by Linda Seed
He hoped that emotional support would not be necessary. This was supposed to be a happy occasion that called for celebration, and he was banking on the idea that it would be. He’d spent a fair amount of time judging Sofia’s emotional readiness, and he felt good about it.
He thought she was ready.
He didn’t like to think about what might happen if he was wrong, but he also didn’t want to play it safe. Playing it safe rarely resulted in the kind of life that made a person swoon with gratitude for each new day.
That was the kind of life he wanted for himself and for Sofia. And he felt certain that it was just within their grasp. All they had to do was reach out and take it.
He’d been carrying the ring around in his pocket just in case the perfect opportunity might happen to coincide with an adequate amount of his own courage. The two elements converged on a Sunday evening in April when he was at Sofia’s house having dinner with her and her sisters.
Bianca had made the kind of big Italian dinner that Patrick had once thought was a false Italian stereotype, but wasn’t. They’d had a first course of pasta followed by a course of braised veal and roasted vegetables. A basket of fresh bread sat in the middle of the table, and they all drank glasses of dark red Chianti.
The first time he’d seen them do this as a regular Sunday dinner—no guests, no special occasion—he’d been awed. Martina had explained that their mother had brought the tradition with her from Italy. While the sisters didn’t observe the practice every Sunday the way their parents had, they did it from time to time as a way of remembering how things had been. Before.
While all of the sisters had some cooking skills, Bianca had a gift, and so she was the one who usually did the honors for the big Sunday meals. She simmered sauce on the stove for hours, carefully braised the meat, and sometimes even baked her own rolls for the table.
It was after one of those meals, when Patrick was feeling happily full and slightly buzzed on red wine, that he decided to make his move.
They’d just finished eating, and Sofia had gotten up to start clearing the table. Normally, Patrick would have helped her, but today, he took her hand and said, “Let’s do that in a minute. I have something I want to talk to you about.”
“Oops. Should we give you two some privacy?” Bianca asked.
“No, actually. I’d like it if you all stayed.”
“Patrick, what’s this about?” Sofia’s eyebrows drew together as she looked at him.
“Just … let’s go sit down.” Still holding her hand, he drew her into the living room and motioned for her to sit on the sofa in front of the fire.
“Are you sure you want us to stay?” Benny asked uncertainly. “Because we could just—”
“No. Stay. Please.” Patrick had imagined that he might be shaking with nerves at this moment, but he wasn’t. He was steady. He was sure.
When everyone was settled, he took Sofia’s hand and began the speech he’d rehearsed.
“Sofia, you know how much I love you. At Christmas, you thought I was giving you a ring and getting ready to propose. And that was hard for you. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I do now. We’ve come so far since then. You’ve come so far. And while I didn’t have a ring for you then, I did already know that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Even though I wasn’t asking the question then, the way you thought I was, I knew that someday I would. Someday when I thought you were ready.”
He got up from his seat on the sofa and lowered himself to one knee.
“Oh, my God,” Bianca said.
“Oh, jeez, Patrick,” Benny put in.
Sofia didn’t say a thing as Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out a little square box.
“The idea of a wedding probably still isn’t easy for you,” he said. “So here’s what I propose: you and I will go to the county government building in SLO, apply for a marriage certificate, and then get married in front of a justice of the peace or a judge or whoever it is who does that sort of thing. Then, if you want to, we can have a party or go on a trip, or do something to commemorate the occasion. Or we won’t. We could just go on with our lives together without any of that. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’re together.”
He opened the box, took out the ring, and offered it to her.
“Sofia, will you marry me in a low-key civil ceremony?”
She stared at him, frozen, while everyone in the room waited. Patrick appeared calm, but his heart was pounding.
“No,” she said.
“Oh, shit,” Benny muttered.
“No?” Patrick said.
Sofia got up and rushed out of the room. She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
“Oh, God,” Patrick moaned. “I’m sorry. I thought … I thought she was ready. I thought …”
Before he could say any more, Sofia’s door opened and she came out of the room with her arms loaded with three-ring binders.
“What’s all that?” he asked, bewildered.
Sofia set everything down on the coffee table, then took the ring he was still holding and slipped it onto her finger.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, then kissed him long and deeply. Still wrapped in his arms, she said, “I meant no to the second part, not the first part. I do want to marry you. But … is it okay if we have Bianca’s wedding? I have some binders for you to look through.…”
Patrick didn’t know what she meant by Bianca’s wedding. He didn’t know what was in the binders. But his future sisters-in-law were hugging him and kissing him on the cheek and welcoming him to the family.
And Sofia wasn’t running—she was right here.
He felt like he was exactly where he belonged, in exactly the right place with exactly the right people.
He couldn’t wait to see what might happen next.
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Learn about the Main Street Merchants here:
Moonstone Beach
Cambria Sky
Nearly Wild
Fire and Glass
* * *
Learn about the Delaneys of Cambria here:
A Long, Cool Rain
The Promise of Lightning
Loving the Storm
Searching for Sunshine
* * *
Learn about other books in the Russo Sisters series here:
First Crush
Keep reading for a preview of First Crush, the Russo Sisters, Book 2
The babies were to blame.
For a long time, Bianca had been okay with the fact that she’d put her career ahead of getting married and having children. Her work as a pediatrician was important, not only to her but to the patients she helped every day.
Medical school, an internship, residency—none of that had been compatible with motherhood or, for that matter, with finding a man to father her hypothetical offspring.
She’d been at peace with that, mostly. But the babies were starting to make her doubt her life decisions.
Bianca performed well-baby exams almost every day—the red-faced, blinking newborns, the nine-month-olds with their toothless smiles and their rolls of thigh fat, the toddlers with their endless, good-natured curiosity, their chubby hands reaching out to grab her stethoscope or a handful of her hair.
Every one of them made her long for motherhood with ferocious yearning.
And that, she reflected, was how she’d ended up in a relationship with Peter—a man she had zero chemistry with but who had looked, at first, like perfect husband and father material.
On their regularly scheduled Friday night date, Bianca tried to be patient as Peter inspected his menu at Neptune, a high-end restaurant on Main Street.
“Do you suppose the seafood risotto h
as gluten?” He peered at the menu and didn’t wait for Bianca to respond. “They’ll say it doesn’t, but if they use a broth that has hydrolyzed wheat protein …”
“Maybe try the salmon?” Bianca suggested.
“Mmm. Probably farmed.”
Bianca had made her entrée selection long ago. So long ago, in fact, the waiter had been sent away twice. Her stomach was growling, so she took a roll from the basket on the table. At least she didn’t have to share the bread, with Peter avoiding gluten.
The waiter was walking past their table, and Peter flagged him down. “Are these salad greens organic?” They were. “And what about the butter you use on the scampi? Does it contain rBST?”
They went through this every time they ate out, which was why Bianca had suggested they eat at home. But Peter had something important to talk to her about, and he’d insisted they do it at Neptune, one of the most well-regarded restaurants in Cambria.
Of course, if he couldn’t manage to order a meal, it seemed doubtful they would ever get to the topic he’d wanted to discuss.
“Peter?” Bianca couldn’t quite get the irritation out of her voice. “Maybe just have the chef’s salad?” That was what he would order, in the end. It was what he always ordered. But, for some reason, he seemed compelled to make a production of considering other options before settling on the thing they both knew he would eat.
“Hmm. Maybe the bisque …” He squinted at his menu because he’d left his reading glasses at home.
“I’m getting hungry,” she said.
Finally, after ten more minutes of contemplation, they placed their orders: linguine with clams for her, chef’s salad—hold the bacon—for him.
Bianca was the daughter of Italian parents, and she’d been raised to love food, especially fresh bread and pasta. Watching Peter reject entire classifications of food was both painful and baffling to her. He didn’t have a health condition that required it—if he had, she’d have understood. Instead, it seemed more like an affectation, or perhaps a hobby. Instead of assembling model boats, say, or golfing, Peter obsessed about the origin and ingredients of his food.
Now that he’d ordered and his menu had been taken from him—confiscated, more like—he folded his hands on the table and smiled at Bianca.
“You look pretty tonight,” he told her.
And Peter looked … like Peter. Five foot ten, medium brown hair, average frame, eyes a medium blue. He had the bland good looks of a TV anchorman. Not bad genes to pass on to a baby—as long as he didn’t pass along his eccentricities as well.
“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Bianca prompted him. The restaurant was half-full, and classical music was playing softly in the background. The candle in the center of their table glowed a gentle orange.
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve been dating awhile now.”
“Six months,” Bianca provided.
“Right. And with me living in San Luis Obispo and you living in Cambria …” He picked up his napkin, refolded it, and put it back down. “It’s inconvenient, that’s all, you coming to me or me coming to you.…”
“It’s not that inconvenient,” she said. “You’re only twenty minutes away from my office.”
“Well, okay, I suppose …”
Was he worried about gas mileage? Fuel emissions? Wasted productivity from his time in the car?
“I thought … Maybe it’s time we move in together.”
Bianca didn’t respond at first. She’d known this was coming. He’d been making noises about how San Luis Obispo was superior to Cambria in terms of efficiency and convenience. He’d passed it off as idle conversation at the time, but she’d known where he was heading.
Now that it was out there, she didn’t know how to respond. Wasn’t she dating him because he’d seemed like a good prospect for marriage and a future? Wasn’t this what she’d had in mind when she’d first agreed to go out with him?
And yet, the idea of living with him full-time seemed utterly exhausting.
“Well, that’s certainly … an offer,” she said.
“It makes sense financially,” he went on. “Combining our expenses, consolidating our belongings. Saving commuting time will reduce our carbon footprint, too.”
All of the times Bianca had imagined a man inviting her to live with him, she’d envisioned proclamations of love, of passion, of burning need. Instead, she was hearing about consolidated belongings and carbon emissions.
“I suppose you’re right about the carbon footprint,” she said. “And you were thinking … your place?” Bianca and her three sisters lived in a renovated 1920s log cabin their parents had left them. Carmela and Aldo were gone now, but the house made Bianca feel connected to them, as though, in some little way, they were still with her.
“Ah.” Peter folded his hands on the table, clearly prepared for this question. “You know I love your house. And your sisters are great. But …”
“But?”
“But I thought we might want something more … up to date. And more private. Someplace that’s just for the two of us. My condo has solar, which cuts down on the energy expense, and it has water-efficient plumbing fixtures and drought-tolerant landscaping. Plus, the commute to your office from my place is eight minutes shorter.”
“Eight minutes?”
“I checked it on Google Maps.”
Bianca sat there with a glass of wine in her hand, trying but failing to imagine a less romantic way in which Peter might have presented his case.
“I suppose the heating costs will be reduced if we’re sharing a bed,” she said dryly. “All of that body warmth.”
“Exactly.” He seemed pleased with her observation. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. I’ve made some notes on the pros and cons. I’ll e-mail them to you.” He held up his glass of wine for a toast. “To us, Bianca.”
She clinked her glass against his without comment.
“You make me so happy,” he said.
She supposed he had an analysis of that, too—some kind of happiness vs. unhappiness bar graph. Or maybe it was a pie chart. But despite the lack of romance, he had a lot to offer. He was stable, honest, consistent, and decent. She’d done her own pro-con analysis of her relationship with him, and the pros were ahead.
It was hard to argue with the data.
* * *
“Peter wants us to live together,” Bianca told her sisters the next morning at breakfast.
They were gathered around their big kitchen island, busy with the usual morning activities related to food and beverages. Sofia was pouring a mug of coffee from the pot; Martina was steeping some kind of herbal tea she’d blended herself; Benny was pouring a bowl of Cap’n Crunch; and Bianca was sitting with a plate of whole wheat toast in front of her.
Bianca’s sisters stopped what they were doing and turned, as one, to look at her.
“Here?” Benny broke the silence. Bianca noted the horror in her sister’s voice.
“No. At his place.”
“What did you say?” Martina asked.
“I said I’d think about it.” Bianca picked up her toast, considered it, then put it back down. Her sisters looked at each other, then back at Bianca.
“But—” Sofia said.
“I’ll take this one,” Benny offered, interrupting. Her dark hair was arranged in two stubby buns on the top of her head, her bangs short and straight. She pointed at Bianca with one finger, its nail polished in black. “You can’t possibly be considering it.”
“I am.”
“But—” Sofia tried again.
“What the hell for?” Benny demanded. “What do you see in that guy? Is he some kind of magical prodigy in bed? Because otherwise …”
“Oh, believe me. He’s not.” Bianca was probably betraying Peter by admitting that, but if she’d said otherwise, her sisters would have known she was lying. She did
n’t have the kind of acting skills it would have taken to pretend that Peter made her body sing in ways she’d only dreamed of.
“Then why?” Sofia finally managed to get out a full sentence, albeit one of only two words.
“Because I’m getting old!” Bianca threw her hands into the air in frustration. The idea of breakfast didn’t seem appetizing anymore, so she got up and took her plate to the sink.
“You’re only thirty-six,” Martina pointed out.
“Exactly. I’m thirty-six. Do you know that if I got pregnant right now, today, it would be considered higher risk because of advanced maternal age? Advanced! I need to have babies now, or it’s never going to happen.”
Benny wrinkled her nose. “You want Peter’s babies? Ew.”
“Peter is …” Bianca grasped for a flattering adjective. “He’s responsible. He’s intelligent. He’s a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor,” Sofia pointed out. “So, the pressure’s off. You don’t need to marry one.”
“Marry? Yikes.” Benny shuddered. “You’re not thinking of marrying him, are you? Because—”
“We haven’t discussed it.” Bianca put her plate into the sink. “We’ve only discussed me moving into his condo. To save natural resources.” She couldn’t help smirking.
Martina looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’d save gas on the commute, but … Oh, God. Please tell me he didn’t propose it to you that way.”
“He did.” Bianca slumped against the kitchen counter. She hadn’t wanted to complain about Peter to her sisters, but she couldn’t help it. “He actually did! He talked about his drought-tolerant landscaping.”
“That’s it,” Sofia said. “I’m dumping Patrick, and I’m going to throw myself at Peter. No woman in her right mind can resist drought-tolerant landscaping.”
“Very funny.” At the mention of Patrick, Bianca felt a fresh surge of despair. What Sofia had with her fiancé was everything Bianca wanted. It was romantic. It was passionate. It was real. Bianca had always imagined she would have that with someone, someday—but she’d waited too long, and now what did she have? Aging ovaries and a man who was inordinately concerned with his bowel habits. Of course, he was a gastroenterologist, but still …