by Karen Dodd
His driver exited the highway and turned onto a gravel road. There was no signage or indication of what the street address might be, but he obviously knew where he was going. After showing their identification to the police officer at the entrance to the road, they were cleared to go ahead. Nico estimated they’d gone at least a kilometer before a small farmhouse came into view.
The taxi pulled up outside a set of open rusted gates. Nico paid the driver, giving him a good tip, and retrieved his bags. He was debating if he should ask him to wait when Francesca came into view.
“Nico, it’s so good to see you!” She kissed him on both cheeks before waving to the officer that sat in an unmarked car across the road. Inspector Mifsud had indeed seen to it that Francesca and Max had twenty-four-hour security.
“Come in. Your timing is perfect—we were about to have lemonade in the garden.”
At the mention of “we,” Nico’s stomach clenched.
“You must be hot,” Francesca said as he followed her across a paved courtyard that led to the house. “Let me show you the guest room where you can freshen up.”
The house had cheerful glossy red shutters that lay open against a rough limestone facade. While it had the look of a farmhouse or cottage, Nico observed the iron bars across the windows and the solid iron front door. Inside, a refreshingly cool entrance hall opened to a spacious and well-equipped kitchen. Copper pots and cooking utensils hung from a wrought-iron rack above a large butcher block. He remembered how much Ariana loved to cook. One long windowsill was chock-a-block full of various plants and herbs. A rustic wooden table sat in a sunny alcove that looked out onto the garden. He wondered if Max was out there.
Standing there, face-to-face, a certain awkwardness hung between them. Despite the cool temperature inside the house, Nico’s mouth felt dry and sticky.
“Would you like to put your things upstairs before we go outside?” Francesca asked.
Nico nodded and followed her out of the kitchen to a wooden staircase. Tucked into an alcove at the base of the stairs was a comfy-looking daybed covered with white linen and a proliferation of colorful throw cushions. Against the wall, a small bookcase held various children’s books and videos. Beside it, a red chest brimmed with toys. Several framed photographs sat on a shelf. One was of Ariana’s late parents with their very young daughter. Sadly, they hadn’t lived to see her become a successful prosecutor, or to meet their grandson. But, Nico thought, what a blessing not to have had to endure the pain of outliving their only child.
He followed Francesca up the wide and gently curving stairs to the next floor. She led him past a bedroom on the right side of the hallway with the door open, then stopped outside another room on the opposite side.
“You can put your bags in here. There’s a bathroom across the hall. Feel free to use anything that you need.”
“Thank you, I won’t be long.”
“Take your time and when you’re ready, we’ll be out in the garden.”
Nico waited until Francesca had gone before quietly closing the door. He put his bags on the bed and walked over to the window that looked out over the front courtyard where he had entered. He felt like a voyeur being in Ariana’s home without her. But at the same time, unlike in her apartment in Valletta, he sensed her essence. There was a vibration he’d felt when he’d followed Francesca in the front door. Her larger-than-life spirit filled the rooms and breathed vivacity throughout the house. He wished he could wander from room to room, alone, absorbing everything that was hers. What other photographs and mementos had she kept of her life? Did any of them include him?
Sighing, he turned from the window and retrieved his toiletries and opened the door. Across the hall in the bathroom Francesca had pointed out, he splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth. Through the open window, squeals of laughter drifted up from the garden below, but he didn’t go and look out. He couldn’t put this off any longer. Walking back to the guest room, he deposited his toiletries on the bed and headed for the stairs.
As he passed the open doorway of the bedroom across the hall, he couldn’t help but look in. In the middle of the room was a four-poster bed draped in some kind of white fabric, it obviously belonged to a woman—whether Ariana or Francesca, he didn’t know. At the foot of the bed was an antique trunk. On the bedside table was a framed photograph.
As if in a trance, he felt himself being drawn into the room. He reached out his hand to pick up the photo, then pulled it back. His face warm, he blinked hard and inhaled a ragged breath. He remembered the exact moment it had been taken. They’d been at a party following their graduation from law school in Milan. It had become oppressively hot and people were getting louder and drunker by the minute. He’d looked at Ariana from across the room and tilted his head toward the exit, a question in his eyes. She got it immediately and after meeting up outside, they’d made their way to their favorite trattoria close to the university.
They had been sitting across a candlelit table from each other when Nico had asked the waiter to take a picture of them. He’d been hopelessly in love with her since they’d met, and even though they were dating, he hadn’t summoned the nerve to tell her. That night, as he held her hand across the table, he was plucking up his courage to reveal his feelings when she received the call that her parents had been involved in some kind of accident. At the time, they had both assumed it was a car accident. It wasn’t until they had fled the restaurant and he’d put Ariana on a plane home to Malta that he discovered the awful truth. Her father had killed her mother and then shot himself. And Nico wasn’t there to comfort her in her grief. By the time she came back to university to pack up her things, she was a different person. The open, unguarded expression had turned to an impervious slate of unreadable thoughts and emotions.
“Nico?”
He jumped at the sound of Francesca’s voice and turned his head toward the door. Horrified, he realized he was sitting on the side of Ariana’s bed, clutching the photograph in both hands. His face burning, he jumped up. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
Francesca smiled. “I was worried you might have gotten lost, that’s all.”
Self-consciously, he put the photograph back on the bedside table. “No, I—”
“She loved you, you know,” was all she said.
* * *
Francesca’s words played on an endless loop as Nico followed her through the kitchen and out into the garden. The screen door slammed behind them, reminding him of the carefree sounds of summer. But again, he observed the same steel bars as were on all the windows, as well as the outer door folded back against the house. To a casual visitor, the property gave the outward appearance of being the perfect setting for the endless languid days of hot Gozo summers, while in reality it was a veritable fortress.
But even with such rigorous security measures, Elle Sinclair had managed to take advantage of her friend. This, Nico thought sadly, had been Ariana’s life—betrayed by friends and enemies alike.
He put the tray of lemonade and glasses he’d carried out for Francesca on a table that sat in the shade of an enormous fig tree. Everywhere he looked was evidence of what he suspected was Francesca’s extraordinary green thumb. Huge terracotta planters lined the stone terrace. A profusion of flowers framed a circular area of lawn that somehow had retained its lush green color despite the unrelenting heat of the sun. Beyond that, silhouetted against where the sea kissed the horizon, was a child sitting in a plastic cooling-off pool.
“Max, I’ve got lemonade,” Francesca called to him. “And we have a visitor, someone I’d like you to meet.” She turned to Nico. “I told him you were coming.”
The boy turned around and put his hand to his eyes, squinting against the sun. Francesca sat on an iron chair and held a beach towel wide. “Come on, then.”
Max jumped out of the water and ran toward them. As he came into the shade and Nico could see his face more clearly, his heart nearly leaped fr
om his chest. It was like looking at a mini-version of Ariana. His hair had been dyed back to its natural color and his curls were springing into being. Max grinned at Francesca as he ran into her arms, and she wound him up in the towel and spun him several times. “Round and round and round we go. Where we stop nobody knows!”
With round penny eyes, he looked shyly at Nico.
“Max, this is Sinjur Moretti, who I told you about. He was a very good friend of Omm’s.”
“Hello, Max, my name is Nico.” His voice cracked when the little boy held out his tiny hand and placed it in his. “Piacere. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nico had patiently waited while Francesca tucked an exhausted Max into bed early and read him a short bedtime story. If nothing else good ever happened in her life, this moment of contentment would keep her going forever. She kissed Max good night, leaving the door open, and tiptoed out of his room and down the stairs.
“Tell me about her,” Nico said as they ambled side by side through the lush garden.
“What do you mean? You knew her better than anyone.”
“Really?” His voice had an edge of bitterness. “I didn’t even know she had a child.”
Francesca glanced over and saw the glisten of tears in Nico’s eyes. She felt something clutch at her heart as she watched this quiet, but determined man suddenly look so vulnerable. “Well, as you know, she was fierce.”
Nico’s face flushed as he blinked away the tears.
“She was unrelenting. She took no prisoners. Her sense of right and wrong was polemic—it overrode everything.”
“What kind of mother was she?”
The grip on Francesca’s heart tightened, and she felt her insides tense. How should she answer that question? “Ariana was a complex woman. She—”
“Why couldn’t she have trusted me?” Nico blurted out.
For a moment, Francesca thought he looked like a petulant little boy. She had seen that exact expression on Max’s face many times. When he did that, Ariana’s face would go blank. As if she had absolutely no idea how to deal with the complicated little creature she had produced.
“In answer to your first question, Ariana adored Max, but she didn’t always know how best to deal with him as a mother. As you know, she was an only child. Even our friendship in boarding school . . . She was the strong, independent one. I grew up with brothers and sisters, but I looked to Ariana to lead the way and protect me. And she always did.”
“Did she want Max?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
“But she didn’t want me—his father—involved in their life?”
Oh, Lord, where did she go from here? This was the moment she hoped would never come. She led Nico to the iron bench where she and Ariana had often sat in her circle garden with a cool drink at the end of the day. There, surrounded by the beauty she’d tried to create as an oasis for the three of them, against the backdrop of a perfect cerulean sky, they’d gaze out over the sea. It was in that very spot when Max was still in his baby carriage that Francesca heard the words she would remember forever. And hoped she would never have to act upon.
She uncrossed her legs and imagined her feet rooted firmly into the earth. She took a deep breath in at the same time, saying a silent prayer. Please God, give me the fortitude to deliver this man from his pain. And give him the strength not to take this child from me. Even though he can.
As she opened her mouth to speak, Nico’s mobile rang, startling them both.
“I’m sorry, I need to take this call.” He stood and walked to the cliff’s edge. “Pronto,” she heard him say.
She gazed at his handsome silhouette against the setting sun as he stood, phone in hand, listening. Even though his back was toward her, she could see his shoulders rise as if he’d just taken an enormous breath. Then they settled down his back and he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth. Not speaking, just listening.
Suddenly, he wheeled around, taking her by surprise, catching her staring at him. His complexion had turned pale and his dark eyes bored into hers. “Grazie,” he said quietly, then returned the mobile to his pocket. Francesca watched him walk toward her, and she gulped for air. As her insides turned to water, she knew her life was about to change forever.
* * *
The sun had long since dipped into the sea following the call from Inspector Mifsud, confirming that Nico was indeed Max’s father. While he’d known without a doubt as soon as he’d seen Max, he’d had to be sure. Somehow, it would bring closure to yet another mystery about Ariana. He’d felt guilty, even doubting her, and he told Francesca so.
Hours later, they sat talking in the encroaching darkness. Eventually, he’d noticed she was chilled and suggested they move inside. She’d insisted on making them something light to eat, and he sat across the table from her, tucking into a simple omelet and a glass of red wine.
“Why didn’t she tell me? I would have supported her one hundred percent.”
Francesca hadn’t touched her food, and she put down her glass. “She knew that, but she’d already received threats because of the cases she was working on, and she didn’t want to put you or Max in danger.”
Nico felt his eyes burn, and he looked away. That’s what Ariana had told him the night before she died, but he wasn’t sure he’d believed her.
“I pleaded with her, Nico. I really did. Especially when Max became old enough to ask questions.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know.” As he’d done before, he tried to work out the math in his head. How long were the intervals when they’d gone without seeing each other? Obviously long enough to conceal a pregnancy.
“Unfortunately, it was during that time that she met Elle Sinclair,” Francesca said. “Ariana’s pregnancy didn’t really show until she was about five months along. She told everyone she needed some time off because of the stress of her job, and she went to London. Being who she was, Ariana couldn’t help but poke around for sources even while she was on a leave of absence. She’d stayed in touch with several journalists who had been investigating the same alleged criminals she’d been trying to bring to justice.”
“And one of them was Elle,” Nico said.
“Yes. I always had a bad feeling about her. Ariana knew that, but at the time, Elle served her purpose. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Ariana like a sister, but she was always laser-focused on getting what she wanted.”
At any cost, Nico thought.
* * *
After he’d helped clear the dishes, Nico stood in the open doorway of Max’s room, watching him sleep. Francesca’s bedroom was next to Max’s, and she’d asked Nico to wait while she went and got something. The room he’d wandered into earlier had been Ariana’s. She’d slept in the bed he’d sat on. He imagined her sitting at the antique makeup table, brushing her thick, dark hair.
“She wanted you to have this if anything ever happened to her.” Francesca eyes filled with tears. “I still can’t believe it has.”
Nico nodded, swallowing the ache in his throat.
She held out a small box inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. “Try not to think harshly of her, Nico. She did the best with what she had.”
But I didn’t get to see my little boy grow up. To hold him in my arms as a baby or chase him around the house as a toddler. As Francesca had said, Ariana always got what she wanted. On the day he’d just met his own flesh and blood, he’d never felt more alone.
He took the box from Francesca’s hands.
“Sleep well, Nico.” She walked into her bedroom and closed the door softly behind her.
Back in the guest room, he put the box on the bed. A huge question mark hung over it. What did Ariana want him to have? He touched the delicate workmanship, but drew himself away. How long could he delay opening what he sensed would reveal more untold secrets? Not yet.
He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He walked past Max’s room again, marveling that this little
boy was his. How would he accept the news? Who would tell him, Nico or Francesca? So many conflicting thoughts swirled around his head.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. After he crossed the hall to his room and closed the door, he picked up the box from the bed. With trembling hands, he lifted the hinged lid. Inside was a silver filigree locket in the shape of a Maltese cross, and a folded piece of paper underneath. With his thumbnail, he opened the locket. On one side was a photograph of a tiny, dark-haired infant. On the other, Nico stared at the picture of himself. He unfolded the note and through blurry eyes he read Ariana’s distinctive script.
Max will be ready when you tell him. I’ve never told him who you are, just that his papa is a good and kind man. That he loves unconditionally, is loyal to a fault, and will always do the right thing. ~ A
* * *
Valletta, Malta
True to his word, Nico had brought Giorgio’s friend’s car back safe and sound, as well as the money Sami had lent them. After seeing the news about Baldisar’s capture, Giorgio contacted Nico to say he and his mother were on their way back to Gozo. Unbeknownst to him, Sami had not scuttled Giorgio’s boat as requested. Instead, he’d kept it safe and returned it to Giorgio, who brought it to Valletta when he and Nico met for lunch.
Giorgio had learned shortly after Nico left Marsaxlokk that his bar had been burned to the ground.
“What will you do back on Gozo?” Nico asked.
“I will rebuild, of course. What else would I do?”