by Jane Porter
It was a relief when they were dismissed for bed but then Marcu stopped her as she rose, saying he expected to see her after she’d finished putting the children to bed.
She nodded that she’d heard and then continued ushering the children out, even as she processed the fact that he never hugged them or kissed them, or said anything loving and tender when saying good-night. You’d almost think he was running some form of military school. It hurt her heart, not just for the children’s sake, but for his as well.
A half hour later she came back downstairs and joined Marcu in the smaller living room, having already learned that this was the room he favored in the evenings because the wooden shutters could be closed against the cold glass, keeping out the chill, and a fire could be laid in the stone hearth, making the room warm and cozy.
The ceiling was vaulted and lined with dark beams, and the fabric on the chairs and sofa was a lovely burnt pumpkin brocade, with vivid blue tiled end tables with a matching cobalt-blue wash on the inside of the huge hearth. One wall was lined with glass book cabinets, while another wall featured vivid modern art in pinks, oranges and blues. The room, centuries old, exuded elegance and money and style. No one knew how to layer fabrics and use color like the Italians.
“I’m concerned about the children,” she said abruptly, taking the same chair she’d sat in last night.
“What was that?” he asked, glancing up from the book he was reading. It was the same book that had been on the table last night, and she’d glimpsed the title, something to do with politics, economics and world currencies. She couldn’t imagine reading a huge book on such a subject matter but then, she wasn’t an investment banker or venture capitalist, either.
“Your children shocked me today.”
He closed the book. “How so?”
“They told me they don’t celebrate Christmas, and I didn’t believe them, telling them Christmas was always a special time at the palazzo in Palermo—”
“That was before,” he interrupted, placing his book on the table at his elbow. “We don’t make a fuss about Christmas anymore. It’s not appropriate in light of things.”
Monet decided to feign ignorance. “What things? Has the church stopped celebrating the birth of Christ?”
“No, of course not.”
“They why would you not celebrate Christmas with your children?”
“We go to Mass.”
“And?”
“And what?” he retorted impatiently.
“Where is the Nativity scene? Rocca and Antonio are the perfect age to enjoy the presepi, and you always had such a beautiful one in Palermo. In fact, there were three at one time, each set up in a different room of the palazzo.”
“But we’re not in Palermo,” he said.
“You couldn’t bring one with you? Or buy one for your children to enjoy here?”
“We’re here for just three or four weeks, it seems silly to drag something like that all the way here.”
She studied him a long moment. “Is that also why there are no Christmas decorations? No tree? No pretty lights or greenery around the doors, or windows? I understand you dragged skis and skates here, but nothing to celebrate the season?”
He stirred uncomfortably. “We don’t make a fuss over Christmas.”
“Why? Christmas was a gorgeous, special time in your family.”
“That was before,” he retorted curtly, rising from his chair to go stoke the fire. “Things have changed. We have different traditions now.”
“But to eliminate the wonder of Christmas for your children? There are so many lovely, festive things you could do and enjoy as a family—”
“I’ve chosen not to.”
“They miss it, though.”
He added a log to the fire before turning to face her. “How can they miss what they don’t know?” he demanded. “They can’t.”
“Matteo remembers. He was telling me about how Christmas used to be. The younger ones were all ears. They’d love to experience some of the fun and traditions that other children their age enjoy.”
“No.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall and resolute. “It’s not something we do in our family. Not anymore.”
She looked at him steadily, her gaze meeting his and holding. “Well, I do. Christmas is important to me and I’m not going to give it up for you. That’s not part of our deal, so I’m going to make the most of the next few weeks and have my tree, and decorate it, and go listen to carols, and do my holiday baking and anything else that makes this season so special to me.”
“You can do what you want in your time, but you’re not to include the children.”
She couldn’t help her gurgle of laughter. Was he serious? And just what time was her time?
Her laughter made his expression darker, grimmer. His jaw jutted and his mouth tightened and he truly seemed to believe he could give her orders and have them obeyed.
Not happening.
“Marcu, you’re not thinking this through,” she said more gently. “You’ve brought me here to take care of the children. There is no backup nanny. I don’t have time ‘off.’ I don’t have areas that are only mine—”
“You have your own suite of rooms. You can do what you want in there, but not in the nursery, or their individual bedrooms.”
“So I can decorate my suite?”
“It’s your own room.” He hesitated. “But you can’t bring the children into your room, and they can’t know about your decorations—”
“Stop. Listen to yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you are. When did you become such an ogre, Marcu?”
“I don’t like Christmas,” he said sharply, “and I’m not going to have you confusing the children. We enjoy this month, we do, but we enjoy it the way I think is best, which is with little fanfare and drama.”
“So there is no Christmas miracle for you?”
He gave her an almost savage look, blue eyes glittering beneath black brows. “There is certainly no miracle.”
“You’ve lost your faith.”
He picked up the poker and jabbed the logs furiously, sending sparks shooting up into the chimney. “You know nothing about it, and you’d be wise to drop the whole subject now.”
The words were as sharp and hot as the sparks, and Monet let them swirl around her a moment before she answered. “I think I understand a little bit,” she said quietly before drawing a quick breath for courage. “This is about Galeta. You lost her before Christmas.”
“I didn’t lose her. We were not careless with her. She wasn’t misplaced, or lost. She was at home, with her family, with her newborn. She was where she belonged.” His hard voice cracked. “And then God took her.”
Monet drew another breath. “God didn’t take her. Galeta was mortal. Her body failed her—”
“Che palle!”
The oath was mild but his expression was pained.
“To take a young mother from her three children,” he gritted, tossing aside the poker. “Children who were just babies. A newborn just days old. My wife had a family that needed her, and loved her, and I don’t know how to do this without her. I can’t do this without her. So don’t talk to me about faith, because you’d question yours, too, should you lose someone so fundamental to your life.”
And then he walked out.
* * *
Marcu was gone in the morning when Monet woke up, leaving a note for her that he expected her to follow his instructions and if she wasn’t clear on his expectations, all she had to do was call, and he’d scribbled his phone number.
After dressing, Monet headed to the nursery to oversee breakfast. As the children ate, they discussed their day.
“I was thinking we could talk to Cook and see if she’d let us visit the kitchen later and make some Christmas cookies. I don’t know if you have a favorite kind
but I remember the delicious cuccidati we used to have at the palazzo, filled with figs, dates, walnuts, spices and a hint of orange.”
Elise, the housemaid, had just entered the room to collect the morning dishes and smiled as she heard mention of the Sicilian cookies. “Cuccidati are a lot of work, and I’m not sure Cook has all the ingredients right now, but I am certain you could make canestrelli or even pizzicati without too much effort. Would you like me to ask Cook?”
The children answered with a resounding yes and then after Elise had gone, Monet helped Antonio dress. Matteo and Rocca didn’t need or want help from her. Once hair was brushed, and teeth were clean, they resumed discussion about what to do after they were done with cookies—if Cook would allow them into the kitchen.
“Any ideas?” Monet asked them, buoyed by their eager faces. “Suggestions?”
“What could we do?” Matteo asked.
“Well, I suggest we go to the Christmas market in the village tonight,” Monet said. “We’ll go have dinner there and shop and see if we can’t find some pretty ornaments and trinkets to decorate our own Christmas tree.”
“But we don’t even have a Christmas tree,” Rocca reminded Monet.
“Then that is the first thing we’ll do today. We’ll go find a tree, and have someone help us cut it down and bring it in to the nursery.”
Matteo looked skeptical. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Father won’t like it.”
“We’re not putting it in his bedroom. Or his study. Or his living room. It’s going in your room.” Monet studied their suddenly pinched, anxious faces. They really were nervous and that wasn’t her intention. “Or,” she added thoughtfully, “we could just put it in my room. I would love a Christmas tree. It’d make my room so cozy at night and it’d make it smell wonderful during the day.”
“But then when we will see it?” Antonio asked. “I want a Christmas tree. I want a tree with pretty lights and ornaments and things.”
She drew Antonio onto her lap. “You can always come into my room. In fact, we can have evening stories and prayers in my room. It will be quite festive. Cookies and stories every night before bed.” Monet glanced from one face to the next. “How does that sound?”
“So nice...” Rocca said with a wistful sigh.
But Matteo looked troubled. “I still don’t think Papà will like it. He’ll say we’re being sneaky.”
“Then let’s not do it,” Monet said. “The last thing I want you to do is get in trouble. This is supposed to be a fun time of year, not a time for you to be troubled or anxious.”
For a moment no one said anything and then Antonio whispered, “So you’re not going to have a tree, Signorina Wilde?”
“I’d like one,” she answered truthfully. “Even if it’s just a very small tree. I could put it on the desk.”
“Or on that table by your couch,” Rocca said. “That way you could see it from your bed, too.”
Monet smiled. “That is a good idea. I’d like that.”
“Can we help decorate it?” Rocca asked.
“I want to, I want to,” Antonio cried. “Please can I help?”
“And help pick it out? We could all go look for it together.” Rocca looked hopeful. “We could even help cut it and carry it—”
“No, I think we’ll leave the cutting to someone else,” Monet interrupted with a smile. “But I don’t see why you couldn’t give me some advice. I can always use advice.”
“And then we will put it in your room. There’s no reason we can’t go there just at night and say good-night to the tree. It’s not being that sneaky. We’re just saying a quick good-night, and that shouldn’t make Papà too mad at us.” She darted a swift glance at Matteo, and then at Monet. “He’d just be mad at Monet.”
“But we don’t want Papà mad at Monet,” Matteo said irritably. “It’s not fair for her to get in trouble for something we want.”
“That’s true. If we really want a tree, then we should just tell him so,” Rocca said. “And if he shouts, he shouts.”
Matteo shook his head. “Papà doesn’t shout. He just frowns a lot and gets that expression that makes you think he’s never going to smile again.”
“I’ve seen that expression,” Monet said. “It wasn’t always that way, though. He used to smile a great deal. When he was younger, when I knew him before, he smiled all the time.”
“He smiled before Mamma died,” Matteo said quietly. “I remember our last Christmas here, before Antonio was born.” He looked at his sister. “Do you remember? It was the best Christmas. It was so happy. Like a fairy tale.”
The children fell silent. Monet’s chest suddenly ached and her eyes felt hot and gritty.
It was the best Christmas.
Like a fairy tale.
Their innocent words pricked her heart and made her want to wrap her arms around them and keep them safe.
What a hard time they’d had of it. How impossible to lose their mother, and their father, because they had lost Marcu, too. He’d lost all joy, and love, and tenderness. It was a tragedy on top of tragedy. She exhaled slowly, letting out some of the bottled air, and said quietly, “It can be that way again. It will be that way again, one day, I promise.”
“How?” Rocca asked.
Monet reached out to stroke the girl’s dark silky hair, and Rocca leaned into the caress and Monet gave her head another comforting touch. “Maybe it’s time we started reminding him of just how beautiful and special Christmas really is.”
* * *
It was an extremely busy day, packed with activities from baking cookies to sampling cookies, to dressing in winter gear to tramp through the snow-dusted garden in search of a tree somewhere on the grounds that would be the perfect tree. It took them nearly an hour before they found one they could all agree on, and then they went in search of a gardener to cut it down and bring it inside for them.
There was much discussion about where the tree should go in Monet’s room, and they moved it from spot to spot, all while Antonio begged to let them put it in the nursery. But Matteo was adamant that his father would be livid if he found it there and Monet agreed with Matteo. “We don’t want your father livid,” Monet said.
Once they had the tree positioned in its metal stand, they discussed how they should decorate it. The children made paper snowflakes and colored some stars, and just before they hung them on the tree, the butler appeared with a box of Christmas decorations he’d found in the attic. The children carefully went through the box, oohing and aahing at the old, and very fragile glass ornaments, and the wooden hand-carved ornaments depicting angels and wise men and shepherds and animals from the manger. They were still looking through all the ornaments, deciding which ones were small enough and light enough, to go on their little tree, when the butler returned with a long string of white lights.
The children abandoned the ornaments to help her wind the lights through the tree branches and then hang the ornaments they’d selected from the box, along with the white snowflakes they’d made. They were delighted with their finished product and begged to eat their dinner in front of the fire in her room so they could enjoy the tree. Cook made them a special meal of pizza and they all sat around on her living-room floor with their pizza and their homemade cookies, proud of everything they had accomplished today.
Monet smiled as the children chattered, telling herself everything was fine, but secretly, she had knots in her stomach, and her stomach cramped with anxiety.
Marcu wasn’t going to be happy when he returned.
Marcu would probably be livid.
This was exactly the kind of day he wouldn’t approve of, and yet the children were beyond thrilled. As they prepared for bed, they were positively giddy, reliving the day, and how they’d found the tree and picked ornaments from the box.
But fortunately, he wouldn’t be home just yet
. Fortunately they had another full day before he returned late tomorrow afternoon, or tomorrow night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WINTER STORM warnings worried Marcu, and he wrapped up his meetings early, and was in his helicopter flying north, when it became apparent it was foolish to try to land in Aosta. Snow had begun to fall and the wind was howling and the only way he’d make it to the castello tonight would be to drive from Milan. Fortunately, his assistant had booked a car for him, and the car was waiting at the Milan airport when the helicopter landed.
Relieved to be behind the wheel, Marcu left the city, and tried to relax as he got on the open road, but the sky was dark and ominous and the news reports indicated foul weather for the next few days, with this new storm being the worst so far this year.
As he drove, he wondered what the children had been doing, and he hoped Monet had gotten them outside for fresh air and exercise. He tried to think of the children but not Monet, which was impossible. The more he tried to block her from his thoughts, the more she consumed them.
He’d been so preoccupied with her even last night when he’d taken Vittoria to dinner. He hadn’t wanted to be at dinner with Vittoria. He sat across the table from her thinking that maybe Monet was right, maybe he was making a mistake, and not because he needed a warm wife, but the children needed a warm, tender mother. Only as he listened to Vittoria discuss the ski trip, and the people who would be there, and the parties they’d been invited to, his chest tightened, the air bottling in his lungs. Not once did she ask about his children. Not once did she express concern that it might be difficult for the children to be left behind for the holiday.
What if she was as cold and hard as he was?
What if the children suffered more if he married her?
“I have to tell you something,” he’d said, putting down his fork. “I kissed Monet, the woman who is staying with the children while Miss Sheldon is gone. It shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again. I’m sorry—”
