Isabella looked at her doubtfully and held onto the heavy-eyed and tiredly smiling Sunny even closer.
Carly turned to Max. He was propped against the kitchen’s central island thick slab of white marble countertop, arms crossed with a bemused expression on his face. ‘And tonight your papa will read to you a story about Sunny in Sleep World, won’t you, Papa?’
He eyed Sunny and the other animals. ‘Will I?’
Carly decided to ignore his dubious expression. ‘You mentioned at the parent talk on Wednesday that Isabella has no particular toy she uses as a comforter.’ She had shown the group the story book she had written and published to encourage sleep, Sleepy Heads in Sleep World, and the three main characters that were available as soft toys, Sami, Skye and Sunny. ‘As Isabella clearly has taken a shine to Sunny, for the next few days we’re going to include him in all of Isabella’s activities until she identifies with it as being something of comfort and reassurance.’ Max’s sceptical frown only intensified when she added, ‘Starting now. I found a toy teapot and teacups in Isabella’s room. I’ve left them on the rug there—I want you to take Isabella and Sunny to her room and for all three of you to have a tea party.’
‘I don’t have—’
Carly interrupted Max, choosing to ignore his horror at her suggestion. ‘Give the tea party ten minutes. I want Isabella to associate her bedroom with comfort, that it’s a nice safe place for her to be in.’ Moving to the door that led to the main hall and stairs, Carly added, ‘In the meantime I’ll run a bath for Isabella. You can bathe her after your tea party—make sure to bring Sunny along to take part. Then it’s into bed and you can read Sleepy Heads in Sleep World to her. After that it’s lights out. If Isabella is still restless I have a lavender massage cream that you can use with her.’
‘I’ve calls—’
With a bright smile Carly interrupted him. ‘Let’s go. Think of this as the new, exciting beginning of you and Isabella spending some fun time together.’
Max’s expression grew incredulous.
And as though to make her position clear, with one mighty throw, Isabella threw Sunny towards her father, the drowsy elephant hitting Max square on the shoulder.
Carly fled the room, her initial amusement at Isabella’s amazing aim giving way to disquiet as she climbed the polished concrete stairs. Would she ever manage to get Max and Isabella in tune with one another? And more to the point, would she manage to get through this weekend without embarrassing herself by revealing that, rather foolishly, she was attracted to him?
* * *
An hour later, Carly stood at Isabella’s door, hearing Max speaking in low whispers to his daughter as he sat on the side of her bed. Isabella’s room was in darkness, the only light coming from the faint moonlight twinkling through the roof lights that ran along the corridor.
Max was whispering in a mixture of English and Italian, his voice deep, gentle.
Carly closed her eyes, suddenly tired after such a long day, her shoulder dropping against the doorframe.
Max’s whispers continued.
Carly inhaled the lavender massage cream Max had at first reluctantly massaged into an equally reluctant Isabella. Max had used unsure strokes on Isabella, who had slapped his hand away when he had first begun to massage her forearm as Carly had suggested. But slowly and rather miraculously father and daughter had eventually given in to the soothing pleasure of the massage.
‘You’re tired.’
Carly jumped. Her eyes shot open to find Max standing directly in front of her. Unnerved at having him stand so close, unnerved by his height, the force of the bone-melting energy that oozed from him, the darkness enclosing them, she edged back into the corridor.
Max followed slowly closing Isabella’s door, but leaving it slightly ajar.
He nodded when she asked if Isabella was asleep.
She gave him a smile, trying to focus on being professional. ‘You did a really good job tonight. Well done.’
In the faint light of the corridor she saw a gleam of amusement light in his eyes. ‘Apart from bath time, you mean.’
Carly laughed softly. ‘I’m sure Isabella didn’t mean to soak you.’
‘You reckon?’
Carly tried not to react to the lightness, the teasing in his eyes, all the while doing her best not to recall how gorgeous he had looked as he knelt beside the bath earlier, his damp hair slicked back, his tee shirt soaked through, his exasperation towards Isabella’s splashing giving way to amusement and shared laughter.
‘I’ve an office downstairs—I must go and make some calls. My housekeeper, Luciana, has left food in the fridge. Please help yourself.’ He went to walk away but, pausing, he added, ‘Thank you for your help tonight. It was calmer than usual.’ He rubbed a hand tiredly at the base of his neck. ‘It took for ever, though. I won’t be able to spend so much time settling her every night.’
For a moment Carly considered Max. He was so loath to relax, to allow himself to enjoy being a parent. Sometimes, a lightness broke through his intensity. She needed to help him appreciate the joy of being a father. ‘You know, with time, you might grow to enjoy spending your evenings with Isabella.’
He shook his head, clearly unconvinced. ‘Why did no one warn me just how exhausting and time-consuming being a parent is?’
‘But it’s rewarding too.’ Carly waited for a response from Max but when none came she asked, ‘Don’t you agree?’
* * *
Rewarding. That was not the term Max would use for being a parent. Bewildering. Frustrating. Exhausting. Those were better words. But what parent could admit to those feelings?
He winced at Carly’s calm gaze.
And then her hand was reaching out, touching his bare forearm. ‘Things will get better, Max...you’ve been coping for far too long on your own.’
He swallowed at the gentleness of her tone. He should step away, tell Carly that he would see her in the morning. But for the first time since Marta’s death he wanted company, he wanted to be able to sit down and eat a meal with another human being. Apart from work dinners, he ate alone, mostly snacks taken at his desk.
He wasn’t sure what madness was taking him over, and quickly he rationalised to himself that, as it was at his insistence she was here this weekend, the least he could do was be hospitable. And after this weekend he would rarely see Carly Knight again, so what was the harm in sitting down and sharing a meal with her?
‘You know, I’m hungry. Let’s go and have dinner. We can sit outside on the terrace, where you can take in the view—you haven’t seen much of Lake Como since you arrived.’
Carly edged away from him. ‘I...’ She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, her fists bunching against the red wool of the jumper she had earlier pulled on. He could tell she wanted to say no. Was she this wary of all men thanks to her ex? A desire to somehow make it up to her in some small way saw him offer her his arm. ‘Luciana makes the best pasta in the whole of Italy...she’ll have left some in the fridge for us to have tonight.’
Carly eyed his arm warily but then with a disbelieving eye-roll she placed her hand on his arm.
In the kitchen he told her to take a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
He caught her gazing about the room, taking in the artwork and the furniture.
‘I’m guessing the villa was recently renovated?’ she asked as he swung open the fridge door.
He rifled through the contents of the fridge, reading the labels of the containers Luciana had left, finally settling on one lidded bowl, which he laid on the countertop. ‘It was renovated last year...’ Pointing to the bowl, he asked, ‘I’ve chosen ravioli di zucca e ricotta, pumpkin and ricotta ravioli, for us to eat—is that okay?’
Carly nodded, her gaze once again shifting around the room. She tilted her head back to gaze up at the modern chandelier he had com
missioned a local artist to make, the almost translucent ceramic pieces engraved with images of the villa at different stages of the renovations. ‘It’s such a beautiful villa. Were you in charge of the renovation designs?’
Max busied himself filling a large pasta saucepan with water, pleased with her words, but unsettled at the truth that despite all his best efforts to make this villa a home—the endless hours he had put into the designs, the daily calls to the renovation team, the meticulous sourcing of just the right furniture and artwork—he felt nothing for it.
‘I wanted to keep the uniqueness of the existing villa intact so most of the original features were retained but some new windows were added to take advantage of the views, internally the walls of some of the smaller rooms were knocked through to create larger spaces. We also built a new boathouse down by the waterfront and the pool was made bigger.’
Carly stood from her seat and wandered around the open-plan dining room, taking in the décor and the nooks and crannies of this unconventional villa. ‘The renovations are beautiful—you’re seriously talented. What’s the history of the villa—has it been in your family for many years?’
Putting the saucepan on the hob to boil, he inhaled a deep breath before admitting, ‘No, we only bought it two years ago. When Marta became pregnant she decided that she wanted to move back here to Lake Como to be close to her parents. She found the villa when she was six months pregnant with Isabella.’
He waited for Carly to smile awkwardly at what he had said, to change the subject, but instead she nodded and said, ‘Marta clearly had good taste.’
He could not help but smile at that. ‘Well, she did agree to marry me.’
His heart lifted to hear Carly’s laughter. Shaking her head, she asked gently, ‘What was Marta like?’
Taken aback, he turned away from Carly, busied himself with taking oils and condiments from the pull-out drawer next to the hob. For so long he had pushed all thoughts of Marta away, the grief of recalling her too intense. But now, for some reason he found himself wanting to tell Carly about her. ‘She was smart...really smart—she was the only student in her law-degree year to be awarded maximum marks on a difficult course. And she was ambitious; she was specialising in intellectual property law. She loved being pregnant, being a mother.’
Emotion tightening his chest, Max took a tray from a cupboard and started to load it with glasses.
Carly stood and moved next to him. ‘You take care of the cooking, I’ll set the table out on the terrace. I know where everything is from preparing Isabella’s snack earlier.’
With the water boiling in the saucepan, Max turned the temperature down. When the water was simmering he carefully placed the handmade ravioli into it. He turned as Carly lifted the tray now loaded with cutlery and glassware. She smiled at him, a smile full of warmth and kindness. ‘You know, it sounds like Marta was an incredible person. And she was right to want the support of her family. Have you considered moving back here to Lake Como to get that support yourself?’
Max considered for a moment shrugging off Carly’s question with some vague answer but there was something about her open gaze that had him admit, ‘It’s Marta’s family who live here. I grew up in Rome. I’ve no family of my own since my mother died when I was nineteen. Marta’s family...they have never approved of me.’
‘Why?’
Trying to focus on keeping the cynicism from his voice, aware that he was speaking about Isabella’s grandparents, he answered, ‘My in-laws, the Ghiraldini family, own one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in Italy. They’ve always been suspicious of my reasoning for marrying Marta.’
‘But you’re wealthy in your own right.’
‘Now I am. Not when we met at university. Back then I was nothing but a kid from the wrong side of the tracks with a mother who worked as a chambermaid and a deadbeat father who had disappeared from my life when I was three.’
Carly lifted the wooden tray closer to herself. ‘But now, with your success and having got to know you, Marta’s parents must approve of you.’
Max turned away to check on the pasta. He waited with his back to her, expecting to hear her footsteps as she went out to set the table, but after a while he realised she wasn’t going to leave until he answered her. Swinging around, he stared at her, his arms folded on his chest. Inside, he was on fire with emotion, but his answer came out in an icy tone. ‘Their daughter died when married to me. Why on earth would they approve of me now?’
‘But it was a car accident.’
The guilt inside him exploded in the quietness of the villa, in his jet-lagged exhaustion, in reaction to Carly’s softly spoken words, at the compassion in her eyes. Without meaning to, for the first time since Marta died he spoke out loud some of the torment living inside him. ‘I should have taken better care of Marta, made sure she wasn’t out driving late at night.’
He whipped around, grabbed the saucepan...but the handle was too hot. It scorched his palm. But he bit against the pain and continued on to the sink where he drained the pasta.
He tried to ignore Carly, who had come to stand beside him. ‘What happened on the night Marta died?’
He lowered his head, wanting to keep that night inside himself. But he was so tired of hiding it. He turned around, placed his back against the sink. The act of turning to face the villa for which he and Marta had cherished such dreams caused him almost to back out of speaking. But Carly’s steady blue gaze, the softness of her expression, brought him to say, ‘Isabella had woken just after midnight. Marta had fed her but Isabella wouldn’t settle. I took her downstairs, walked her in my arms. She would fall asleep but the moment I took her back upstairs and laid her down she started crying again. Marta got up and told me to go back to bed. I had an early flight to Munich later that morning. Marta left a note on the hall table saying that she was taking Isabella out in her car for a drive in the hope that she would settle. It was three in the morning. I was asleep. An hour later our intercom rang. It was the police. A taxi had driven through a red light and smashed into Marta’s car. Isabella was uninjured...but Marta...’
For long moments Carly closed her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She stepped even closer, her hand reaching against the countertop, inches from him. ‘It must have been such a horrible shock. You can’t blame yourself for it though.’
Carly was wrong. He was to blame. If he and Marta hadn’t argued that evening then everything would be different. He struggled to breathe against the shame filling his chest. No one knew of their argument. No one knew that Marta had died when they weren’t speaking to one another. Max hadn’t had the opportunity to say he was sorry, to hug her, to ask for forgiveness for not being there enough for her and Isabella. ‘If I had managed to get Isabella back to sleep, Marta wouldn’t have been out driving.’
‘If your roles were reversed, if it had been you who had gone out and been in an accident, would you blame Marta?’
‘Of course not.’
She tilted her head and gave him a sad smile full of care. ‘Why are you any different?’
Heat burnt on his cheeks. Her question, that until now he had never considered, hit at the core of his guilt. He had seen his mother struggle his entire childhood after his father had abandoned them and had sworn he would always protect his family. ‘It’s a husband’s job to care for and protect his wife, the mother of his child.’
Carly considered him for a moment. ‘Would Marta have agreed with that?’
He could not help but smile. ‘No. She would have yelled that she was a strong woman perfectly capable of taking care of herself.’
Carly smiled back. He knew he should end this conversation now. Already he had divulged too much personal information. But Carly’s compassion, her humour and intelligence in the midst of all he was telling her, was proving hard to walk away from.
‘I’m sure your in-laws will appreciate how well y
ou’re caring for Isabella.’
At the mention of the Ghiraldini family again, he realised just how badly he needed a drink. ‘Yes, I’m caring for Isabella so well that I’ve been forced to employ a sleep consultant.’
Carly pushed the sleeves of her blouse further up her arms, clearly unamused at his attempt at dark humour. ‘There’s no shame in asking for help.’
She was wrong. He should be able to father Isabella without help. Frustrated with his own incompetency, frustrated at the thought of facing his in-laws tomorrow, at having to sit through Tomaso’s wedding which would bring back so many memories of his own wedding day, he turned and studied the pasta, which was now dried out and cold. He grimaced and looked towards Carly, who was scrutinising the pasta too.
A grin broke on her mouth. ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to rescue our dinner. I saw some sourdough bread in the cupboard—how does a cheese and pepperoni toasted sandwich sound to you?’
She had to be kidding. ‘In a word, horrible. I’m Italian, we love our food...proper food.’
She popped a hand on her hip. ‘You haven’t tasted my toasted sandwiches. They were legendary with my friends when I was at college.’
He raised his hands in surrender to the playful indignation sparkling in her eyes. Grabbing hold of a corkscrew, he said, ‘I’ll open some wine.’
In the midst of raiding the fridge, Carly popped her head out. ‘Not wine, you need beer with toasted sandwiches.’
‘This is sacrilege—your first night here in Lake Como and you want toasted sandwiches and beer.’
‘I can’t think of anything better.’ Now armed with a selection of cheeses and cold cut meats, Carly added, ‘You go and set up the table outside, I’ll make the sandwiches.’
* * *
Ten minutes later, Carly popped the already toasted sourdough bread, now loaded with pepperoni, mozzarella and goat’s cheese, under the grill and then began to clear the counter top.
Resisting the Italian Single Dad Page 5
