by Jennie Lucas
“Honora. Did you enjoy your rest?”
Could his men guess why she’d so desperately needed one? She blushed. “Yes.”
“I’m just getting some details ironed out for that real estate acquisition. You were asking to taste real Italian pasta, yes?”
“Yes?”
“As soon as I’m done here, I’ll take you out to dinner in Trevello, if you’d like.”
“Sounds lovely.”
Nico’s warm gaze traced slowly from her eyes to her lips, down her body to her sandals, leaving a trail of heat wherever they lingered. “I’m sorry I have business with my lawyers. I’ll be done soon.”
“I’ll go wander the garden,” she said, not wanting to be a bother.
The formal garden was even more lovely on closer viewing. Standing alone in the middle of the villa’s perfect garden, with its spectacular view of the sea, she wished her grandfather could see these flowers. But he was busy with Phyllis, working in the flower shop, redecorating the Queens apartment. They’d decided to turn Honora’s old bedroom into a home gym. “I gotta stay healthy to keep up with my wife,” her grandfather had told her happily.
Honora looked out at the bright sun, lowering toward the sea. She was glad he was happy. She was, too. She was married and expecting a child.
So why did she suddenly feel so uncertain and alone?
“Stop it,” she told herself aloud. “You have everything you could ever have wanted. More than you deserve.”
She walked through the garden until it grew dark, then went inside to sit on the sofa outside Nico’s home office with an old leather-bound book she’d found on the shelf of the library. By the time Nico shook her awake, it was hours later, nearly midnight.
“Sorry.” He gave her a charming smile. “My lawyers took longer than I thought.”
“That’s all right,” she said, rubbing her eyes, trying to wake herself up and be ready to eat dinner when her whole body said she should be sleeping. She felt totally upended by jet lag.
Outside the villa, there were streaks of velvety stars in the dark purple night. Helping her into his sports car, Nico drove her through the gate and out to the cliff road, twisting along the edge of the black Tyrrhenian Sea.
“The restaurant is just up there. The best pasta in Campania, which means the best in Italy, which, of course, means the best in the world.”
But as he started to turn into the parking lot, a big RV coming from behind clipped the edge of his back bumper, causing the sports car to spin wildly through the gravel lot, rocking back and forth chaotically.
Their car spun toward the edge of the cliff.
Honora screamed. For an instant, she was eleven again, watching the whole world spin in front of her eyes. It was just like before. In selfishly asking for something she wanted, she’d ruined her life. Killed the people she loved most—
Nico gave a low, tense curse, gripping the wheel hard and forcing it to turn.
The car suddenly stopped. But her screaming didn’t.
“Honora. Cara—”
She felt Nico’s hand on her shoulder, heard his gentle voice. She opened her eyes and saw that the world had stopped spinning. Their car was still. Other than a cloud of dust around them, there was nothing to show that they’d nearly plummeted into the sea.
“I’m—sorry,” she choked out. “I didn’t mean to scream.” Suddenly she was sobbing and his arms wrapped around her.
“It’s all right.” His voice was tender as he stroked her hair. “We were never in any danger, but I’m sorry you were scared.” He looked fiercely behind them. “Damned tourists should know better than to try to drive this road in that thing.”
Honora felt embarrassed, making such a fuss when they were trying to have a romantic evening. Pulling away, she wiped her tears. “I’m fine now.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze. “Absolutely.”
Opening her door, he helped her from the low-slung sports car and led her into a charming restaurant, which seemed very local. Perhaps because it was after midnight, the restaurant had no other customers. The owner was thrilled to see him. “Mr. Ferraro! I am so glad you are here!”
“Grazie, Luigi.”
“My wife, she said you would come and bring your new American bride, your first night in Trevello. I said no, lovebirds have better things to do than eat! But my wife, she said, doing those things, one always gets hungry...”
“I can speak for myself,” said his wife, who came over, smiling. She had an Australian accent. The two of them were good-looking and gray-haired, and Luigi pulled her into his arms, looking down at her lovingly.
“I will, and I do, and I should always listen to you.” He kissed his wife’s temple. “To listen as well as I love you, which is infinite and forever.”
She looked up at her husband. Luigi abruptly cleared his throat, as if he’d just remembered they had customers. “So Peggy told me you called for a reservation...?”
“Yes. Um...” Nico had the grace to look sheepish as he clawed his hand through his dark hair. “I’m sorry we’re so late.”
The wife waved her hand, which was filled with menus. “That is no problem. We expected as much, seeing as it is your honeymoon. We are honored that you chose our restaurant for your first night.” Escorting them to an amazing table by the window, with a view of the moon-swept sea, the lights of the village of Trevello and a flickering candle between them, she handed Honora a menu. “This is your first trip to Italy, signora?”
“Yes,” she replied shyly. She looked at the menu, then said, “Nico says this is the best restaurant in all Italy, and as it is yours, will you please tell me what I should order?”
Luigi beamed at her, then plucked the menu from her hand. “You chose a good one, Signor Ferraro. Signora, I will be most pleased.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was dismayed as they were served two full plates of portobello mushrooms sautéed with spinach in garlic and olive oil.
“Enjoy, signora!” he said.
“My favorite thing here,” Nico said, and dug in.
Picking up her fork, Honora tried to smile. She cut very slowly with her knife, and she forced herself to take a bite.
“How do you like it?” Nico said, watching her.
“Delicious,” she managed to say, trying not to breathe through her nose or taste the mushroom as she gulped it down.
He set his jaw. “Honora. If you don’t like something, don’t suffer in silence. Be honest. Speak up.”
“I hate mushrooms,” she blurted out. For a moment, she was shocked at herself, and even proud.
Then as she sat in the picturesque Italian restaurant with its amazing view, fear surged through her. What if Luigi’s feelings were hurt by her honesty? What if her husband was embarrassed, or what if he despised her for not being sophisticated enough to enjoy this meal? Would he tell her he no longer wanted such an unpleasant wife who made such selfish demands?
Setting down her fork, she nervously lifted her gaze. Her husband smiled at her, his dark eyes glowing. Then he turned, lifting his hand for the restaurant owner’s attention.
“Luigi. My wife doesn’t care for mushrooms. Please get her something else.”
“Sì, signore. But of course.”
Nico’s smile spread to a grin as he reached for her plate of mushrooms. “And I will take care of this.”
Two hours later, they finished the most delicious seafood pasta Honora had ever tasted, along with crusty bread and Caprese salad with ripe tomatoes, basil leaves and fresh mozzarella laced with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. She felt happy, relieved. It was strange. Something about Nico made her feel brave, like she had the right to speak up for herself. Like she shouldn’t take the blame for things that weren’t her fault. Like she wasn’t a burden, but a treasure.
S
miling, she drank creamy decaf coffee and finished a cannoli that was as sweet and light as air. Then her smile fell as she saw, on the other side of the empty cliff-side restaurant, Luigi tenderly kiss his wife. She saw his lips form the words Ti amo.
And just like that, all her happiness dissolved. Having told Nico that she loved him, she yearned so badly to hear those words back. How wonderful it would be to be loved, now and forever, after her hair had long turned to gray.
But why would she ever think she deserved to be loved like that, when—
She tried to push the thought away. But suddenly she couldn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Nico asked quietly. She looked at him, so handsome on the other side of the table, shadowed by the flickering light of the candle.
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Any of it. I never have.”
“How can you say that? Of course you do. You’re the kindest person I know.” He gave a grim smile. “If you don’t deserve happiness, no one does.”
“You don’t really know me. What I did.”
“So tell me.” His voice was gentle.
Honora looked away. Through all the open-air windows, she could see the clusters of lights of Trevello’s houses and shops, stretching joyously up from the sea to the sky, twinkling like stars.
“When our car almost went off the cliff, just because I wanted pasta...it all came back.” She licked her lips, closing her eyes. “How I begged my parents to take me up to a pumpkin festival in the countryside, two hours outside the city. I thought if we could go, then maybe we’d be a happy family like in the ads.”
“What happened?”
“My parents fought the whole time. Just like always. My mother cried and begged as my father drank and criticized her. He drank the whole time we were at the autumn fair, then crashed the rental car into an oncoming truck on the way home. The other driver lived. So did I.” She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “But my parents died because I just had to sit on a hay bale and eat pumpkin bread.”
“No, cara.” His voice was gentler than she’d ever heard as he put down his small cup of espresso. “They died because your father chose to drink while he was driving his family in a car. It wasn’t your fault. You were a child.”
Honora looked up at him, her heart pounding. Then she told him the worst. “They were miserable because of me. They only married because of me. Because I was born. They grew to hate each other. That was why she cried and he drank. They felt trapped but didn’t know how to get out. Because of me.”
He put his hand over hers on the table.
“It was not your fault,” he said quietly. “Your parents made their own choices.” He pulled away his hand, straightening his shoulders as he sat back in his chair. “Forget the pain they caused you. Be happy. Live your life only for yourself.” He gave her a crooked grin. “That’s what I do.”
The thought was shocking to her.
“Live for myself?” she said. “But it’s the people I love who give my life meaning. My grandfather. Our baby.” Her eyes met his wistfully. “You.”
A strange, stricken look came over Nico’s face, and he abruptly looked away. In the flickering shadows of the restaurant, his jaw seemed hard enough to snap.
“Luigi, the check,” he called. Turning back to her, Nico’s expression was cold. “Your secrets are safe with me. I give you my word.” Tossing his linen napkin down over the empty plate, he rose to his feet. “It’s late. Are you ready to go?”
CHAPTER TEN
NICO HADN’T MEANT to hurt her.
Honora told herself that on their drive back to the villa beneath the moonlight, and as her husband made love to her in the darkness, and when she woke alone in bed the next morning. She heard the birds singing in the palm trees overlooking the turquoise sea and repeated it again. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
She’d poured out the most agonizing secrets of her heart, the deepest burdens she carried—that her existence had caused her parents’ misery, and her selfish desire to go to a pumpkin festival because of the absurd idea that it would bring them together as a family had caused her parents’ deaths.
And all he’d said was that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Your secrets are safe with me. I give you my word. As if her fears were not only true but shameful, and that if anyone else knew, they would despise her.
Be happy, he’d said. Live your life only for yourself. That’s what I do.
Nico was living his life only for himself?
What did that even mean?
Over the first few days of their honeymoon, Nico worked only in the mornings, and arranged for them to take excursions together in the afternoon. They traveled via helicopter to Rome, and had private tours of the Colosseum and St. Peter’s Square. As they wandered the Roman Forum and tossed a coin in the Trevi Fountain, Honora was filled with wonder and delight, seeing things she’d only dreamed of as a teenager growing up in Queens. And she found herself telling her husband all kinds of stories about growing up in her neighborhood, her friends, her love of books, her interest in flowers and plants. “I had no choice about that,” she’d added, laughing, “spending time with Granddad!”
Later, wandering with Nico through the gardens of the Villa Borghese, she talked at length about the best way to care for cypress and pine trees and keep aphids away from roses. She was a little embarrassed later, but it was hard not to talk. Nico was a very good listener.
The next afternoon, he took her to Pompeii. The Roman ruins were remarkable, but seeing where all those people, those families, had died suddenly in the eruption of Vesuvius two thousand years before, she became mournful. Nico lifted her spirits afterward by taking her to the most famous pizzeria in nearby Naples, where they shared a margherita pizza with basil and tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese oozing over a crust that was as light as air. As they sat at a small table, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of other customers, she found herself telling him about the disastrous time she’d tried to make pasta from scratch. “Even the neighbor’s dog wouldn’t eat it,” she said with a laugh.
None of her stories were earth-shattering, but it was all of them together that made Honora who she was, so she decided not to be embarrassed. She was glad to share her life with the man she loved. Both afternoons were wonderful and warm, and she loved feeling her husband’s presence, whether she was sitting beside him in the helicopter or encircled in his arms in the back of the sedan, chauffeured by Bauer.
It was only much later, after they’d returned to the Amalfi Coast, that it occurred to Honora that she’d done all the talking. Nico was a very good listener, but he’d told her almost nothing about himself, about his own stories and hopes and dreams. The closest he’d gotten was when she’d said in the Pantheon, “You were born here, weren’t you? I’d love to see where you grew up.”
“Now that is ancient history,” Nico had said lightly. Then, with a careless smile, he’d distracted her, pointing out the concrete dome, which was apparently special for some reason. And he’d never brought up the subject of his past again.
Looking back, the golden glow of happiness seemed to lose some of its shine.
Honora wanted so desperately for them to be happy. They had everything anyone could want on this Italian honeymoon in this luxurious villa, their baby expected soon. So why did Honora feel like something wasn’t right? Something was...missing, and it made her feel empty.
As the first week of their honeymoon passed, then the second, there were no more fun excursions. She watched with mounting dismay as, every day, Nico disappeared into his home office with an increasing number of lawyers and staff. He was apparently having some trouble closing the deal for the Villa Caracciola. Feeling lonely during the second week, she’d once tried to join them. Nico had all but blocked the door.
“I’m sure you have more enjoyable things to do,” he’d told her firmly. He handed her two pl
atinum credit cards. “Go shopping down in the village. Or Bauer can drive you if you wish to see Sorrento or Positano.”
“Without you?”
He glanced at his lawyers grimly. “I’ll be done in an hour or two. Then I’ll join you.”
But the hour or two was always eight or ten or even, yesterday, twelve. Honora entertained herself by spending time in the villa’s delightful formal garden, walking among the flowers. It was perfect in its ornate simplicity, but, she thought, if she were going to design a garden, she would make it more random, wilder. But the gardener clearly didn’t need her help, and he didn’t speak English beyond smiling at her and bringing fresh flowers into the villa every day—mostly roses.
She got to know the other staff at the villa and learned some basic greetings and questions in Italian. The housekeeper, Luisa, had a little white dog who needed daily walks, and so when the older woman twisted her foot a few days after they arrived, Honora happily offered to take Figaro outside in her stead.
Taking the dog down the steep hillside to the village that clung to the rocky shores that rose sharply from the sea, Honora walked through Trevello alone. For a honeymoon, she thought, it was surprisingly lonesome.
In spite of the amazing sex every night, for which Nico still always found time, Honora was almost relieved when the two weeks finally came to an end. It wasn’t so enjoyable to eat delicious meals alone, or sit in the villa alone, or walk along the coastal road alone. She yearned to go home to her grandfather and friends.
Then, the night before they were supposed to leave, Nico suddenly announced that they’d be staying in Italy “indefinitely.”
Honora said anxiously, “How long?”
“As long as it takes for me to buy the villa,” he bit out. When she flinched at his angry tone, he tried to smile. “On the plus side, it will give us more time in my birth country, so I have decided to host a reception here, to properly introduce you to all my European friends. We’ll have music, and dancing...”
