One Summer in Italy: The most uplifting summer romance you need to read in 2018

‘That would be lovely,’ she replied with automatic courtesy and followed him out of the office, mind whirling with her good fortune at meeting someone who’d known Aldo well. And her mother! Aldo telling her to come to the church of Santa Lucia began to make a new kind of sense – he’d known that directing her there would increase her chances of falling into friendly hands.

For the millionth time she wondered why he hadn’t had more to do with his family yet had so wanted her to visit Montelibertà. She managed to stem her flow of questions until they’d rounded the front of the church and strolled over the cobbles to a café up a tiny street off the piazza, its situation ensuring shade from the strengthening midday sun. The shiny aluminium tables were incongruously modern in her opinion but Ernesto selected one on at the edges of the group. A waiter arrived promptly, asking after Ernesto’s health in rapid Italian. Ernesto ordered espresso and Sofia Americano and the waiter beamed and bustled off. The waiting staff wore dark green waistcoats with their white shirts and black trousers. Sofia preferred Casa Felice’s all black and white look.

She turned to Ernesto. ‘So do you know—’

Ernesto held up one finger. ‘I tell you everything I remember.’ He launched into his first memories of Aldo at school, portraying him as a loveable scamp who’d played sport with far more zeal than he applied to lessons. ‘But the teachers always smiled when they said his name.’ Coffee arrived. Sofia scarcely noticed, fascinated by Ernesto’s memories of Aldo in his youth, apparently clear and bright despite their travelling more than fifty years through the hot Umbrian air.

‘And then your mother arrived in Montelibertà,’ he related. His eyebrows flicked up and down. ‘She was very modern, Dawn. With trousers this wide.’ He made an exaggerated shape with his hands. ‘And big shoes. Here.’ He pointed to the sole of his sandal.

‘Platforms?’ she hazarded, hardly able to believe her luck that this man could remember such a level of detail about the woman Sofia sometimes thought she would have nothing of if it weren’t for photographs. Her memories were made up of a hazy sensation of presence and a laughing, excited voice.

Ernesto nodded. ‘Her hair was blonde and her eyes blue. All the young men fell in love with her but she chose Aldo. In the end. There was gelosia. Jealousy.’ He cleared his throat and turned to raise a hand in the direction of a waiter. ‘We should eat. Two o’clock has passed.’

The waiter returned and took their order for hot pastries and cold beer.

The afternoon wore on. They ordered more beer and still Ernesto talked about Aldo and how he’d had eyes for no one but Dawn from the moment they met. And how Agnello and Maria had been worried and upset by the relationship.

‘And that’s why they left Montelibertà,’ Sofia finished for him, thinking that she knew this part of the story.

‘Well—’ Ernesto gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Families. There can be many issues. Aldo never said to me, “Ernesto, I leave for this reason or that reason.” He just said, “It is not fair to live here with Dawn, so I go to England, her country.”’

‘And did you ever hear from my father again?’ Sofia swallowed, sensing the past disappointment of this good and genuine man even before he answered.

‘At first,’ Ernesto sighed. ‘But there were difficulties.’

‘Difficulties?’

Ernesto hesitated. Then said, ‘In not so many years your mother became ill and passed away. I think Aldo had much on his mind, many worries and griefs. Grief upon grief. When your grandparents died I think he finally left Italy behind and embraced England.’

‘But when he became very ill he talked about Montelibertà constantly. He asked me to come here. We spoke Italian almost all the time.’ Eyes prickling, she grabbed a paper napkin to blow her nose.

Ernesto’s eyebrows quirked. ‘Ah! Parli Italiano?’

At first Sofia only managed a strangled ‘Si.’ But when she’d swallowed her tears she told him, in Italian, how much her father had loved his country, even if he’d never been able to return. How she’d once wanted to take a degree in Italian but Aldo’s health had never permitted such a commitment. ‘My secret wish was to come to Italy to study, but it was so impossible that I never mentioned it to him. Maybe I’ll do it some day.’

Ernesto gave his moustache a thorough wipe as if needing time to compose himself. But when he looked up, his eyes were smiling again. ‘And you not only speak our language but with the accent of Montelibertà! Now, shall we walk to the cemetery? Or I can fetch my car.’

Sofia jumped up. ‘Let’s walk. Dad wanted me to take flowers.’

Ernesto made an expansive gesture. ‘There is a little cart at the cemetery gates. There you can buy.’ They left behind the aroma of coffee and set off diagonally across the piazza.

On leaving the square they took the shady side of a street that snaked uphill in the opposite direction to Casa Felice. Sofia broached the other subject on her mind. ‘I noticed you didn’t mention my father’s brother, Gianni Bianchi. Did you know him too?’

For several seconds, Ernesto was silent. Then he said, ‘I know him still. He lives here in Montelibertà.’

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