Page 44 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

As if reading her mind, Franco wrapped his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and looked deep into her watery eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

She nodded, smiling wistfully.

He kissed the top of her head and strode over to a pile of boxes at the far end of the barn.

Despite the tightness in her heart, Elena knew it was time to dust off the furniture, polish the cutlery and glassware, wash the crockery and table linen, hang up the bunting, and start to make new memories.

The two women selected the pieces they needed to furnish, equip and decorate their teashop, and with Franco’s help, loaded up the truck, ready for delivery as soon as the opening date was in the diary.

Elena checked her watch and kissed her father on both cheeks.‘Mille grazie,Papà. We need to leave now to pick up Stefano from school. Are you working at the restaurant tonight?’

He nodded. ‘Sì.Tonight Dario has reserved a table for twenty to celebrate the retirement of one of the senior Carabinieri.’

There came that fuzzy feeling again at the mention of his name.Damn,Lucy thought.Pull yourself together.Yanking the car door open, she quickly grabbed the cake tin from the back seat and thrust it towards Franco.

‘For you.’

Franco paused for a moment.‘Torta al Limone?’

‘No.’Lucy wagged her finger.‘Torta al Limoncello.’

Franco raised an eyebrow. ‘Grazie mille.’

Granny had always enjoyed a wee tipple, especially when baking, so Lucy was sure she’d be smiling down on them now, ‘weel chuffed’ to see her lemon layer cake being given a boozy makeover – a cake which was to cause quite a stir in the town.

‘Are you sure you’re not taking on too much?’ said Elena, placing another piece of tiramisu on Lucy’s plate. ‘I know Alfonso hasvolunteered to help if it gets really busy, but still, it will be a lot to juggle, with teaching, the tours, helping out at the farm occasionally and now the teashop.’

Lucy pinched herself. So often she’d pictured her wee cake shop or tea room in her mind’s eye: vintage crockery, embroidered table linen, steaming teapots, overflowing cake stands, hand-picked wild flowers in jam jars and soothing background music.

Mellow with wine and wholesome food, she held up her glass and tilted it heavenwards, the pale gold light shining through it.

‘Thank you, Giancarlo, for leading me here, to your beautiful family.’

Elena held her cool wine glass against her cheek and smiled through her tears.

Lucy squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth…’

‘No, please. I like you to talk about him. It keeps him alive and makes me feel connected,’ Elena reassured her.

‘Would he mind that we are turning his dream of a cheese shop and espresso bar into a Scottish teashop?’

‘Mind? He loved the UK. It’s where we first met – and he loved cake. His mum baked once a week for him until the day she died. He said no one could bake like her.’

‘Right,’ said Lucy, taking a slurp of wine so big Elena could hear it going down. ‘No pressure then.’

Lucy channelled all her energy and spare time into preparing the teashop, ready for its first customers. She scrubbed, painted and decorated until late, occasionally assisted by Matteo, who welcomed the opportunity of speaking English while educating Lucy in the Italian indie music scene. She discovered that, not only was Matteoa master cheesemaker, but he was also a gifted saxophone player and wrote the music for his band, Turno di Notte.

Before Giancarlo had come into his life, Matteo’s experience of people had been threatening and unpredictable. How his mother could have been so cruel and squandered the opportunity of loving this remarkable boy, was beyond Lucy’s comprehension.

Elena said the traumatised, angry teenager bore no resemblance to the confident, caring, talented and clean-living young man of today.

Without Giancarlo and Elena, Matteo admitted to Lucy, he had no doubt he would still be homeless, addicted to heroin, or even dead.

‘What do you think?’ he asked one evening, hammer by his side, admiring his handiwork.

Lucy slowly reversed down the ladder and turned around. Just below the wooden cross on the wall, staring back at her in monochrome, was a framed photo of a handsome young man astride a vintage Vespa, looking over his shoulder, his slightly crooked teeth revealing the widest of smiles.

‘Giancarlo?’

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