Valentine Kisses

by Reina M. Williams

  “Frank,” Mom said. Disappointment singed through the one word.

  Grandma rose, her posture even more upright than usual, her habitual smile gone, replaced with a grim, flat expression. Gina hopped up. This wasn’t what she wanted, her family torn further apart. She’d wanted them to unite again, to save the business. But hers and Dad’s stubbornness and unwillingness to accept help, to be open to possibilities, was destroying this dream just as her impulsiveness had ruined her night with Vincente.

  “Grandma,” she said, reaching out for her.

  Grandma waved a hand at her and swiftly walked from the room. Her door clicked shut, the lock turning into place. Only once before had she witnessed her Grandma like this, eight years before when all the problems had happened.

  She edged out from behind the coffee table. “I won’t let you sell. This business is as much Michael’s and mine—”

  “Not legally,” Dad said. “Michael gets a salary, and the upstairs flat, and you offered to help. The business is mine to sell.” He stood, his shoulders hunched.

  This couldn’t be what he wanted. But she knew he’d rather give up than give in to the Bianchis.

  “I can get the money,” Michael said.

  They all turned to him.

  “No,” Dad said. “I know where you’d get it.”

  Michael hung his head. He’d go to Enzo Bianchi, just like their brother Frankie had gone to Enzo’s son Sal when he’d needed a job.

  “Please, Frank,” Mom said. “Vittorio is giving Enzo and Celeste an engagement party this Saturday. We should all be there. Your mom deserves that much from us, for all the years she’s been here for us. She’s your mother, for heaven’s sake. Family—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to save,” Dad said, his voice cracking on the last word. He turned and strode out the front door. Gone, just like before.

  Gina clutched her stomach. That empty hole in her seemed to expand. Vincente’s words from last night, that it would be okay, flashed into her mind. He seemed genuinely caring, like he cherished her feelings, wanted to protect her from hurt. Maybe she needed to let go and let him in. She fingered the square of cotton in her pocket, soft and slightly worn, comforting, as Vincente’s words were.

  “Gina,” Mom said.

  “I can’t right now, Mom.” She shook her head and ran, following the path her father had gone, shutting the front door behind her. She needed to rediscover the truth about herself, and learn what was real: her family going to church every week, laughing together over Sunday dinner, working together in the market, her grandparents taking them to the park so Mom and Dad could have a date... Those always-abiding things—love, faith, trust—her family had taught her, what they used to believe in.

  GINA WALKED AIMLESSLY. She’d left her purse at home, so she couldn’t do anything but window shop, walk, and go over what had happened. She second-guessed her decision to go to Vincente. She’d just done that last night. Maybe coming home had been a mistake. Maybe she had nothing to believe in.

  No. Those were doubts, not the truth.

  She found herself near the church she and her family used to attend. They still did, though she’d lost touch with her faith. Maybe this was where belief could be lit, like a novena candle. She walked into the cool interior and knelt in a pew. Praying, she told God about all her troubles and asked for help, gave thanks for her family, for her friends, for everything she had. Then she bent her head, closed her eyes, and listened as if waiting for a trusted loved one to talk to her. But there was only stillness. Her knees ached and a priest appeared.

  She shouldn’t be here. Easing out of the pew, she hurried out. The empty space in her gaped again and the cold late afternoon breeze cut into her.

  Vincente. Once, when she’d been sad about Grandpa being sick, Vincente had prayed with her, his hand strong and reassuring on hers. Vincente had faith, he was warm and strong, and she needed him. Sometimes yearnings told us answers. She put her head down against the wind, held onto his handkerchief, and walked on.

  Chapter Seven

  Vincente scrubbed his hand over his face and walked into the kitchen. It had been a long day, not because of the work, but because of his thoughts. Thoughts of Gina.

  He didn’t want to have those thoughts. He didn’t know what to do with those thoughts. He didn’t need a woman like Gina in his life. Someone whose presence made him rethink his rules, who inspired him to live in the moment.

  Of course, she was in his life anyway, now that she was back home and their families were becoming more closely linked. It’d been simple not seeing her since she was younger: she’d been away, and usually the holidays were split between the families so that there was little interaction between the Bianchis and the Marchesis. Must have been—and continued to be—hard on Sophia, Carlo, Janetta, and Joey. He shook his head at himself, disappointed he hadn’t ever thought to ask any of them about the situation.

  He leaned against the counter, debating whether to have a cup of coffee or a workout. He had barely been sleeping, tossing and turning over this tension for Uncle Enzo, and now for Gina and her family...and then he’d been up with the thoughts, the images of her.

  His phone buzzed, letting him know someone was at the gate. Checking the feed, his shoulders tightened. Gina. Even in the tiny image, she popped, a beautiful, vital presence.

  Who was he kidding? Why would he not need someone so full of beauty and vitality in his life?

  Because she was also angry, impulsive, and off-limits. But he should at least talk to her. She must have a good reason to brighten his door again.

  Vincente walked out to the small gate and let Gina in. Dressed in a casual tee and skirt, she was still as gorgeous as in that evening gown. Maybe even more so, less makeup on, her hair blown from the breezes, more real. She didn’t even have a purse with her. He motioned her inside, concerned.

  “I want to apologize again.” She faced him in the kitchen, the lights dimmed. “I was out of line, and I’m sorry. You know there’s a lot of history between our families, but if I don’t want you to judge me based on that, I shouldn’t do it to you. And I should return this. I appreciate your kindness.” She held out his handkerchief.

  “Apology accepted.” She seemed calm, and even more beautiful, radiant. And she seemed to think he was kind...and that was all. While he tried to be kind, he admitted he had more than that impulse where Gina was involved. He turned and strode to the counter. “You keep that. Might need it sometime.” Taking back his handkerchief when her scent probably lingered on it was a bad idea, and would cause him to want to break his rules. “Want any coffee or anything? Dinner?”

  “Am I interrupting you?”

  “Not really. Have you eaten?” He glanced at her.

  She shook her head, twisting her long hair. “I didn’t come over for dinner, though.”

  “I’d like it if you want to eat with me. Marcella always leaves enough for a family. Will you stay?” He wished it would be for longer than dinner.

  “Thank you, then. What can I do?”

  “Waters? I’ll check the warming oven.” Sure enough, Marcella had left a full pan of roasted vegetables with sundried tomato sausages and polenta squares. He set it on the table then he and Gina finished setting it and sat near each other at the table.

  They ate, at first asking each other about their days and what the week had in store. But she seemed distracted, holding something back.

  “Is something else going on?”

  She met his gaze. “Well...my dad is talking about selling.”

  “What?” Tension drilled into his back.

  “Yeah. I’ve explored all avenues, except my aunt Marchesi.”

  And his family. But he wouldn’t mention that. He knew it wouldn’t go over with Frank, to take money from the Bianchis. He’d told Uncle Enzo so, but his uncle only wanted to keep Celeste happy.

  “It’ll work out. I’m not the businessman in the family. I’m sure you’ve got your own plans, bett
er than any I could think of. So, what can I do?”

  She brushed her hand on the tabletop. He wished she’d slide her fingers over his instead.

  “I don’t know. What can you do?” Her tone edged into sultry. She leaned back to catch his gaze, also making the most of her silhouette.

  She was flirting with him. Maybe. He couldn’t let anything happen with her. “Whatever needs doing.” Except what he should do now, which was take her home and say goodbye.

  “Yeah?” Her fingers, inches from his, threw as much heat as her gaze.

  He took their plates, set them in the sink, and put on water for coffee. “Sounds like what needs doing is a business plan, but you already did that. So, why are you here?” He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but he had a hard time with this much off-limits sensuality right next to him. Maybe she wasn’t doing it on purpose, and he was misreading. He rolled his shoulders. His feelings were his issue, not hers. Maybe he just wanted her to be flirting with him, so he saw heated glances and heard sultry tones that weren’t there.

  From the corner of his gaze, he noticed she now sagged, twisting a strand of her hair.

  “I’m handling this all wrong,” she said.

  “That makes two of us.” Her flash of a smile pierced his heart. “I’m going to have a coffee. Want something?”

  “Why not. Thanks.” She walked to him and set their glasses in the dishwasher while he did the same with the plates. Her scent, some kind of spice that excited his senses, lingered near him as he prepped the coffee and cups.

  “I think Marcella left some dessert. Want to share?”

  “Your cook?”

  “Yeah, we have a staff—cook, housekeeper, man of all work, gardener. They’ve been here longer than I have, working for Grandpop.”

  “Oh. Nice that he keeps them on.”

  “More like they’re nice to keep working for us. Though I think Marcella feels like we’d go to pieces without her and her husband.”

  “Is she right?”

  “Probably.” Even though he was ordered and capable, there was no way he could do his job as construction foreman and run this house, and none of that was Grandpop’s forte either. He’d thought about moving, but Grandpop wanted him here, and Vincente still had hope, however small, that he’d find a special woman who wanted to be his wife and partner and raise children here with him.

  Coffee ready, he pulled the moka pot off the stove and poured out their cups. Gina took hers with a sprinkle of sugar and a splash of milk. Then he opened the tin of lemon tarts and set the small gem-like treats on a plate. Napkins and silverware were on the table in a wood container. He sat after setting everything on the table. They each sipped the coffee and savored the tarts. The usual warmth of the kitchen seemed heightened in Gina’s presence. Having her here was both unnerving and comfortable.

  “I could get used to this,” she said after finishing one of the tiny tarts. Her cheeks bloomed with color, making her tanned skin glow.

  He could get used to this, too, but it wasn’t possible. Not the way their circumstances, and they themselves, were.

  “So, do you want to talk through what’s going on?” Too bad they couldn’t talk about what was going on between them, though he now suspected it was all him. She hadn’t really done much to signal she was interested in him, other than squeeze his hand... He opened his mouth to ask then stopped himself. Asking impulsive questions wasn’t a good way to go.

  “I don’t know. What else can be done? I mean, there’s crowdfunding and those options, but Dad would disown us all when he found out.”

  “He’s a proud man. Doesn’t want to accept help.”

  Her brows tugged together. “I’m not big on it myself.”

  She was here now. “I guess I can relate.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been fortunate that some of my family has given help when I was really struggling, and I’ve had to learn how to ask effectively to delegate at work.” He shrugged. “Sometimes we need help, personally and professionally.”

  She ran her fingers through her long, soft hair. “I don’t think my dad will see that. When we went through hard times, he retreated, and wouldn’t do anything to help or get help.”

  “When your grandpa and uncle died?” He’d just moved away at the time, but he recalled that had been a hard year for her family, with the back-to-back passings and subsequent grief that would no doubt accompany them.

  “Yeah.” She shifted in her seat, seeming uncomfortable.

  “You want to move to the family room?” The area wasn’t well-named now, since he was the only one who used the comfortable room off the kitchen.

  She glanced at him, some kind of question in her gaze. He must’ve answered it in his, because she nodded. They topped up their coffees and he held the door for her. Settled into the sofa, him on one side and Gina on the other, he sipped his coffee, trying to make sense of how they’d gotten here. And how his whole life seemed shaken into, not chaos, but disarray, since that fateful night he’d met Gina Marchesi again.

  “I feel...like there’s this empty hole in me,” she said, cradling her cup. “I thought coming home was the answer, but it’s not helping.”

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who was it...Pascal, I think, who spoke to the God-shaped hole within each of us. That emptiness can only be filled by God.”

  She twisted her lips to the side then sipped her coffee. “I haven’t been to church in years, until today. I prayed, and listened for a long time.”

  “Did you feel any answers?”

  “Just to come here. That doesn’t seem like a God answer.”

  His attention riveted on her for a moment. She was the answer he’d been getting to his prayers too. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “If we really listen to our heart’s honest desires that are good, why isn’t that a God answer?”

  She set her cup down on the coffee table and edged back. “Mind if I take off my shoes?”

  He shook his head. Maybe she didn’t think being here was good? He’d questioned it himself. She slipped off her sandal-like wedges and tucked her legs to the side.

  “Grandma Celeste, she always talks about the everyday miracles. Grace, it’s everywhere if we can see it. I haven’t been seeing it.”

  He swallowed down the last of his drink and faced her. “I go to church every week, and I haven’t been either. Seeing grace, I mean.” Was being here with her, having that “date” with her, grace he wasn’t seeing?

  “It’s easy to get busy with the, well, business of life. Work, and trying to be healthy, and keeping up with friends and family, and all the stuff we need to know to even feel like a good person who can help with the problems in the world...I’ve left out God.”

  He nodded. “So, if all your solutions for the bakery aren’t working... Have you tried praying, just surrendering it?” That was something he needed to do in his life too. Instead of asking for divine help in his desire for a wife and family of his own, he’d just ignored the desire.

  “No. It feels like giving up.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been trying, so how have you given up?”

  “I’ve failed.”

  “Failure means you’re risking, working, right? And we’re human, we make mistakes. Maybe you can’t solve this. Not on your own.” He saw now that was true for him as well. He couldn’t make the woman he wanted to marry appear, and he’d felt like his failure to do so meant he needed to abandon hope.

  “You’re right.”

  They felt right together, whatever he’d tried to convince himself otherwise. “Hey, you want to watch a movie?”

  “You’re as good as bread, you know that? You know, solid and sustaining.”

  It was his turn to blush. He rubbed his thighs. There were lots worse things to be, but he wasn’t sure that was how he wanted Gina to see him. She seemed like more of a woman who would want something—someone—more interesting an
d exciting. He made a noncommittal noise.

  “I like that about you.”

  He stilled. It didn’t mean she liked him. Not in the way that he was starting to like her, as in falling for her, as in wanting to date her. She didn’t mean that. Or did she?

  “I like that you’ve trusted me enough to come here to talk.”

  She laughed, a bit bitter like the dregs of the coffee. “I guess I’m too impulsive for a man who organizes his remotes and books by size and color. I bet your closet is the same. Mine’s a jumble.”

  He wouldn’t think about her closet, which was in her bedroom. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly into sensual territory where she was concerned. Yet that part of love was also divine. But he wasn’t in love, was he?

  “You make me think about things in a different way. I need that.” You need her. Where had that come from? “And you have a good head for business.”

  She crossed her arms, her frown back. “That plan was private.”

  “I guess your mom didn’t think so.” What did Gina think they were going to do? It wasn’t like North Beach Bakery was some sort of high-powered business they wanted to take over. Not that his family did that anyway. “Look, I told you, Uncle Enzo just wants your grandma to be happy. We aren’t up to anything, and I don’t appreciate the implication.”

  “Okay. I don’t mean to... I’ll let it go. You said something about a movie? What do you like to watch?”

  “Uh...” She’d caught him. He was so inexperienced in dating, he’d just suggested it because he’d heard that’s what people did. “I usually watch PBS or documentaries.”

  “I like PBS. Do you have the app?”

  Warmth and ease flooded him. He picked up a remote. “Yeah, something you want to watch?”

  “Nova is interesting, or I used to watch mysteries with my grandma Valeria.”

  He smiled. Those were some of his favorites. Clicking through on the remote, he showed her some options then put on an episode and sat back. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m a bit chilly.”