she felt his hand tighten on hers, and she was in his arms.
The feel of his lips locked onto hers sent happiness streaming through her. She kissed him back, fervently, eagerly, inviting him to kiss her more deeply. She felt his clasp grow more confident. He’d understand her at once, and they could bypass the first tentative questions that strangers needed to ask, for they had never been strangers. They’d known each other from the first moment in the airport, and this sweet blazing kiss had been inevitable then.
His lips were just as she had known they would be, firm and decisive, and her own responded frankly, no holding back. To have pretended reserve would have been a kind of dishonesty, when in truth her heart was reaching out to him.
Just now they asked little of each other, an eager embrace and lips seeking lips, exchanging warmth. She caught a glimpse of his face and he was almost smiling, like a man who’d discovered longed-for treasure and found it all he’d dreamed. There was a hint of surprise as well and it touched her heart. It was as though joy was so unfamiliar to him that he hardly dared to claim it as his own.
He trailed the fingers of one hand slowly down her cheek, almost as though he couldn’t believe she was really there. His words confirmed it.
‘You won’t vanish, will you? I’ve thought of this since the moment we met, and now-’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said happily.
‘Except with me?’
‘Except with you.’
‘Kiss me-kiss me-’ His lips were on hers again before she had the chance to speak. Suddenly she was aware of everything in the world about her. The sun had never been so warm, the air so sweet, life so worth living.
Bernardo drew back a little. He was shaking. ‘We must go on to Montedoro,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I don’t trust myself to be alone with you.’ He kissed her briefly one more time. ‘Let’s go.’
Reluctantly she placed her hand in his and followed him to the car. She was moving in a happy dream, and it lasted all the way up the mountain.
Montedoro was in its full summer prosperity, bursting with tourists. To make the chaos worse, it was market day, and fifty stalls were crammed into the tiny piazza at the highest point of the little town. Every stall keeper greeted him with a cry of,
They stopped for tea at a tiny convent where the Superior, Mother Francesca, welcomed him as a benefactor and a small, elderly nun made him swear not to leave until he’d tried her new batch of cakes. He solemnly promised, and Angie found herself eating the most delicious almond cakes she’d ever tasted.
Again she could feel the curious eyes on all sides and a frisson went up her spine. It was almost as though Bernardo was showing her to ‘his people’ for a purpose. But that was nonsense. This was a brief flirtation. Nothing more.
But her inner questions were like wisps of smoke. What was happening was out of her control.
While she was just trying to decide on another cake she heard someone knocking on the front door. The sound was faint, muffled by the thick stone walls, but she could just make out that the door was opened, for the knocking ceased, to be replaced by shouting, and the sound of a child crying. Then there were footsteps in the corridor. Mother Francesca hurried out and returned a moment later, looking troubled.
‘A little girl has been knocked down in the street and Dr Fortuno is away,’ she said. ‘So they’ve brought her to Sister Ignatia, our infirmary nurse.’
Bernardo glanced quickly at Angie who immediately said, ‘I’m a doctor. Can I help?’
‘I’d be so grateful,’ the nun replied. ‘We’re worried in case the child has some broken bones.’
The convent infirmary was a small room, with a bed, equipped for little more than first aid. On the bed was lying a little girl of about eight, crying bitterly. With her was an old woman dressed in black. She had a lined, nut brown face and white hair, covered by a black headscarf. Sister Ignatia spoke to her in Sicilian, indicating Angie, and immediately the old woman was up in arms, standing between them and letting forth a stream of Sicilian whose meaning was only too clear.
Sister Ignatia silenced her, explaining that Angie was a doctor, which at first the woman flatly refused to believe. This was a young woman. How could she be a doctor? Even without knowing the words Angie was able to follow this without trouble.
But it seemed there was another problem. The old woman refused to be placated, pointing at Angie’s trousers with an expression of outrage.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bernardo said, embarrassed. ‘This is a very old fashioned place, and especially the older generation-’
‘You mean my trousers bother her?’ Angie asked.
‘At one time-the only women who wore them-’ Bernardo broke off in embarrassment.
‘Were “bad” women,’ Angie finished for him. ‘It’s all right. I understand.’
Bernardo tried to speak to the grandmother. Her attitude immediately became deferential and it was clear to Angie that he was the local ‘great man’. But there was a point beyond which deference did not go, even for him, and she remained obdurate.
‘It’s no use,’ Angie told him. ‘You’re the wrong person.’ She turned to the Reverend Mother. ‘If
The Superior nodded and immediately broke into rapid speech. The old woman’s face began to relax and she glanced at Angie uncertainly. But still she didn’t yield, until the little girl gave a loud cry and sobbed more bitterly than ever.
‘That’s it, I’m going to work,’ Angie said firmly. She stepped forward, and to her relief the grandmother didn’t try to hinder her.
She began examining the patient who, to her relief, wasn’t seriously injured. There were some nasty cuts and bruises but nothing was broken. With Sister Ignatia’s help she cleaned the child up, and bathed and dressed her cuts.
Then, mindful of professional etiquette, she said, ‘You should let Dr Fortuno see her when he returns. He may want to send her for X-rays, but I don’t think so. If he wants to talk to me I’ll be glad to discuss what I’ve done.’
She finished with a smile at the little girl, who smiled back, evidently having decided that this was a good person. The grandmother watched them both closely. So did the nuns. So did Bernardo.
When they left he became quiet, walking with his fingers entwined with hers but saying nothing. Sometimes he would look at her with a curious little smile.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘You look different all the time. There are so many of you.’
‘No, there’s only one of me. Truly.’
‘Then you have a thousand faces. I no longer seem to know what to say to you.’
‘What do you want to say?’
He raised her hand and brushed his lips over it.
‘Now I really believe you’re a doctor,’ he said as they strolled on. ‘The way you took charge, dealt with that awkward woman-you were right, of course. She wouldn’t have taken a man’s word for your good character-even mine-because she thought-well-’ he shrugged self-consciously ‘-but she had to take the Reverend Mother’s word for it.’
Noting the unconscious arrogance of that ‘even mine’, Angie thought that he was more of a Martelli than he wanted to admit, but she only said, ‘I can’t believe that she got so worked up just because of how I was dressed.’
‘It’s only twelve years since a Sicilian woman published an autobiographical novel about a girl who became the town outcast because she wanted to wear trousers,’ Bernardo told her. ‘It was a best-seller in these parts.
‘And my mother used to tell me of a woman she’d known who had no chance of marriage because she’d “had a man”. Eventually I found out what “had a man” meant. She’d been seen drinking coffee with him at an outside table of a cafe.’
‘And that was all it took?’ Angie demanded, aghast.
