Beyond The Island Read online

  Her heart pitched to her stomach. Renzo? Here? Whatever was he doing here in church when he’d gone to such lengths to say he was catching the ferry to Naples? Joanne blinked but Renzo failed to disappear. It didn’t make sense. Instinctively, she pressed her body back against the cold stone while she struggled to make sense of it, her finger nails biting her palms. Why had he lied? Was he guilty of some crime and confessing to a priest? After all, religion had never been broached as a topic of their conversation so he could be a staunch Catholic.

  Joanne stared, as with his head bent and a look of stealth, Renzo headed for the exit. She waited, stiff as the chilled icons lining the nave until the heavy door closed with a thud behind him and then began to count slowly to one hundred. Then she crept cautiously back through the musty curtain, heaved open the door and slipped out onto the porch. The sudden brightness forced her eyes shut. Unwilling to be seen she retreating into shadow and gazed about as her heart jumped all over the place. Siesta was over and crowds now milled about the square. She risked a few tentative steps, unprepared as her legs weakened, for less than a dozen yards away she saw Renzo deep in conversation with an older man, dark suited despite the heat.

  It was none of her business, she told herself.

  Nevertheless she crept down to the square, grabbed a seat outside a café and sank heavily down. Her brain registered the scene but failed to make sense of it. Picking up the menu to shield her face she peered out and watched. Renzo had opened a car door for this man, hurried to the other side and slid into the passenger seat.

  She heard the roar of the engine as the car drove off and disappeared around the corner. Whatever was he up to? Why was he secretive and why did he meet these man? Joanne found it odd that again Renzo thought it necessary to lie. Disturbing thoughts entered her head and her heart banged against her ribs. What if Renzo had other motives for inviting her to Ischia? What could that possibly be? Why hint at a sailing instructor job when there must be lots of competent young sailors living on the Island he might employ. So, what was he up to? A niggle at the back of her mind threatened to throw her off kilter as the picture slid back of Renzo’s furtiveness which was like someone in dread of being witnessed.

  Joanne tried to rationalise what she’d observed. Surely a confession box was hardly the place to discuss business?

  Her brow furrowed. Perhaps that man was the lawyer he’d said he was meeting who’d decided to come to Ischia and meet Renzo here instead. It could all be simply explained. Besides, Joanne shrugged. Why should she worry if Renzo’s plans had changed? Cross with herself for conjecture Joanne was forced to accept that it was none of her business. However, she was relieved Renzo hadn’t seen her in the church.

  What to do now? Return on the ‘bus to the hotel and behave as normal? That was the best way; no point in mentioning seeing him. He’d think she’d been spying on him.

  Joanne became aware of the waiter hovering to take her order. ‘I’ll have something refreshing,’ she said firmly. And then out of character but in need of something stronger, said ‘Yes please, a large brandy and ginger ale.’

  Several sips of brandy helped settle her thoughts and she resolved on a course of action. Why not visit Angelina? A tiny stir of intrigue decided Joanne. At least Angelina could confirm if Renzo was religious. Despite her resolve, Renzo’s behaviour spiked her imagination and it would be interesting to know before sailing with him again.

  Deep in thought Joanne got onto the bus and automatically punched her ticket in the machine before taking a seat. Just behind her sat two local women engaged in gossip. She half listened, following the cadence of their words. And then keen to perfect her Italian and in order to squash the doubts about Renzo, she focussed on what they were saying. The bus changed gear noisily and Joanne snapped alert, certain she heard them mention ‘Balzarin’. She leaned back in her seat and strained to hear more.

  ‘...wicked way to treat folk...what’s the world coming to...’ was all she heard, picturing the women sorrowfully shaking their heads, making the sign of the cross and saying ‘those poor souls’.

  The bus stopped in a small village and to Joanne’s disappointment, the two women got out.

  Could they have been talking about Renzo’s family? Maybe I misheard, Joanne decided. Balzarin might be a common name on Ischia; silly to make anything of it. She glanced at her watch. It was 3.30 pm. Her visit to Villa Serena should leave plenty of time before returning to the hotel and meeting Renzo. Thinking positively, Joanne was certain Renzo would enlighten her with details of his day. She stepped off the bus at the top of the lane which led to Angelina’s home. Surely nothing untoward would force her to shorten her stay on this beautiful island?

  Chapter 6

  The narrow lane which led downhill to Villa Serena proved a far longer stretch than Joanne recalled. Previously she’d travelled by car, spent the journey gazing out at the view, and so paid no attention to the distance. She trudged along, her sandals scuffing up dust while the sun bored into her from the cloudless sky. The low stone walls on either side absorbed the heat and offered no shade. Even tall grass on the verges stood stiff without a breeze to stir them.

  From nowhere Joanne found her mind filled with thoughts of Fabio. When would she see him again? She was unsure whether or not he might assume there was more to her friendship with his cousin Renzo than just to crew his yacht. There’d been no inkling of Fabio’s idea one way or the other. Joanne’s pulse throbbed as she recalled their pleasant dinner, certain Fabio found enjoyment in her company as she did his.

  Joanne stopped, dropped her satchel on the ground and pulled up her T shirt, flapping it in a vain attempt to cool herself. Her hands felt clammy and her feet hot and sore in the light sandals. She was beginning to regret her impulse to visit Angelina but she’d made the decision and was determined to carry on.

  When at last she staggered to the entrance of Angelina’s house, her thin shirt and cotton jeans were clamped to her body with perspiration. Why didn’t she think it through? How could she turn up in this state? Angelina had the knack of looking cool and elegant whatever the temperature. Joanne’s face burned, taut with heat and frustration. Another thought had her almost ready to flee back the way she’d come – no doubt Angelina would feel obliged to drive her back to the hotel! Now, desperate for a drink of water she overcame her scruples.

  She hovered on the tiled porch, delaying the moment to pull the bell chain. It slowly dawned that the house was unusually silent; no sound or movement from within. Perhaps they were out in the garden. She moved back to the drive and listened for the sound of the children - nothing. Back on the porch she stood on tip toe and peered through the glass slits either side of the heavy wood door. Now that she’d actually got here, disappointment quivered through Joanne’s slight frame until the steady sound of someone sweeping reached her and releasing a breath of relief, she made her way around to the back of the house.

  A woman, not Constanza, looked up from her toil, gave a start and dropped her broom.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signora’. Joanne smiled reassuringly aware she had startled the maid since everyone arrived here by some form of transport; certainly not by that long walk in this heat. ‘I was hoping to find Signora Pardi at home.’

  The maid relaxed, picked up her broom and using it as a prop to lean upon said, ‘I’m sorry, la Signora’s family not here – left early this morning - return at nightfall.’ Her accent revealed she was from one of the East European countries.

  Joanne’s spirits deflated, almost feeling as if she was abandoned by her newfound family. She bade the maid farewell, ready to retrace her walk back up the lane when the woman called out, ‘I’ll fetch you a cool drink, shall I Signorina?’

  ‘Oh, yes thank you that would be welcome. It’s so hot and I really need to have a rinse.’ Joanne turned back without a second thought.

  She stood in the cool downstairs cloakroom, heaved her shirt over her head and swished cold water all over her face and bare skin
. Then she rinsed her thin shirt, rolled it in the towel and put it back on damp knowing the sun would soon dry it out. A quick comb through her hair and restored to a semblance of normality she returned outside and collapsed onto a garden chair.

  The maid reappeared with a tray holding a jug of fresh lemon juice.

  ‘Molto grazie,’ Joanne responded with a smile. She pressed the ice cold glass to her cheeks before taking a long refreshing drink.

  It was impossible to shake off the incident at Fontana now her curiosity had been aroused. Renzo seemed to possess a double persona; benevolent instructor but often she sensed a little tug of menace lurking behind his actions.

  Joanne finished the cool drink. ‘Thank you,’ she said and getting to her feet and bidding the maid farewell. On the spur of the moment she halted and inquired, ‘Are you from Eastern Europe?’ And seeing the look of consternation which widened the maid’s eyes she merely asked, ‘Have you been working here long?’

  ‘Long time. La Signora Pardi lovely lady,’ was the only response as the maid averted her eyes and resumed her sweeping.

  That teaches me not to pry. ‘There’s no need to tell the Signora I called to see her,’ Joanne said. But aware how trusty servants respected their employers Joanne doubted her visit would go unreported.

  Confronted by the arduous walk up the lane, Joanne firmed her mouth and told herself to think positively. The exercise would do her good and maybe she’d lose the weight she’d gained from drinking so much wine. So decision made, she started off taking long and purposeful steps.

  She’d tramped some way and stopped to regain her breath when the sound of an approaching vehicle reached her and grew louder. Someone else must be visiting Villa Serena for the lane ended at the house. An awful thought gripped her. What if Renzo caught her here? He was the last person she wanted to see. She pressed back against the wall and was about to scramble over it and hide when a small, green car shot around the bend and screeched to a halt.

  ‘Joanne! Out for a gentle stroll?’

  It seemed like fate had granted her wish... ‘Fabio!’ his name burst from her lips.

  As his eyes crinkled with pleasure her heart gave a leap.

  ‘Lovely to see you,’ he said with a grin. ‘Care to hop in? I’m delivering some fruit to my sister – it’s dropping off my trees.’ He got out and before she could stop him he hauled a huge basket off the passenger seat. ‘I’ll shove this behind in the boot. No problem – the fruit won’t get too hot now.’ He gave her a wink. ‘And then you can tell me where I can give you a lift.’

  My God! He must think her mad or a fool. She noted his white shorts and green open neck polo shirt as he picked up a tennis racket and tossed it behind the seat. His flushed face told her he must have been playing an energetic game of tennis and a flicker of jealousy caught her unawares as she pictured him with one of those female partners he’d introduced her to.

  As if he read her thoughts, Fabio smiled as he started up the engine and volunteered. ‘I must be out of practice. Roberto and his girlfriend knocked us for six!’

  So he’d been playing mixed doubles and she hoped she disguised a dart of envy. He’s an attractive man; he’s bound to have lots of female friends, she told herself.

  ‘Do you play a good game, Joanne? Maybe we could try to beat them!’

  ‘Sorry, haven’t played for years. It would be a disaster!’

  Fabio shook his head. ‘Never mind,’ he remarked with a smile, ‘then I can enjoy being able to relax with you.’

  She felt so comfortable with Fabio. He pulled up in front of the villa and she waited in the car while Fabio carried the basket of fruit around to the back. She was horribly conscious of her sweaty self and staring after him took some comfort from seeing the damp patch of perspiration across the back of his shirt.

  Joanne decided, I won’t tell Renzo about meeting Fabio; I can be secretive too. It was pleasant to have a life of her own; not one that felt governed by Renzo’s plans for sailing.

  Fabio returned, a typical grin lifting his broad, suntanned features. ‘That’ll keep Angelina busy – she’ll have jars full of homemade jam in no time at all, if I know my sister.’

  So once again, Joanne found herself a passenger in Fabio’s car and in a strange way it felt quite natural. He made her feel at ease and she guessed he would not ask why she’d been visiting the deserted house - and on foot. She watched his strong, golden hands on the wheel as he drove, the back of his long sensitive fingers sprinkled with dark hairs.

  ‘Sorry Joanne, I’m reeking with sweat - not pleased you are forced to suffer.’

  Joanne laughed. ‘It’s not a problem. I’m the same after that long walk. Anyway, you are much sweeter than people I’ve been crushed against on the train.’ She went on casually to explain her presence. ‘I was going back on the bus from Fontana and remembered it would pass the top of the lane leading to Villa Serena, so on a whim thought I’d go down and see Angelina.’

  ‘Hmm. She’d have loved to see you. A pity they’ve all gone to visit friends today. So, what do you have in mind to do now?’

  ‘I really hadn’t thought. Nothing... except return to the hotel, have a shower and read a book.’ She’d spoken without thinking and hoped he wouldn’t take that to mean she angled for suggestions. But she was learning that Fabio didn’t have a devious thought in his head as he raised his brows and spoke.

  ‘Just an idea; you don’t have to agree. I’d planned to take some fruit to Paolo, the old gardener who once worked at Villa Serena. Would you care to come along? I can drop you off at the hotel afterwards.’

  Joanne hesitated. ‘I need to be back in time to get ready. Renzo’s planned to take me out to dinner.’ Her voice lowered with unhappiness and couldn’t gauge Fabio’s reaction as he said calmly,

  ‘I’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘I’d love to meet the gardener, thanks. I always enjoy meeting local people although Renzo doesn’t...’ Whatever was the matter with her speaking without thought again?

  Fortunately Fabio took no notice. ‘Good. Then off we go!’ And with that he gunned the little car’s engine and they shot back up the lane.

  Welcome cool air rushed past her as they travelled in comfortable silence. Joanne’s mind turned to something that had bothered her for some while. What exactly was going on between Fabio and Renzo? She recalled Renzo’s remark back in that taxi in Rome... “My cousin Fabio takes a lot of persuading”. What had he referred to? For some reason, she was pleased that whatever it was, Fabio had not been keen to undertake it. Although she’d dismissed the thought at the time it now came back to her. If Fabio had taken the phone call from Ischia then it must have referred to something connected with the Island.

  Her mind was brushed clear of conjecture as Fabio turned his head and spoke.

  ‘It’s so pleasant to be with you Joanne like this,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘Young Italian women would bombard one with chatter.’

  Taken off guard, Joanne merely nodded and was thankful when Fabio turned away and tooted the horn. It was good to know he didn’t expect her to keep up a conversation.

  Paolo must have heard the sound of the Morgan car’s horn for he appeared the door of his ancient stone cottage and raised his arm in greeting. ‘So,’ his eyes were alight with mischief, ‘a pretty young woman for me to entertain!’

  ‘Hello, I’m delighted to meet you.’ Joanne was intrigued to know how this Islander spoke such good English. She saw he wore heavy shapeless trousers despite the heat and a shirt which might once have been ‘Sunday Best’ but had now faded like his thin, wiry hair. He looked the typical local farmer, his craggy features honed by the elements. Two surprisingly deep blue eyes shone with fun.

  With a cheery laugh Paolo enlightened her. ‘Prisoner of War! Captured by your lot and before you could say...’ he screwed up his leathery face as he struggled for the words, ‘ah, before you could say ‘Jack Rabbit!’ They put me to work on an isolated farm in Somerset County
. All the young girls were warned off us! As if we’d...’

  Well that was a surprise. The way he spoke about it fetched Joanne’s giggle. ‘Tell me more!’ she pressed him.

  ‘Not unless you try my home brewed wine,’ he said. ‘Fabio!’ he ordered, ‘you know where the cellar is. I want a few minutes alone with this lovely young lady here!’ His whiskers twitched as he smiled at Joanne. ‘You should have met me then, Signorina – even in those ugly brown uniforms we prisoners had to wear I could have charmed you.’ he sighed. ‘But then you were only a whisper in your parent’s heads.’

  Paulo led her to a wooden garden bench beside an old plastic table and produced a large red handkerchief to brush away some leaves. ‘On holiday here?’ he asked, giving her a sly glance and clearly keen to find out how she came to know Fabio. ‘Fabio’s the right one to show you our Island. Don’t tell him I said so,’ Paolo placed a finger of the side of his nose, ‘he’s the best friend an old man could have.’ He turned to shoo off a hen which flew off with loud cackles. ‘Off you go, Hetty. Go and lay some eggs!’

  Joanne giggled, charmed by the old man. ‘Yes, I’m on holiday for three weeks,’ she replied and feeling some explanation was needed, ‘Fabio met me off the ferry and took me to his sister’s house.’

  Paolo’s eyebrows were raised in a questioning manner.

  ‘Yes, his cousin, Renzo Balzarin had asked Fabio to meet me from the ferry.’ Did she imagine the old man’s expression change? But the moment was gone and she found herself adding, ‘I met Renzo by chance at a business event in Rome and took up the offer to crew his yacht.’