Bartering Her Innocence. Trish Morey
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in the corner where he’d stashed it out of the way. And this time she did crane her neck around and there it was just coming into view—her mother’s home—nestled between two well-maintained buildings the colour of clotted cream.
She frowned as the vaporetto drew closer to the centuries-old palazzo. Once grand, her mother’s house looked worse than she remembered, the once soft terracotta colour faded and worn, and with plaster peeling from the walls nearly up to the first floor, exposing ancient brickwork now stained yellow with grime at the water level. Pilings out the front of a water door that looked as if it had rusted shut stood at an angle and swayed as the water bus passed, and Tina winced for the once grand entrance, now looking so sad and neglected, even the flower boxes that had once looked so bright and beautiful hanging empty and forlorn from the windows.
Tourists turned their cameras away, searching for and finding more spectacular targets, an old clock tower or a passing gondola with a singing gondolier, and she almost felt ashamed that this was her mother’s house, such an unworthy building for a major thoroughfare in such a beautiful city.
And she wondered what her mother could have done with the money she had borrowed. She’d said she’d needed the money to live. Clearly she hadn’t spent much of it on returning the building to its former glory. She disembarked at the next stop, heading down one of the narrow calles leading away from the canal. The palazzo might boast its own water door but, like so many buildings fronting the canals, pedestrian access was via a rear courtyard, through an ornate iron gate in yet another steeply walled lane, squeezing past clumps of strolling tourists wearing their cruise ship T-shirts and wielding cameras and maps, or being overtaken by fast moving locals who knew exactly where they wanted to go and how to get there in the shortest possible time.
For a moment she thought she’d found the right gate, but ivy rioted over the wall, unkempt and unrestrained, the ends tangling in her hair, and she thought she must have made a mistake. Until she peered closer through the grille and realised why it looked so wrong.
She remembered the courtyard garden being so beautifully maintained, the lawns mowed, the topiary trees trimmed to perfection, but the garden looked neglected and overgrown, the plants spilling from the fifteenth century well at its centre crisp and brown, the neat hedge along the pathway straggly and looking as if it hadn’t been clipped for months. Only two bright pots spilling flowers atop the lions guarding the doorway looked as if anyone had made an effort.
Oh, Lily, she thought, looking around and mourning for what a sanctuary this garden had once been. What had happened to let it go like this?
There was no lock on the gate, she realised, the gate jammed closed with rust, and she wondered about her mother living alone, or nearly alone in such a big house. But the gate scraped metal against metal and creaked loudly as she swung it open, a sound that would no doubt frighten off any would-be thief.
It wasn’t enough to bring her mother running, of course—Lily was too much a lady to run—but Carmela, the housekeeper, heard. She bustled out of the house rubbing her hands on her apron. Carmela, who she’d met a mere handful of times, but greeted her now with a smile so wide she could have been her own daughter returning home.
‘Valentina, bella! You have come.’ She took her face between her hands and reached up to kiss each cheek in turn before patting her on the back. ‘Now, please …’ she said, wresting her backpack from her. ‘I will take this. It is so good you have come.’ A frown suddenly came from nowhere, turning her face serious. ‘Your mother, she needs you. Come, I take you.’
And then she smiled again and led the way into the house, talking nonstop all the time, a mixture of English and Italian but the meaning perfectly clear. And Tina, who had been on edge the entire flight, could finally find it in herself to smile. Her mother would no doubt treat her daughter’s attendance upon her as her God-given right; Luca Barbarigo would probably see it as a necessary evil, but at least someone seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
She followed Carmela across the threshold and, after the bright autumn sunshine, the inside of the house was dark and cool, her mother still nowhere to be seen. But, as her eyes adjusted, what little light there was seemed to bounce and reflect off a thousand surfaces.
Glass, she realised, remembering her mother’s passion for the local speciality. Only there seemed to be a lot more of it than she remembered from her last visit.
Three massive chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling of the passageway that ran the length of the building, the mosaic glass-framed mirrors along the walls making it look as if there was at least a dozen times that. Lily blinked, trying to stick to the centre of the walkway where there was no risk of upsetting one of the hall tables, also heavily laden with objets d’art, trying to remember what this hallway had looked like last time she was here. Certainly less cluttered, she was sure.
Carmela led her through a side door into her kitchen that smelt like heaven, a blissful combination of coffee and freshly baked bread and something savoury coming from the stove, and where she was relieved to see the only reflections came from the gleaming surfaces, as if the kitchen was Carmela’s domain and nothing but the utilitarian and functional was welcome.
The older woman put down Tina’s pack and wrapped her pinny around the handle of a pan on the stove. ‘I thought you might be hungry, bella,’ she said, placing a steaming pan of risotto on a trivet.
Tina’s stomach growled in appreciation even before the housekeeper sliced two fat pieces of freshly baked bread and retrieved a salad from the refrigerator. After airline food it looked like a feast.
‘It looks wonderful,’ she said, pulling up a chair. ‘Where’s Lily?’
‘She had some calls to make,’ she said, disapproval heavy in her voice as she ladled out a bowl of the fragrant mushroom risotto and grated on some fresh parmigiano. ‘Apparently they could not wait.’
‘That’s okay,’ Tina said, not really surprised. Of course her mother would have no compunction keeping her waiting after demanding her immediate attendance. She’d never been the kind of mother who would actually turn up at the airport to greet her plane or make any kind of fuss. ‘It’s lovely sitting here in the kitchen. I needed a chance to catch my breath and I am so hungry.’
That earned her a big smile from the housekeeper. ‘Then eat up, and enjoy. There is plenty more.’
The risotto was pure heaven, creamy and smooth with just the right amount of bite, and Tina took her time to savour it.
‘What happened to the gardens, Carmela?’ she asked when she had satisfied her appetite and sat cradling a fragrant espresso. ‘It looks so sad.’
The housekeeper nodded and slipped onto one of the stools herself, her hands cupping her own tiny cup. ‘The signora could no longer afford to pay salaries. She had to let the gardener go, and then her secretary left. I try to keep up the herb garden and some pots, but it is not easy.’
Tina could believe it. ‘But she’s paying you?’
‘She is, when she can. She has promised she will make up any shortfall.’
‘Oh, Carmela, that’s so wrong. Why have you stayed? Surely you could get a job in any house in Venice?’
‘And leave your mother to her own devices?’ The older woman drained the last of her coffee and patted her on the hand as she rose to collect the cups and plates. She shrugged. ‘My needs are not great. I have a roof over my head and enough to get by. And one day, who knows, maybe your mother’s fortunes will change.’
‘How? Does it look like she’ll marry again?’
Carmela simply smiled, too loyal to comment. Everyone who knew Lily knew that every one of her marriages after her first had been a calculated exercise in wealth accumulation, even if her plans had come unstuck with Eduardo. ‘I meant now that you are here.’
Tina was about to reply that she doubted there was anything she could do when she heard footsteps on the tiles and her mother’s voice growing louder … ‘Carmela, I thought I