Those Blue Tuscan Skies

by Marion Ueckermann

  “I got your gift, Rachel.” His frosty words could’ve had icicles dangling from them.

  “My gift? I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do, cousin. A gift so similar one to the ones you sent Nonna, Ric, and Piero. Except this time the painting is a woman who bears a strong resemblance to you.”

  “You got a painting too?” There was a momentary pause. “What? Wait…you think I’ve been sending the paintings? How could you even imagine I’d do that?” Gone was the soft-spoken voice he’d come to know. Her scorching tone could melt anything he’d said so far. And he wished it had. He should’ve waited for more proof against Rachel before confronting her. He should have paced that floor longer.

  “I don’t have time for this,” she said. Rafaele could almost feel the flames licking at his ear.

  He’d made a mistake letting her know his suspicions now.

  “Rachel, wait. Let me call you back—this call’s costing you. And please, promise me you’ll answer.”

  The line went dead. Rafaele could only hope she’d pick up when he dialed.

  After several rings, the call connected.

  “You need to make this quick. I have a class starting soon, and I need to prepare.”

  Had he just undone everything he’d accomplished these past few weeks to connect with her?

  “Rachel, I–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have even thought it.”

  “I can’t believe you’d think I could be so cruel as to paint images to vex your family, drive you crazy wondering where they came from.”

  “Our family,” he corrected. So she still had no sense of belonging.

  “Why would I waste my time trying to find the artist who painted Nonna, Piero, and Ric’s paintings, if I’m the one supposedly sending them?”

  “Again, Rachel, I am so, so sorry. I’ve no way to make this up to you except to ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Your family”—he didn’t miss the emphasis—“seems to make a habit of treating me in ways that need forgiveness. I really do have to go.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” How many apologies did that make? He needed to stop apologizing. He would do one more though—flowers or chocolates. Maybe…no probably, both.

  “Thanks for taking my call. I’ll send you a photograph of the painting that was sent to me. And again, I do apologize.” If it did come to light that Rachel was the serial painter, he could always retract that apology.

  For now, if she was innocent, he needed her expertise to help discover who was sending their family these paintings. Like it or not, they were her family too.

  And if she was responsible, the truth would come out sometime, somehow. Truth had a way of doing that.

  “Fine.”

  “Ciao, Rachel.”

  With a muttered farewell, Rachel cut the call.

  Rafaele dropped his phone on the bed. Hopefully those chocolates and flowers he planned to send Rachel would go a little way to sweetening his cousin toward him again.

  He slid to the floor beside his bed and buried his head in his hands. What was wrong with him lately? His actions had been so out of character. Too much sun the past few weeks?

  He reached up and stretched his arm across the bedcovers until his fingers found the small white card. He stared at it. Lost Love.

  He had to win Jayne back. Whether she was still in Tuscany or not.

  But there was another’s love that was lost to him.

  Rafaele curled onto his knees, and a loud sob slowly bubbled up from within until it spilled from his lips. “Oh, Father…”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  HIS HEART SPENT YET RENEWED, Rafaele finally dragged himself off the floor. He managed a slow walk to the window and eased the curtain open. The sun sat way higher in the sky than when he’d entered the house for breakfast. Just how long had he spent praying, repenting?

  A smile brushed his lips. Mammà must be smiling down from heaven. This is what she would have wanted for each of their lives when she’d walked hand in hand with him and Ric to church every Sunday morning, and then waved them off to Sunday school. At least two of her children had pleased her in finding faith—Ric and Sienna. And now he understood the grace and mercy of God, thanks to Jayne’s guidance over the past month. Without a doubt God had brought her into his life. Please keep her there, Father.

  Now only their little sister remained to surrender her life to Jesus. But Rafaele knew with his prayers added to Ric and Sienna’s, God would bring Alessa to that place in her life too. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

  He moved to the small washbasin in the corner of the room, turned on the cold tap, and cupped his hands beneath the stream. His palms filled with water. He splashed his face and prayed the cool liquid would soothe away the redness and swelling.

  Rafaele stared at his once soft lawyer hands, now stained from the earth and tanned from the sun. Cuts and callouses marred his fingers, but strangely he didn’t mind. He loved working in the outdoors. His hands seemed more manly now anyway. He glanced at himself in the mirror and gave a wry smile. So Papà was right after all—Villa Rossi was his destiny, just as it had been his father’s. But what was it all worth if he didn’t have Jayne to share it with?

  He knew what he needed to do.

  After a quick shower, Rafaele dressed. Twice. First time the shorts and T-shirt felt too casual for what he was about to undertake. He switched the shorts for a pair of white chinos, kept the white V-neck T-shirt, but donned a light cotton jacket in a dove gray. Hair combed back, cologne splashed onto his neck and cheeks, he was almost ready. Only one more thing to do.

  He rolled the painting up and pushed it back into the tube that had kept it safe. He dropped the card inside then pressed the lid back on the end of the tube.

  The tube under his arm, he strode down to the other end of the passage and slipped into his father’s room. Sitting down on the bed, he rested his hand on the pedestal that had once been his father’s. He hesitated. Should he first ask Nonna? He wanted to surprise her though, and she had said after Papà died, what belonged to his father was now his because he was the oldest son and the only one still living close to Villa Rossi.

  The drawer gave a soft creak as he pulled it open. There, tucked between velvet inside the small black box, was what he’d come for. The same place it had been for over two decades, since his mammà died. He flipped open the lid, and the stones glittered inside.

  Rafaele removed the box and shoved it inside his pants’ pocket, then left.

  He tiptoed down the staircase, detouring past the kitchen to grab a croissant, sans the gelato. He needed to get something into his stomach without the dripping mess. Wouldn’t do to try and eat a gelato-filled croissant in the car, or even on the way to the car.

  Munching on the soft pastry, he grabbed a shopping bag from behind the pantry door and placed four bottles of olive oil inside.

  The croissant was long gone before Rafaele had taken ten steps outside. Maybe he could’ve had the gelato filling after all. He should’ve taken two, but at least he wouldn’t stand before Jayne with a rumbling stomach. If she was even still in Tuscany after all this time.

  Tossing the tube onto the spare seat, Rafaele slid behind the wheel onto the cool leather. He started the engine, praying his hunch was right and that God would help him make Jayne understand why he’d done what he’d done, said what he’d said.

  The drive to the hotel where Jayne had previously stayed had never seemed to take so long, or been filled with so many prayers. Please let her be here, Lord. He could have called her, or Brigida, but he didn’t want to scare Jayne away.

  Heart thumping against his ribs, he entered the reception area. Nobody there. He hadn’t seen Jayne’s car in the parking lot either. Hopefully she was only out, and not already back home in England. What if he was too late? What if she had caught the first flight home after leaving Villa Rossi? If she had, he’d just have to follow her clear across the English Channel. And
this time he’d think nothing of calling Joseph and Rose and asking for their help to find her.

  He strolled toward the outside dining area where he spotted Brigida frantically waiting on the tables under the large pergola shaded by wisteria. The bag with the bottles of olive oil dangled from his fingers, the tube tucked safely under his arm.

  Seeing Rafaele, Brigida smiled and waved. She hurried over to him. “Rafaele, ciao.” She kissed him on the left cheek, then the right.

  “Ciao.” He handed the bag of olive oil to her.

  Brigida glanced inside, a smile lighting her face. “For me?”

  “And your mammà.”

  “Grazie mille.” She gave a small curtsy.

  Rafaele tipped his head. “Prego.” His gaze roamed across the guests seated at the tables before moving toward the restaurant. He craned his neck to see inside. Nowhere did the head of that beautiful blond catch his eye.

  A soft chuckle from Brigida drew his attention back to her. “Looking for someone?”

  “Uh—”

  “She’s down beside the pool, reading. I was beginning to think I might need to call you. But I didn’t want to play God. What took you so long? One more day and you would have arrived here too late.” She shook her head and smiled. “But, I would never have let that happen.”

  Rafaele grasped her hands. “Grazie mille, Brigida.” And thank you, Lord.

  With a smile stretched across his face, Rafaele spun around and rushed toward the stairs leading to the bottom terrace of the garden and the pool.

  The staircase was wide and tunnel-like, the entrance hanging thick with jasmine. A glorious aroma assailed his senses as he entered the tunnel beneath the tiny, white blossoms. The flowers at the exit hung just as thick and offered the same wonderful scent.

  Rafaele stared ahead as he took the last step, spotting the small cream Fiat 500 with its red roof. So that’s why he hadn’t seen her car in the parking above. He cut through the grassed area then under another wisteria-laden pergola, finally emerging through the entrance to the pool area. Stretched out on a sun lounger under a large umbrella lay Jayne.

  He tiptoed up to Jayne and quietly sank into the lounger beside her, setting the tube down next to him on the cushion.

  Jayne didn’t budge. Her eyes were closed, and the e-reader laid against her chest, her fingers barely holding on to the device. She wore the same cherry-print dress she’d worn the day they met again over her flat tire. Had she been hoping he would come? Had she wanted them to go back to the beginning?

  For a long time he just stared at her. So beautiful and peaceful. Hopefully anything he had to say and do wouldn’t upset the serenity she’d seemed to have found in this place. He yearned to take her into his arms once again but resisted. He would show her he was different from the man she’d left a week ago.

  Her fingers relaxed a little more, and the e-reader slid toward her arm. If he didn’t catch it, the device might flip off the cushion and land on the hard terracotta tiles below.

  Rafaele leaned forward and rescued her e-reader.

  Jayne stirred with the action, her eyes flickering open. She turned her head toward him, squinting her eyes.

  “Rafaele.” Her voice was thick with confusion and sleep. She pushed upright and stretched her eyes wide, exhaustion dragging them shut again for a moment. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

  Going down on one knee beside her, he said, “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness. I can’t live without you, cara mia. You are my world.”

  Rafaele dug into his pocket and produced the black box. He flipped the lid open to the half-carat, princess-cut, paisley diamond ring. Filigree detailing edged by a fine milgrain design and encrusted with two round diamonds in between decorated the platinum band. One thing to be said about his father—the man had excellent taste in jewelry. But would Jayne love it as much as his mother had? She’d worked for an extremely popular and talented jeweler in England who had of late crafted jewelry for the English aristocrats.

  Jayne gasped and her hands cupped her mouth. “Are you… p–proposing?”

  Smiling, Rafaele nodded. He removed the ring from its dark, velvety bed and slid it onto her finger. “Jayne Austin, will you marry me?”

  She gazed at the ring, seemingly overwhelmed by his proposition.

  “I hope you like it,” Rafaele said. He choked. “I–it was my mother’s.”

  “It’s beautiful. Really. I love it. But I don’t know if I can marry you. You don’t want children, and I do. How can I compromise on that dream?”

  Rafaele clasped her hands between his. “But I do want children, cara mia. Lots of them. I want the walls of Villa Rossi to echo with their screams and laughter. Hopefully my sons will work the land beside me as they grow up and our daughters will learn to make pasta from their mammà.”

  Jayne giggled. “I have to first learn how to make pasta.”

  “Maria will be more than happy to teach you, as will I, cara mia. But unlike my father, I won’t force my will upon our children. Together, we’ll encourage them to follow their hearts and their dreams.” He squeezed her fingers. “With God beside me, I’m not afraid anymore.”

  He bowed his head and shook it slowly from side to side before gazing up at her again.

  “Oh Jayne, so much has happened to me since you left. I was such a fool last week. I only said I didn’t want children because I was so afraid of doing to them what my father did to me and my siblings. So afraid of being just like him.

  “But Nonna assured me that I’m nothing like my papà, that the reason I felt the way I did was merely amore, that’s all.”

  Jayne cupped a hand to his cheek, and a softness melted her gaze as her eyes searched his. “It is amore, Rafaele. I feel it too. But what brought about this sudden change?”

  A low rumble bubbled from his chest, spilling into a laugh. “Nonna made me see the error of my thinking and my ways, although it took me a week to process and accept what she’d said. Then early this morning, this painting arrived.” He reached to the side and retrieved the tube. He removed the painting as well as the card, which he handed to Jayne.

  She lifted the card and read, “Lost Love. An interesting title. Can I see the painting?”

  With a nod, Rafaele unrolled the artwork.

  “That is so beautiful. B–but the woman—” Jayne traced the painting, and the diamonds on her ring finger glistened in the sunlight. Rafaele’s heart swelled at the sight. She just had to say yes.

  “Looks so like Rachel, doesn’t she?”

  Jayne nodded. “The resemblance is unmistakable. You don’t think she—”

  He shrugged. “It’s hard to know. But I have faith the truth will eventually surface. Let’s not concern ourselves about that for now. Whoever sent me this painting actually did me a favor.” Just like they had Nonna, Ric, and Piero. “When I saw this and read the card, it hit me that I didn’t want to lose your love. But more importantly, I realized there was another’s love I desperately needed in my life. I might have grown up with not much of a father, but from today, cara mia, I will live the rest of my life secure in the love of my Father in heaven.”

  Jayne began to weep. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Rafaele’s neck. Her tears moistened his skin.

  “Amore mio, I have been praying so hard for you to realize that. God is so faithful and good to answer my prayers.” She pulled back. “Yes, Rafaele. A million times, yes.”

  “Yes you will marry me, or yes you forgive me?”

  She feigned thought. “What day is it today?”

  He gave a nervous laugh. “Tuesday.” Where was she going with this?

  “Did you know that I was born on a Tuesday?”

  He didn’t.

  “And Tuesday’s child is full of grace, isn’t she?”

  “Sì.”

  “So yes, I forgive you—how can I not?” She smoothed a palm over his cheek. “And yes, I will marry you.”

  Ra
faele drew her into his kiss. She didn’t resist.

  “When?” He breathed out the words, eager for the day they would forever seal their union.

  “Soon, I hope. After all, I’m only human too, with the same wants and desires as you, Rafaele.” Her gaze roamed his face. “And I do so desire you, amore mio.”

  Jayne’s mouth curved into that gorgeous smile he’d come to love. “Besides, we wouldn’t want that new mattress of yours to become saggy on one side.”

  “No, we wouldn’t. How about the end of September when everyone comes home for the harvest and festivals? That way all my siblings and cousins can be there too.”

  “I think I can wait. It’s less than four months away—not so long. And enough time to have my mother’s wedding dress sent over from England.”

  Yes!

  “If you like, we could get married under the pergola by the pool. Perhaps a morning wedding?” Rafaele suggested. “The weather is beautiful that time of the year.”

  “I love that idea. But we’d need to keep it small and intimate—your family only. And Brigida. So how about only my father comes from England so that he can walk me down the aisle, and then a few weeks later, we can do a small church wedding in England with my friends?

  “Anything you want, cara mia. Anything. But we should invite my best friend, Joseph, and Rose. Maybe their daughter, Rosannah, could be a flower girl?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, amore mio. But for now, all I want is to remind you that this is amore.”

  And she did. Over and over, with every kiss.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  No book is possible without a certain group of special people who help an author in so many different ways. So I’d like to acknowledge and thank a few people.

  We know that true perfection only exists in the life to come—but this book is as close to faultless because of the following wonderful ladies:

  My crit partners, Jan and Clare—you make my rough words shine; my writing is so much richer for your polishing.