Page 34 of Sunrise By the Sea

‘Do not be rude to yournonna.’

‘I thinkUn posto al soleis just starting.’

However much fun shouting at her granddaughter was, it wasn’t worth missingUn posto al solefor, and Nonna, sniffing, backed down.

‘I won’t be far away.’

‘I’ll call you if I forget what pasta is.’

‘So young and such a smart mouth.’

Chapter Twenty-one

Marisa felt briefly guilty that hernonnahad gone to all the trouble of sending so much food and was now being denied the pleasure of shouting at her as she cooked it.

But somehow, even just setting the oil sizzling in the brand-new pan was helping to make her feel better. It was soothing. She added some pretty music, kept quiet so she couldn’t be accused of double standards.

While you were chopping, it almost didn’t matter that you were far away from home, stuck somewhere you were too scared to leave, held prisoner by grief. When the knife was so sharp it nearly took your fingers off, when the oil was gently heating in the pan, sizzling quietly, and gradually, without rushing, the onions starting to softly melt, no rush. When all of that was going on, nothing was too bad.

Next she grabbed the garlic, which was a gentle purple round the base, cracking the papery shell with the flat of her knife, breathing the scent in deeply. She chopped rather than mashed the garlic; it was in wafer-thin slices which would gently colour in the good oil.

She felt her breathing slow as the delicious scent hit the air, and opened the bottle of Valpolicella, the last thing, carefully tied up in bubble wrap, that hernonnahad put in the box, and set it to warm next to the pan.

Next she pulled out a large pot, boiled the water for the pasta, adding plenty of salt, then gently stirred the tomatoes and fresh basil and even more salt into the pan with the onions, giving everything time to gently blend together. So simple, but with good tomatoes – and these were very, very good tomatoes indeed – there was nothing better. She dug up a little grater from one of the cupboards for the rough hunk of parmesan.

Everything was perfect. She put a note up on Skype to say so, and to say thanks, and to her extreme surprise got back an emoji of a person with their mouth zipped shut.

Then she turned the heat down, grinding a few sharp turns of pepper in the top.

Next door, the women with the curly hair was leaving.

‘Oh, that smells amazing,’ Marisa could hear her say, close as anything. ‘Is that your dinner?’

There came a long sigh.

‘No,’ said the deep voice sadly, as if he was starving to death which was clearly very far from the case (although he had already eaten all the asparagus tarts, but he had underestimated the ability of small children to sniff out a strawberry tart, then make beseeching eyes at their piano teacher). There was a pause on the other side of the wall.

‘Oh, dear. Hey, you must come down and eat with us sometimes. We like to be neighbourly round here.’

Marisa felt a sting at that. Neighbourliness.

The woman lowered her voice. ‘Be nice to have some company, actually. It’s tough being a single mother sometimes.’

Maris frowned. Now he was beinghiton?

‘Thank you,’ said Alexei, and she heard the heavy tread as he moved towards the door.

‘It’s such a friendly village!’

‘Good, good. Thank you, Vivienne. I see you next week.’

The door closed behind them and once more, Marisa heard that heavy sigh.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. She went back to stirring the sauce that was reducing so beautifully on the stove. She was a perfectly neighbourly person, thank you very much.

It hadn’t occurred to her that she might not be the only lonely person in Mount Polbearne.

The wind outside was growing chill, and she went to close the balcony window. As she did so she realised that he was standing out on his own balcony, separated from her by a wooden fence, with a gap in between, and a precipitous drop down the cliff side.

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