The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman

the last two journeys, had any immediate desire to return.

ELEVEN

    Portofino, Italy
    A PRIL 1934
    Although Angelo had been trained as a doctor he had loved hearing stories since he was a small child, and he knew every person in the world had something locked in his heart to tell.
    His own story had begun against Italy’s rocky coastline, and two women were sewn into the fabric of his soul. His mother was the first. The second was his first wife, Dalia.
    He had met Dalia in San Fruttuoso during his final year in medical school. He had been on his way home to surprise his mother with a visit, when the boat he took made an unexpected stop at the small coastal village next to his hometown of Portofino. He walked across the beach, a carpet of smooth, flat rocks, and found a café by the name of Fiorello Dolce only steps away from the dock. There, Angelo had stopped for a coffee and one of his favorite sweets, a
sfogliatella
, the triangle pastry with ricotta and orange zest tucked inside. The heat, even for the port towns, had been particularly strong that day. Hoping to get a bit of shade, Angelo had moved his chair into the smallest square of shadow. As he repositioned himself, he caught sight of a figure dressed completely in white. A girl of eighteen emerging from the entrance of one of the stone archways, carrying a basket of fresh lemons, many of them with the stems still attached. She had pinned a white gardenia blossom in her long, black hair. Angelo was unable to take his eyes off her from the moment he first saw her.
    “Fresh lemons! Fresh lemons!” she sang, as her feet treaded over the rocky beach toward the café. Angelo’s heart began to race. “Handpicked from my father’s grove!”
    Angelo felt a sudden energy wash over him. He took one last sip of his coffee, and his hand shot into the air.
    “Signorina, yes, signorina, over here . . . I need some lemons!”
    She walked over to him, a shy smile forming on her lips.
    As she came closer, she appeared even more beautiful. He could now see her with greater clarity: skin the color of honey; eyes the color of Roman glass.
    “How much for the whole basket?” he asked.
    She looked down and counted the lemons. “If you take the full dozen, I’ll sell it to you for five lire.”
    “That’s far too little,” he said, giving her his brightest smile. “Let’s be fair, and you can sell it to me for eight.”
    “But that’s too much,” she said, trying to curb her urge to laugh. He knew she was amused that they were bartering in reverse. It was absurd. A buyer who was insisting he needed to pay a higher price, and she refusing to agree. But she wanted to be honest and fair.
    He reached into her basket and pulled out one of the fruits. The fragrance of the lemons was intoxicating.
    “I think I need to pay extra because their scent is so extraordinary. I have never smelled lemons this fresh.”
    This time, she allowed herself to smile fully, and when she did, he felt his heart quicken again. Her teeth against her rosebud mouth were as white as pearls.
    “That’s because you’re from Genoa, where you can smell only the soot,” she said. “Here, because we grow our lemons in our backyard, the very air is filled with their scent.”
    “What makes you think I’m from Genoa?” he asked.
    “Oh, I can hear it in your accent. It’s the pure Genovese. You sound proper,” she said and laughed again.
    “But you are mistaken,” he said, switching into his home dialect as easily as a man taking off his work shoes for the day and slipping into a more comfortable pair of sandals.
    She looked completely surprised. “What? I would never have guessed. Where are you from? Portofino?”
    “Good for you!” He grinned, clearly impressed. “You’re right.”
    “But you don’t look like someone from these parts.” She pointed to his linen suit and the shoes of hard leather, which had been meticulously shined.
    “I’m studying medicine in Genoa and I’m on