Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘This will be just perfect. Give them the double room. She wakes in the night quite often, having flashbacks. They’re worse if Andy’s not beside her.’

  ‘Poor girl.’

  She nodded, still racked with guilt. She always would be, she imagined. It would never go away, just like his guilt over Angelina slumped over the kitchen table, unable to summon help.

  She felt his finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his so he could look into her eyes.

  ‘It was not your fault,’ he said as if he could read her mind.

  Her eyes were steady, but sad. ‘Any more than Angelina’s death was your fault. Bad things happen. Guilt is just a natural human reaction. Knowing it and believing it are two different things.’

  He felt his mouth tilt into a smile, but what kind of a smile it was he couldn’t imagine. It faded, as he stared into her eyes, seeing the ache in them, the longing, the emptiness.

  He needed her. Wanted her like he had never wanted anyone, but there was too much at stake to risk upsetting the status quo, for any of them.

  He dropped his hand. ‘What time do they arrive?’ he asked, and the tension holding them eased.

  For now.

  * * *

  They collected Jen and Andy from Pisa airport at midday on Friday, and they were blown away by their first view of the palazzo. By the time they’d pulled up at the bottom of the steps, Jen’s eyes were like saucers, but all Lydia could think about was how her sister would get up the steps.

  She hadn’t even thought about it, stupidly, and now—

  ‘Come here, gorgeous,’ Andy said, unfazed by the sight of them, and scooping Jen up, he grinned and carried her up the steps to where Roberto was waiting with the doors open.

  Massimo and Lydia followed, carrying their luggage and the crutches, and as they reached the top their eyes met and held.

  The memory was in her eyes, and it transfixed him. The last woman to be carried up those steps had been her in that awful wedding dress—the dress that was still hanging on the back of his office door, waiting for her to ask for it and burn it.

  He should let her. Should burn it himself, instead of staring at it for hour after hour and thinking of her.

  He dragged his eyes away and forced himself to concentrate on showing them to their rooms.

  ‘I’ll leave you with Lydia. If you need anything, I’ll be in the office.’

  And he walked away, crossing the courtyard with a firm, deliberate stride. She dragged her eyes off him and closed the door, her heart still pounding from that look they’d exchanged at the top of the steps.

  Such a short time since he’d carried her up them, and yet so much had happened. Nothing obvious, nothing apparently momentous, and yet nothing would ever be quite the same as it had been before.

  Starting with her sister’s wedding.

  ‘Wow—this is incredible!’ Jen breathed, leaning back on Andy and staring out of the French doors at the glorious view. ‘So beautiful! And the house—my God, Lydia, it’s fantastic! Andy, did you see those paintings on the wall?’

  Lydia gave a soft laugh. ‘Those are the rough ones. There are some utterly stunning frescoes in the main part of the house, up the stairwell, for instance, and in the dining room. Absolutely beautiful. The whole place is just steeped in history.’

  ‘And we’re going to get married from here. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe it.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Are you hungry? There’s some soup and cheese for lunch, and we’ll eat properly tonight. Anita’s coming over before dinner to talk to you and show you where the marquee will go and how it all works—they’ve had Carla’s wedding and Luca’s here, so they’ve done it all before.’

  ‘Not Massimo’s?’

  She had no idea. It hadn’t been mentioned. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not. So—lunch. Do you want a lie down for a while, or shall I bring you something over?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to make work for you,’ Jen said, but Lydia could see she was flagging, and she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ll bring you both something and you can take it easy for a few hours. Travelling’s always exhausting.’

  * * *

  Anita arrived at five, and by six Gio had put in an appearance, rather as she’d expected.

  He found Lydia in the kitchen, and helped himself to a glass of Prosecco from the fridge and a handful of canapés.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, slapping his wrist lightly when he went back for more. ‘I didn’t know you were involved in the wedding planning.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said with a cocky grin. ‘I’m just here for the food.’

  And Anita, she thought, but she didn’t say that. She knew he’d turn from the smiling playboy to the razor-tongued lawyer the instant she mentioned the woman’s name. Instead she did a little digging on another subject.

  ‘So, how many weddings have there been here recently?’ she asked.

  ‘Two—Carla and Luca.’

  ‘Not Massimo?’

  ‘No. He got married in the duomo and they went back to her parents’ house. Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘I just didn’t want to say anything that hit a nerve.’

  ‘I think you hit a nerve,’ he said, ‘even without speaking. You unsettle him.’

  Was it so obvious? Maybe only to someone who was looking for trouble.

  ‘Relax, Gio,’ she said drily. ‘You don’t need to panic and get out your pre-nup template. This is going nowhere.’

  ‘Shame,’ he said, pulling a face, ‘you might actually be good for him,’ and while she was distracted he grabbed another handful of canapés.

  She took the plate away and put it on the side. ‘Shame?’ she asked, and he shrugged.

  ‘He’s lonely. Luca likes you, so does Isabelle. And so does our mother, which can’t be bad. She’s a hard one to please.’

  ‘Not as hard as her son,’ she retorted. ‘And talking of Massimo, why don’t you go and find him and leave me in peace to cook? You’re distracting me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to do that. You might ruin the food, and I’ve come all the way from Florence for it.’

  And he sauntered off, stealing another mouthful from the plate in passing.

  * * *

  The dinner went well, and Anita came back the following day to go through the plans in detail, after talking to Jen and Andy the night before.

  ‘She’s amazing,’ Jen said later. ‘She just seems to know what I want, and she’s got the answers to all of my questions.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, glad they’d got on well, because hearing the questions she’d realised there was no way someone without in-depth local knowledge could have answered them.

  They were getting married the first weekend in May, in the town hall, and coming back to the palazzo for the marquee reception. They talked food, and she asked Anita for the catering budget and drew a blank. ‘Whatever you need,’ she was told, and she shook her head.

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘I allow between thirty and eighty euros a head for food. Do whatever you want, he won’t mind. Just don’t make it cheap. That would insult him.’

  ‘What about wine?’

  ‘Prosecco for reception drinks, estate red and white for the meal, estate vinsanto for the dessert, champagne for toasts—unless you’d rather have prosecco again?’

  ‘Prosecco would be fine. I prefer it,’ Jen said, looking slightly stunned. ‘Lydia, this seems really lavish.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jen, she’s earned it,’ Anita said. ‘He’s been working her to the bone over the harvest season, and it’s not finished yet.’

  It wasn’t, and there was a change in the weather. Saturday night was cold and clear,
and there was a hint of frost on the railings. Winter was coming, and first thing on Monday morning Roberto, not Massimo, took Jen and Andy to the airport because La Raccolta, the olive harvest, was about to begin.

  Jen hugged her goodbye, her eyes welling. ‘It’s going to be amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘You don’t need to thank me. Just go home and concentrate on getting better, and don’t buy your wedding dress until I’m there. I don’t want to miss that.’

  ‘What, with your taste in wedding dresses?’ Massimo said, coming up behind them with a teasing smile that threatened to double her blood pressure.

  ‘It was five pounds!’

  ‘You were cheated,’ he said, laughing, and kissed Jen goodbye, slapping Andy on the back and wishing them a safe journey. ‘I have to go—I’m needed at the plant. We have a problem with the olive press. I’ll see you in May.’

  She waved them off, feeling a pang of homesickness as they went, but she retreated to the kitchen where Carlotta was carving bread.

  ‘Here we go again, then,’ she said with a smile, and Carlotta smiled back and handed her the knife.

  ‘I cut the prosciutto,’ she said, and turned on the slicer.

  * * *

  He was late back that night—more problems with the frantoio, so Roberto told her, and Carlotta was exhausted.

  Elisa and Vittorio were out for dinner, and so apart from Roberto and Carlotta, she was alone in the house with the children. And he was clearly worried for his wife.

  ‘Go on, you go and look after her. Make her have an early night. I’ll put the children to bed and look after them.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. They don’t bite.’

  He smiled gratefully and went, and she found the children in the sitting room. Antonino and Lavinia were squabbling again, and Francesca was on the point of tears.

  ‘Who wants a story?’ she asked, and they stopped fighting and looked up at her.

  ‘Where’s Papà?’ Lavinia asked, looking doubtful.

  ‘Working,’ she said, because explaining what he was doing when she didn’t really understand was beyond her. But they seemed to accept it, and apart from tugging his sister’s hair again, even Antonino co-operated.

  More or less. There was some argument about whether or not they needed a bath, but she was pretty sure no child had died from missing a single bath night, so she chivvied them into their pyjamas, supervised the teeth cleaning and ushered them into Antonino’s bedroom.

  It was a squeeze, but they all fitted on the bed somehow, and he handed her his favourite story book.

  It was simple enough, just about, that she could fudge her way through it, but her pronunciation made them all laugh, and Francesca coached her. Then she read it again, much better this time, and gradually Antonino’s eyelids began to wilt.

  She sent the girls out, tucked him up and, on impulse, she kissed him goodnight.

  He was already asleep by the time she reached the door, and Lavinia was in bed. Francesca, though, looked unhappy still, so after she’d settled her sister, she went into the older girl’s room and gave her a hug.

  She wasn’t surprised when she burst into tears. She’d been on the brink of it before, and Lydia took her back downstairs and made her a hot drink and they curled up on the sofa in the sitting room next to the kitchen and talked.

  ‘He’s always working,’ she said, her eyes welling again. ‘He’s never here, and Nino and Vinia always fight, and then Carlotta gets cross and upset because she’s tired, and it’s always me to stop them fighting, and—’

  She broke off, her thin shoulders racked with sobs, and Lydia pulled her into her arms and rocked her, shushing her gently as she wept.

  ‘—she’s the one who bears the brunt of the loss, because when I’m not there the little ones turn to her. She has to be mother to them, and she’s been so strong, but she’s just a little girl herself—’

  Poor, poor little thing. She was so stoic, trying to ease the burden on her beloved papà, and he was torn in half by his responsibilities. It was a no-win situation, and there was nothing she could do to change it, but maybe, just this one night, she’d made it a little easier.

  She cradled Francesca in her arms until the storm of weeping had passed, and then they put on a DVD and snuggled up together to watch it.

  Lydia couldn’t understand it, but it didn’t matter, and after a short while Francesca dropped off to sleep on Lydia’s shoulder. She shifted her gently so she was lying with her head on her lap, and she stroked her hair as she settled again.

  Dear, sweet child. Lydia was falling for her, she realised. Falling for them all. For the first time in her life she felt truly at home, truly needed, as if what she did really made a difference.

  She sifted the soft, dark curls through her fingers and wondered what the future held for her and for her brother and sister.

  She’d never know. Her time here was limited, they all knew that, and yet she’d grown to love them all so much that to leave them, never to know what became of them, how their lives panned out—it seemed unthinkable. She felt so much a part of their family, and it would be so easy to imagine living here with them, maybe adding to the family in time.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lips.

  No. It was never going to happen. She was going, and she had to remember that.

  But not yet, she thought, a fine tendril of hair curled around her finger. Not now. For now, she’d just sit there with Francesca, and they’d wait for Massimo to return.

  * * *

  It was so late.

  His mother would have put the children to bed, he thought, but yet again he’d missed their bedtime story, yet again he’d let them down.

  The lights were on in the sitting room, and he could hear the television. Odd. He paused at the door, thinking the children must have left everything on, and he saw Lydia asleep on the sofa, Francesca sprawled across her lap.

  Why Lydia? And why wasn’t Francesca in bed?

  He walked quietly over and looked down at them. They were both sound asleep, and Lydia was going to have a dreadful crick in her neck, but he was filthy, and if he was to carry Francesca up to bed, he needed a shower.

  He backed out silently, went upstairs and showered, then threw on clean clothes and ran lightly downstairs.

  ‘Lydia?’ he murmured softly, touching her on the shoulder, and she stirred slightly and winced.

  ‘Oh—you’re home,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sì. I’ll take her.’

  He eased her up into his arms, and Francesca snuggled close.

  ‘She missed you,’ Lydia said. ‘The little ones were tired and naughty.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Why are you here? My mother should be putting them to bed. I sent her a text.’

  ‘They’re out for dinner.’

  He dropped his head back with a sigh. ‘Of course. Oh, Lydia, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Put her to bed.’

  He did, settling her quickly, earning a sleepy smile as he kissed her goodnight. But by the time he got downstairs again, the television was off and the sitting room was in darkness.

  * * *

  It was over.

  La Raccolta was finished, the olive oil safely in the huge lidded terracotta urns where it would mature for a while before being bottled.

  The fresh olive oil, straight from the press, was the most amazing thing she’d ever tasted, and she’d used it liberally in the cooking and on bruschetta as an appetiser for the family’s meals.

  Of all the harvests, she’d found the olive harvest the most fascinating. The noise and smell in the
pressing room was amazing, the huge stone wheels revolving on edge in the great stainless steel bowl of the frantoio, the olive press, crushing the olives to a purple paste. It was spread on circular felt discs and then stacked and pressed so that the oily juice dribbled out and ran into a vat, where it separated naturally, the bright green oil floating to the top.

  Such a simple process, really, unchanged for centuries, and yet so very effective.

  Everything in there had been covered in oil, the floor especially, and she knew that every time she smelt olive oil now, she’d see that room, hear the sound of the frantoio grinding the olives, see Massimo tossing olives in the palm of his hand, or checking the press, or laughing with one of the workers.

  It would haunt her for the rest of her life, and the time had come so quickly.

  She couldn’t believe she was going, but she was. She’d grown to love it, not just because of him, but because of all his family, especially the children.

  They were sad she was leaving, and on her last night she cooked them a special meal of their own, with a seafood risotto for their starter, and a pasta dish with chicken and pesto, followed by the dessert of frozen berries with hot white chocolate sauce that was always everyone’s favourite.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ Francesca said sadly as they finished clearing up.

  Massimo, coming into the room as she said it, frowned. ‘She has to go, cara. She has a business to run.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She has a job here, with us.’

  Her heart squeezed. ‘But I don’t, sweetheart,’ she said gently. ‘I was only here to help Carlotta with the harvest. It’s finished now. I can’t just hang around and wait for next year. I have to go and cook for other people.’

  ‘You could cook for us,’ she reasoned, but Lydia shook her head.

  ‘No. Carlotta would feel hurt. That’s her job, to look after you. And your papà is right, I have to go back to my business.’

  ‘Not go,’ Lavinia said, her eyes welling. ‘Papà, no!’ She ran to him, begging him in Italian, words she couldn’t understand.