Those Blue Tuscan Skies

by Marion Ueckermann

  “Is that all you fell in love with over there? If my memory serves me well, there was a certain best man who seemed to have swept you off your feet that night.”

  Jayne shook her head, crossing her fingers at the lie. “It was only dancing. And only one night. He never called.”

  Had he lost her number? No excuse. He could’ve gotten it from Joseph. They were best friends. But then, she could’ve asked for his number too. Not wanting to seem forward, she hadn’t. Even now, with her trip to Italy imminent, she refused to ask for his contact details. No. She’d leave this all in God’s hands. If she and Rafaele Rossi were meant for each other, God would allow their paths to cross.

  Somehow.

  Perhaps Rafaele hadn’t been that interested in her. Maybe the long-distance relationship had put him off. But would he feel differently if she was prepared to stay? That’s if he even remembered her, or if they should happen to stumble into each other’s lives again.

  “Does that mean you won’t be here for the baby’s birth?”

  Maggie’s voice drew her back to the present.

  “No, silly. I’m only leaving once that baby’s born. I wouldn’t miss the birth for anything in this world.” Not even for love. And despite being anxious to return to Tuscany, excited to see what God had in store for her there, she was happy to wait three more weeks. She had peace expecting God’s perfect timing. He’d given her that blessed scripture from Jeremiah when she’d prayed about returning to Italy for an indefinite period of time.

  She recited the verse softly. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

  Can’t argue with a promise like that. It’s what had given her the boldness to make this crazy journey. A journey that would hopefully end in love.

  Rafaele tiptoed closer to his nonna kneeling on the long, green grass, her head resting against the granite gravestone. “Nonna...”

  Nonna started at Rafaele’s voice, and the rosary beads she’d held fell from her hands as she jerked upright. Clutching her chest, she twisted around. “Rafaele, you snuck up on me. I didn’t even hear you approach.”

  Rafaele laid his hand tenderly on his grandmother’s shoulder then squatted down beside her. He picked up the beads and placed them in her hands. His gaze roamed the small, enclosed area, pausing to take in the handful of flowers she’d placed in front of each stone. As always, Albertino’s bunch was slightly more generous than the others.

  “I’m sorry, Nonna. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. Were you praying?” He’d actually thought she’d fallen asleep, or even passed away since she was so still. Fearing the latter, he’d spoken her name to make sure.

  “I was. Earlier. I only closed my eyes again for a moment to remember the days when my children were all still with me.” She gave her head a small shake then pressed her hands to the grass to help her rise. “But…those days are over.”

  Rafaele shoved to his feet and placed a hand under her arm to help her up. “I wish I could take away your sadness.”

  “My child, the tears I shed are good because they’re borne out of my memories. Don’t wish to take that from me.” Her wrinkled cheeks creased further with the smile she managed.

  “Still, I’d like to see you happy again, Nonna. And I think I have just the solution.” Rafaele led her out of the graveyard, shutting the gate behind them. “What do you say about having a birthday party? You, me, and your other six grandchildren. It’s been so long since you last saw Marco, Piero, and Nicoló.” America was too far for them to come for an uncle’s funeral, especially one they didn’t like very much. “And Papà’s funeral wasn’t the best time to enjoy a visit with Ric, Sienna, and Alessa. What this family needs now is time together to celebrate life. What better occasion to do so than for your eightieth birthday?”

  Nonna held on to his arm as they navigated the path back home through the vineyard. She exhaled a sigh. “I don’t know. I fear I’m getting far too old to organize a party.”

  Rafaele paused to look down at her, one brow raised. “But you want to run the estate on your own?”

  She merely smiled and continued walking.

  “Besides, you won’t have to do a thing except show up. I’ll invite my siblings and cousins, help with any travel arrangements, and I’ll advise Maria on what to cook for your birthday feast.” He stepped in front of her. Taking her hands, he walked backward, pleading, “Come on, Nonna, it’ll be fun. Just like when we were children. What do you say?”

  Nonna wriggled her hand free then wagged a finger at Rafaele. “No wonder you became a lawyer, Rafaele Rossi. You never give up until you win an argument.”

  “Does that mean—”

  “Yes. Arrange the party. On one condition…you let me pay for everyone’s tickets to get here.”

  “Are you sure, Nonna? Five tickets—that’s a lot of money, and I’m sure everyone can afford a ticket to Italy.”

  “It’s the only way I’ll let you do this, Rafaele. And you’re right; it will be good to see my grandchildren together one last time before I die.” Nonna stepped out of the vineyards, back onto the road.

  Rafaele followed. “Nonna! No talk of death. Please. There’s been enough already. Besides, you’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

  His statement received a loud harrumph. “As if you have any say in the matter. God Almighty…He is the only one who can decide that.”

  He gazed up the road to the large stone house and his bedroom window on the upper floor. Almost home. He couldn’t wait to email the others. He just prayed they could all come. But there were still four weeks until Nonna’s birthday—plenty of time for them to rearrange their lives. This was important, and he’d make sure they knew that.

  Nonna trudged the rest of the way to the villa in silence. What was she so deep in thought about?

  Rafaele pushed open one side of the Palladian double-split door. Easing up against the cold, stone jamb, he allowed Nonna to pass.

  She stepped inside then pivoted to face him. “There is one thing you will need to know.” She sucked in a breath. “You need to book six tickets, not five.”

  “Six? Nonna, you do remember that Alessa’s too close to fly? She’ll catch a bus or a train, seeing as her Vespa is only good enough for whizzing around the streets of Roma.”

  “I remember, Rafaele. I am old, not senile. The ticket is not for your sister, although you will need to get a bus or train ticket for her.” Nonna wrung her hands. “Oh, how do I tell you this? I’ve kept quiet for so long,” she muttered. “But it’s time you knew. There’s another Rossi who needs a ticket, although she’s not been fortunate enough to have been raised with the family name she was born with.”

  Another Rossi?

  Nausea rising, Rafaele clenched his jaw. So his earlier suspicions about his father were founded. He had an older sister—one whose existence had been kept a secret.

  Chapter Two

  FROM BEHIND A GELATO-FILLED CROISSANT, Rafaele smiled at Nonna seated on the opposite side of the kitchen table. He couldn’t have chosen anything better to lift her spirits than this birthday celebration. Since he’d first mentioned the idea three weeks ago, he’d seen a noticeable difference in her demeanor. Even heard her singing “Return to Me” when he’d strolled into the kitchen for breakfast. She’d blamed the crooning on Maria, perhaps lest anyone accuse her of hanging up her mourning clothes too soon. But she couldn’t fool him. He knew that voice—it had sung him and his siblings to sleep many a night during their childhood.

  When his brother, sisters, and cousins received his invitation email, some of them thought it was an April Fools’ joke. If it were Pesce d’Aprile, he would’ve sent a photo of a paper fish to remind them of the times they’d stuck the drawn vertebrates onto each other’s backs as children every first day of April. He did, however, manage to make them realize how serious he was about their attendance. With tight schedules and int
ernational flights, the Labor Day holiday on May first would at least give his siblings a longer weekend. His American cousins, unfortunately, would have to take the extra day’s leave. But, tight schedules and public holidays aside, everyone realized just how important this was and agreed to make the effort to come to Italy that last weekend in April.

  All except one.

  Rafaele popped the last piece of croissant into his mouth then licked the ice cream that had trickled down his fingers.

  Nonna chuckled. “Oh Rafaele, you and your gelato and croissants for breakfast.”

  “Have to love being Italian, Nonna.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin then swigged back his espresso, setting the tiny cup down on its saucer. “So, only one more week. Are you excited?”

  She gave a small nod. “Sì.” Dabbing her mouth with her own napkin, she glanced over her shoulder. “Maria, puoi prendermi lo scialle dalla mia camera da letto.”

  The aging housekeeper pulled her hands from the soapsuds hiding breakfast dishes. She gave the usual little curtsy she did when obeying Nonna’s instructions, drying her hands on her apron as she scurried out of the kitchen heading for Nonna’s bedroom to fetch her shawl as requested.

  Nonna leaned forward. “Have you had any further response from Rachel?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  Rafaele dropped his gaze to his empty cup. He smoothed a finger over the porcelain rim. Rachel. The unknown Rossi who had thankfully turned out to be a cousin, not his illegitimate sister. This restored his faith a little in Papà, although he was left still pondering those withdrawals from his father’s bank account. Who had Papà been paying for over three decades? Rachel’s mother perhaps—support for his dead brother’s child? But Nonna had said she’d kept the secret to herself. His father had never known about Uncle Albertino’s love child. Had Papà somehow found out and taken it upon himself to help the woman?

  Bravo if he had. Perhaps the man did have some compassion buried deep inside of him.

  After Nonna had broken the news about Rachel Golding, she’d told Rafaele that Rachel’s mother had last contacted her from London when Rachel was born. Then Nonna had hurried to her bedroom, urging him to follow. From a bottom drawer, she’d pulled out a small baby photo, wrinkled with age, and begged him to find her granddaughter. The likeness to his own baby photos and those of his siblings and cousins was unmistakable, the Rossi genes strong. And that dark hair?—Italian without a doubt.

  Nonna said she needed to meet Rachel, wanted to tell her she was sorry for allowing her bitterness and anger to rob them of all these years. And that her actions had prevented Rachel from getting to know her cousins too. Nonna wanted Rachel to be a part of this family now, and the birthday party seemed like the perfect time, the only time to do so. A godsend, she’d said.

  Had Nonna’s own mortality spurred her decision to make Rachel’s existence known? One couldn’t ignore the fact that nearing eighty, his nonna was on borrowed time.

  It hadn’t been difficult for Rafaele to find the Cardiff art teacher. But he feared perhaps he’d become so accustomed to communicating in legalese, that his email to her lacked the warmth of a family anxious to meet a long-lost relative.

  “Rafaele?” Nonna’s voice, and her hand on his, jolted Rafaele back to the present.

  “Scusa, Nonna.” His chair scraped against the terracotta tiles as he pushed to his feet. He grabbed his cup from the table and stepped to the coffee machine to pour another espresso. Hands cupping the fresh refill, he leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed at his grandmother. He didn’t want to dash her hopes, spoil her good mood, but she’d only keep asking if he didn’t tell her.

  He inhaled deeply, and then slowly exhaled. “I received an email from her three days ago. She…hasn’t made a decision yet. She’s still thinking about it.”

  Bowing her head, Nonna twirled the ends of her napkin into a sharp point. She breathed out a sigh as she glanced up at Rafaele. “I–I suppose it’s to be expected. Such a shock for her, I’m sure. And a big decision. She must have a lot to think about. Meeting seven cousins and a grandmother she didn’t know existed… All at once...” A tight smile accompanied her shrug. Her eyes filled with moisture. “At least she hasn’t said no.”

  Yet.

  He should call Rachel—far more personal—and plead with her to make the journey to Italy. To family.

  “Can I hold him?” Jayne stretched out her hands toward Maggie. She’d been more than eager to see the newborn, but had wanted to respect Davis and Maggie’s privacy too, so she’d waited until Maggie was home a few days before visiting. She had to come today, though. It was her only chance.

  “Of course.” Maggie placed the sleeping baby into Jayne’s arms then carefully pushed herself up out of the armchair. The pain of having a baby certainly wasn’t over the moment a woman gave birth.

  Jayne stared down at Davis Rathbone II with his soft skin and rosebud lips, and her heart swelled. She couldn’t wait to be a mother someday. The rewards must far outweigh the momentary agony.

  “While my hands are free, why don’t I make us a fresh pot of tea to go with the rest of those cupcakes you brought?” Maggie smiled as her gaze flicked toward the tiny cakes Jayne had baked. “They’re so cute with their tiny, blue fondant booties on top. I can’t believe you made them yourself. I might not permit you to go to Italy. I do have a baby dedication that needs to be catered soon.”

  Jayne laughed and the infant’s hands shot into the air, a frown rumpling his tiny brow. Jayne pulled the baby close to her chest and gently rocked him. “As if Clover would ever allow you to have someone else cater but her,” she said, remembering to keep her volume down. “And why would you even want to consider me when you have a top London chef for a sister? No doubt she’d run circles around my blue booties.”

  Maggie walked slowly toward the kitchen, and Jayne trailed after her. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jayne. I’m sure you’d give Clover a good run for her fondant. In fact, if you didn’t have plans to fly off soon to enjoy the Italian sunshine, I would’ve encouraged you to use the money to open your own cake shop. Maybe that’s something you can think about doing when you return to England? Cupcakes are very trendy these days. And yours not only look great, they’re to-die-for delicious.” Maggie tugged at the side of her long T-shirt. “It’s probably a good thing you’re going away now, because if you stayed, I might not lose this pregnancy fat.”

  Jayne rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “You’re not fat. One can scarcely believe you’ve just given birth. Hope I’m that lucky one day.”

  The kettle whistled a tune and billowed steam before automatically switching itself off. Maggie lifted the brushed-silver appliance and poured boiling water into the teapot. She set fresh cups, saucers, and side plates onto the tray. Royal Doulton with a rose pattern on the porcelain—an even smaller one inside the cup.

  “Do you want to take your son, and I’ll carry that to the living room for you?”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “I had a baby, not an amputation! You enjoy that little munchkin while you can. I know how excited you’ve been to see him, delaying your trip just so you could meet him. Speaking of, when are you leaving for Italy?”

  Jayne sucked in a breath, the enormity of reality hitting her like an unexpected wave. She shot another prayer to heaven. Was she doing the right thing? Had she misinterpreted the scripture God had given her merely to fulfill her own desires?

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Three

  JAYNE RUBBED THE SLEEP FROM her eyes with fisted fingers as her slippered feet padded across the cool tiles toward the large window in the lounge of her new one-bedroom apartment. In her other hand, she carried a freshly brewed cup of tea, eager for that first sip.

  She’d been so excited to snag a week’s accommodation in the beautiful stone country house, restored from the premises of an ancient village farm. With an incredible view, and not far from Buonconvento—the small medieval village Maggie h
ad told her about after Rose and Joseph’s wedding—it was the perfect place to stay. She couldn’t wait to explore the streets of the old Italian town. Maggie had said it was the prettiest place she’d ever seen before going on to mention that Joseph’s best man hailed from nearby. Jayne had stored that piece of information away in the not-so-dusty corners of her mind. For two long years.

  A crisp breeze wafted through the opening, bringing with it the strong scent of jasmine and a touch of wisteria—the perfumed flowers that filled the archways and pergolas in the gardens downstairs reminding her of a summer’s day in England. Already she missed home. Would she be able to stay in Italy forever?

  Jayne took a long, deep inhale and smiled. According to the receptionist, Brigida, the plants had bloomed a little earlier this year, thanks to the warmer weather.

  Warmer? In the daytime, sure. Definitely not at six thirty a.m. But she’d wanted to see her first Tuscan sunrise. Yesterday she’d been too tired, even missed breakfast, thanks to her early morning start the day before. Thankfully, she’d managed to get to Manchester in time to catch her midmorning flight. Then she’d driven from Florence to the middle of Tuscany—on the wrong side of the road, mind you. The result was that by the time she’d checked in and unpacked, she was totally exhausted.

  Jayne pulled the white terry cloth robe tighter around her body and sat down on the thick wall framing the open window. Eighteen inches at least on which to balance her derrière. She set the china down beside her which was a bright orange porcelain decorated with small, white, polka dots, then she lifted the cup. Leaning back against the wall, she gazed across the green hills, drinking in the view between sips. A misty haze clung to the grassy undulations, and above, God had washed the skies with delicate shades of pink and orange.