by Lucy Hepburn
He nodded. “I have insisted on this also, for some years now. Though some of the great Paris couture houses do not take such a view.”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Oh…” she’d thought of something else.
“Go on.”
“Sustainability, natural fibers—ahimsa silk—you know, made without…”
“…killing the silkworms? I am ahead of you there, too, though I suspect only just.”
Molly was in turmoil. She wished she wasn’t so disheveled from all the travel. She could look quite good, sometimes, when she wasn’t stressed out and exhausted. So many of her childhood dreams had involved variations on the theme of designing clothes in Paris. Pascal had just made them come true, and she had bags under her eyes, her clothes were crumpled, and to complete the picture, there were crumbs on her chin.
Pascal must be good at seeing the person within, she thought. Yes, this was the man to work for.
Showering him with yet more thanks, she got up from the table and rushed upstairs to tell her mother.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Molly was wakened far too early the next morning by the insistent ringing of her phone. Cursing, she heaved herself across to it, scowling when she didn’t recognize the number which was displayed.
“Molly? It’s Francesco.”
The deep, heavily-accented voice sounded surprisingly warm.
“Oh, hello,” she said, trying to make her own voice sound like she hadn’t just woken up. “Sorry about, you know, yesterday. The wedding.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but my sympathies are only with you ladies. What a terrible blow for your family. My wedding is not a priority.”
Tears welled up in Molly’s eyes and her heart twisted when she thought of her mother. “But,” her voice quavered, “I know how much Caitlin wants to be married to you…as soon as possible.”
There was an odd silence on the other end of the phone. “Molly, I need your help,” Francesco said finally.
“Sure,” Molly replied. “You must have lots to sort out up there in beautiful Venice.”
“I am not in Venice,” he said.
What?! “Um…then where—”
“I am at a hotel not far from you.”
“Oh!” Molly wondered if, with everything that was going on, she’d forgotten a plan or something. “But…Caitlin is…”
“Caitlin does not know.”
Molly sat up in bed.
“Will you come and meet me here, please? It is quite important.”
“Of course…” That sounded way more relaxed than she felt, but Molly grabbed a pen and paper from the hotel’s information folder on her dressing table and jotted down the address.
“Can you come quickly please?” Francesco sounded anxious.
“Quick shower, then I’m on my way,” Molly replied. “I’m not exactly…well-groomed at the moment, I’m afraid,” she couldn’t help saying, suddenly keen to prepare suave Francesco for the sight of a woman who hadn’t spent two hours with a stylist before facing her day.
“All of the Wright ladies are beautiful.” She could hear the affection in his voice and, to her surprise, found her heart melting a little bit. What a charmer! “And please, say nothing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, hanging up and diving for the shower, hoping with all her heart that Francesco wasn’t going to ask her to tell Caitlin that the wedding was off for good.
Pascal’s directions were hopeless. Armed only with a map, a few scribbled road names, and the knowledge that the hotel was ‘on top of a hill,’ Molly eased the Cinquecento through the unforgiving Bologna road system until she found herself on the outer edge of the city, climbing a single track road, following a rickety hand-painted sign that said ‘hotel, 2km,’ only it seemed far, far longer than that. The road was bumpy and steep; Molly wondered whether she might be heading for some sort of ambush.
But then, just as she was about to lose her nerve and turn back, the vista opened out, and she found herself passing through a set of wooden gates and winding up a tiny driveway toward what looked like a large Italian farmhouse, apart from the wooden sign above the doorway, which read in Italian: Hotel Giulia, family-run since 1890.’
It made Molly smile, it was so welcoming. The walls were colored the softest pink, toning perfectly with the wonky terracotta roof tiles, and the windows, with their sturdy wooden shutters, had soft lighting within that seemed to beckon Molly to come in and relax.
She parked the car in front of the building and stepped out, dusting herself down self-consciously, wishing she was wearing something a bit more elegantly bohemian than jeans and flip-flops.
She hadn’t expected this. Francesco Marino was the sort to stay in five-star glittering towers with marble bathrooms and glass elevators, wasn’t he? Whereas here, the pretty garden seemed to be on the verge of winning its fight to grow across the lawn; tall cypress trees swayed gently yet unkempt, as though showing off the dazzling view toward the city far, far below.
Francesco was nowhere to be seen. She was definitely in the right place—there couldn’t be two Hotel Giulias up here, could there?
Shyly, she walked toward the doorway and stepped inside.
“Hello?”
Nothing. The entrance hall was dark, yet a fire burned welcomingly near the doorway and soft lighting set off the high beamed ceiling to perfection. Molly could hear noises in the far distance—chairs scraping, the clang of a saucepan, presumably from the kitchen. Beautiful, fragrant garden flowers had been artlessly thrown into a huge vase on an old oak side table, and worn woven rugs were strewn across the chipped marble floor in a seemingly random fashion.
It was lovely. Molly couldn’t see a reception desk, no forbidding wooden barrier like the one in the hotel down in the city, with a disapproving matron watching every move. It was like being in somebody’s extremely comfortable home.
Caitlin would love a place like this, Molly thought, as she ran her hands along the top of a fat red velvet sofa, being careful not to disturb the sleek ginger cat curled up fast asleep on one of its cushions. It’s homely, yet with a bit of life; a bit of an edge, Molly decided. It had that indefinable sense of comfort and put-togetherness that she strove for in her dress designs – and it’s in the most stunning location.
She moved through towards the dining area, taking in the rustic oak tables set with white tablecloths, gleaming glassware and more garden flowers, placed in old-fashioned milk bottles in the centre of each table. Somebody here had a real design eye. She hoped, as she admired what looked like affectionate black and white family photographs on the walls, that Francesco would show this place to Caitlin some time.
“Hello?” she called out.
Still nothing.
Now it was getting weird. Francesco knew she was on her way, and she was definitely late, but he was nowhere to be seen. Furtively, she scanned the ceilings and drapes for hidden cameras; she didn’t have Francesco down for a joker but then given that she didn’t know the man, anything was possible, wasn’t it?
There were heavy double doors at the far end of the dining room. Maybe a clue lay behind those? Molly took a step towards them and then stopped. Hadn’t there been a sign at the door? Some announcement; in Italian? Molly was tingling all over as she scuttled back to the entrance hall. She was experiencing a powerful sensation of déjà vu, as though she had already made the discovery she was about to make.
The sign must have been just below her line of vision on the way in; she’d been too busy looking out for Francesco and admiring the colour scheme and the pretty beamed ceiling.
But there it was:
Hotel Giulia is closed for a private function today:
The marriage of Caitlin Walsh and Francesco Marino.
“Oh!”
Overwhelmed by the scene, Molly felt a tear escape and slide down her cheek. Instantly, she could see Francesco’s plan. And she knew where she
would find him.
Wiping her eyes with her sleeve she broke into a run, through the dining room, back towards the double doors. Then, with a smile, she pushed them open.
A tall, handsome, olive-skinned man was teetering on a stepladder in the middle of the room, trying to convince a garland of garden flowers to stay in position around a lovely blue Venetian glass chandelier.
Francesco. Molly had seen his photograph, in magazines and on Caitlin’s phone, but in the flesh, he was even more impressive than she had been expecting. Like a younger Hugh Jackman, same tall, muscular physique, same easy movements… she could hardly blame Caitlin for falling for him.
Molly was about say hello when she caught sight of the room: she was standing in a spacious, family dining hall. A long, refectory-style table had been draped with linen cloths and set with crisp white napkins and silver cutlery. Molly couldn’t take in the whole scene all at once but she saw flowers piled up in a wheelbarrow, strips of home made bunting featuring the British and Italian flags, and, over in the corner, a chocolate fountain. Chocolate was Caitlin’s great passion and weakness…apart, obviously, from the handsome man on the stepladder.
“Careful!” Molly called out, as the stepladder wobbled perilously as Francesco attempted to wind a final tendril of shrubbery around the gleaming light fitting. “Can I help?”
“Molly!”
Francesco leapt from the ladder to the floor, not bothering to utilise the steps in between. He landed awkwardly, winded, as Molly rushed over to him.
“You came.” Francesco, breathing heavily, pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you so much. It is so good to meet you at last, Caitlin has told me so much about you.”
“You too,” Molly spoke thickly into his chest, her voice comically muffled.
“Sorry, sorry.” Embarrassed, he released her.
She staggered back a step or two, not knowing what to say. She had become acutely aware of how wrecked she must look, red-eyed, tear-stained and bedraggled.
“I am so very, very sorry about your mother,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. “How is she this morning?”
“Same, I think,” Molly replied. “Thank you.”
He nodded, and there was a silence. Molly decided to change the subject. She knew if she talked any more about her mum she’d end up weeping again, and right now, she didn’t know if she had the strength for that.
She swept her arm around the room. “What’s all this? It’s…amazing!”
“You think?” He seemed genuinely delighted by the praise. “Do you think Caitlin will like it?”
Molly was glad she had a tissue tucked up her sleeve. Those blasted tears were pricking the backs of her eyes again.
“She’ll love it,” she whispered.
Francesco was so far from the smooth-talking media magnate she’d had him down for, it was almost laughable. Dishevelled in jeans and an open-necked shirt, yet still effortlessly smart in that infuriatingly Italian way, he wiped he brow and smiled at her. She recalled seeing him on TV once, at some media even in London, when he’d been on full celebrity-throttle, grinning and treating every encounter like it had just made his life a little bit better – this was different altogether.
“Anyone would,” she added. “What a gorgeous space! How on earth did you find it?”
He raked his hand through his hair, scrunching his eyes, remembering. “I had some friends from my schooldays who had a wedding here many years ago. I remember how happy they were, and I knew that if I could ever have the chance to have what they had, I would be a lucky man.”
“Mmm,” Molly agreed, “it’s got a really friendly vibe.”
“And so, after I got over the shock of hearing the bad news about your mother, I began to wonder if Caitlin might wish to go ahead with a quiet, low-key wedding near her family.”
“Mmm.” Molly was lost for words.
Francesco appeared to misunderstand her lack of response. “Of course,” he added quickly, “if she does not want to do it this way then that’s fine! I just really, really want to marry her.”
Molly was touched by his words. “That’s pretty much what she said this morning,” she murmured. She’d gotten this man all wrong, that much was becoming obvious.
“I telephoned Signor Loren—the owner—late last night and made the arrangements; he was very accommodating, much to my relief, so I drove up her late last night without telling Caitlin—I did not want to give her more things to think about. As it happens, Signor Loren has no staff on duty this week so I have been working since five o’clock this morning—what do you think of the flowers?” He nodded toward the wheelbarrow. “I just picked the ones that looked pretty.”
Just at that moment, a large piece of foliage fell from the chandelier and landed at Molly’s feet. She picked it up and twirled it between her fingertips.
“I think this is absolutely perfect,” Molly replied. It really was. Needed a bit of work on the arranging, but the flowers were beautiful.
“You are too kind.”
“Not at all. Caitlin is so upset that the wedding didn’t happen…”
“As was I,” Francesco put in. “But I want this just to be an option for her. If she wants to wait until your mother is better, and to have our big public wedding later, then of course that is what we will do.”
Molly took another look around the room, so lovingly prepared, and knew Francesco wouldn’t have anything to worry about.
“The priest is on his way from Venice. His brother lives here and he is happy to make the trip. My parents, my sisters, my grandmother—she is not so good on her feet these days, but she did not want to miss out on the occasion.”
“Really?” Molly squeaked. “I thought you’d all be so—”
Suddenly, her prejudices against Francesco’s family had taken on a shabby air. What a cow she was, leaping to conclusions like she had done!
“What?” Francesco urged. “What did you think of us?”
She looked at him. “Sophisticated,” she said at last.
He gave a little laugh. “Really? Well, I try sometimes, but it does not come naturally!”
Molly wasn’t sure whether to buy this self-deprecating. “Francesco, can I be honest?”
“Of course.”
“Well, it’s just that…I’d always thought that you were a jet-set, yachting kind of guy. You could have your pick of the supermodels…in fact, it looks from some of the magazines I’ve read, that you already have.”
To her surprise, he didn’t laugh or deny it.
“Thank you for your honesty,” he said at last.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered. Her ‘honesty’ already seemed out of date. She wished she hadn’t opened her mouth.
“Sure, I’ve had girlfriends before. But when I met Caitlin…” he searched for the words. “I felt that everything I had ever achieved, all the good that I had done, such as it was, had led me to this amazing reward.”
“Francesco, you don’t have to—”
“Did she ever tell you the first thing she said to me?”
“No,” Molly faltered, thinking hard. Caitlin hadn’t told her very much at all about her man—could it have been because she knew Molly would have already formed her own prejudices anyhow?
“She told me that I reminded her of her grandfather.”
“And you didn’t mind that?” Molly asked. She couldn’t tell from his face whether he did or not.
“Why would I? I heard he proposed to your grandmother after walking for three days and three nights to her house.”
“I heard that too,” Molly smiled. “Devotion, huh?”
“I heard that he was the only person in his village with a working tractor, but rather than use it to make his fortune, he shared it around the entire area to make sure nobody went hungry.”
“He was quite a guy.”
Francesco shrugged. “Do you know what made Caitlin say that to me?”
Molly shook her head.
“All I did—one tiny, insignificant thing—was share out an award that one of my companies received amongst the other competitors. It was a minor thing; I happened to believe that the other peoples’ ideas were just as good, some were perhaps even better than ours—but whatever, Caitlin told me she admired what I had done, and I decided there and then that I would spend my life trying to make this beautiful English woman’s belief in me a reality.”
“Wow.”
“I love your sister very much,” he whispered. This time, he was the one with tears in his eyes.
Molly smiled. “I know.”
She could have left it at that but she couldn’t resist pointing out, in a cheeky, teasing tone, “You have met Caitlin, haven’t you, Francesco? She’s got a hell of a temper sometimes.”
He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “You’ve seen that too?”
“I am the little sister—what do you think?”
Francesco gave her a pitying smile.
“Now how about you steady the ladder and I’ll have a go at securing these pieces of greenery?”
Molly was good at tasks like these. In no time she had twined the ivy tendrils around the blue glass of the chandelier, artfully pulling out end pieces so that they trailed elegantly downwards.
“Wonderful,” Francesco said, surveying her work.
Molly gazed again round the room. She was beginning to take in more and more details. The menu cards had photos of laughing Francesco and Caitlin on the back; tiny heart-shaped chocolates, wrapped in gold foil, were piled into glass goblets in the center of each table.
“And you say you’ve done all of this by yourself?”
He nodded. “The only staff on duty today is the chef. Do you think she will like it?”
“I know she will.” She imagined Caitlin’s face when she saw it and squirmed with glee.
A look of relief spread all over his ridiculously handsome face.
Molly pointed to the wheelbarrow full of flowers, which sat incongruously near the doors to the garden. “Want some help with that?”
