Hot Nights with...the Italian. Lucy Gordon

grown like some sprawling rock plant out of the tall cliffs that sheltered it. The towering stone facades themselves gleamed like silver and amethyst in the morning sun under a dark green canopy of cypresses. And below the town the deep cerulean sea turned to jade and turquoise edged with foam as it spilled itself endlessly on the shingle shore.

      She could even see the rooftop swimming pools of the hotels overlooking the port, and the sturdy outline of the medieval watchtower, which no longer scanned the horizon for pirates or enemies from neighbouring city states, but served food in its elegant restaurant instead. Beyond it lay Ravello, and if she turned to glance the other way she could see the dizzying tumble of Positano, and in the far distance a smudge that might even be Capri.

      The horizon was barely visible, sky and sea merging seamlessly in an azure blur.

      It was also very quiet. The sound of traffic along the ribbon of coast road was barely audible at this distance, and for the first time in weeks Marisa felt the tension within her—like the heaviness of unshed tears—beginning to ease, and something like peace take its place.

      So good, she thought. So good to be truly alone and leave behind the pressure of other people’s expectations. To be free of the necessity of changing into yet another charming and expensive dress just to make occasional and stilted conversation across a dinner table with a young man whose smile never reached his eyes.

      To be, just for a while, Marisa Brendon again and nothing more, with no apology for a marriage to haunt her.

      She looked down at her hand, then slowly slid off her wedding ring, and buried it deep in her pocket.

      There, she thought. Now I can pretend that I’m simply here on vacation, with my whole life ahead of me, free to enjoy no one’s company but my own.

      Only to hear from behind her a small, mild cough which announced that she was not alone after all. That someone else was there, sharing her supposed solitude.

      Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned, to find herself confronted by a small woman with rimless glasses and wisps of grey hair escaping from under a floppy linen sun hat. Her khaki trousers and shirt were smeared with earth and green stains, and she carried a small pair of pruning shears in one hand and a flat wicker basket full of trimmings in the other.

      Oh, God, Marisa thought, embarrassed colour flooding her face. That house can’t be as derelict as I thought.

      Aloud, she said, in halting and woefully incorrect Italian, ‘Please forgive me. I was not told that anyone lived here. I will leave at once.’

      The newcomer’s brows lifted. ‘Another Englishwoman,’ said a gentle voice. ‘How very nice. And I’m afraid we’re both trespassers, my dear. I also came here one day to look at the view, but I saw a potentially beautiful space going to rack and ruin and I couldn’t resist the challenge. No one has ever objected,’ she added. ‘Probably because they think I’m mad to try.’

      Her smile was kind. ‘So please don’t run away on my account. And I’m sorry if I startled you. You were a shock to me too, appearing so quietly. For a moment I thought Adriana had returned, and then I realised you were totally twenty-first century. Quite a relief, I have to say.’

      She tugged off her thick gardening gloves and held out her hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Morton.’

      ‘Marisa Brendon.’ Well, I’ve done it now, Marisa thought as she returned the smile and the handshake. Crossed my own small Rubicon back to being single again.

      ‘Marisa,’ the older woman repeated thoughtfully. ‘Such a charming name. And Italian too, I believe?’

      ‘After my late godmother.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Morton. ‘And did she live locally? Are you familiar with the area?’

      Marisa shook her head. ‘No, this is my first visit.’ And almost certainly my last. ‘I’m staying with—some people.’

      ‘My husband and I were fortunate enough to be able to retire here.’ Mrs Morton looked out at the bay with an expression of utter contentment. ‘We have an apartment nearby, but it only has a balcony, and I do miss my gardening. So I come here most days and do what I can.’ She sighed. ‘But as you see, it’s an uphill struggle.’

      ‘It must be tiring too.’ Marisa gestured towards the bench. ‘Shall we sit down—if you have time?’

      ‘My time is very much my own.’ Mrs Morton took a seat at the other end of the bench. ‘I have a most understanding husband.’

      ‘That’s—lovely for you.’ Marisa was suddenly conscious of the ring buried in her pocket. She added hurriedly, ‘But why has the garden been allowed to get into such a state?’ She glanced around her. ‘Doesn’t the owner—this Adriana—care?’

      ‘I think she would care very much if she was alive to see it, but she died a long time ago—over fifty years, I gather—and ownership of the property is no longer established.’

      ‘She didn’t have an heir?’ Marisa asked with a certain constraint. Another topic, she thought, she’d have preferred to avoid.

      ‘She and her husband were still newlyweds,’ Mrs Morton explained. ‘According to the local stories they made wills leaving everything to each other. And when he pre-deceased her she refused to make another.’

      She shrugged. ‘Relatives on both sides have made legal claims to the estate over the years, but I suspect that most of them have died too by now, so the whole thing is in abeyance.’

      ‘Oh.’ Marisa drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s the tragedy. This wonderful place just left to—moulder away.’ She shook her head. ‘But why on earth didn’t this Adriana change her will?’

      ‘Oh, that’s quite simple,’ Mrs Morton said quietly. ‘You see, she never actually believed that her husband was dead.’

      Marisa frowned. ‘But surely there must have been a death certificate at some point?’ she objected.

      ‘Under normal circumstances,’ the other woman said. ‘But sadly there was no real proof of death. Filippo Barzoni was sailing back from Ischia—he was a keen and experienced sailor, and had made the trip many times before—when a sudden violent squall blew up. Neither he nor his boat were ever seen again.

      ‘Some wreckage was washed up near Sorrento, but it was considered inconclusive as the storm had produced other casualties. However, no one but his widow believed that Filippo could possibly have survived. They were passionately in love, you see, and Adriana always claimed she would know, in her heart, if her husband were no longer alive. She felt most strongly that he was still with her, and that one day he would return.’

      She sighed. ‘That’s why she had this bench placed here, so she could sit and watch the bay for a blue boat with maroon sails. She came every day to keep her vigil, summer and winter, and she refused to listen to any arguments against it. “One day, he will come back to me,” she used to say. “And he will find me waiting.”’

      ‘How awful,’ Marisa said softly. ‘Poor woman.’

      Mrs Morton smiled again. ‘She didn’t see herself at all in that way, by all accounts. She was very calm, very steadfast, and doing what she believed in. As well as love, you see, she had faith and hope, so maybe she was one of the lucky ones.’

      ‘What happened in the end?’ Marisa asked.

      ‘She caught a chill, which she neglected, and which turned to pneumonia. She was taken to hospital, much against her will, and died a few days later.’ She added with faint dryness, ‘It’s said her last words were “Tell him I waited,” which one can believe or not.’

      She put on her gloves and rose. ‘But this is far too lovely a day, and you’re much too young and pretty for any more sad stories about lost love. And I must get on with some work.’ She looked again at the sea. ‘However, this is a wonderful spot—especially to sit and think—and