Page 56 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

Maybe you were right.

Lola doesn’t feel safe with me.

I close my eyes to shut out the pain, and zone in on the whip-whip of my hair against my cheeks. I should tie it back – the journey in the back of Patrick’s open-top jeep is giving me no protection from the wind – but I like the sting of it flying around my face. And I don’t care what I look like.

After all, I’m not going tonight out of respect for Salvo. Or to see the town my father grew up in.

I’m going to watch over my daughter. To prove to her that I am her protector, not Patrick nor anyone else. Never mind that I can barely see from tiredness.

Maybe I’ll find out who took Lola’s travel documents too, but I’m not sure how much I care about that anymore. It’s too late.

When I flew to Corsica on Sunday morning, I had one job.

To get Lola home before the anniversary.

But here I am, heading to the town most indelibly linked with the mazzeri, on the legend’s most important night.

Lola is barely speaking to me, someone is threatening to kill us, and Dom – the one person I thought I might be able to trust – might have been lying to me for years.

And for what reason? An obsession? Or to find out what I remember about that night?

When I think about the online conversations I’ve had with my dealer, Nick Daniels, the details I’ve confided, it makes me feel sick. Because it has to be him. Dominic. Nick. How could I have not seen it before?

Does that also mean he slipped those notes under my door? It would explain how he knew to use the mazzeri legend to scare me. But I’ve also told Nick how much it felt like an assault in the moment, how forcefully I was pulled under the water. Have I put myself in danger?

‘You okay, Mum?’

I open my eyes. Lola has twisted around in the front passenger seat and is looking at me. I gather my hair off my face and force a smile. I need to pretend I’m in control of myself for her sake.

‘Did you get some sleep earlier?’

‘Yes, some,’ I lie. ‘I’m feeling much better.’ The intense relief on Lola’s face makes me want to cry.

‘That’s good. The views are spectacular, aren’t they?’

I turn my head to take in the scenery. Patrick has started climbing the mountain road to Sartène and I can see for miles.

A patchwork of pea green fields, craggy rocks, and darker woodland, with peaks and valleys that blur in the hazy evening sunshine.

Lola’s right, it is stunning. But it’s also frightening.

A rugged, alluring landscape that is full of promise, but only for those strong enough to face down its threats.

‘Did you ever visit Sartène when you worked here?’ Patrick asks without taking his eyes off the road.

‘No, I never got around to it,’ I mumble. The truth is, his grandfather put me off exploring my heritage, but I’m not going to tell him that.

‘It’s an impressive town. And you’ll be able to taste some of this season’s wine fresh from the barrel. I promise, you’ll love it.’

Patrick’s comment takes me back to Raphael’s office, and Salvo’s will. ‘Is that from your grandfather’s vineyard?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ Patrick says, nodding. ‘I spent my summer holidays at my grandparents’ house when I was growing up, so I hung out at the vineyard a lot. When I was older, Salvo taught me how to harvest the grapes, and I’d watch them being pressed. One day I’d like to have a vineyard of my own.’

I bite my lip. Does Patrick think he’ll inherit Salvo’s share of the vineyard? Maybe Raphael hasn’t told him what’s in the will. I wonder how he’ll feel about his grandfather leaving it to someone outside the family.

‘Like your grandfather?’ Lola asks.

‘Yeah, exactly. Although he only owned half his vineyard; he had a business partner.’

‘Don’t tell me, it’s your dad.’

Patrick laughs. ‘No, for once my father didn’t get his greedy fingers on my grandfather’s assets.’

Lola laughs along with him, so this dislike of his father can’t be news to her. But it jolts me. Family is everything in Corsica, so seeing him so blatantly criticise Raphael is a shock.

‘He’s not really built for Sartène though; it’s too authentic for him. He belongs in Porto Vecchio with its flashy tourists and their corrupting euros.’

Despite myself, my mouth lifts into a half-smile at the image. ‘So who is Salvo’s business partner?’ I ask. I don’t add that whoever it is, they’re going to have to get their heads around working with a grieving French mother in her sixties.

Patrick looks into the rear-view mirror and our eyes catch. He looks conflicted, and I wonder why. Then he shifts his gaze back to the road. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asks.

‘I guess.’ I look over at Lola, try to read her expression. But she’s facing forward now.

‘Salvo’s partner is Jack, but my father doesn’t know, so keep it to yourselves.’

‘Jack?’

‘Yeah, I know. It is odd.’

‘Did they buy it together?’ Lola asks.

Patrick shakes his head. ‘At the start, Salvo owned it by himself. But when I turned eighteen, I asked if I could get a job there, full-time. I wanted to get away from the hotel and I’d loved my summers working there.’

‘And your grandfather said no?’

‘He said he needed to check with his business partner, and he said no, so I pushed to find out who it was. My father and Jack are pretty tight, so Jack would have known that me leaving the hotel wouldn’t have gone down well. And we can’t upset the great Raphael Paoli, can we?’

I lean back against the leather seat and let my hair fly free again.

Jack was Salvo’s business partner? How could he afford to invest in a vineyard?

It doesn’t make sense, but then nothing makes sense in this place.

I lift my arm to check my watch. It’s almost 8 p.m. which means there’s only an hour or so more daylight.

I’ve done everything to stop this happening, but now it’s too late.

A swell of fear tightens in my chest, and I try to breathe through it.

Finally, Patrick pulls up alongside a town square and cuts the engine. The square is lined with palm trees and there are pockets of tables and chairs spilling out from the restaurants.

‘Where’s the event being held? In one of these bars?’ Lola asks, nodding towards the line of restaurants facing the square.

Patrick smiles. ‘Locals wouldn’t be seen dead in these places during tourist season. It’s at a more hidden away kind of place. We’ll toast Salvo with his own wine, and then we’ll all get chance to tell a story about him.’ He turns to me. ‘Will you say something?’

There’s no way I’m telling anyone about mine and Salvo’s story, but I manage a watery smile. ‘I don’t think I have one.’

Patrick nods, then reaches for Lola’s hand.

I follow them across the square. We walk through a narrow archway in a stone wall, and into a covered alleyway.

Only a tiny chink of light in the distance shows that it’s not a dead end, and the noise of my sandals hitting the flagstones bounces around my head as I stumble onwards.

The narrow alley eventually opens out onto a small stone courtyard with shuttered-up buildings and one bar with a faded blue canopy. Condensation drips down the window.

The bar is narrow but deep and we wind through small groups of people until we reach a larger room at the back of the space.

There are about thirty people sat on benches with carafes of wine and glasses dotted along the tables.

Most of the guests are strangers but I can see Raphael and Anna sat with Jack. Harriet and Dom close by.

I take a few steps towards them. I need to find the strength to confront Dom.

But then I see a large poster stuck to the wall. A close-up of Salvo staring directly into the camera lens. I stare at the lies or truth etched into his deep wrinkles, the kindness or cruelty glowing from his eyes.

Then exhaustion engulfs me, and I slump onto a bench.