The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. The pain in his voice cut her like a razor.

  Reaching out, she took his hand. ‘You were the son he wanted. The son he loved. And if he protected you then it’s because he was your father and that was his job,’ she said, her longing to ease his pain giving emphasis to her words. ‘And I don’t think that’s why he didn’t ask you for help. With his reputation he could have gone to any number of people. But good men have their pride too.’

  His fingers squeezed hers. ‘You’re a wonderful person, Imma. And I hate how I’ve hurt you.’

  ‘That’s done. Finished. Forgotten.’ Lifting her hand, she stroked his cheek. ‘You’ve forgiven my father and I’ve forgiven you.’

  ‘I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I should have made Ciro wait. Let his anger cool. Then probably none of this would have happened. But I felt guilty—guilty that we’d lost our father because of me.’ His face creased. ‘And then I messed it up anyway.’

  Imma shook her head. ‘You didn’t mess it up. He did. Claudia heard him leaving you a message. I checked your phone afterwards, just to be certain. It was Ciro who messed up. Not you.’

  * * *

  Vicè stared at her in confusion.

  Ciro had messed up? He almost wanted to laugh.

  But then he caught sight of Imma’s face. Her green eyes were wide and worried, and—his heartbeat stalled—she was worried about him.

  ‘It doesn’t change anything.’ His chest felt tight. ‘It’s still on me, Imma. I was ashamed and angry with myself. But it was easier to blame your father, and that’s why I went along with everything. And now I’ve hurt you, and you’re having to live my charade too.’

  ‘Okay. But if you’re to blame, then so is Ciro,’ she said firmly. ‘And your father. And my father. They’re all responsible for their actions.’ She frowned. ‘And so am I. I’m not just a victim, and you’re not the villain.’

  Her eyes met his, and he felt something inside him loosen.

  ‘Everyone is a work in progress, Vicè. Every new day is a chance to start again and do better. And it’s being with you that’s taught me that. Maybe you need to accept that too, and let go of the past?’

  He stared at her, her words replaying inside his head, the rhythm of her voice soothing him. For the first time since his father’s death, maybe even before, he felt calm. The heaviness inside him that he hid so well was lifting.

  She was right. Before, everything had always seemed so fixed, so definite—his failings, his relationship with his father and Ciro—so that for years he’d just been blindly following the script. But already he knew that he had changed, and was still changing.

  Leaning forward, he tilted her face up to his and kissed her softly. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, Imma. You’re a remarkable woman, and I am so very sorry for how I hurt you.’

  Her eyes were bright. ‘I know. But I meant what I said. I really have forgiven you.’ She hesitated, her fingers trembling against his arms. ‘And that’s why I want you to have the business now. I don’t want to wait a year. When we get back to the villa I’ll sign it over to you.’

  He stared at her in stunned silence. It was the reason he had married her. He had turned his life upside down to pursue this very moment. Only now that it was here he realised he no longer cared about it.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  As the words left his mouth his body loosened, his shoulders lifted free of some invisible burden. Ciro could rage all he liked. He was done with revenge.

  Now it was her turn to stare. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He pulled her closer. ‘Getting even was never really my thing, cara. And anyway, I’m too good-looking to be the bad guy.’

  Watching her mouth curve into a smile, he felt a rush of relief. He’d hurt her, and he couldn’t change the past. But if he let her keep the business then he could at least look her in the eye.

  Only what did that mean for their ‘arrangement’?

  His pulse slowed. Theoretically, there was no reason for them to stay married. Or rather for him to stay married. But the thought of not waking up next to her made something tighten in his chest for one very obvious reason.

  He hadn’t finished with her, and he knew from the pulse beating in her throat that she felt the same way.

  His eyes locked with hers. ‘But I still want you to have this year. Actually, I want us both to have this year. We can work on ourselves.’ He smiled. ‘Or, better still, each other.’

  And at the end of the year she would leave and, having had his fill, he would go back to the life he loved. That, after all, was what he wanted—wasn’t it?

  Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed a bottle of water.

  ‘I’m going to top up the radiator—and then I think we should probably go and see my mother.’

  * * *

  Following his uncle Carlo through the beautiful fifteenth-century apartment, Vicè felt his heartbeat speed up. Carlo had reassured him that Audenzia was doing well, but after what had happened with his father he wanted to see her with his own eyes.

  ‘This way.’

  Carlo pulled open a door, stepping aside as a uniformed maid scurried past, blushing as she caught sight of Vicè.

  ‘They’re in the salon, and I should warn you that emotions are running high,’ he said dryly to Imma. ‘They both dote on Vicè—’

  Vicè grinned. ‘Understandably...’

  ‘Inexplicably was the word I was seeking.’ Carlo winked at Imma. ‘But when you walk in the room, mia cara, I fear that things could get quite out of hand.’

  ‘It’s what always happens to me,’ Vicè said softly, pretending to wince as Imma punched him on the arm.

  He glanced sideways into her beautiful face. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d had that conversation with her in the car. He had never talked about his relationship with his father to anyone. Never admitted his worst fears. Not even to Ciro or his mother.

  Especially not to Ciro or his mother.

  But talking to Imma had been so easy. She had listened and she hadn’t judged. She had talked gently and calmly, almost as if he’d been in some kind of accident.

  He certainly felt as if he’d been in one—except there were no physical injuries...just the pain of grief and the ache of loss.

  But now he felt lighter. She had helped reconcile the past for him, and for the first time in months he could think about his father without a suffocating rush of guilt or rage or misery.

  ‘Vicenzu, my darling boy. And Imma too—this is so wonderful!’

  The room was suddenly filled with noise, laughter and tears.

  ‘Come on, Mamma, don’t cry. I’m here now. These are for you, Zia Carmela.’ Kissing his aunt, he handed her some flowers, and then, crouching down, he kissed his mother on both cheeks. ‘And these are for you, Mamma,’ he said gently, his heart swelling with love and relief as she took the huge bunch of palest pink roses.

  Her ankle was a little swollen, and she looked pale, but she was still his mother—and she was smiling now as Imma stepped forward, also smiling shyly.

  ‘And here is my beautiful nuora. Imma, thank you so much for coming to see us. I really am so glad you came.’

  ‘Thank you, Signora Trapani—’

  ‘Mia cara, call me Audenzia, please. Now, come and sit next to me. Both of you. And you, Carmela. I want to hear all about your beautiful wedding, and of course see the photos. Carlo, will you take these flowers, per favore, and put them in water?’

  Lazing back in his seat, Vicè watched his mother scroll down through the pictures on his phone, clutching Imma’s hand and occasionally wiping away a tear. He felt relaxed, calm and happy. Life had never felt sweeter.

  ‘I would like a copy of this one, Vicenzu.’

  His mother was holding up his phone and, glancing at the photo, h
e felt his pulse stumble. It was a beautiful picture—a close-up, not a selfie. The registrar must have taken it. They were gazing into each other’s eyes and there was a sweetness in Imma’s face that made him want to pull her into his arms right now and hold her close.

  And apologise. Again.

  How could he have married her in that two-bit way? He’d let her wear that same dress she’d worn to her sister’s wedding and exchanged vows with her in a ceremony that had lasted only slightly longer than it would have taken to open a bottle of Prosecco.

  That photo was a beautiful lie, and he was ashamed of being a part of it, but he was even more ashamed of having made her part of it too.

  ‘And this one, too. You look just like when you were a little boy. I have a photo in one of my albums...’

  ‘Maybe after lunch, Mamma,’ he said, smiling mechanically at Carlo’s expression of despair.

  As Carmela led Imma away, to show her the rest of the apartment, his mother took his arm and gave it a quick squeeze.

  ‘I know you must have wanted to give her a more special day, babà. But you were in a rush—I understand.’

  But she didn’t. Not really. He’d seen his parents’ wedding album and, although their day had clearly not been as over the top as Ciro and Claudia’s, it had been undeniably romantic.

  He felt sick with remorse. For a fraction of a second he was glad for the first time that his father was not alive to bear witness to his incompetence and insensitivity.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamma—’ he began, but his mother shook her head.

  ‘For what? Falling in love and wanting your life with Imma to start as soon as possible?’ Her eyes were gentle and loving. ‘You will make every day from now on special. And you are so simpatico together. I wish your father was here to see the two of you. He would be so very happy, and so proud of the man you have become. A man who can love and be loved in return—isn’t that how the song goes?’ She patted his cheek. ‘He loved that song.’

  He smiled down at her, but inside he could feel something tearing. It was crazy, but he kept forgetting that he and Imma were not a real couple. Watching her with his mother and aunt, he’d almost forgotten that theirs was a marriage of convenience not love.

  Only now his mother was praising him for something he hadn’t done, something he wasn’t capable of doing, and he felt guilt and panic unfurl inside him.

  He knew what his father had wanted him to be. But he wasn’t that man and nor could he ever be him. And besides, in the long-term Imma wanted her freedom. They both did.

  ‘Oh, Carlo, you clever man! How perfect!’ Audenzia looked up at her brother-in-law, her eyes sparkling like the glass of Prosecco he had handed her. ‘A toast to my darling son and his beautiful bride. To Vicenzu and Imma. Cent’ anni!’

  * * *

  A hundred years.

  It was just a toast, Imma told herself, glancing at the hibiscus flower at the bottom of her glass of Prosecco. But every time she remembered Audenzia’s joyful words she felt a sharp nip of guilt. And something else—something she couldn’t quite place.

  They had just finished lunch on the balcony overlooking the garden. The food had been sublime and the view was incredible, but she kept losing concentration, her mind returning like a homing pigeon to that moment when Vicè had held up his glass and toasted their marriage.

  As his eyes had met hers she’d forgotten to breathe, much less raise her glass. But it wasn’t those few shared half seconds that were making her heart pound—it was the memory of that half hour in the car, when he had let his mask slip and needed her for something more than sex.

  Audenzia reached out and took her hand. ‘Now, Imma, I love my boy, but he has a few tiny faults. He can’t have too much red wine. It makes him grumpy.’

  Vicè rolled his eyes. ‘I’m still here, you know!’

  ‘And he puts too much of that product in his hair.’

  Imma giggled.

  ‘And I’m still here.’ Shaking his head, Vicè grimaced.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be. Go with Carmela and get my albums. We must show Imma all the photos before you leave.’

  ‘Must we?’ Groaning, he stood up. ‘This is just a ruse to get me out of the room, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’ His mother smiled. ‘We want to talk about you in private. Now, go.’ She turned to Imma, her eyes sparkling. ‘It’s important to keep a man on his toes.’ She sighed. ‘If only I could show you the garden.’

  Imma followed her gaze. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not my efforts. Carlo is the gardener—the same as my Alessandro. He could grow anything. That’s why he bought the estate on Sicily.’

  Imma managed to keep smiling but her chest felt tight, and maybe something of what she was feeling showed in her face, because Audenzia reached over and patted her hand.

  ‘Oh, child, don’t be upset. I loved my life there, but Florence is where I grew up, and I’m happy to be back here. It was different for Alessandro. It was in his blood...in his heart. Vicenzu feels the same way.’

  Imma stared at her in confusion. Did he? He had never so much as hinted that was how he felt about the estate. On the contrary, he seemed to love his life at La Dolce Vita.

  ‘Did he ever want to take it over?’

  ‘When he was a little boy it was all he talked about. And of course Alessandro wanted that too. But he didn’t want to put pressure on him.’ Her smile faded. ‘Vicenzu idolised his father, only I don’t think he ever believed he could step into his shoes so he stopped trying. But Alessandro would be delighted to know the business is still in the family. And to know that Vicenzu has met and married you.’ She squeezed Imma’s hand. ‘You’ve seen who he really is and you love him.’

  Imma nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

  She had agreed automatically but her heart swelled as she spoke, opening like the petals of the hibiscus flower in her glass, and with a shock she realised that she wasn’t lying or pretending.

  She loved Vicè.

  Stunned, disbelieving, she repeated the words in her head.

  It was true.

  Her heart beat a little faster.

  And maybe...possibly...he might feel the same way about her.

  Okay, he had never said he loved her, but perhaps, like her, it hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps all he needed was someone to point it out to him.

  * * *

  The drive back to Portofino was quicker and quieter than the trip down.

  Fixing his eyes on the road, Vicè was aware that he wasn’t saying much. But Imma hadn’t noticed. In fact, she seemed distracted, wrapped up in her own thoughts, and that was fine.

  There had been enough drama for one day.

  The villa felt quiet, almost subdued after the laughter and chatter of Florence, and it fed into his mood so that he felt oddly flattened as he walked up to the bedroom. Maybe a swim would help. Or a drink.

  ‘Do you want some wine?’ He turned towards Imma, smiling. ‘You look like I feel, cara. What we need is a couple of late nights.’

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and the heaviness in his chest seemed to swell and press against his ribs.

  ‘I’m teasing. I know you’re tired. I am too. It was a long day.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not that. I want to go back to Sicily with you.’

  He felt a rush of relief. Of course. That was why she was on edge. Seeing his mother had made her homesick. But it was easily fixed. He wasn’t willing to see Cesare, but he could visit friends while she saw her father.

  ‘That’s fine. We can fly back tomorrow. We can stay for a couple of days—’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t mean for a visit. I want to move back. To live there. With you.’

  ‘That would be a hell of a commute,’ he said lightly.

  Glancing down, he saw t
he tension, the hope in her eyes, and felt his stomach clench.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘I suppose it was seeing your mamma. It made me think about things...about what we’re doing...’

  He felt suddenly short of breath. ‘I know it’s hard, having to pretend. I hated lying to her too.’

  ‘But that’s just it. I wasn’t lying,’ she said slowly.

  His heart was beating out of time. ‘I don’t understand—’

  Except he did. He knew what she was saying even if she hadn’t said the words—he could read it in her eyes.

  Looking down into her face, he felt a sudden rush of panic. Her eyes were wide with hope, with trust.

  With love.

  ‘You said you’d give me a year so I could find out what I wanted. But I don’t need a year, Vicè. I already know what I want. I want us to go back to Sicily together.’

  He held her gaze. ‘I have a business here—a life. I can’t just go back to Sicily.’

  ‘I thought we could run your father’s business together.’

  Once upon a time that had been his dream. For a fraction of a second he saw the warm olive groves in his head...could almost feel the dry ground beneath his feet. And then he pictured his father’s face, the reassuring smile that hid the disappointment in his heart. He couldn’t face seeing that same disappointment on Imma’s face.

  ‘I don’t want to do that, cara. That’s why I live here.’

  She looked confused—no, more than confused...crushed.

  ‘But... I just... I thought you—We—Your mother—’

  He shook his head. ‘My mother misses the past. She misses my father. But I’m not my father.’

  He felt suddenly furious with Imma. Why was she doing this? Saying these things. Everything had been just fine. Why did she have mess it up?

  ‘I love my life as it is,’ he said stiffly.

  She jerked back, as though he had hit her, and he knew that her pain was as real as if he had hit her. He knew because the pain in his chest hurt so badly it was making him feel ill.