Valentine Kisses

by Reina M. Williams

  Chapter Five

  Vincente had said his goodbyes. He didn’t know what the heck was going on with Gina and her parents, but the tension between them was clear especially since she’d run out halfway through dinner after that sharp remark from her father. And Vincente still didn’t know what she had against his family.

  He stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun blazed against the horizon, illuminating the city with fiery colors. Gina, in that red dress... He shook his head. She, like the sun, would burn him if he got to close. But, dang, the heat felt good. Forget it. He was used to the cold.

  He rolled his shoulders and strode up the street. As he unhooked the side gate at home, he stopped, sensing he wasn’t alone. He turned his head. Gina rushed toward him. She got in his face. He stood still, tensing and releasing his arms. Her eyes showed hurt, not fear or anger, and her hands trembled.

  “Keep your family away from mine. I know what you’re up to.” Her voice cracked, as if she held back tears.

  There wasn’t any point in saying anything. She wouldn’t believe him right now, no matter what he said, and he wasn’t going to get the truth out of her. Not yet.

  “Do you hear me?” Her breathing, heavy with the pungent tang of wine, quickened, her chest rising and falling in an erratic pattern.

  He walked past her and down the path. Her footsteps sounded behind him. She grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t ignore me,” she shouted.

  He faced her. “I’m not trying to, and I’m here if you want to talk, without shouting.” Her behavior seemed erratic, volatile, unlike how he remembered her. He understood she might be upset about the way her father spoke to her, and possibly more he didn’t know, but Vincente’s empathy didn’t stretch to being the recipient of her misplaced anger.

  She released his arm, a frustrated grunt accompanying her movement.

  “I don’t like that kind of touch,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone even. Vincente didn’t want Gina hurt any more than she already was, and she might be if he couldn’t be kind, and if anyone else found out she’d been here. “We can talk inside if you like, and you don’t do that again.”

  Her frown and stiff features told him she was still upset. She closed her eyes. “I get angry. I’m sorry I crossed your boundaries. And for last night. I wasn’t at my best.” Sincerity, and an edge of self-recrimination, modulated her tone. She opened her eyes. Her gaze searched his for a moment.

  He looked at her full-on. Her even, strong features shone even more with her vulnerability. The teary sheen in her eyes squeezed his heart. Jasmine scented the air and mingled with her sea-tinged perfume. Some of the tightness in his shoulders and arms dissipated.

  She was beautiful. He wanted her, to know what she thought about, her emotions, what made up the contours of her soul. More than anything, he wanted to be close to her. He was crossing some boundaries too. “I’m sorry too, for touching you last night without asking, and I wasn’t at my best either. Can we start over?”

  Her gaze flickered, a gleam of tears shimmering. The sun dipped behind clouds as evening pressed in. Soft lights shone, illuminating the large old cream-colored house, with its Spanish-style architecture and lush California landscaping: citrus trees, palms, low grasses and flowers popping bright against the mellow color of the exterior. Home. An impulse to share it with Gina barreled into him, and this time he acted on it.

  “Want to talk? Let’s go into the kitchen here. You talk, I’ll listen. Half an hour. I’ll even throw in a coffee, if you like.”

  “Rather have tea,” she mumbled, not angrily, but as if she were too emotional to speak out.

  “Tea it is.” He ushered her in. She walked through the door.

  They entered the kitchen. Gina stopped, admiring the large Viking range shining in the long, clean room. Stainless steel appliances and vast counters and cabinets must appeal to the baker in her. This kitchen was twice the size of the tiny commercial kitchen in the back of North Beach Bakery, where her grandma Celeste turned out batches of breads and cookies.

  He set a kettle on the stove and prepped the espresso pot for himself. He needed a double shot to handle this situation. No more whiskey shots, that much was sure.

  “What kind of tea?”

  “Black with a squeeze of lemon if you have it.”

  “Sure, trees have produced well this year.”

  “Must be nice, having your own garden.” She sounded wistful.

  He went about getting mugs and even set out a plate of her grandma’s cookies. Might be helpful to have Celeste here, if only in spirit via her cookies. After perusing the rest of the kitchen, Gina slid into one of the chairs at the table. At least she seemed to have calmed down again, her breathing steady, and her hands resting in her lap. Her hair curled loosely, one strand dipping over her shoulder. He shot his gaze back to the tea kettle, willing it to boil. It whistled, and he made their drinks. After placing their mugs on the table, he sat with her.

  “So, how do you expect me to keep my family away from yours, and why?”

  “I don’t know.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I was angry, that’s all.”

  “We established that. I don’t appreciate being the recipient of your anger.”

  She blew on her tea before she sipped it. Her hand trembled. “Fair enough.”

  “We both apologized, so I’m not trying to give you grief. You said I was up to something—what would that be?”

  “I... We don’t need your family’s money. Tell Enzo that we can handle our own business.”

  “Tell him yourself. Is that really what this is all about?”

  She shrugged. As if her lashing out, as if her overblown statements were no big deal. Maybe in her mind they weren’t, or maybe some people in her life had participated with her in that kind of drama, but he wanted no part of it. He knew lots of men who’d put up with anything from a woman as beautiful as she, but not him. And she deserved his best as well.

  “Did you want to talk?” He sipped his espresso.

  She fingered the plate of her grandma’s cookies. One of the cookies had broken, its white and red dust flaked on the plate. Touching it with her finger, she bowed her head.

  “Sorry, I’m just confused, upset. Everything feels shattered, with my family. Please, I can’t talk to them.” Her voice held tears and she pressed her hands to her eyes as if to stop them from flowing.

  With an intake of breath, he eased closer to her. “Who can you talk to?”

  She shrugged again, but this time, it was weary and hopeless.

  “Why not Joey? He’s been in the middle of this Bianchi-Marchesi stuff his whole life.”

  She leaned her head on her arm, stretched along the table, her other hand wiping her eyes. “Can’t. He’s got enough going on, you know? Firefighters have enough stress.”

  “Yeah.” But why him? If she had such a problem with his family, like her dad did, there were so many other people she could talk to. Except he couldn’t think who. Everyone had something going on, or was out of town. She probably didn’t have friends left here, either, she’d been away so long. He searched his memory.

  “What about your friends? Cam? Or Father Grihalva?” He reached for some answer.

  She shook her head. Her makeup smeared slightly around her eyes. He wanted to gently clean her face for her, memorize each contour of her, take care of her, see the truth of her. But that would be too intimate.

  She heaved a breath. “Cam’s out of town, out of touch. I’ve been so focused on my career...I thought that would make me happy.”

  Kind of like he’d thought his marriage would make him happy. It hadn’t.

  She needed a friend. He locked away his feelings for her. “I can listen.”

  She shook her head again. Then what did she want?

  Her shoulders began to shake. He reached out to her, but she couldn’t see as she sobbed quietly. His stomach contracted, as if he’d been punched. He scooted his chair next to hers and touched her shoulder, car
essing her hair with his other hand.

  “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.” He didn’t know what to say. What she needed to hear. He wanted to make it okay for her—he knew somehow it would be okay. He just didn’t know how to get her there. He wanted to help, he wanted her to be happy, wanted to see her smile, like she had last night when she’d been wading in the water.

  She pushed herself up, her sobs becoming sniffles. He moved his hands to the table. She squeezed his hand. He wanted to kiss her fingers, caress her cheeks, take away the bitterness of her tears. Instead, when she moved her hand, he let his hands fall to his sides. Taking a few hiccupping breaths, she steadied. “You don’t know it’ll be okay.”

  She closed her eyes. He wanted more than anything to make this right for her. To spend this day, a day to celebrate romance, with her. But he couldn’t make that leap when she was distraught. He shouldn’t. “It’s okay right now. Just us. We’ve both gotten through worse than this, right?” He pressed his hand over hers.

  She gazed at him, the look in her deep brown eyes sweet and tender. She nodded. “You understand. Just us,” she murmured. “Grandpa Frank, he was our anchor, and Uncle Raf, brought so much joy.”

  He edged closer, his knees enclosing hers, their chests inches apart. Was that her heart or his beating faster? “They were good people. You miss them. It hurts, when you know if they were here, things might be different, less strife.”

  “Yes. You feel that, about your parents?” She blinked and met his gaze, her eyes shining with tears. What did she see in his eyes? Whatever it was, she looked down, her cheeks pink.

  “Yes. Can I kiss your cheek?” he asked. She nodded. He pressed his lips, a featherweight touch, to her cheek, tasted the salt of her tears on his lips as he pulled back.

  He closed his eyes. He’d already told himself she wasn’t for him. This moment with her tested that, and he had to consider her needs. To get romantic with her wouldn’t be right, not now, when she’d been crying only moments ago.

  “Would a hug help?” he asked, his chest still thumping.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks, then shook her head. Had he presumed too much?

  “I don’t want to pressure you,” he said. “If you need a friend, I’m here.” He pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her.

  She scooted back and stood, taking the cloth before pressing her hands near her hips, rubbing as if it were a sore spot. “Okay. Sure.” Her voice was so quiet, he couldn’t tell how she felt. She took her purse from the chair she’d set it in. “I’d better get going, or I won’t hear the end of it.” Now her voice was flat, as if she tried to hide any emotion. She wiped under her eyes then slid the balled-up handkerchief into her purse.

  He rose, holding out his hand to her. She didn’t take it, but gave him a small smile. The pain in her expression hit his chest more heavily than when she’d pushed his arm away earlier. Guiding her out, he followed her to the door.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “Anytime. You know where I am.” Too bad she didn’t seem to know who he was—she seemed hung up on his family name and her own family dynamics. He shook his head. He wasn’t being kind. Maybe she’d been really hurt, had reasons to mistrust. His arms ached to hold her, his ears burning to hear her thoughts, her feelings. “Uh...Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Sure. You too. See you around.”

  Night shrouded the city, the lights a false guard against the darkness.

  “Need a ride home?” He shouldn’t let her leave like this, her posture defeated, her steps slow.

  She shook her head. “I can make it on my own.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He didn’t—he wanted to be with her, he wanted her to need him. But that was pointless. Nothing could or should happen between them. They were too different—he ordered, she impulsive—and her father wouldn’t accept him, even if she would. She wasn’t the woman for him, and the sooner he drilled that into his head, the better.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  He watched her walk away, the gate clanging behind her. Then he couldn’t see her anymore. And that was for the best.

  Chapter Six

  Gina dried the last lunch dish her mom handed to her, again searching Mom’s look to see if she’d guessed her secret. Mom had saved the red rose Vincente had given Gina and placed it in a bud vase on Gina’s dresser, which she’d noticed once she’d returned home yesterday. But that was just Mom, who, in this case, seemed to want to encourage her and Vincente to get to know each other. After the weepy mess she’d become last night and their date disaster, Gina had no faith there could be anything between her and Vincente.

  She wished his gestures meant more, but he was probably just being kind. When he’d offered her his hankie, she’d practically swooned, but, again, it was mere kindness. This morning, she’d washed and pressed it, ready to return the square of cloth to Vincente, despite the impulse to keep it as a remembrance. She patted it in her pocket.

  Her father paced in the living room, his footsteps heavy and controlled. She hung the towel and faced the living room, crowded with furniture and knick-knacks. It seemed like weeks, yet she’d only been home since last week. And only yesterday, she’d been almost in Vincente’s arms, his hands in hers, his lips on her skin... She sighed and stopped the replay of what had, strangely, been the most romantic Valentine’s Day weekend of her life. All because of Vincente and his caring, his presence. But her feeling romantic about it was just her; Vincente was just a caring person. He had no special feeling for her. She drew in a breath and let it go.

  “Frank, please sit,” Grandma Celeste said. She set down her knitting. “We’ll all talk now. Shouldn’t Michael be here?”

  “I’m here, Gram,” Michael said as he jogged in the door. He pushed his light brown hair off his forehead. Waving to their dad, he kissed Grandma. She patted his cheek.

  Gina leaned on the doorframe, open between the kitchen and living room. She smoothed her skirt and tee shirt. Michael turned and spotted her.

  “Hey, sis.” He smiled, walked over and hugged her. She patted his back, breaking the hug. He gave her his lopsided smile. He looked younger than twenty-three. But he acted older. He’d always been the reliable, cheerful one, people’s favorite—hers too.

  Dad plopped into his favorite armchair. Gina followed Michael to the couch. Mom joined them, sandwiching Gina between her and Michael. Grandma took up her knitting again. The light from the window behind her shone around her silver hair like a halo. Gina wanted to go sit at her feet and hold her yarn for her, like she had when she was a little girl. But those days were gone. Soon Grandma would be gone from this house—nothing would ever be the same. Nothing ever was. Her chest ached. Grandma leaving, getting married again... How was she going to find that childhood world that she longed for?

  “Frank,” Mom said. Here it came: the bomb about the Bianchis. And Gina didn’t even have any real reason to object to the idea. “I know how you feel about the Bianchis—”

  Dad snorted. Grandma’s knitting needles clacked faster. Gina clasped her hands tightly.

  “But, we’re all going to be family. We already are, really. Sophia has been married to Carlo thirty years—she’s a Bianchi. So, our nephew Joey and niece Janetta are too, in a way. You’ve accepted all of them. Why can’t you accept Enzo?” Mom glanced from Dad to Grandma.

  “Mom,” Dad said to Grandma. “Aren’t you going to speak for yourself? You three go, so I can talk to my mother.” He waved a hand at Mom, Gina, and Michael.

  “Don’t you try to dismiss me, Frank,” Mom said.

  Gina rubbed her mouth to keep her smile from showing. It was good to know Mom had grown a backbone with Dad. Dad crossed his arms and sat taller in the chair.

  “Maybe you and I should speak alone, Frank,” Mom continued.

  “No, just go ahead,” Dad said. “If it concerns the store, like you said, it concerns us all. Wish you wouldn’t bring those
frickin’ Bianchis into everything.”

  “Francis Alfonso Marchesi Junior!” Grandma said in a quiet, firm voice. She set aside her knitting. “If your father could hear you...it’s enough I do. I am marrying Enzo in a month, whether you like it or not. I had hoped you would see reason, at least, but I’ll pray for a miracle instead.”

  “Me, see reason?” Dad ground out. He gritted his teeth. “You’re the one who doesn’t see—”

  “Enzo is a good man,” Mom said. “He’s offered to give us the money to save the business.”

  Dad sprang up. “At what price? I won’t have it!”

  “Dad,” Michael said. “Let’s at least listen to any proposal he might have. Gina’s business plan is great, but even she admits we need an infusion of capital.”

  “Doesn’t mean we need to get it from the Bianchis,” Gina said. It was hard to believe she agreed with Dad.

  “Where will we get it?” Mom said. She had a better head for finances than Dad. He was the people-person, at least for his customers, and a hard worker.

  Gina rubbed her forehead. No bank would give them a loan, again. The building was in danger of foreclosure. She’d already run through her list of contacts—no one would take the risk of investing in a small business that seemed to have had its heyday long ago. She’d even written a proposal to give to Aunt Marchesi, but Dad refused to let her send it. He and great aunt Marchesi were on the outs.

  Dad plopped back into the chair. “We could sell, move somewhere less expensive.”

  Her gut clenched. This place had been her family’s home, their business, part of them, since Grandpa Frank bought the building and opened the store over fifty years ago.

  “No,” Grandma whispered. She set her knitting aside. “This was your father’s legacy to you, to Gina, Michael, and Frankie.”

  “I love you, Mom,” Dad said. “But like I have no say in you marrying Enzo, you have no say in the business. Dad left it to me.”