slightly stretchy, and clung in a way that showed what a nice shape she had. Dainty silver sandals and a silver filigree necklace and matching earrings completed her appearance, and a discreet squirt of a very expensive perfume provided the finishing touch.
She was prompt, but even so he was waiting for her beside his car, a four-wheel drive, made for rough terrain. It was like the man, nothing fancy, but powerful, uncompromising, made to last.
He swung out of Palermo and into the countryside. After a while they began to climb, and before long they’d reached a small village with narrow, twisting streets. At the top of a hill stood a pretty pink villa with two curved staircases on the outside.
‘This village is Ellona,’ Bernardo told her. ‘It mostly belongs to Baptista. So does the villa. We used to live there in the summer. In fact, that was where-’ He braked suddenly as a chicken darted across the road and uttered something in Sicilian that sounded like a curse.
‘What did that mean?’ Angie asked.
He coloured. ‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘Go on with what you were saying. That was where-?’
‘I forget. Look at the scenery just up here. It’s magnificent.’
It wasn’t just her imagination, she thought. After the first slip of the tongue he’d retreated back in on himself and, when she tried to follow, he’d warned her off. She wasn’t foolish enough to persist.
Away from the fertile coast the landscape of Sicily changed, become harsher, more barren.
‘All the prosperity is on the coast,’ Bernardo said. ‘In-land we live as we can. There are crops, sheep, goats. Sometimes we do well, but it’s a precarious existence.’
‘We?’ she asked.
‘My people,’ he said simply. ‘The ones who depend on me.’
After a while he asked, ‘Does the height worry you? Some people get scared as the road twists and turns.’
‘Not me,’ she said bravely, although her eyes were getting a little glazed. ‘How high are we now?’
‘Nearly half a mile above sea level.’
Higher and higher they went on the winding mountain road, while the glory of Sicily fell away beneath them. Everywhere Angie looked there were acacia and lemon blossom, and far distant she could make out the gleam of the sea.
The scenery grew fiercer, grander. They were passing through pinewoods, then the woods were behind them and an upland plain spread out, with vineyards and, above them, a steep cliff with farmhouses.
‘The farmers abandoned them long ago,’ Bernardo said. ‘This is a harsh place to live in winter.’
After a few more miles he pointed and said, ‘Look.’
She rose in her seat, gasping in amazement and delight at the sight that met her eyes. Ahead of them was a village that seemed to have been carved direct from the very rock that reared up to a windswept promontory. What might have been a bleak and uncompromising scene was softened to beauty by the reddish colour of the sheer rock face. She sat back, gazing in wonder as they drove closer, and she saw that this was actually an enchanting little medieval town, whose delights had to be seen up close to be appreciated.
‘That’s Montedoro,’ Bernardo said. ‘Most of it is seven hundred years old.’
They drove in through an ancient gateway and immediately began to climb a steep, beautifully cobbled street, the Corso Garibaldi, according to the signs. It was lined with shops, many of which seemed to sell sweets and pastries. Faces watched them curiously, and it was clear that everyone knew who Bernardo was. She wondered about the size of the village. From the outside it hadn’t seemed very big.
He drove very slowly, for the streets were crowded with tourists. At one point a cart turned out of a street directly in front of them, forcing them to slow to a walk. It contained five people and was drawn by two mules sporting tassels and feathers. But what really drew Angie’s attention was the fact that the cart was brightly decorated in every possible place.
‘Is that one of the Sicilian hand-painted carts I’ve heard about?’ she asked eagerly.
‘That’s right. My friend Benito and his son make a summer living giving rides in their carts.’
Travelling so slowly, she had time to study the glorious paintwork. The wheels, including the spokes were covered in patterns, while on the main body were pictures of saints, warriors and dragons, all glowing in the brilliant sun.
At the top of the street he swung right along a pretty street of grey stone houses, all with ironwork balconies, and at the end of that he swung right again, heading downwards to a building that Angie gradually recognised as the gate where they’d entered.
‘But-that’s-’
‘Montedoro is a perfect triangle,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now we’ll go up the Corso Garibaldi again, to my house.’
When they reached the top she saw a small piazza with several boutiques, and a cafe with tables spilling onto the street, each one sheltered by a brightly coloured awning. He parked the car and headed for one of the shops, so it seemed to Angie, but at the last minute he swerved aside, to a lane so narrow that she hadn’t seen it. It went right to the back of the shop where it crossed with another lane. Here the space was so cramped and the houses so tall that it was almost dark. When Angie’s eyes were used to the gloom she saw a narrow door in the wall.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Bernardo said, throwing open the door to a world of magic.
She entered with wonder. Instead of the dark hallway she’d expected, she found herself in a courtyard, open to the sky. Delicately arched cloisters went around the sides, and in the centre was a fountain whose water caught the brilliant sun on every droplet.
‘I never expected-I mean, I never thought you’d live in a place like this,’ she breathed.
‘My father bought it for my mother. Lots of the houses in Montedoro have these little courtyards, so that women and children could sit here, and not have to go into the outside world.’
‘A man who believed in the traditional ways,’ Angie observed.
‘Yes, and also because people were often unkind to my mother because they weren’t married. So he protected her.’
‘It’s incredible, how it’s hidden away,’ she marvelled. ‘From outside those shops you’d never guess that it was here, unless you knew where that passage was, and even then you might miss it.’
‘That’s the idea. Outside the world bustles, especially in summer, when this place is a tourist trap. Then all the shops open for the foreign visitors, and the great families from Palermo come up here to open their summer houses and escape the heat. But then summer passes, the visitors go, and only the basic population is left.’
‘How many would that be?’
‘About six hundred. It’s like a ghost town.’
‘How do the people live when there are no visitors?’
‘Many of them work in the vineyards you saw below. The Martelli family owns them and I run them.’
Again she noticed the slight oddity in his speech, the way he spoke of ‘the Martelli family’ as though he wasn’t one of them.
Deep in the house she heard the telephone ring. He excused himself and went to answer it. Left alone, Angie looked around the little courtyard. It wasn’t expensively tended and perfect like the garden at the Residenza, but it had an austere elegance that pleased her.
She sat on the side of the stone fountain and looked into the water. Above her the impossibly blue sky was reflected clearly, and just behind her she saw Bernardo appear. He was looking at her, and she wondered if he’d forgotten that she could see his face in the water, because he wore an expression that made her catch her breath. It was the look of a man who’d been taken by surprise and held against his will. There was alarm, yearning, and a touch of wistfulness. Then he stepped back quickly and his face vanished. When Angie glanced up he wasn’t looking at her.
A large woman of about fifty emerged from the kitchen. Bernardo introduced her as Stella, his house keeper. Stella greeted Angie in excellent English, informing them that wine and snacks were waiting for them, while she finished cooking the proper meal. The snacks turned out to be bean fritters, hot cheese and herbs, and stuffed baked tomatoes.
‘If this is only a snack, I can’t wait to see what the full meal is like,’ Angie mused.
‘It will be a feast,’ he said, pouring her a glass of Marsala. ‘Stella is delighted to see you. She loves displaying
