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‘I think she had cerebral palsy.’
‘Probably. She never referred to it by name. If she was born like that, she didn’t want to be judged by it.’ Joseph puffed out his lips. ‘Did David tell you any more?’
‘No. I’ve been waiting for more information, but it probably doesn’t matter now. I worked out who Medici is without his help. I don’t know if David knows that she’s my great-aunt.’
Joseph lay back, drawing me down with him. ‘I would be surprised if he didn’t know something. When you think about it, David found you, but it’s Lora who considered Coalville important and that had to be because she knew there was family nearby. Kind of a coincidence David discovered you and not some other photographer. Good job, lucky man.’ Joseph grinned briefly then his lips dropped. ‘David didn’t care about the photography so he had to be involved for a different reason, so I would have thought he had some clue as to why.’
‘And you? Any regrets about those paintings? They’re very good.’
He squeezed me tighter. ‘I just wish I hadn’t given them to Camilla, who I suppose knows Lora wanted them for her collection. That must be what she meant by the gift. It’s a gift from me to an ailing Lora and kept secret so I wouldn’t get upset at the thought of it. They’ve probably going to be sold. That would make sense. With Lora dead, her whole art gallery will be up for grabs. Tony wasn’t into dealing.’
‘Art gallery?’ I eased myself up onto one elbow.
‘Lora had a gallery in the town. She bought and sold local artwork. What?’
I rested my palm on his chest. His heartbeats were pounding as fast as mine. ‘We’re going to Italy.’
‘Why?’
‘To speak to David. I know where he is, and your paintings.’
PART SIX
‘How short a while all mortal joys endure,
But not so soon doth memory pass away.’
Lorenzo de' Medici
Forty-Four
Potenza, Italy
We decided to call on Tony first before locating the art gallery. It seemed rude to go all the way to Southern Italy and not offer our condolences.
The car was hired in Naples airport. Unfortunately, with only a long weekend scheduled, the luxury of meandering from one end of Europe to the other wasn’t on the cards. Joseph had held my hand during take-off and landing, murmuring sweet things that made me smile. He had softened, shaken off those cold mannerisms he wore like a shield, and let me in without fear. We had talked so much, I wondered if there was anything left to tell him about myself.
We had held hands as much as possible in the last week or so. Ever since our reunion, we’d continued the momentous task of carving out a future together, but mostly we planned our trip to Italy. My parents would have to wait, so would Yvette, to meet the man I intended to live with in London. I was keen to find David while I had a good inkling of where he might be.
On route to Potenza, I announced categorically that I was in love with Italy. The food, the perfect autumnal weather, the terracotta roofs, the golden fields, even the post-drought parched soil. Over the English summer I had toughened to warm weather and arid scenery. Joseph pointed out things an artist saw, the colours and textures, the rise and fall of the hills, the mountains. My fascination lay with the uniformity of buildings, especially in the older towns, and the narrow winding streets. We drove past Vesuvius and Pompei into the amber flows of the forests of the Apennines, then onto Potenza. We stopped for food at a roadside cafe, and I took photographs of the view with the digital camera, now my own.
‘Should I mention to Tony we that we’re related?’ I asked Joseph.
He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know.’
Neither did I. I would wait and see.
The art gallery was in Potenza, but the Di Matteo family home was located on the hills outside, isolated and accessed by a challenging, scary track. The car skidded a couple of times on the corners. The gates were open; we were expected, and Joseph had called ahead to announce our arrival time.
Perched on the hillside, stone built, three storeys and square, was the main house. The windows were shuttered like a fortress, but it emanated tranquillity and I wondered if my presence might fracture the serenity. Joseph parked the dusty car outside what he referred to as the barn. It wasn’t a timber barn nor a corrugated monstrosity. The walls were crazed with stone and mortar in a delirious pattern, the roof tiled and the windows small, like arrow slits. This was where Joseph had painted?
He grinned. ‘I know, from this side it’s not much. On the other side is a wall of glass. You can see the mountains in the distance, the valley below. It’s beautiful.’
We approached the main house. I wasn’t so sure now. I might have been mistaken about Loretta. Perhaps the letters to Isabel were faked; the translations flawed. The connection to here suddenly felt tenuous and fanciful, as if I had imagined everything, which was feasible. I was perfectly capable of losing myself in fantasies.
Joseph squeezed my hand.
The door opened, anticipating us. The man, raven black hair tufted with grey, smiled at Joseph and spread his arms.
