ON THE COVER Summer’s Song By Sue Moorcroft

Part 1: Still reeling from her swift divorce, Kay arrives for a month in beautiful Montelibertà…

Heart lifting, Kay gazed around at the sunshine on the tall stone buildings of Piazza Roma. She’d arrived in beautiful Montelibertà, Italy yesterday to find the early March weather unseasonably warm and offered silent thanks to her colleague Elaine for letting her use her apartment.

A whole month off! She felt fortunate that her company allowed occasional extended leave to loyal employees.

The loss of pay was balanced out by the opportunity to take stock after her marriage to Jeremy buckled under the strain of years of trying to fulfil Kay’s dearest wish – to start a family.

Stressed by fertility treatment that didn’t work, Jeremy had shocked Kay by suddenly saying he was “fed up trying to prove nature wrong” and that their marriage had reached the end of the road.

The speed with which he’d moved out, the house sold and the divorce completed had left Kay stunned and adrift. Aged thirty-seven, she hated to think she’d been defined by her marriage and her childlessness, but she definitely needed to reconnect with the woman beyond those two things.

She fastened her fleece. Despite the sunlight, the early morning air was fresh enough to prompt her to stride quickly through Piazza Roma and Piazza Santa Lucia. At the other side, a steep street called Corso Musica led her up past a theatre and a bandstand. She must get fitter, she decided, puffing as she climbed past shops just opening their doors.

Her attention was caught by a small café. Caffe del Teatro was painted on the window in red and, intriguingly, Breakfast and music. Kay stepped through the door and into a surprisingly large room containing a counter and a number of wooden tables. Many were occupied by what looked like local people, a couple of whom nodded and murmured “Buongiorno,” as did the smiling lady at the counter, her dark hair in an intricate bun.

“Buongiorno,” Kay replied, seating herself at a table for two. An upright piano and a guitar stood in a corner but she didn’t feel her Italian was up to asking whether musicians were expected.

Oh, well. Breakfast without music would still be nice! She ordered caffe latte and a twist of sweet pastry.

Eating slowly, enjoying the rich mix of flavours, she gazed at the paintings on the café walls in which honey-coloured stone buildings nestled next to rows of grape vines, peaks and valleys growing fainter as they marched into the distance.

At a nearby table, a man of about Kay’s age rose and exchanged a few words with the lady behind the counter, addressing her as Greta. He seated himself at the upright piano and began to play. His tune was quiet but with a stirring ebb and flow, rising up to embrace the room in a way that made Kay’s heart ache.

She thought of her own piano, neglected in the spare room of her rented flat. It was a digital piano, rather than the sturdy wooden instrument from which the man was coaxing such soaring sounds, and it had spent much of her marriage stored in a cupboard. Jeremy hadn’t been musical or enjoyed Kay practising.

When she returned to England, she resolved, she’d begin to play again. She could only manage simple tunes, but it would be enough.

The musician finished the song and the café patrons applauded, one calling “Bravo, Paolo,” at which he grinned. A middle-aged woman pulled her chair closer and picked up the guitar. In moments, they were playing together, a faster and brighter tune.

Kay ordered another cup of coffee and Greta performed a few polka steps as she delivered it. Kay laughed along

The tune was quiet but stirring, rising up to embrace the room

with everyone else. She’d got music with her breakfast after all!

The door opened and a girl of about ten slipped inside. Her fingers fidgeted with a button of her blouse that, with her grey skirt, looked like school uniform. Neither looked washed often enough.

The piano man, Paolo, smiled at the girl as he played. “Ciao, Martina.” Shyly, the girl nodded. At the end of the song the lady returned the guitar to its stand and patted Martina’s shoulder as she left. Paolo beckoned. A smile broke over the girl’s face and she hurried to join him on the piano stool.

Coffee almost forgotten, Kay

watched as Martina picked out a simple song. Paolo played along or demonstrated the fingering for a phrase. Each was absorbed in making music.

Finally, Paolo glanced at a wall clock and murmured something. Martina nodded forlornly. Then Greta came out from the counter and tucked a paper bag into the girl’s hands, causing a smile to fleet across the thin face before she slid from the stool and hurried out, clutching the bag, which smelled of pastries.

Paolo watched her go, then closed the lid gently over the piano keys and vanished behind the counter.

Next time Kay saw him he’d added an apron and a bow tie to the black trousers and white shirt he’d been wearing, and he was working. She watched him swerve between the tables with plates of puffed up pastry or tiny cups of espresso, liking him for the kindness he’d shown an obviously less-than-happy child. He had a smile for everybody, his dark eyes twinkling as he joked with customers.

When he approached Kay’s table she tried to remember enough schoolgirl Italian to compliment his playing. “Mi è piaciuto…” she began. Paolo’s smile broadened. “You enjoyed the music?” His English was good. Probably most wait staff needed decent English to work in a tourist town like Montelibertà.

“Very much,” she said, grateful to him for letting her off the hook with her Italian. “The little girl’s learning to play?”

His smile dimmed as he swooped up her cup and saucer and wiped the table. “I teach her a little. You like music?” Kay confessed about her neglected piano. “But I love to listen.”

“One moment.” When he returned, he offered her a small flyer. “Tonight I play for the singer at Trattoria del Sole on Via Virgilio. You enjoy music and maybe a little wine? Come!”

She took the colourful flyer, studying the picture of a woman grasping a microphone, Paolo at the piano behind her. Yellow lettering gave today’s date.

“You’re a busy man,” she said, to give her a moment to decide whether there was any reason for her not to go along and hear him play.

For a moment it seemed her caution was justified when he replied, “I need to earn money. My family depends on me.”

“Oh.” Kay shouldn’t have felt disappointed, but Paolo’s gaze had seemed… well, interested. There had been no man in her life since Jeremy and for a moment she’d enjoyed the warmth of admiration.

Her misgivings might have shown on her face because Paolo paused. His eyes were so dark, so intent, that it made Kay’s breath hitch.

“My parents and my brother,” he clarified. “All are not healthy. You understand?”

“I think so.” Kay’s cheeks burned because she was almost certain he

was trying delicately to convey that he didn’t have a wife. He began to move away. “Keep,” he suggested, indicating the flyer. “I hope I see you there.”

Greta was at the counter when Kay went to pay. Paolo was occupied with boxes ferried in by a delivery man.

“You enjoy?” Greta asked, taking the euros Kay proffered.

“Lovely!” Kay accepted her change. “The breakfast and the music. You were kind to the little girl.” Greta’s smile turned wistful. “Martina, she touches the heart. Her home, it is not perfect. Sometimes she is hungry and that is wrong.”

“Oh – yes.” Kay felt her eyes filling with tears. She hated to think of a single child going hungry and was glad to know that Martina received kindness at Caffe del Teatro.

That evening, feeling conspicuously solo, Kay entered Trattoria del Sole and followed the sound of music out onto a terrace.

“Ohhhh…” Kay breathed as she stepped out, enraptured by magnificent views over the valley under a pinkstreaked twilight sky. She found a table and ordered pasta and wine from a young, curly-haired waiter.

Only then did she allow herself to concentrate on the small stage. The singer was young and pretty, her voice confident.

At right angles to her sat Paolo, hands moving easily over the piano keys. When he caught Kay’s gaze his mouth curled into a smile. Kay felt her heart step up its beat, though she told herself it was ridiculous when she’d barely passed ten words with the man.

The songs were a mixture of Italian and English. The audience applauded enthusiastically and Kay barely noticed darkness descend and a host of tiny lights come on to twinkle from the terrace’s edge.

One last, rousing Italian song, enticing many of the audience to join in, then came the interval. The girl graciously accepted the applause, then jumped down and ran into the trattoria.

Paolo headed straight for Kay’s table and gave her a slow smile.

“Buonasera. May I sit?”

“Buonasera. Of course.” Kay returned the smile.

Paolo took the empty seat and spoke to the waiter, holding up Kay’s almost empty glass. “Free for the piano player,” Paolo said when he turned back to her.

Kay’s Italian had been up to translating vino rosso and vino bianco, so wasn’t surprised when a glass each of red and white wine appeared, along with pasta and salad for Paolo. “You play very well,” she ventured, as he began to eat.

He tilted his head. “Grazie. Music is a big love.” He smiled. “You are in Montelibertà all today?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.” Kay felt herself begin to relax as she described visiting a place where lavender oil was made. “I don’t think I’ll ever smell lavender again without thinking of Montelibertà.”

“In summer you see it in many gardens. Take some lavender oil from Montelibertà for your pillow. It helps you to sleep.”

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, thinking she must have been alone too much if his mentioning her pillow sent a tingle tiptoeing up her spine.

When he’d eaten, he rested his arms on the table and held her gaze.

“I don’t finish here until midnight.” His voice rose, as if making the statement a question. A smile tugged at Kay’s lips. “Perhaps I’ll still be here.” “I hope.” He touched her hand, then returned to the stage.

Kay was indeed waiting at midnight. The trattoria began its closing routine and Paolo asked if he could walk Kay home. By the time they reached the door to the apartment she’d borrowed from Elaine, he knew all about Kay taking a long break in the town. He kissed her cheeks.

“I must be at work at six.” It sounded like an apology. Kay felt awful that she hadn’t given a thought to the fact that he wasn’t on holiday. “It’s nearly one already! You should have gone straight home.”

He gave a wry smile. “I am used to this. But it is not always convenient. Perhaps you enjoy breakfast at Caffe del Teatro again? Soon?” Warm blossomed inside her. “Perhaps… tomorrow?” “Perfect. Ciao… buonanotte.” He touched her face and vanished into the night.

Next morning Kay entered the café hesitantly, wondering whether she’d dreamed the connection to Paolo she’d felt last night.

She was conventional, sensible Kay Parker! She’d never indulged in a holiday romance, unless you counted a boy at a Skegness holiday camp when she was fifteen. For more than ten years she’d been a married woman. Yet she was not in the least playing hard to get. Paolo stepped forward the moment he saw her, smile flashing, pulling out a chair at an empty table and pretending to polish the seat with a napkin before offering it to her.

Kay laughed, doubts evaporating like the steam from the caffe latte he soon placed in front of her, a small, heartshaped biscuit in the saucer.

He grinned when she blushed, dropping his voice. “Today I take my break before you arrive and on my next break I collect something for my mother. But tonight I do not work. Perhaps we go to an osteria near Piazza Roma? Very good fish with herbs.” His brown eyes were hopeful.

“That sounds lovely.” Kay smiled, her heart skipping.

She enjoyed her pastry and

His MENTIONING her pillow sent a TINGLE tiptoeing up her SPINE

caffe latte as she watched Paolo bustle around with Greta – his cousin, he explained. Their uncle was the owner of the café and they ran it together.

The girl, Martina, crept in again, her hair hanging loose and unkempt. Paolo glanced at the clock and ushered her to the piano stool saying, “Cinque minuti!” Good as his word, when the five minutes were up he stopped her playing, though he looked regretful.

Martina rose disconsolately. But Greta led her behind the counter and when Martina reappeared, her hair had been brushed and tied with blue ribbon.

Paolo beamed. “Bella,” he murmured, and Martina grinned as she scurried out.

Kay had to swallow a lump in her throat. “You and Greta are very kind,” she told Paolo, when she paid her bill. Sighing, he gave a tiny head shake. “We do little.”

That evening Kay found Paolo waiting outside the apartment as arranged. She thought he looked tired, though his smile was bright. His silver-grey shirt with burgundy facings and a burgundy jacket looked very Italian and she tried to imagine Jeremy carrying it off as Paolo did. He’d been

“I wish to TELL YOU something.” His EXPRESSIVE eyes were not CONFIDENT

more of a rugby shirt man.

“Ciao,” she offered shyly. She knew ciao to be a friendly, familiar greeting. He offered her his arm. “You look beautiful.” She liked the way he said it, as if he genuinely admired her freshly washed hair and pink dress, rather than offering a compliment because it was expected. “Thank you. Grazie.” “Tu parli italiano?” he asked as they walked into the piazza, the paving polished by many feet. “I learned a little at school.” “If you stay a while, it will improve.” “That would be exciting! I’ll be here for a month.”

Soon they reached the osteria, a small, rustic eating place, the wooden tables designed for sharing. Paolo was greeted loudly. “Ciao, Paolo!” He introduced Kay to the owners, Anna and Ricardo, and they welcomed her with a glass of ruby red wine.

It wasn’t until after a delicious platter of grilled fish and seafood sprinkled with herbs that Paolo took Kay’s hand across the table.

“I wish to tell you something.” The osteria was almost full and the others at their table deep in their own conversations.

His expressive eyes told Kay he wasn’t confident about how she’d greet this “something”. She swallowed. “Go on.” He took her other hand. “The girl, Martina? It’s possible she is my niece.”

Kay sat back, stunned. “Your niece?” Images of Martina leapt into her mind — unkempt, wary. Hungry. If she was such a close relative to Paolo, why wasn’t he making sure she had clean clothes and enough to eat? Involuntarily, she took back her hands.

He let her fingers slide through his without objection. “I do not know,” he went on. “Her mother, Serena, she left Montelibertà. When she returned she had little Martina.” His gaze dropped. “Martina’s age is correct for my brother Lorenzo to be her father but Serena is now ill.” He paused, frowning. “I do not know the English word.” He fished out his phone and consulted it, then turned the screen for Kay to read.

It was in English. “Depression,” she read aloud. “She was depressed?”

He nodded. “Still is. Lorenzo, also, is ill, but in his blood. He is very tired and cannot work. I try to find the truth. I offer to go to a doctor with Serena, I offer money, or clothes, but Serena always says no. One day she says Lorenzo is not the father. But always I wonder.” “Poor Martina.” Kay’s tears welled. “Si. She comes to the caffe, we give her a little, Greta and me, but it is a sad situation. I –” he touched the fingertips of both hands to his heart “– I try, but I have parents who need my help. I am not a rich man.” “I understand.” This time it was

Kay who took Paolo’s hands.

The weeks passed too quickly. Paolo met Kay when he had time off and family duties would allow. He showed her beautiful leafy walks leading up and away from the bowl in which Montelibertà was built. She watched him play at the café or at the Trattoria, or helping Martina at the piano and sending her away with food.

One night, she felt secure enough to tell him about Jeremy and the family that never was, and he held her tightly and kissed her tears away. Kindness was a deeply attractive trait, she decided.

All too soon, it was their last evening. Paolo suggested a trattoria, but Kay wanted them to be alone. “Shall I cook you an English meal?” His eyes twinkled. “Full English breakfast? Eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and fried bread?” She laughed. “If you want.” So their final meal together was a “fry up” in the apartment borrowed from Elaine. Paolo brought a gift of lavender oil, “for your pillow.” They made plans to keep in touch, though the thought of leaving made Kay’s chest tight.

“Perhaps you come again to Montelibertà?” he whispered, taking her into his arms. Not trusting her voice, Kay nodded. And Paolo didn’t go home that night, not until the next morning when Kay had to hurry off to Perugia airport.

She travelled back to England with a heart half full of hope and half of pain. She focused on the hope – that she would return to Montelibertà. And Paolo.