‘The mayor is to open the Festival,’ Lucia read, pulling a mock impressed face. ‘And we’ll have fireworks after the last band.’

‘How late?’ Zia asked.

‘Ten o’clock,’ Lucia replied, her eyes still on the colourful flyer.

‘Ciao, ciao,’ called a high voice and Zia turned to see Fiorella and Roberto beaming at them over pots of geraniums, green folding chairs hanging from Roberto’s shoulders.

‘Ciao, ciao,’ she replied, smiling.

Then Zia became aware of Lucia giving a little jump and a man stepped from behind the older couple, beaming. Zia knew him instantly. The man from the photo album. Her father. Well, the man who made Tori pregnant, anyway.

‘Ciao, Zia Lucia!’ He twinkled like a child who knew his smile would open doors. His grey-streaked hair was tied back in a ponytail and dilated pupils as much as the aroma of beer suggested he was enjoying the festival.

It took Zia a frozen instant to realise he wasn’t addressing her, ‘Zia-Lucia’ with a hyphen, but Zia Lucia as in Aunt Lucia.

There was only the most infinitesimal hesitation from Lucia before she cried, ‘Gerardo!’ and rose to embrace him across the geraniums.

Zia watched Gerardo chattering with his parents and aunt, laughing just a little too loudly, his movements just a tiny bit loose. With his untidy ponytail and creased clothes, he looked like actor Steve Buscemi in one of his more dissolute roles. She was introduced to him as Zia, one of Lucia’s guests from England.

His loud laugh rang out again. ‘Zia means “aunt” in Italian!’ His English was heavily accented but passable. He didn’t betray with even a flicker whether he remembered a baby that a young English girl had named Zia.

His baby.

Instead, he returned to his aunt and switched back to Italian. ‘Where have you been? None of your beloved nieces and nephews have seen you. Not once have I been invited for a delicious lunch.’

Lucia’s colour rose. ‘We’re busy with guests this summer.’

Fiorella looked perplexed. As she helped service the cottages, she’d know whether this summer was busier than any other. Zia felt a jolt of guilt. Lucia must have withheld invitations to family so Zia wouldn’t be blindsided – as she had just been – by her blood relatives wandering about the place in blissful ignorance of her identity. Breath quickening, she watched Gerardo, assessing what she felt, searching inside herself for a speck or spark of feeling. What flipped into her mind wasn’t this is my father but this man tried to erase me before I was born.