‘This is lovely,’ Dulcie said as they reached the living room. ‘It feels just like a family home.’ Or what a family home should feel like. There were sofas and shelves with books and a TV.
Giulia nodded. ‘Traditionally, in the past, these kinds of homes used to be more institutionalised. But as a country, we moved away from larger residential buildings to something smaller scale with a more family-oriented atmosphere. Which reminds me, we were hoping that you might stay and have lunch with us.’
The children, supervised by some of the staff, made pasta from scratch and a tomato sauce.
‘Ricchie e macurroni. It’s a local dish. Every family in every village has their own version and they are kept secret and handed down from generation to generation. And they all swear theirs is the best. But I think this is the best one.’
Dulcie took a mouthful. It tasted familiar. ‘It’s delicious.’
After lunch, Dulcie did some colouring with the younger children and Ettore went off to play football before being dragged into the gaming room.
Signora Rossi smiled. ‘He is very good with the children, especially the older boys. They look forward to his visits.’
‘So, he comes here often?’
She had sensed that the staff and children recognised Ettore but as the older woman nodded, she realised that what she had taken for politeness was in fact genuine affection.
‘The Marchesi family has been generous.’
The older woman paused as if she was assembling her words with care. ‘It was your husband’s idea to set up a mentorship scheme with local businesses, including Castiglione Fiana. They offer work experience and apprenticeships to children from St Maria when they leave the home. But that’s not why the children like him.’
Dulcie felt her gaze pull towards the teenage boy who had watched the tour from the sidelines, tugging at the zip of his hoodie. When they had arrived, he had been at the edges of the room, his shoulders hunched, hands clenched in his trouser pockets. His body language was completely different now. He seemed looser, more relaxed, largely, she suspected, because of the man sitting next to him, a game console in his hand, his muscular body dwarfing the beanbag he was sitting on.
She felt an inappropriate kick of heat that almost knocked her off her feet. There weren’t many men who could pull off that look. But Ettore looked as if he were posing for the cover photo of a men’s magazine.
After yesterday’s fiasco in the garden, she’d honestly thought that weird undercurrent of heat, of attraction, would be extinguished. But it was still here, simmering away beneath the surface. For her, anyway.
‘Why do they like him?’ she asked. She couldn’t help herself, but she had an excuse because she was in character.
Giulia smiled.
‘They like that he keeps his promises. He turns up when he says he will and that’s important for these children. He listens to them and, most importantly, he treats them like he would treat anyone. They don’t get that very often. And he doesn’t try to be cool. But apparently, he’s “cracked”.’
Dulcie frowned. ‘Is that good?’
Giulia’s mouth twitched. ‘I believe so.’
Dulcie was sorry to leave St Maria’s. The children came out to wave them off and she kept thinking about Oscar and his experience of being taken into care. He was five years old the first time it happened. Who had dropped him off? Had he cried? What had it felt like being looked after by strangers? To be left behind? To be alone with his fear and his pain?
He was alone now, she thought, her pulse hammering in her ears. And like her mother, she had failed to look after him, to fix him. She had failed him in so many ways and yet other people spent their lives looking after children with care and dedication and love. Real, undeniable love, she thought, remembering how the children had clung to Giulia as they left.
She felt suddenly split open with grief and guilt and self-loathing.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Ettore’s voice cut across her thoughts, and she glanced up at him, her body tensing, terrified that the words might spill from her mouth.
‘I was trying to remember what you put in that sauce,’ she lied. ‘It was your recipe, wasn’t it?’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘You remembered,’ he said finally.
She nodded. ‘You cooked it for me the first time you came to my flat in London. You made the pasta as well. I was very impressed.’
‘I can’t take credit for the recipe. It actually belongs to Valentina’s grandmother.’
‘I thought those recipes were handed down through the generations like family heirlooms.’
‘They are, but I took Valentina over to Lecce to visit her grandmother and we got talking.’
She thought back to the silver-framed photo she had seen of Ettore, solemn-eyed and unsmiling, tall for his age, standing between the brother who looked nothing like him and the sister who so resembled him.
