The Lake Villa – Part 1: Lemon Terrace

"Look at it," breathed Rebecca.

"I'm looking."

"It's like a postcard."

"It's like a postcard that has been paid for." Anthony leaned on the stone balustrade, a glass of cold white in one hand. "Worth every euro."

The villa stood on a terraced hillside above Lake Garda, with a garden of lemon trees, jasmine and lavender spilling over old stone walls. Below it the lake spread out blue and glittering, framed by the dark peaks of the northern Alps. A small wooden rowing boat swayed at the end of a private jetty. The air smelled of lemons and warm stone.

They had been married twenty years. Rebecca, forty-four, a barrister, had not taken a week off since the youngest child was born. Anthony, forty-seven, a secondary school headteacher, had spent the last two spring breaks on timetables. They had promised themselves this trip on their wedding day, jokingly, and then spent two decades quietly saving for it.

"Twenty years," said Rebecca. "I can't believe it."

"I can. I have the credit card statements."

She laughed and kissed his cheek. They spent the first days in a happy daze, lying by the lake with paperbacks, rowing out in the morning mist, eating long lunches on the terrace under the lemon trees. They talked to each other without anyone interrupting, and discovered they still had a great deal to say.

On the fifth evening, as the sun dropped behind the mountains and the lake turned to rose, Anthony took her hand.

"Becca. I have a confession."

"Go on."

"I've missed you. The you from before the school run." He smiled. "I would like to take her out for the evening."

"I'd like that," said Rebecca. "I'd like it very much."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Moonlit Water.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Moonlit Water.