by Katy Regnery
“You thought I stood you up.”
She nods, sniffling softly. “I did. I thought…terrible things.”
“About me?”
“And about me,” she says, still nodding. “What an idiot I had been to trust you.”
“Your trust wasn’t misplaced,” I tell her. “It was just bad luck.”
The waiter returns with our drinks and she pulls her hands away to dab at her eyes with a napkin.
“Only a tragedy could have kept me from seeing you again,” I assure her.
The two spots on her cheeks grow pinker and her breasts rise and fall more rapidly with her breathing, which is shallow and quick, like mine.
“I wish you’d gotten word to me.”
I gulp. How much can I tell her in good conscience?
“I couldn’t,” I tell her.
“Why not?” She blinks at me, then looks down at the table. “No. Forget I asked that. I’m sorry. Your brother had just died. You’d only known me for a few hours.”
“No! I—I wish I’d been able to get word to you, but I…I didn’t handle it well. Albie’s death. I ended up in hospital. By the time I was clear-headed, you’d left Ireland.”
“The hospital?” Her brow furrows. “What happened? Were you injured somehow?”
Now it’s my turn to look away. If I say much more, I’ll betray those who helped me, who saved me from prison. And I don’t have the Princes’ permission to do that. “He was my only sibling. I drank. I acted rashly. It was a dark time.”
“I understand,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Ian. Losing your brother must have been…terrible.”
“It was. But it was a long time ago,” I say, finally taking a sip of my own drink. The fiery liquid burns my throat, but every sip after the first will be smoother. “Hey…were you going to tell me to leave you alone? When we sat down? It felt like maybe you were headed in that direction.”
She takes a deep breath, then sighs. “Yes. That’s why I asked to meet you.”
“Does knowing why I didn’t come to you that night make a difference?”
“It solves an old mystery,” she says, still keeping her feelings close.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “Like you said, bad luck.”
That sounds too much like a segue into goodbyes for my taste, and I have no interest in saying farewell so soon.
“Hey…don’t you think it’s strange that we’ve met again by chance across an ocean? Both single. Both with one child. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something.”
“The universe?” she scoffs. “I’m not sure I trust the universe.”
“Then trust me,” I plead with her, leaning forward in my seat and desperately trying to find the words that might give us a second chance. “If Albie hadn’t died, I would’ve come back. Who knows? We might even still know each other.”
“That’s not likely, Ian, is it?”
No, it’s not, I guess. But it doesn’t matter. I want another chance. I need to convince her to give me one.
“Maybe not. But possible.”
She takes a sip of her drink.
“Tina, listen…I think…I think my heart’s been asleep for fifteen years. I didn’t know it. I didn’t realize it until I—until I saw you again. Until I—quite literally—felt it wake up on Tuesday morning. If you walk away from me now, I’m afraid it’ll go back to sleep, and never wake up ever again.”
It’s a more flowery speech than I’m used to, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to not be jettisoned from her life. And besides, it’s true. It’s all true. Seeing her again has awakened something within—something that I only felt once before in my life: the night I met her.
She bites her bottom lip. There’s so much fear in her dark eyes when she levels them to mine, but I’m heartened when she nods for me to continue.
“You trusted me that night, right?” When she doesn’t answer, I narrow my eyes. “You said you did, at the time.”
“I guess I did,” she murmurs.
“Then, give me another chance, macushla,” I ask her, my voice low and gritty with emotion. “Now that I’ve found you again, don’t ask me to stay away. Please.”
It feels like an eternity that I sit there waiting for her response. So long, in fact, I’m about to slide onto the floor and beg her from my knees when she says:
“Come for dinner on Saturday. You and Dylan.”
Am I hearing her right? “Wait. What?”
“Dinner. Saturday.” Her lips wobble like she wants to smile, but won’t quite let herself.
That’s okay. I’ll smile enough for the both of us. I’m fucking shocked and terribly pleased by her unexpected invitation.
“You mean it?” A little chuckle of joy escapes from the back of my throat, surprising me. “Dinner? At your place?”
“Yes,” she says, her tiny smile dimming. “But don’t get your hopes up. I don’t really trust anyone, Ian. I’m not good at it.”
“I just want to get to know you again,” I tell her. “We’ll take it slow…and, I won’t let you down. I promise.”
“We’ll see,” she whispers, her eyes cautious. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, that tiny smile reappears with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Everyone has to eat, right?”
“Right,” I say, my heart swelling with so much hope, I’m surprised my chest can hold it. Whoever would have guessed that the sweetest words ever are these: “Everyone has to eat.”
CHAPTER 8
Valentina
Our second date as a family is even smoother than the first, with the children playing together in Carina’s play room while my Chef makes us dinner, which leaves Ian and me alone to enjoy a glass of wine in the living room.
“This was your husband’s apartment?” asks Ian, standing by the window in a charcoal gray suit. He is tall and beautiful, staring out at the dusky skyline of Manhattan.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I renovated and decorated a bit, of course, but yes, this was Steve’s childhood home.”
“I read about him,” says Ian, glancing at me. “He was a brilliant businessman.”
“He was a brilliant person,” I tell him, taking a sip of the chianti he brought as a gift. It’s a surprisingly excellent bottle and reminds me of home. “I loved him very much.”
Ian’s posture changes just a little at this admission—stiffening a touch—and it occurs to me that, like the rest of the world, he is probably under the impression that Steve and I were a love-match.
“How did you meet?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
“Blindly,” I admit. “A week before our wedding.”
His neck snaps to the right, his eyes boring into mine. “What?”
I exhale softly. This isn’t a truth I’ve told many people outside of my family and very close friends, but I can’t seem to help myself. Whether it’s the smartest or stupidest thing I’ve ever done, I’m not sure. I only know that since learning of the tragic and terrible reason he stood me up so many years ago, I want to trust Ian.
“Ours was an arranged marriage,” I say softly. “The rumors about Steve’s sexuality were true.”
“He was…homosexual,” Ian confirms, staring deeply into my eyes.
I nod, taking another sip of wine, and looking back out at the view. “He was.”
“Then why…?”
“He wanted a wife to allay rumors about his sexuality, and I needed a husband. I was pregnant with Carina…and unmarried.”
“Unacceptable for a young royal,” mutters Ian, no doubt remembering what I told him that night in Limerick so long ago.
“A Catholic one, anyway,” I say. “I could’ve ended the pregnancy, I guess, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted her.”
“Did you love Carina’s father?” he asks in a low voice.
“Honestly?” My cheeks flush hot. I wonder if he’ll judge me harshly for what I’m about to share. “I’m not sure who he was.”
“I’ve had many lovers,” I confess boldly, lifting my chin. He may as well know the whole truth. “None of them meant anything to me.”
“Except one?” he whispers, leveling me with those dark blue eyes.
I nod, my own eyes burning, because he’s right and we both know it. “Except one.”
You.
Me.
He takes a sip of wine, then murmurs: “I see.”
Does he? Does he understand that losing my virginity to a young man who—by all appearances—seemed not to value it, taught me not to value myself? Taught me that my body was something to be shared at random, without commitment or expectation?
When Ian lowers his glass and turns to me, his eyes are so sad, I feel his compassion in my heart, in my gut, everywhere.
“I see you, Tina,” he says again, answering my questions. “I see you. And you are as beautiful as you ever were. As lovely. As funny. As smart. As perfect.”
“I’m not,” I say, leaving him at the windows and taking a seat on the white couch.
I made my choices, and the truth is that most days I don’t regret them. I’m not ashamed that I like sex. I sowed my wild oats and slept around, and yes, I got pregnant out of wedlock, but from that phase of my life came my greatest treasure: Carina.
I wouldn’t trade some of it, for fear that I’d lose it all.
He follows me, placing his glass on the coffee table, and taking my hand in one of his. With the other, he reaches up to cup my cheek gently, tenderly.
“Believe me, love, because I was there, and I am here, and I know: You are every bit as magnificent now as you were then.”
My eyes close slowly and I lean my cheek against his hand, mewling softly at the warmth of his touch. I haven’t been touched by an available, heterosexual man in over three years, and I’ve missed it. Add to the equation that the man touching my face was the only man to ever touch my heart on any meaningful level, and it’s almost enough to make me swoon.
“Mamma! Mamma!”
“Daddy!”
The sound of racing feet makes my eyes open and I leap to my feet, as though afraid of being caught doing something naughty by a chaperone.
“Darlings!” I say, smiling at dark-haired Dylan and bright-eyed Carina. “Che cosa?”
“What does that mean?” asks Dylan, hopping on his father’s lap.
“It means…What’s up?” I tell him.
“In what language?”
“Italiano!” announces Carina, who stands beside Ian, looking at his face intently. “Are you Italian like me and Mamma or American like Babbo?”
“I’m not either,” says Ian, with a grin that makes my heart flutter. “I’m Irish.”
“What’s that?”
“Irish? Means I’m from Ireland.” He chuckles. “It’s a little island in Europe, off the coast of England.”
“I been to England,” Carina informs him.
“Have you, now?”
“Yep,” she says. “It’s the place with the Ferris wheel.”
“London.”
“Yep. London,” confirms my daughter. “It’s fun there. Me and Babbo went on it lots. Mamma was a’scared of heights so she waved at us from the ground.”
“Why don’t we go to London?” asks Dylan. “How come Carina gets to go?”
“I took you to Disney World,” says Ian.
“Yeah…but, if we’re Irish, why we never been to Ireland either?” demands Dylan.
If I wasn’t watching so closely, I would’ve missed the way Ian’s grin faded. “Because we live here.”
“Dylan! You gotta see the upstairs playground!” exclaims Carina. “Mamma, can Iago take us?”
I glance to the foyer where Iago sits at the ready on a chair by the front door. “Of course. You don’t mind, Iago?”
“My pleasure, princess,” he says, standing up.
“Have them back in twenty minutes for dinner?”
“Of course,” he says, with a deferential nod.
Alone again, I sit down next to Ian on the couch, picking up my wine glass and taking another sip. “They’re cute together, aren’t they?”
“He told me he loves her,” says Ian, smiling at me. “I don’t think he was bullying her last week. I think he was trying to protect her, actually.”
“From Hell?”
“I’d do the same for you,” says Ian, his voice rumbly and low. “Brave it to rescue you. Take your place if I had to. Anything to keep you safe and whole.”
My breath catches and I have a sudden and intense flashback to his bloodied knuckles after he fought off those boys in a Limerick alley.
“That boy,” I say, trying to remember his name. “The one from the alley. Um…Jack. Jack Murphy, right? Whatever happened to him?”
Ian’s face, which was so tender and warm a moment ago, freezes. He stands up, leaning down for his wine glass and finishing it in one gulp.
“I’ve no idea.”
He walks to the window, staring out at Manhattan as the sun sets, the golden light making him appear godlike and invincible, even though he’s just a man. He stands there silently, staring out at the city, and it occurs to me that this is the second time the subject of Ireland has come up, and the second time he’s withdrawn.
“Ian,” I say to his back. “Why did you leave Ireland?”
He’s gilded in the light of the setting sun, and I wonder what it will take to break through the veneer gold that cloaks him, to see what’s going on in his head.
When he turns around, his eyes are flat. “My glass is empty. I’ll go grab the bottle.”
Before I can stop him, he heads for the kitchen, leaving me wondering at the mystery of his last days in Limerick and the circumstances that led to his immigration.
***
“They’re darling,” I whisper, peeking into the tent in Carina’s room to find her asleep next to Dylan, forehead against forehead, under a hot pink princess blanket.
“Two peas in a pod,” says Ian, his face soft as he squats down to gaze at our sleeping babies.
Dinner ended hours ago with hot fudge sundaes and two once-hyper kids have now passed out.
“Don’t wake him,” I say, putting my hand on Ian’s arm as he reaches out to rouse his son. “Leave him.”
“I can’t leave him here all night,” he says, sliding his eyes to mine. “He’ll be disoriented when he wakes up.”
“Not if you stay, too.”
His eyes widen as he stands up to his full height and looks down at me. His voice is low and taut when he asks: “Is that an invitation, princess?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man between my legs, and after splitting two bottles of wine with Ian, I’m feeling flirty. My inhibitions are down. Not to mention, my body is buzzing with desire for this man. He’s hot and I’m willing.
“Why not?” I purr.
He tilts his head to the side, his expression thoughtful, almost wary. “Lots of reasons.”
“Like what?”
“You.” Gently, he tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear and a shiver ripples down my spine. “I explained why I couldn’t meet you that night, but we haven’t really talked about you. About how you felt. You must have been hurt…and confused.”
“It was a long time ago,” I tell him, pushing away the memories of that night. Why the hell would I want to talk about the worst night of my life?
“You told me you have trouble trusting people,” he continues, “but you didn’t that night. You trusted me, and I let you down. You also said you haven’t cared about any of your lovers… and your marriage to Steve wasn’t exactly typical. I can’t help but wonder if—”
“—if one night, fifteen years ago, impacted me so much that it changed the person I am? You give yourself a lot of credit,” I say with a smirk, but my words are a defense tactic. He’s dangerously close to the truth about how much that night, and his actions, affected me.
“I’m not trying to be
big-headed, Tina. I just want to know who you are.” He shrugs. “There’s no rush. We have time.”
“Shhh. Come with me,” I whisper, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway from Carina’s bedroom to mine.
His words are making something deep inside of me pull and tighten in a way that feels terrible, when I just want to feel good. I don’t want to remember that night in Limerick. I don’t want to remember the weeks and months that followed, when I was so frightened of becoming pregnant, all the while feeling duped and used. If anything—and maybe especially with Ian—I want to chase the memories away. And sex has always been an excellent distraction from reality. Why should this time be any different?
I push the bedroom door shut behind me and lean against it. Standing a few feet away from me, he crosses his arms, staring at me in my moonlit bedroom.
“Here we are,” I whisper, toeing off my shoes, ready to get started.
“Did you ever think we’d meet again?” he asks, persisting with these fucking questions that are making me feel edgy and vulnerable and uncomfortable, churning up long-suppressed feelings of worthlessness. “Did you ever think about me? Because I thought about you. About us.”
The word “us” is like a dagger through my heart, so I ignore it, stepping toward him. I clasp my hands behind his neck, rubbing my body against his. “Kiss me, baby.”
He stiffens at the endearment, lifting his chin to keep his lips out of reach from mine. “Did you, Tina? Did you ever think about us?”
“Stop talking,” I tell him, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of my voice. I arch my back and feel my nipples hardening, pressing against his chest through his dress shirt. “Kiss me, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” he growls.
“How about ‘lover’?” I murmur.
“Don’t call me anything,” he says, getting frustrated with me. “Just talk to me, Tina.”
Shut up!
Something inside of me, not unlike molten lava heating up inside of a volcano, is starting to bubble and pop.
“No. No more talking,” I say, my fingers curling at the nape of his neck.
“Please,” he begs me softly.
“No!” I yell, jerking my head back to look up at him as my nails dig into his skin. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember how I felt that night or all the nights that came after. Just fuck me, Ian!”