Page 90 of In Italy for Love

After Jules repeated her spiel, the other woman drew back and gave her a calculating smile. ‘A Furlan Volpe?’

Jules snapped her gaze up in surprise. ‘Unofficially.’

‘It’s good you’re here,’ she said. When she clapped her hands for attention and the buzz of conversation quietened, alarm sizzled down Jules’s spine.

Alice grasped her arm gently and began in the three languages of the association. ‘Allora, ducj cuancj! Tutti quanti! Everyone!’

She paused for long enough for Jules to hear the blood rushing in her ears. A hundred smiling faces stared up at her from their folding-chairs and plates of sausages and polenta.

‘This is Jules. She’s just arrived back from Friuli.’ What she said next nearly made Jules’s knees give out. ‘She’sAlex’sgirlfriend!’

37

All the rational thoughts in the world couldn’t stop Jules from frantically combing the guests for a familiar head of wavy brown hair. Her gaze swerved to the accordion-player, her heart in her throat, but he was a reedy older man with a shiny, black Hohner accordion, not Alex’s Victoria or the old Fantini he’d restored.

Of course he wasn’t there. He was looking after Arco – and hopefully himself. Getting in touch with the Fogolâr Furlan was just a way for Jules to stay connected, which she’d been looking forward to anyway before she’d briefly got it into her head that he might be there.

‘Did Berengario put you up to this?’ Jules asked Alice as the woman steered her to a table. Conversation had resumed, but Jules could still feel curious looks and twinkling eyes on her.

‘Berengario? Yes, he sent us an email saying we should expect you.’

Jules glanced at the sky with a huff. ‘Still interfering from thousands of miles away.’ She only wondered how he’d known she would come today, or perhaps he’d just hoped – but for what? That she’d find her new Friulian family? ‘What you said about Alex… Does everyone know him?’

‘Not yet,’ was all she said. ‘Here, have a sausage.’

‘I’ve been dying for frico, actually. And please tell me you have gubana.’

‘Elisabetta over there makes the best frico. She sells it at the markets. And yes, there will be gubana. Here, come and sit with Antonella. She’s from Udine.’

Jules was pleasantly overwhelmed as the late morning wore into the afternoon with music from the indefatigable accordion-player and conversations in a wild mix of languages. The grey-haired members were keen for every detail she could pass on from the patrie, the old country, and her voice gave out after a couple of hours, leading Alice to place a schnapps glass of something strong and peach-flavoured into her hand that she knew she had to be careful with since she was driving.

At some point, the official business of the AGM commenced and in the heat, with a full stomach, Jules pleasantly zoned out. She was glad at least that no one had thought it even slightly strange that this Calabrian Volpe who couldn’t speak Italian well wanted to join in with their festivities – and that she’d had so much to tell them about the forest and gnot dai muarts and the olive harvest. She hadn’t told her family this much about Luca and the B&B and she’d spent years working for that.

If only Cividale really were her home, she could have stayed and given Alex more time. Maybe one day he would have?—

‘Mandi, sorry I’m late. There was a delay.’

Jules froze at the sound of a deep voice, speaking between heavy breaths. If she was dreaming, she wanted to stay asleep for long enough to catch a glimpse. He was saying something in Furlan now, in a low voice, so she had no hope of understanding anyway.

She sensed a ripple of interest through the people sitting at her table and warily opened her eyes to find them watching her. Her hair stood on end as she wondered whether Berengario hadplanned some kind of stunt with a video call. Would she turn and find a cardboard cut-out of the person she loved and an apology for letting her go?

That would be nice. She had to stop her heart from jumping erratically in her chest as though he were actually standing behind her in real life.

She heard a muffled thump and a sigh and then the president of the association cleared his throat and continued. ‘Just a brief interruption to our proceedings to welcome our newest member, who has just arrived from Friûl – by which I truly meanjust arrived.’ He chuckled and goosebumps raced over Jules’s skin at the sound. ‘I told you all about him earlier. He was a member of the coro alpino and brings his accordion and I’m looking forward to the musical enrichment of our meetings. He’s moved to Australia for the best reason imaginable – for love. Welcome to Brisbane, Alessandro Mattelig!’

Jules still sat unmoving, although her vision swam in the heavy Queensland sunshine. After weeks of dampening every hope, of telling herself she was hanging on to nothing and trying to be rational, the big idiot had been making the most foolish decision of all.

Turning slowly, her breath shallow and fitful, she saw him, really standing there, in jeans and short sleeves, his hair mussed and his shirt rumpled and an enormous backpack at his feet, along with the accordion case she recognised from the day they’d met.

His eyes were trained on her, soft and bright and wary with hope – for the future,theirfuture. He had some explaining to do, but she was looking forward to hearing him out. Finally she was truly at home.

She was more tanned than the last time he’d seen her. Her messy ponytail was the same, but he’d never seen her in shorts and a T-shirt before. He was impatient to see Jules in every type of weather, annoyed that he’d missed the past month, excited for her to show him where she’d grown up – just as soon as she accepted that he’d solved their problem in this unexpected way, the only way he’d been satisfied would be fair to her.

Her disbelief lingered longer than he’d anticipated. He was taking a big risk on the basis of two words she’d spoken while half asleep.

As she rose out of her seat, he was torn between admiring her long limbs in summer clothes and succumbing to the worry that this wouldn’t work. It would feel sudden to her, his transformation from stubborn, grieving widower to Friulian émigré in Australia.

‘Jules,’ he murmured as she stumbled in his direction.

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