‘Yes, I do. I trust your intelligence and ingenuity, Talia. Your creativity. It shines from your soul.’
She laughed and shook her head, embarrassed and touched. Her grandfather did not often speak so sentimentally, but she knew that the years weighed on him now and she suspected he felt the need to say things he’d kept hidden for so long.
‘What kind of book?’ she asked.
‘A book of love poems, written by an anonymous poet from the Mediterranean. It is called Il Libro d’Amore.’
‘The Book of Love,’ Talia translated. ‘Are there many copies of it available?’
‘A handful perhaps, but the one I possessed was unlike any other, a first edition with a cover of hand-tooled leather. It is truly unique.’
‘And yet you think I can find it?’ Talia said, doubt creeping into her voice. She’d been envisioning doing a quick Internet search, maybe tracking the book down through a used book dealer. But of course Giovanni could do that himself. He’d bought a tablet years ago, and innovative entrepreneur that he’d always been, he regularly surfed the Internet.
But of course he wanted her to do something far more difficult. Something far more important. And she knew she didn’t want to let him down.
Her grandfather hadn’t asked much of her over the years; he’d graciously given her her own private living quarters on his estate when she’d been just nineteen years old and barely able to cope. He’d never pushed her too hard to get out or to try new things, and he’d made her career as an artist possible without ever having to leave the villa. She owed a lot to her nonno.
‘Yes, I want you to find that particular book,’ he said, smiling sadly. ‘There is an inscription on the inside cover: “Dearest Lucia, For ever in my heart, always. B.A.”’ His voice choked a little and he looked down, blinking rapidly, before he gazed back up at Talia with his usual whimsical smile. ‘That is how you will know it is the right one.’
‘Who is Lucia?’ Talia felt oddly moved by the inscription, as well as her grandfather’s obvious and unusual emotion. ‘And who is B.A.? Were they friends of yours?’
‘You could say that, yes. They were very dear to me, and they loved each other very much.’ Giovanni sat back, adjusting the blanket over his legs, his face pale. Talia had been noticing how easily he tired lately; clearly their conversation had worn him out. ‘But that,’ Giovanni said, a note of finality in his voice, ‘is a story for another time.’
‘But what happened to the book?’ Talia asked. ‘Did you sell it when you reached America?’
‘No, I never took it to America. I left it behind, and that is why it will be difficult to find. But I think you are capable, Talia. Even if finding it may take you on a journey in more ways than one.’
‘A journey...’ Talia pressed her lips together. She was pretty sure that finding this book was her grandfather’s way of getting her off the estate, out into life. She knew he’d been wanting her to spread her wings for some time now, and she’d always resisted, insisted she was happy here on the estate. How could she not be? She had everything she wanted right here. She didn’t need more, didn’t want adventure or excitement. Not as she once had.
Because look where that had got her.
‘Nonno...’ she began, and Giovanni shook a finger at her in gentle admonition.
‘You are not going to refuse an old man a dying wish?’
‘Don’t say that—’
‘Cara, it’s true. And I wish to have this book very much. To turn its fragile pages and read of how love surpasses any glory, any tragedy...’ His voice choked once more and Talia bit her lip as guilt flooded through her.
How on earth could she even consider refusing her grandfather’s request, all out of her own selfish fear? How could she say no to Giovanni, her nonno who had taken care of her since she was a baby? Who had been as both mother and father, and lived with her these last seven years, accepting her limitations, loving her anyway?
‘I’ll try, Nonno,’ she said finally, and Giovanni leaned forward to rest his bony hand on top of hers.
‘I know you will, cara,’ he said, his voice hoarse as he smiled at her. ‘I know you will try your hardest. And you will succeed.’
* * *
‘There is one more woman to see you, Kyrie Mena.’
Angelos Mena looked up from his desk and the stack of CVs he’d scanned and then discarded. None of the young women he’d interviewed that afternoon had been remotely appropriate for the position. In fact, he suspected they’d been more interested in cosying up to him than getting to know his daughter, Sofia, just as the last three nannies had been.
His mouth thinning in disgust, he ran his hand through his hair and then shook his head. ‘One more? But that should be all.’ He tapped the discarded pile of papers on his desk. ‘I have no more CVs.’
His assistant, Eleni, spread her hands in helpless ignorance. ‘She has been waiting here for several hours, saying she needs to see you.’
‘She has tenacity, then, at least.’ He pushed away from the desk. ‘You might as well send her in.’
With a click of heels Eleni left his office and Angelos rose to stand by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Athens. Tension knotted the muscles of his shoulders and made his temples throb. He really hadn’t needed the complication of his new nanny delaying her start by six weeks. Finding an acceptable temporary replacement was a challenge he did not relish, especially considering that not one of the dozen women he’d interviewed today had been suitable.
Some had had experience, yes, but when he’d called Sofia in to see if his daughter approved, she’d resisted the women’s cloying attempts at friendship. Even Angelos had been able to see how patently false they were. He’d noticed how several of the women hadn’t wanted to look at Sofia; several others had stared. Both reactions had made his daughter shrink back in shame, and the injustice of it made Angelos seethe with fury. His daughter had nothing to be ashamed about.
Not like he did.
‘Mr Menos?’
Angelos turned around to see a slender young woman standing in the doorway. She looked pale but resolute, her sandy brown hair tousled, the simple pink cotton sundress she wore hopelessly wrinkled. Angelos frowned at the sight of her dishevelment. Clearly she did not dress to impress.
‘And you are?’ he asked, his tone deliberately curt.
‘I’m sorry...um...signomi...but I don’t speak...den...uh...milau...’ She stammered, a flush washing over her face, making her hazel eyes seem luminous in her freckled, heart-shaped face.
‘You don’t speak Greek?’ Angelos finished for her in flawless, clipped English. ‘And yet my daughter’s only language is Greek. How...interesting, Miss...?’ He arched an eyebrow, smiling coldly. He did not have time for another completely unsuitable candidate to witter her way through an interview. Better to have her scurry away now.
‘Miss Natalia Di Sione,’ the
