“Wait. What? You—what?”
“I’ve accepted an offer, made to me by Maxine, to manage and operate franchising operations on behalf of the Purple Door team as Kilgore Group takes it national.”
Lillianna’s eyes went wide. “You’re leaving Unico?”
“In two weeks.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am, and all I’m waiting on are the final, revised contracts. Kilgore should be sending them to me day after tomorrow.”
Weak-kneed, Lillianna sank onto the front pew. Dustin tucked into the space next to her, wrapped a steadying arm around her shoulders.
“Then I guess we need to celebrate your homecoming.”
“We do.”
“Open your gift,” she whispered.
Dustin eyed her in curiosity then reached gently into the gift bag. With slow care he unwrapped buffering layers of purple tissue paper from around the wall hanging she treasured almost as much as he did.
He flexed his jaw, swallowing hard as his eyes filled and he stroked the glossy surface of the wood. “Oh. Wow. This is unbelievable, and so beautiful.”
Lillianna nipped at her lower lip. “I know she’ll be in good hands.”
Dustin gathered a deep breath and looked into her eyes, steadier now, but still seeming to fight his emotions. “This just proves my point. You know me. You understand me. You’ve helped me realize it’s my turn now. It’s my turn to follow the path I choose, with an establishment, and people, I care about. You opened the world to me, Lillianna. The world as well as the depths of my heart. You’ve taught me what it means to be passionate, what it means to embrace the part of my soul that strives for a whole lot more than just business and numbers.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat, but before freeing his hand, and revealing whatever it was he held, he whispered, “So, Merry Christmas, Lillianna. Merry Christmas and here’s to new beginnings. Together.”
The gift he offered was a heart-shaped piece of rough-edged wood. Drilled through at the center, the ornament dangled from a thick, red silk ribbon. Burned into the center were two interlocking hearts, deep and eloquent and perfect in their simplicity…and message.
Lillianna covered trembling lips with her fingertips, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Dustin…oh my goodness…Dustin…”
“Two hearts. Yours. Mine. Brought together. And, totally unplanned, look at what happened at the center, where they’re joined. An infinity symbol.”
Slowly, he unfurled the full length of ribbon from around his fingers. Lillianna released a soft exclamation when she spied the bauble that danced and sparkled within the ties of the bow at the top. A diamond solitaire that caught fire beneath the light of the candles.
“There’s been a huge emptiness inside me. A great big piece of…void…of nothing. Seeing you again, experiencing everything you’ve done, everything you are, has freeze-framed my heart and made it impossible for me to continue on the way I have. When I look at you, I see my future. I see, and I feel, the way we balance each other.”
“Dustin, I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed.” Tears continued to fall, tears of love, of gratitude, of undiluted joy. Dustin swiped them gently away with the pads of his thumbs, kissing her cheeks, then her lips in a give and take she’d gladly spend a lifetime exploring.
“Just say yes, Lillianna. Just say yes. Take me on. In business, and in life. Because I’m not letting you go a second time around.”
“Nothing—ever—would make me happier, Yes, yes, yes…”
She dissolved into his waiting arms, savoring kiss after precious kiss, wrapped in love, and in the gradually building chime of bell-song that resounded from the steeple high above.
Enjoy this Sneak Peek into…
Bella Natale!
Chapter 1
ASHLEY CORATINI SAT ON A ledge at the center of the Ponte Vecchio that jutted outward from the base of the structure and left just enough room to position her back comfortably against cold, time-worn stone and dangle her legs. Somewhat of a daredevil perch, to be sure, leaving herself suspended some one hundred feet or so above the churning surface of the Arno River; but the view was unusual, and stunning. Sketchpad open across her lap, charcoal pencil in hand, she tucked a rippling curl of hair beneath the edge of her knit cap, focus trained on a greenish-brown mountain scape that framed the horizon just beyond the curves of the river. Beneath her feet, water rushed and tossed. Returning to her sketch, Ashley lost herself in the euphoria that always accompanied a particularly eloquent art session.
Firenze.
Paved by narrow roads of ancient brick and stone, hemmed in by shops, homes, natives and tourists, this city of Medici—Florence, Italy—was the perfect place to re-find herself. God knew she needed to figure out the road ahead…and soon.
“Take the ticket. Take the chance. Don’t think, and don’t second guess. Go. Do it. You’ve been chasing God’s call for far too long. Stop listening to the voices of the ones who are trying to get in the way and listen to what He says. Don’t let what’s happening to your world on the outside affect who and what you are on the inside. Go.”
Nonna Rosa’s promptings had been right, of course; more to the point, her grandma’s generosity allowed Ashley to freefall into a much needed season of self-exploration. She had studied here for six weeks during her junior year of college, during a study abroad session wherein she had immersed herself thoroughly in art and Italian history. Returning to Firenze in many ways felt like returning home.
A stiff wind kicked across her skin, leaving a chill. The December air almost tasted of snow. When the corners of her pad lifted, Ashley smoothed the edges and continued to sketch—a spray of lines, a dash of shapes and shadows, a subtle blend of charcoal into the page, just enough contrast to create the illusion of light. She sank into the evolving image, lost to the world, thinking. She hadn’t meant to let outside influences dictate the pattern of her life. She hadn’t meant to let any form of naysaying—however well-meaning—keep her from the life she craved. So, she had accepted her grandmother’s gift of three weeks in Italy, opting to take that leap and rediscover Florence with a full and eager heart, eyes trained only on the future.
Early afternoon light shimmered off the surface of the water; Vespa cycles sped past at horrific speeds and angles, their shrill engines cutting the air, adding texture to the sound of lilting Italian. Seemingly undeterred by an ominous forecast, crowds milled past on the walkway just above and behind Ashley’s spot.
A second blast of cold air roused her senses, eliciting a responsive chill. It was almost time to call it quits and perhaps spend an hour or two like any other tourist in Florence, exploring quaint, inviting shops and indulging in a hot meal, but in the distance, she spied the magnificent Duomo. Shifting from black- to gray-tinted charcoal, she went to work capturing its shape, the shading of its cupola, the lines and angles of its façade, before surrendering her artistic efforts for the time being.
****
The first thing Luca DeRosa noticed about the stranger was her hands. Perched just below him, on a ledge of the Ponte Vecchio, a waifish brunette stroked swift, confident lines across the surface of a wire-bound sketch pad centered across her lap. Fluid grace punctuated the way she crafted a scene of the Arno, bringing her vision to life with a level of detail and eloquence that pulled him to stay put and absorb. Engrossed, she paused infrequently, just long enough to give brief study the world around her—the inward roll of fat, moisture-laden clouds, the dancing spikes of sunlight that intermittently pierced the cover of gray—before returning to her drawing.
What a gift.
The three words sounded through his spirit like a gong, eliciting a craving, the tantalizing curves of a wistful dream…
The creationist that had always resided in Luca’s soul admired the woman’s skill. Ever a tactile person, he continued to watch the way she used the tips of long, slender fingers to blend and shade. Her gentle strokes evoked a
responsive warmth that built at his chest and flowed through his gut—launching the kind of intrigue and hunger only a fellow artist would truly understand, for the hunger he felt wasn’t merely physical, it seeped through the farthest reaches of his senses in a call that left behind an empty ache. A longing.
That fact alone should have prompted him to a hard pull-back from a reckless topple into attraction. Hadn’t his heart just been extracted with nothing more than a blunt spoon? Hadn’t he just traded one hope, one dream, for another?
Luc blinked, regrouped, and took a deep breath of cold air spiced by the promise of a December snow to come. Forecasters projected a blanket of white would soon cover the cobbled streets, slated rooftops and dormant balconies of Florence. He refocused when the artist stood, carefully, since her perch was somewhat narrow and precarious. She lifted onto the wide cement rail that served as a lookout post along this particular stretch of Florence’s most historic and storied bridge.
When she swung her legs over, Luc ignored an instinct to withdraw and instead stepped forward.
“Please, allow me.” He spoke his native Italian—and received a blank, somewhat sheepish look in return.
“I’m American. I’m sorry, but, do you speak English?”
“I do.” Luc switched languages and took custody of her wire-bound pad. He helped her land safely by lifting her via a secure, two-handed hold against her waist. Light as a feather, he thought, once again sensing a natural grace.
After carefully settling her on solid ground, he extended his hand in welcome and introduction. “I’m Luca DeRosa.”
She extended her hand in reciprocation then froze. He puzzled at the flash of surprise that glanced her features.
“DeRosa?”
Luc accepted her hand; he held fast and nodded while she continued to study him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m…ah…”
“You’re startled. May I ask why?” During the ensuing pause, Luc slid into a vision of her being put off by his overt physical gestures. He released his hold and cringed at the idea, yet the connection had occurred instinctively, with unexpected ease.
“My grandmother’s last name is Rosa, Americanized from the DeRosa of her grandparents. I’m Ashley Coratini.”
“Where in Italy did they come from? Florence?”
“Florence on my mother’s side, Rome on my father’s. You might say I’m visiting the homeland.”
Her smile was tenuous, shy and sweet. Luca made ready to return her sketches, but hesitated. “I watched you just now. Your skills are exceptional.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”
She ducked her head in retreat and claimed her drawings. A polite finality marked her words, accompanied by a second brief smile. She turned away and something mysterious pulsed beneath his skin.
“I wonder if you have a few minutes. I’d like to see more of your work. I’d like to learn more about you.”
She turned back, as decorum dictated, but tense body language and a subtle frown line between her brows threw an air of caution against his offer. She was suspicious, and he couldn’t blame her. After all, he was nothing more than a stranger.
Still…
Tightening her hold on the strap of her purse, she waited on him, eyes narrowed and questioning. She kept a liberal degree of distance between them, so Luc decided a more appropriate ice breaker was called for. From the pocket of his slacks, he slid free a business card and handed it to her. His invitation hadn’t been well thought out—way too impulsive—he had to get going for both business and personal reasons, but that didn’t change his level of interest, in both the artwork he witnessed and the woman behind it.
She accepted the offering and went still upon reading. Disbelief clouded her eyes, so he opted to answer the unspoken in plain, straightforward terms. “I hope your first impression of me isn’t one of intrusiveness. My approach and my request are obviously unexpected, but I’m interested in your work. Please call me for an appointment.”
About Marianne
MARIANNE EVANS is an award-winning author of Christian fiction and romance. Her hope is to spread the faith-affirming message of God’s love through the stories He prompts her to create. Readers laude her work as: “Riveting,” “Realistic and true to heart,” “Compelling.” Her novel, Forgiveness, was named Christian Small Publisher Book of the Year in romance as well as a Romantic Times Magazine 4.5-Star Top Pick. Her Christian fiction debut, Devotion, earned the prestigious Bookseller’s Best Award and Heart of Excellence Award from RWA. Hearts Communion earned a win for Best Romance from the Christian Small Publishers Association. She is also a two-time recipient of the Selah Award for her books Then & Now and Finding Home. Marianne is a lifelong resident of Michigan and an active member of American Christian Fiction Writers and the Romance Writers of America where she served two terms as President. Marianne loves to hear from readers, so connect with her at MarianneEvans.com, at her blog, on Twitter, or “Like” her author page on Facebook.
More Titles by Marianne Evans
Coming Soon
The Stronghold (Fishermen of Antioch, Book 2)
The Journey (Fishermen of Antioch, Book 3)
A Long Way to Run
Point Zero
Christian Fiction Titles
Forgiveness
Devotion
Fishermen of Antioch Series
The Return (Fishermen of Antioch, Book 1)
Sisters in Spirit Series
Sisters in Spirit, The Complete Anthology
Aileen’s Song
Siobhan’s Beat
Kassidy’s Crescendo
Maeve’s Symphony
Sal’s Place Series
Search & Rescue
Beautiful Music
By Appointment Only
Windfall
Woodland Church Series
Woodland Hearts, The Complete Anthology
Hearts Crossing
Hearts Surrender
Hearts Communion
Hearts Key
A Face in the Clouds
Christmas Titles
Finding Home
Snowflake Kisses
Christmas at Tiffany’s
Bella Natale!
Love at Christmas Inn, Collection I
Love at Christmas Inn, Collection II
Heart’s Haven Collection
Operation Breathless
Maria’s Angel
Jodie’s Song
Nobody’s Baby But Mine
Pure Amore Titles
Date Night
Then & Now
The Fairytale
The Button Box
Delia Latham
Dedication
For my street team, The Messengers.
Thank you for being endlessly supportive and encouraging,
and for making me feel like a much better writer
than I really am.
Key Verse
Your word is a lamp for my feet,
a light on my path.
~ Psalm 119:105 (NIV) ~
Chapter 1
WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF into?
Alissa Neal stood in the huge, open-to-the-top lobby of Christmas Inn. The resort hotel, famous for its year-round Christmas theme, seemed bent on displaying every little aspect of the holiday from everywhere around the world. She couldn’t quite take it all in.
Oh, well. She’d planned to stow away in her room to work for most of her three-weeks here anyway. Now she’d do it to shut out all the jingle bells and ho-ho-hos. She loved Christmas as much as anyone else…well, maybe not as much as most folks…but she wasn’t in Hope Creek, Tennessee to enjoy the holidays. Her contract date to turn in twenty-five crossword puzzles loomed far too close, and fifteen of them remained to be done. Teaching middle school full time in Eufala, Oklahoma left little time for her second vocation…coming up with stellar word choices and precise placement of those words into black-and-white grids of various size an
d formation.
Alissa’s parents had gifted her the three-week getaway to Christmas Inn when they recognized her stress over the approaching deadline. Dad and Mom Neal knew what mattered to their children—even adult children with lives and homes of their own. Both Alissa and her older brother, Doug, recognized and appreciated the blessing of having the world’s best parents.
The elder Neals visited the small resort hotel every year, making sure to schedule visits in different seasons, and never grew tired of talking about it. Alissa knew all about the rooms, each elaborately decorated in a different holiday theme. They’d mentioned cardinals, angels, snowmen, wreaths—even an international Santa room.
Alissa had walked through a small portion of the grounds on her way to the entrance. The explosion of twinkling, multi-colored lights and holiday music blasting from outside speakers created a North Pole-like atmosphere. That introduction to the inn, combined with the sheer volume of Christmas splashed all over the lobby where she now stood, indicated her folks hadn’t stretched the truth by even one teensy-weensy iota.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” A cheery voice forced Alissa to tear her gaze from the overdose of cheery items in the oh-so-cheery lobby.
“Yes, thank you. I have a—” She broke off. Maybe she’d just turn around and march herself right out of this place—like the Nutcracker soldiers standing eternal guard outside the inn. Find a place more conducive to serious work. She had lots of that to do. If she tried to concentrate in the midst of all this…cheer…her brain might very well short circuit and produce nothing but linguistic mush.
“Ma’am?”
Alissa sighed. Escaping the holiday chaos made lots of sense but she didn’t have enough cents to make it work. Not on her salary. Thanks to Mom and Dad, this place wouldn’t cut into her slim budget. Another one would. Deeply.
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