by Rose Wulf
First, though, she had a hotel to check into. So she took another deep breath and turned her attention to the row of public transportation and hotel shuttles. She still had a couple of hours of travel-time left. There was no sense in getting overwhelmed yet. That could wait until she was face to face with the woman who hadn’t seen fit to acknowledge her existence since her brother’s death. Not until her father’s death.
What were you thinking, Arianna?
You don’t belong here.
It was the second time she’d had the thought that day. Yet here she stood, staring down the large, admittedly gorgeous estate. She’d had to triple-check the address and she still wasn’t entirely sure she was in the right place. Her father had always mentioned how he was sorry he couldn’t afford to send more than a couple hundred dollars at a time. This didn’t look like the property of a man who’d had to budget his money. So I guess I always misinterpreted his meaning. Then again, at this point, did it really matter?
She clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides once, twice, three times as she tried to settle her nerves. She’d had nothing but time in the nearly twenty-five hours she’d been travelling to think up a thousand terrible ways this meeting could go. A part of her already regretted coming. But she knew why she was there, and it wasn’t to face her past. She was there to honor the one member of her family who’d still acknowledged her existence. At the end of the day, she didn’t honestly care whether or not anyone else took issue with her presence.
Keeping that thought in mind, Arianna started forward.
She’d ascended the four stone steps that led to the door, but she was still too far back to actually knock, when the door opened. She froze, immediately feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi, and held her breath.
The woman on the other side of the door was talking in rapid Italian—too fast for Arianna to actually keep up with—and she was talking over her shoulder, not looking where she was going. The woman was shorter, maybe just a few inches over five-foot, with graying blonde hair swept up in a neat bun on her head.
Not knowing what else to do, Arianna cleared her throat and hoped the woman would hear her.
On cue, the woman turned her attention forward, blinking widened eyes out at her. “Can I help you?” Her question was asked in Italian, of course, but she said it slower—in a cautious, confused tone—so Arianna was able to translate it easily.
Moment of truth. Unsure if she was more hopeful that she was in the wrong place or the right one, Arianna opened her mouth, reminded herself to speak Italian, and said, “Carosella. I’m looking for Gianna Carosella.”
The woman gave her a curious, but not truly confused, look, blatantly examining her, before she finally asked, “Do I know you?”
“No,” Arianna replied with a shake of her head. She knew this woman wasn’t her mother. Her mother was taller and had never been blonde. This woman looked too old to be her mother, anyway. “Is this … the right address?” she asked, hoping to make it clear she wasn’t familiar with the area.
A smile lifted the woman’s features this time and she nodded. “Yes, it is. I’m only visiting. It’s just that you look somewhat familiar.” She only paused for a second, clearly not expecting a response, and added, “Gianna’s inside. I’ll call her.”
As the woman proceeded to fulfill her promise, Arianna’s stomach rolled uncomfortably. The moment of truth had come. She still wasn’t sure her mother would even let her stay on the property long enough to pay her respects, but she was pretty confident in thinking that her mother wouldn’t welcome her inside with open arms.
Movement beyond the shorter woman caught her attention, and Arianna found herself fighting back over-emotional tears of anxiety as Gianna Carosella stepped into view. Her features had hardened with age and grief, and her light brown hair was highlighted with a fair amount of silver, but there was no denying this woman was her mother. And as Gianna’s gaze swept past her friend—or whoever the other woman was—Arianna fought to untie her tongue.
Gianna’s shoulders tensed as she sucked in a breath, her eyes going wide with surprise when they landed on Arianna.
Taking a strange amount of solace in the fact that her mother at least recognized her, she managed an awkward smile and said, “Hi, Mom.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Gianna Carosella demanded, the air around them still echoing with the sound of her open palm colliding with Arianna’s cheek. “What makes you think you’re wanted here?”
Arianna took a half-step backwards, fighting the reflex to hold her hand to her stinging face. One minute she’d been awkwardly saying hello to her absentee mother and the next her mother had marched right up to her and smacked her with all the fury of an angry Italian woman. And she was an angry Italian woman. Her face was red by the time Arianna was able to focus again. Her jaw was tight and she looked for all the world like she might strike again.
“Gianna,” the older woman called from where she stood in the doorway. There was a note of caution in her voice, like she was trying to talk someone out of doing something stupid.
Arianna swallowed, clenched her fists at her sides, and held her mother’s gaze stubbornly. She hadn’t come all this way to mend fences with her mother, and she certainly hadn’t come all this way to let her mother treat her like dirt. “I don’t really think I’m wanted here,” she replied firmly. “But I’m here anyway, and it has nothing to do with you. I’m here for Dad.”
Silence weighed the air between them for several seconds. Arianna held her breath, warily watching to see if her mother would lash out at her again. Gianna breathed heavily, sucking deep breaths in and letting them rush back out. Neither blinked.
It was the unknown woman who finally broke through their contest of wills. “Gianna,” she said again, scolding this time. “This is your daughter. She’s come all this way.”
Gianna snorted inelegantly, continued to hold Arianna’s gaze, and replied, “I have no daughter.” She turned abruptly, then, and as she started back toward the house she called, “You wait there.”
Arianna relaxed her fists, but held tightly to her anger. She hadn’t really expected a warm reception, but neither had she expected this. When she thought about it, though, she didn’t really know why. She might as well have been inviting herself to a stranger’s house to mourn the stranger’s loved one.
“She’s upset. Grieving,” the unnamed woman offered, her tone almost exactly the same as before. “But perhaps you should have called first?” She was speaking slower again, obviously assuming Arianna’s Italian was sloppy at best. But she couldn’t take offense at that. She didn’t know this woman, and this woman had no way of knowing her Italian was actually pretty darn good—except when spoken at rapid-fire pace, anyway.
Shaking her head, Arianna replied, “She wouldn’t have answered.” It was the truth. She knew it as well as she knew that her mother hadn’t wanted to call in the first place. And when the woman failed to argue her point, she knew her mother hadn’t made much of a secret about her disdain for her former daughter.
Gianna swept back into view, bustling angrily and brushing right past her friend. She came to an abrupt stop, just out of arms’ reach of Arianna, and held out a torn-off piece of notepaper. An address, telephone number, date and time were scrawled across the paper. “The ceremony will be here, on Tuesday. Arturo would be pleased to know you came. But you are not allowed in this house. I do not want to see you on this property. Go to the funeral if you must. Or don’t. You always were good at running.”
Throat swelling faintly, Arianna swiped the paper from her mother’s hand and studied it. “Why should I believe you’re not lying to me?” If her mother was sending her on some wild goose chase she would be beyond furious. She’d flown around the world—on Dean’s money—for this funeral, dammit, and she wasn’t about to let some woman who’d once claimed to love her keep her from her goal.
“What would it benefit me to lie to you?” Gianna demanded angrily, crossing her arms over her chest. “I gave you the phone number. Call the people and see if I’ve told you the truth. And don’t be late.” She turned again, clearly done with the conversation, and started toward the doorway.
Arianna’s gaze returned to the paper and she released a silent breath. If it wasn’t until Tuesday—assuming even that much was true—then she could at least make the phone call. Or she could take the risk of trusting her mother’s word. This is what I came out here for. Now that she was there, though, there was one other thing she wanted to know. So she raised her attention, catching her mother as Gianna’s hand landed on the door to swing it closed, and asked, “Where’s Gianni’s grave?”
****
It was stupid to miss someone like this. Someone he hadn’t known very long. Someone who wasn’t even gone in a permanent way. It was Monday, and Arianna wasn’t due back home until early Saturday morning, but already there was a gnawing pit forming in Dean’s stomach. He’d first felt it after climbing back into his car at the airport, having left Arianna alone and facing a terrible week on unfamiliar territory. He’d thought it was guilt, maybe mixed with anxiety. Only it hadn’t gone away. It kept growing inside him, setting down roots and flourishing like a weed. By now, though, he recognized that he’d mislabeled it. This feeling wasn’t guilt, though it probably was still mixed with anxiety. It was the empty ache of missing someone.
He hadn’t felt that kind of ache in a while, either. And even then, the feeling he remembered had been different. That ache had been thickened with resentment, hurt, and a dozen other equally negative emotions. The longing for that person’s company had faded with time, though the rest of it had lingered. Some of it still lingered, like the trick candles Nate had thought it would be hilarious to put on his slice of birthday cake one year when they were teenagers. One minute the resentment was gone, forgotten, then something would remind him and it would flare back to life. For a moment as raw and fresh as it had ever been. Only now … now he was having a hard time slipping back into that mindset. He couldn’t make himself get upset over what had happened. Now, it was just something that had happened in his past. Something that had helped him grow and learn to appreciate what he had.
Now, standing near a cliff edge, watching the sun sink down below the ocean, it wasn’t Lila he was missing. It was Arianna. Her absence was slowly chilling him inside. He was perpetually colder than he was used to being. He was constantly on-edge. Worried, angry, even sad. But he couldn’t relax. Couldn’t find a genuine happy moment. Every time he closed his eyes at night, in an effort to sleep, he saw her leaning in to kiss to him. And no matter how hard he tried to hold her close, her lips never touched his. He couldn’t describe it—didn’t fully understand it—but the lack of her presence at his side was wrong. It weakened him. Distracted him. Ate at him until it had practically consumed him.
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
Dean sucked in a startled breath, eyes widening and attention refocusing on the moment, as he spun around to face the unexpected speaker. He didn’t need to see the boy’s face to know his voice. All the same, the sight of Eric Matthews on the other side of his Camaro did nothing to ease the pit in Dean’s stomach. What it did do, however, was provide him with a place to focus his anger—the one familiar emotion he still had no trouble channeling. “What the hell are you doin’ here, you idiot punk?”
Eric scoffed and rocked back on his heels, a grin lifting his lips. He looked for all the world like he was enjoying every ounce of Dean’s anguished confusion. As if he could somehow see inside him to know how Dean felt in the first place. “What, no hello? Didn’t your mommy teach you better manners, Dean?”
“Right, my bad,” Dean returned, fists clenched at his sides. “Hey, Eric, long time no see. Hold still a sec while I burn you right down to your rotten soul.”
“Well, that’s rich,” Eric taunted, “coming from a Hawke. What’re you mad at me for again? Was it breaking little Angela’s heart or setting fire to your latest whore?” The ground beneath Eric’s feet burst into flame before Dean had even consciously decided to ignite it, but Eric was paying attention. He leapt and spun aside, putting himself on the other side of the flame. “Woo! That’s what I get for wearing my good shoes, huh?” he crowed with a laugh. “Wanna tell me which nerve I hit, so I can be sure to say it again?”
Doing his best to ignore Eric’s taunts, Dean held the fire away from his car and snapped, “What the fuck do you think you’re gonna get for provoking me?” He let a dark grin tilt his lips and asked, “Or are you just tired of living?”
Eric, who was being sure to keep very close to the car, cackled and replied, “Maybe I’m just bored! Everyone knows you’re a hothead, Dean. You’re so easy!” He danced around to the side of the Camaro, the self-contained fire now on the other side of the hood from him, and danced his fingers up the driver’s side frame, over the door. “But I really am curious,” he continued, leaning wholly against the side of the car now, “did you chase her off already? Or did you accidentally burn her alive while you were fuc—?”
“That’s none of your business!” Dean growled, lunging forward and snatching the cocky kid by the collar of his shirt. He lifted Eric a couple inches off the ground, letting his hands heat up and pressing his knuckles a little harder against Eric’s collar as he added, “And even if it were, I wouldn’t waste my breath on a dead man.”
“Sorry, Dean,” Eric returned, his voice only slightly strained. “You always were … the cocky one.” As he spoke he reached out with both hands, aiming to wrap them around Dean’s throat.
Dean saw the move coming and shoved Eric back, accidentally tossing him into his car, but Eric was too close. Though he missed Dean’s throat, Eric’s hands still landed on his chest. Pain exploded within him the moment Eric made contact. For once the burn suddenly tearing through him actually hurt, and Dean stumbled back, his muscles convulsing. Eric’s laughter echoed in his ears as Dean’s eyes rolled up and everything went dark.
****
“Ah!” Angela exclaimed as her bag slid up the smooth, slanted board and fell into the hole. “Yes!”
Standing next to the board, and across from her, Vaughn Prescott smirked. “Don’t get excited. You’re still losing.”
Angela pouted. “Just you wait. One more shot like that and I take the lead.”
He lifted the bean bag in his hand, exaggerating the way he rotated it between his fingers. “You’re assuming I don’t score even three more points.” From the shine of determination in his blue eyes, he had every intention of scoring as many more points as possible. It wasn’t fair how good he was at this game.
Crossing her arms, her remaining bag in hand, Angela cocked her hip and replied, “Then take your best shot.”
Vaughn’s smirk lifted for a moment. He rubbed his thumb over the fabric of the bag, shifted his focus to the board a couple of feet from Angela, and took his stance. She watched silently as he lined up and let the traitorous bag fly. It curved beautifully through the air, with a trajectory so similar to the last one, Angela was sure it would fall right into the hole, and she waited with bated breath as it descended. The bag landed, with a resounding thunk! right on the edge of the hole. One pointed corner hanging in. He’d just made it harder for her to catch up, and if his next—and last—bag did more than graze the board this one would surely slip through the hole. Earning him the remaining points. Far too many for her to make up with her final bag. She’d all but lost.
Still, she would never admit defeat so easily. “Oh, so close,” she teased instead. “Want me to blow on it for you?”
Vaughn’s eyebrows rose for a moment before he shook his head. “Only if you want to lose that much faster.”
She narrowed her eyes and gave her bag a squeeze as she took her stance. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Vaughn Prescott. I’m not dead yet.”
He seemed to be fighting a grin as he gestured
to the board beside him. “Then by all means, show me what you’ve got.”
Angela took a steadying breath, focused her attention on her target, and silently pleaded with her bag to do her proud. She’d barely released it, fingers crossed, when the phone in her back pocket started ringing. She ground her teeth, not wanting to look away until the last moment. Yes, yes…. It connected solidly with the board—but stopped inches short of the center hole, and the points she desperately needed.
Groaning, Angela tugged the phone from her pocket, rolling her eyes at Vaughn’s smug grin as she put it to her ear. She’d glimpsed Dean’s name on the screen. Probably should’ve let it go to voicemail. “Yeah, Dean?”
Across from her, Vaughn shifted his weight, and she realized he was going to be polite and wait until she was off the phone to play his final turn.
“Just Dean’s phone,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. “Angie.”
Her lungs seized and her body tensed, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her, at the sound of Eric’s voice in her ear.
Dean’s phone. He was calling from Dean’s phone. That means… Her mouth was too dry to swallow, so she held the phone a little tighter to keep from dropping it. “Eric. How do you have Dean’s phone? Where’s Dean?”
The soft, muted impact of a bean bag landing in grass prompted Angela to lift her glare from the ground in time to see Vaughn crossing the short distance toward her. Her next breath came a little easier. As irrational as it was, having Vaughn there helped her feel safer. But it did nothing for Dean.
“I lifted it from his pocket,” Eric said casually. “After I fried him.”
Tears sprang to Angela’s eyes and she fought to keep the tremble from her voice. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction. “What did you do?”
