firmly. ‘How often do you and he eat together?’
‘Not often, but I have things to do.’
‘Indeed you have, some more important than others. The most important is to be with your son.’
His lips tightened. ‘Miss Wharton, I’m grateful for the trouble you’re taking for Mark, but this is not your decision—’
‘Oh, but it is. Let me make it clear to you how much my decision it is. If I can give up my evening for your son, so can you. Either you agree to be there for supper, or I’m leaving, right now. And you can explain my absence any way you like.’
Now he was really angry. ‘I’m not in the habit of being dictated to, in my own home or anywhere else.’
She was too wise to answer. She merely followed her instincts and met his eyes. Anger met anger. Defiance met defiance. Mark, returning, found them like that.
‘Lily says she’s laid supper on the terrace,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell her you’re coming?’
For a moment she thought Justin would refuse and walk out. But at last he smiled at his son.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’
Mark instantly took Evie’s hand and almost dragged her out on to the terrace overlooking the garden. It was a pleasant place with red flagstones and wooden railings, expensively designed to look rustic. Here a wooden table had been set for supper.
The meal was excellent—spaghetti, well cooked, expertly served; fish, coffee made to perfection.
‘So, let’s hear it,’ Justin said to his son when Lily had left them. ‘Why did you vanish tonight and worry everyone?’
‘Oh, leave that until later,’ Evie said before the boy could reply. ‘Mark’s the thoughtful type, like me. Sometimes we like to have a little time on our own, away from the crowd. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘I only—’ Justin began.
‘I said ‘‘enough’’,’ Evie interrupted him. She spoke lightly, determined to keep the atmosphere pleasant, but she knew Justin understood her meaning.
‘I was telling your father about the last piece of work you did for me,’ she told Mark. ‘A really good translation.’ She turned to Justin. ‘He’s one of my best students. You should be proud of him.’
‘If you say he works hard, I am proud of him,’ he replied.
She wanted to yell at him, Try to sound as though you mean it. Say something nice without freezing, or sounding as though every word has to be wrung out of you.
Instead, she said, ‘According to his regular teachers there are other things to be proud of. They say Mark is always the first to volunteer, to help out. He’s a good team player.’
Justin seemed a little taken aback by this, and Evie realised that being a good team player probably didn’t rank high in his list of priorities. She was sure of it when he grunted, ‘Well, I guess that can be useful too. What do you mean, his regular teachers? Aren’t you regular?’
‘No, I’m just a fill-in for one term. Then I’m back to my real job, translating books.’
‘You’re not staying?’ Mark was crestfallen.
‘I never stay long anywhere,’ she admitted. ‘I like to take off into the wide blue yonder. There’s always new places to travel. I’ll be going back to Italy before the end of the year.’
‘Where?’ he asked at once.
‘Travelling all over, studying dialects.’
‘But I thought they all spoke Italian.’
‘They do, but the regions have their dialects which are almost like different languages.’
‘How different?’ he wanted to know.
‘Well, if you wanted to say, “Strike while the iron’s hot” in Italian, it would be, “Battere il ferro quando ‘e caldo”. If you were Venetian you’d say, “Bati fin chel fero xe caldo’’, and if you came from Naples you’d say, “Vatte ‘o ‘fierro quann’ ‘e ccavero”.’
‘That’s great!’ Mark said, thrilled. ‘All those different ways to say one thing.’
‘But what’s the point?’ Justin asked. ‘Why don’t they all just speak Italian?’
‘Because a regional dialect springs from the people,’ Evie explained. ‘It’s part of their history, their personality. It’s their heritage. Don’t you care about your heritage?’
His reaction startled her. His face seemed to close, like the door of a tomb, she later thought. After a moment’s black silence he said, ‘I just think one language is more efficient.’
‘Of course it’s more efficient,’ she conceded. ‘But who wants to be efficient all the time? Sometimes it’s more fun to be colourful.’
‘I wouldn’t get far running a business on that theory.’
‘The Italians aren’t a businesslike people, thank goodness,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘They’re delightful, and full of life and music. All those things matter too. Who wants to be efficient all the time?’
‘I do,’ he said simply.
Evie and Mark exchanged glances. Justin saw them but said nothing.
‘Will you send me postcards from Italy?’ Mark asked wistfully.
‘Lots and lots of them, from everywhere.’
He began bombarding her with questions which she answered willingly. Justin seemed content to sit there and listen, except once when he said, ‘Take a break from talking, Mark, and eat something.’
His tone was pleasant enough and Mark stopped to take a few mouthfuls. Evie took advantage of the moment to look around the garden, and saw a dog walking towards them, followed by five puppies, who seemed about six weeks old.
‘That’s Cindy,’ Mark told her. ‘She belongs to Lily. They all do. And there’s Hank. He’s their father.’
A large dog, part Alsatian and part something else, had appeared around the side of the house, accompanied by Lily bearing food bowls. She set them down on the terrace, returned to the kitchen and came back with more bowls. Under Evie’s fascinated eyes the family converged on their supper, the five pups diving in vigorously.
They finished quickly, then looked around for more to eat. Cindy, evidently knowing the danger, had cleared her bowl fast. Hank seemed less well prepared, for some of his food was still there and the smallest pup advanced on him purposefully.
The huge dog began to snarl horribly, revealing terrible great teeth. Undeterred, the pup went on towards the bowl, while his father hurled warning after warning.
‘Shouldn’t we rescue
