union. Two of them became one, then two again, but not the same two. Now she was a part of him, as he was a part of her, and would always be. And that had never been true before.

He slept first, like any healthy animal whose senses had been satiated. For a while Della lay still, enjoying the weight of his head against her breasts, the gentle pleasure of running her fingers through his hair, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

The whole sensation was unbearably sweet; so unbearable that after a while she slid away from under him and left the bed. She could not think straight while his warm, loving body was nestled against hers.

She went to the window and stood looking out into the darkness, not thinking, letting her feelings have their way with her. But eventually she managed to order her thoughts.

I suppose I’m crazy, but so what? I love him, and I’ll always love him, but it won’t last. We’ll have this little time together, then go our separate ways—because that’s what has to happen. He’ll tire of me and find someone else, and that’s fine. The only heart broken will be mine. And that’s fine, too.

But when she awoke next morning all thoughts of broken hearts were far away. She opened her eyes to find Carlo propped on his elbows, looking down at her.

He was almost smiling, but there was also a question in his eyes, and with a sense of incredulity she realised that he was apprehensive. Last night he had been a confident lover, seducing her with practised skill. This morning he was unsure of himself.

Slowly she raised a hand and let her fingers drift down his cheek.

‘Hallo,’ she whispered, smiling.

He got the message, his face brightened, and the next moment he’d seized her into his arms, crushing her in an exuberant hug, laughing with something that sounded almost like relief.

‘No regrets?’ he whispered.

‘No regrets.’

‘You don’t want to turn back?’

He might have meant on their journey, but she understood his true meaning. They’d started on another journey, to an unknown destination. She’d made her mind up before this, but after a night of joy in his arms nothing would have held her back. Wherever the road led, she was ready and eager for it.

As they left the hotel he saw her giving yearning looks at his car.

‘If you were a gentleman you’d offer to let me drive,’ Della sighed, It was comical how swiftly the ardent lover vanished, replaced by a man guarding his treasure like a lion defending its young.

‘An Italian car on Italian roads?’ he said, aghast.

‘I’ve driven in France,’ she told him. ‘So I have an international licence, and I’m used to driving on the wrong side of the road.’

He glared. ‘It’s the English who drive on the wrong side of the road. And this is my new car. Forget it. I’m not that much of a gentleman.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ she said sorrowfully.

‘Get in—the passenger seat.’

She assumed a robot voice to say croakily, ‘I obey!’ That made him grin, but he didn’t yield. Not yet.

He headed the car down the hill and drove for an hour, before pulling up in a quiet country lane and demanding to see her international licence, which he examined with all the punctilious care of a beaurocrat.

‘It’s a clean licence,’ she pointed out. ‘It says that I’m absolutely safe to drive on continental roads.’

‘It says nothing of the kind,’ he growled. ‘It simply says you haven’t been caught out yet.’

‘You’re not very gallant.’

‘No man is gallant where his new car is concerned. This licence doesn’t mean anything. The English give them out like confetti. That’s how little road sense they have.’

‘Or I might have forged it,’ she offered helpfully.

He gave her a dark look and got out of the car.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

He instructed her in the vehicle’s finer points and they set off. Five minutes became ten, then half an hour. She was instantly at home in the lovely vehicle, for fast, expensive cars were her secret weakness. In England she didn’t even own a car, since life in central London made it impractical, so this was a treat that seldom came her way, and she made the most of it, feeling her sedate, respectable side falling away with every mile.

Even Carlo had to admit that she was a natural driver. He might groan all he pleased, but she could sense him relaxing beside her as her skill became increasingly clear.

‘Well, I suppose you’re not too bad,’ he said at last.

‘Thank you,’ she said wryly.

‘All right—you’re much better than I expected, and I’m sorry I doubted you.’ Then he ruined the effect by saying, ‘But let’s stop for lunch while my nerves can stand it.’

She chuckled, and pulled into an inn that had appeared just ahead.

After lunch he reclaimed the driver’s seat, and as they continued south he explained about Badolato, their next destination.

‘It’s near the coast. I know it pretty well because I’ve been researching the Holy Grail.’

‘Here? But surely the Grail is—?’ she stopped.

‘That’s the point. Nobody knows where it is—or even what it was. But supposedly the Knights Templar used Badolato as a base, and they brought the Grail to the town for a while. Some people say it’s still there, hidden.’

‘You believe that?’

‘I believe it’s a very curious place. There are thirteen churches for a population of three and a half thousand, and the purity of the spring water is legendary. People come from miles around to fill up on it. They come to swim, too. It has its own beach down below, and the town is just above. In fact, there it is.’

She looked up and saw a medieval village rising steeply on the hillside in the distance.

‘I called ahead to the hotel where I normally stay,’ he said.

‘I hope you booked only one room this time?’

He grinned. ‘Yes, I did.’

Then she saw the beach.

‘It’s perfect!’ she breathed. ‘I’ve never seen such white sand or such blue sea—no, not blue. It’s practically violet.’

‘That’s a common trick of the light, especially this late in the afternoon. Shall we stop?’

‘Oh, yes, please. I’m dying for a swim.’

She felt sticky after the drive. Luckily the Badolato Marina was geared for bathers, and they were able to secure a hut. A run down the beach, a plunge into the surf, and all practical cares fell away as though the sea had washed them to oblivion.

She had discovered his body in the darkness, and knew the feel of every inch, but seeing it in sunlight was a new pleasure. She felt a guilty, almost voyeuristic pleasure in watching him as he plunged in and out of the water. It was like finding valuable treasure and securing it for her private enjoyment.

‘What is it?’ he asked, finally noticing her standing back and regarding him.

‘I’m just appreciating the view, thinking my thoughts.’

‘Tell me about those thoughts.’

She laid a hand on his chest, letting her fingers walk down a few inches.

‘Those kind of thoughts,’ she said.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said in a shaking voice.

She withdrew her hand and stood, giving him a challenging look, with her head on one side.

‘And don’t do that either,’ he begged. ‘This is a public place.’

She laughed, having fun. But suddenly she became aware that the light had faded and the air was rapidly growing colder. It had happened all in a moment.

‘Come on,’ he said.

Grabbing her hand, he dashed for the shore, while the sky darkened still, and growled until it exploded into a bang that almost deafened her. They changed in a hurry and reached the car as the first lightning flashed. She managed to get there first, and opened the driver’s door.

‘It’s better if I drive—’ he started to say.

‘Get in.’

He had to move fast, and then they were swinging out of the car park and up the hill. At once Della knew the task was harder than she’d reckoned. The road seemed to wind and wind, and it took all her attention to stay steady. Then the rain came crashing down about them, making the journey even more hair-raising.

Luckily it was only a brief drive, and within a few minutes they’d reached Badolato.

‘Turn left just there,’ Carlo said in a grim voice. ‘Then right.’

She did so, and drew up outside a modest but comfortable-looking hotel.

Carlo threw her a sulphurous look, but said nothing until she had switched off the engine. Then he exploded.

‘You stupid woman!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘What on earth came over you? Do you think driving up a steep, winding road in a thunderstorm is—is—?’ He became speechless.

‘I honestly don’t know what came over me. It’s so unlike me to go mad like that. I’m usually so sensible.’

‘Sensible! Hah! More like five years old. Did I say something funny?’ he added sharply, because Della’s lips had twisted into a smile.

‘Well, I’m a lot more than five years old,’ she said wryly. ‘Carlo, I’m truly sorry for going crazy like that, but nothing happened. There isn’t a scratch on your car.’

‘Be damned to the car!’ he roared. ‘Do you think that’s what—?’

‘And I didn’t hurt anyone else.’

‘We’re lucky we didn’t meet anything coming down the hill.’

‘Hey, I’m a good driver.’

‘You’re a blithering idiot,’ he snapped, not mincing matters. ‘I’ve seen children with more sense. You—you—’

He jerked her roughly into his arms and held her close in a grip of iron. She could hardly breathe, but she could feel, with relief, that what drove him was no longer rage but a kind of hair-tearing distraction.

‘You could have been killed,’ he said in a muffled voice against her neck. ‘And don’t give me that nonsense about being a good driver. You’re not as good as that—d’you hear?’

He drew back, holding her face between his hands so that she could see his eyes, dark with something that was almost desperation.

‘Don’t you ever dare give me a fright like that again,’ he said fiercely. ‘Mio dio!’

She was still partly in the grip of the wild mood that had seized her, and it was being driven higher by the lightning that flashed through the window, the thunder that almost seemed to be in the car with them. But most potent of all was the way he was trembling, as conflicting feelings raged within him.

‘If you ever dare do that again—’ he said hoarsely.

‘Yes—what—?’

‘Come here.’

‘Tell me what’ll happen if I do it again,’ she whispered provocatively.

‘I said come here.’

So she did. She did everything he wanted, laughing and singing within herself, so that her spirit soared and everywhere the world was full of joy.

‘I’m in love with you. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Hush!’

‘Why? Aren’t I allowed to say it?’

‘Carlo, be sensible—’

‘Not in a million years.’

‘But three days—’

‘Three days, three hours, three minutes. What does it matter? It was always there, wasn’t it? As soon as I saw you there at Pompeii, when I heard you laughing—’

‘When I saw you clowning around for those kids—’

‘Is that why you love me? Because I can make you laugh?’

‘Hey, cheeky! I didn’t say I loved you.’

‘But you do, don’t you? Let me hear you say it—please, Della.’

‘Hmm!’

‘Say it, please. Don’t tease me.’

‘Be patient. Three days is too soon.’

‘Say it.’

‘Too soon …’

They spent the day in Badolato, with Della making notes and buying up all the local books she could find. When evening came they ate in their room, preferring to hide from the rest of the world. But tonight only half her attention was for Carlo. What she had seen today had fired her imagination.

‘It’s promising,’ she said, flicking through her notes. ‘If I can only find a few more like this.’

‘Come and have a shower,’ he urged. ‘It’s time we were thinking of bed.’

‘Yes, but don’t you see—?’

‘We can talk in the shower,’ he said, beginning to undress her.

But in the shower there were other distractions, and by the time they had lathered and rinsed each other the conversation was no further advanced.

‘This is supposed to be a working trip,’ she murmured when they were lying naked in bed.

‘We’ve spent all day working,’ he complained, brushing one finger over the swell of her breast.

‘But I haven’t got enough for the series,’ she said, trying not to let her voice shake from the tremors going through her.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked. ‘Do you just want tragic places, like Pompeii and the sunken liner, or dramatic, mysterious places like this?’

His own voice shook on the final words, because her hand had found him, the fingers caressing him softly in a way that made it hard for him to concentrate.

‘But what else is there?’ she asked.

‘Cheerful places.’

‘Are there any?’

‘Don’t you know your own country’s history? What about The Field of the Cloth of Gold?’

She frowned. ‘Wasn’t that—?’

‘If you wanted to be pompous you could call it the first great summit conference, but actually it was just a jumbo jolly.’

‘A jumbo jolly?’ She chuckled. ‘I like that.’

‘Four hundred years ago King Henry VIII of England and Francis I of France, plus their courts, met in a field outside Calais. They put up huge tents made of silk, satin and gold, and had a party that was so extravagant that the locals celebrate it to this day.’

He slid further down in the bed beside her, stroking the inside of her thigh in a way that made it hard to remember that she was supposed to be working. She tried to apply her mind.

‘I thought you said it was a summit conference,’ she gasped.

‘Officially it was about forging an alliance,’ he murmured against her warm skin, ‘but actually it was jousting by day, and wine, women and song in the evening. Francis and Henry were young men in their twenties, who still knew how to have fun. It went on for three weeks.’

‘Three weeks—?’

‘Then they had a wrestling match, and Henry landed flat on his royal ass. After that he decided it was time to go home.’

‘Very wise,’ she said in a daze. ‘You know what I think?’

‘What?’

She reached for him. ‘I think, to hell with Henry VIII.’

From there they drove further south, to the toe of Italy, from where they took the ferry to Sicily. They spent a day in Palermo, where Carlo underwent a transformation worthy of a sci-fi plot. The playboy disappeared, and in his place was the academic, enthused by being in one of his favourite places, eager to make her see it through his eyes. But for once he forgot to tailor his words to his audience.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked once, seeing her staring into the sky above.

‘Trying to follow a word you’re saying,’ she said plaintively. ‘It’s all up there, above my head.’

‘Sorry, I’ll make it simpler.’

‘You’ll have to when you’re writing a script—but forget it for now. Can’t you talk anything but that serious stuff?’

‘I was auditioning,’ he said, sounding hurt.

‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ she chuckled. ‘But I have something different to say.’

He looked mischievously into her eyes. ‘What would that be?’

‘Something you don’t need words for.’

He took her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

After that they more or less abandoned the idea of work. They spent the days exploring the scenery, the evenings over softly lit dinners, and the nights in tiny hillside hotels with nothing to think of but each other. It became indistinguishable from a holiday, and that was how she told herself to think of it—a perfect time, separate from the real world, to be looked back on later with nostalgia but no regret.

She took a hundred photographs, to last her through the years, and congratulated herself on being sensible.

‘It’s been a few days. Have I known you long enough yet to love you?’

‘You’re a very impatient man.’

‘I always was. When I want something I want it now. And I want you. Don’t you feel the same?’

‘Yes—’

‘Then can’t you say that you love me? Not just want, but love.’

‘Be patient. It all seems so unreal.’

‘Loving you is the only reality. I’ve never loved any woman before. I mean that. Casual infatuations don’t count against what I feel now. I was waiting for you, for my Della—because you’ve always been mine, even before we met—my Della, the only woman my heart will ever love, from this time on. Tell me that you believe me.’

‘I do believe you. I can feel your heart beneath my hand now.’

‘It’s all yours, now and for ever.’

‘Hush, don’t talk about for ever. It’s too far away.’

‘No, it’s here and now, and it always will be. Tell me that you love me—’

‘Not yet—not yet—’

‘Say it—say it—’

CHAPTER FIVE

DELLA sometimes wondered if the dream would have gone on for ever if blunt reality hadn’t dumped itself on them.

‘That was my brother Ruggiero,’ Carlo said reluctantly, as he finished a call on his cellphone. ‘Reminding me that he and I have a birthday in a few days, and there’s going to be a family party. If I’m not there, I’m a dead man.’