circles, one large, one small, surrounded by concrete tiles, and an abandoned pool house in the centre of what now looked like a wildflower meadow but probably used to be a fine lawn. I could imagine Joe and his friends playing in that pool: dive-bombing one another, seeing who could hold their breath the longest, sunning themselves around it. I could imagine Valentina there, a playful young girl, peering over the top of her sunglasses. I could picture Anna, standing where I was standing, watching the youngsters at a distance, enjoying their happiness. I wondered if, back then, she had any premonition of what might become of Joe; the terrible direction his life would take because of her. I wondered if, sensitive as she was to the past, she ever intuited my future presence, the former daughter-in-law who hated her.
When the upstairs windows were all open, Joe called me down and we went through the ground floor rooms together. The villa had been closed up with care, and carefully we set about reopening it. Years of darkness meant the colours on the soft furnishings hadn’t faded. The rooms were tidy: good furniture shrouded in dust sheets; glasses and ornaments put away in cupboards to keep them clean.
I was awed by the stillness inside those rooms, the huge chandeliers, the beautiful old paper on the walls. I walked through the villa, hearing my footsteps, my heartbeat, not spooked exactly but unwilling to look too closely at the white sheets that covered the furniture – they looked as if they might undrape themselves at any moment and in the extremes of bright light and dark shadows it was difficult to guess what lay beneath.
When the shutters were open and the villa was airing, Joe and I went outside into the garden. We coughed the dust out of our lungs and picked cobwebs from our hair and clothes. Joe’s face was grey with dirt and mine must have been the same.
‘Is there anywhere we can wash?’ I asked.
‘There’s the sea.’
I followed him through the garden, through a gap in the hedge, past the swimming pool, a tarpaulin that once covered it wrinkled in the bottom amongst dead leaves and dirt, and across the old lawn. At the farthest end, a path wound between overgrown oleander trees to steps that led down to a decked area a few feet above the sea. The rusting skeletons of two sunbeds had been pushed up against the steps. Someone had gone to the trouble of attaching a metal ladder to the far end of the decking in a narrow gap between the rocks so it was possible to climb over the sharp rock face down into the water without scraping one’s knees and elbows. The sea slapped laconically against the scarred face of the rocks.
I held onto the side of the ladder and looked down. The water was crystal-clear, and very deep. Different kinds of fish swam in layers close to the rocks, sunlight glinted in the water, and deeper down, weed the colour of rubies waved its delicate fronds. The sun beat down on my back. The water was enticing.
Daniel would have loved this, I thought, and for the briefest instant I felt him with me, holding on to my hand, looking down into the water.
Joe had come to stand beside me. He looked over my shoulder, almost, but not quite, touching me. I could feel the warmth of his body.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I’m going in.’
He stepped back, took off his boots and socks, pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it on the decking. He pulled down his shorts and stepped out of them. He was wearing dark blue boxer shorts beneath, with a black, elasticated belt. He ran past me, leapt over the steps and somersaulted into the water. He reappeared a way away from the decking, shaking his head, droplets flying from his hair and sparkling in the light. He did not call to me but swam out to sea.
I wanted to be in there too.
Beneath my clothes, I was wearing ordinary, mismatched, comfortable underwear. Fitz had insisted I bring my swimming costume, in case the opportunity to spend some time at the beach arose, but the costume was in my suitcase, which was still in the boot of the Fiat. It would be a long walk to retrieve it.
Fuck it, I thought. I was too old to be self-conscious about my body, too dirty to make a fuss, and even if Joe had been looking, which he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have cared what I looked like or what I was wearing.
I pulled my dress over my head and dropped it onto the decking. I went to the ladder, turned around and climbed down the steps, one by one, the water rising up my legs, deliciously cold, then my hips, and it had reached my waist before I ran out of steps and let myself fall back.
At first, the sea was shockingly cold, but in a few moments I was used to it and joy ran through me. I ducked my head beneath the surface, and when I came up again, gasping and refreshed, I swam, not towards Joe but parallel with him, enjoying the feeling, the water, the freedom, the sun on my face.
Almost six year old Daniel would have loved it here! He’d have been doggy paddling between us, his armbands keeping him afloat, his head held artificially high above the water, that wide grin on his face, those missing teeth; he’d have called to Joe and then me, asking us to play with him, to chase him, to pretend he was a shark, clinging onto our shoulders, wrapping his skinny legs around our waists. Teenage Daniel probably would be heading off alone, swimming out to the floating dock anchored off the beach – that must be the same dock that Valentina once jumped off, pretending to drown. And Joe and I, we’d watch him go and we wouldn’t know whether to be happy that our son was so independent and confident, or sad that he was already growing away from us.
I thought of those two versions of Daniel, and all the other Daniels in between. Every one of those lost boys would have loved this place and I grieved the loss of every single one of them and every loss was because of Anna DeLuca. My endless grief was because of her.
After the swim, reunited on the decking, awkwardness returned to Joe and me. We dressed with our backs to one another, pulling dry clothes over wet underwear, not talking. We returned to the villa with embarrassing damp patches forming on our clothes and went into the cool of the villa’s cavernous kitchen, where we’d left the food. I unwrapped the bread and was slicing it when we heard voices outside. Joe went to investigate and returned with two Italian men, one stocky and muscular, the other taller and thin with spectacles and receding hair, the three of them conversing in a friendly way, bumping into one another and patting one another on the shoulders.
‘Ciao!’ the men called when they saw me.
‘Ciao!’ I replied, conscious of my wet hair, the dark, wet patches showing exactly the shape of my underwear beneath my dress.
‘Edie, these are my friends Liuni and Fredi,’ Joe said.
The men each gave a small bow as he introduced them.
‘Valentina told us you were here,’ said the tall one. He spoke good English. ‘We had to come and see our old pal, Joey DeLuca, again! We’ve missed him!’
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘Would you like a sandwich?’
The men declined, but Liuni had brought some beer in his backpack. He offered a bottle to me, but I shook my head. The men took a bottle each and went outside to drink, talking Italian to one another, laughing, catching up on decades of news.
I sliced a tomato and some cheese, put my lunch on a plate and went the other way, through the house and out of the front door. I wandered a little way into the garden and found an old metal bench where I could sit and eat in the dappled sunlight. I could hear the men’s laughter, distantly: Joe and his friends.
Me, I was alone, but I was all right. I thought about Daniel
