Piero called again on Saturday and had a word with Durante. Zia caught sight of his rear view disappearing in the direction of Il Rifugio. A bundle of emotions fell on her – grief, disappointment, regret … But she didn’t call after him.

On Monday afternoon she was enjoying the coolness of the office when she heard a car crunch to a standstill on Bella Vista’s drive. As she heard Durante attend the front door she ignored it, continuing with her check of future bookings, which were solid until well after October half-term. She nibbled her lip. She’d better suggest Durante get someone else lined up to help Fiorella service the cottages after Zia’s mid-September leaving date. He and Lucia weren’t going to be up to it for a while. As she could still hear his voice outside she noted it on her list of things to discuss with him.

Several minutes later, Durante appeared at the office door. Zia began to smile a greeting but felt it slip as she caught his troubled expression. ‘Is everything OK?’

Durante’s gaze was circumspect. ‘Gerardo is asking to speak to you.’

Zia’s stomach gave a great lurch. Gerardo must be the caller Durante had been speaking to. ‘Oh. Do you know why?’

‘To apologise, he says.’ Durante gave an awkward shrug, as if feeling caught in the middle.

‘Oh.’ She fidgeted. Somehow, she hadn’t anticipated this. Gerardo had been so blatant in his attempt to extract money that she’d assumed him not to be troubled by a conscience. Mentally, she’d written him off, certain he’d got the message not to approach her. For Durante’s sake she’d hoped he’d continue in the garden for a while but Bella Vista’s grounds were large enough that she could avoid him. Now Durante was hovering, eyes large and worried, as if wary that she might explode. She sighed. She’d done enough exploding. ‘It’ll be easier for everyone if we clear the air, I suppose.’

‘Shall I get him?’ At Zia’s nod, Durante turned and vanished and Zia rose, feeling she needed to give the impression of meeting Gerardo head-on.

Then there he was, framed by the doorway, sober and spruced up. He looked her in the eye and cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in English.

‘What for?’ She had no intention of making things easy.

‘Everything,’ he answered, then switched to Italian. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t good to your mother. Sorry I asked you for the money. It was wrong to consider it.’ He drew in a long breath. ‘I’ll sign the forms to agree you are my daughter.’ He hesitated, then added soberly, ‘Non so perché a volte mi comporto male.’ I don’t know why I sometimes behave badly.

Zia shrugged. ‘Alcohol?’

He dropped his gaze. ‘Maybe.’