by Joanne Walsh
She spun around and cast about for something to distract her. Catching sight of the French windows on the other side of the room that she knew opened onto a balcony, she walked over to them and fiddled with the catch. But she couldn’t get it to open.
“Hey . . . ” Firm tanned fingers curled around hers, as Lorenzo gently guided her hand away. “Do you need some air?”
“Y-yes,” she stuttered, dying to get outside and cool the heated, betraying blush from her cheeks.
He deftly undid the catch and threw the windows open. Freezing air rushed in. It was still snowing, though more lightly. She stepped out onto the balcony and, leaning against its stone balustrade that was banked with drifts and hung with icicles, took a few calming breaths. Beneath her, the inky darkness of the Grand Canal stretched out below. She felt Lorenzo’s body behind her as he took hold of her elbows.
“I’ve already asked you this once, but are you really okay?” he enquired in rich, dark chocolate tones. “You look very flushed.”
“I—I haven’t eaten since early this morning,” she replied truthfully. “I’m just feeling a little tired and dizzy.”
“And perhaps being back here is a little overwhelming too?” he said, and the solicitous note in his voice made her eyes unexpectedly prick with tears. It reminded her of the man she’d married; the man who she’d thought would cherish and protect her, before he’d revealed himself to be a callous cheat.
But he was right: being back here in her former marital home with her ex-husband, who seemed able to arouse her senses like he was flicking a switch, was unnerving. She didn’t want him to know that, though.
“It’s kind of odd, being back, I guess,” she replied deliberately off-handedly. “But mainly I’m just hungry and tired. Nothing that a hot bath and some food won’t sort out.” She kept her eyes on the smooth, dark canal, illuminated by quaint wrought-iron streetlamps and the warm lights in the windows of the waterside buildings, and punctured by snow-topped poles that served as boat moorings. She heard the faint bumping of tethered gondolas. The wind was whipping up again and blowing flurries of snow and ice that pricked at her face. She felt Lorenzo squeeze her elbows and his breath on her neck as he spoke.
“Come back inside,” he urged gently, “where it’s warm. I’ll get both of us brandies. You’ve had a long and frustrating journey. Then, I’ll show you to your room where you can have that bath, and I’ll see about getting dinner fixed.”
She closed her eyes. She was torn—wanting to melt into his kindness, yet needing to keep her distance and maintain her defences, as she knew how cruel he could be. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She had to deal with this, get a grip. “That would be good,” she responded briskly, and let him escort her back inside.
A few minutes later, her coat taken off, and seated on one of the stylish but comfortable couches, supported by plump tapestry cushions and nursing a brandy in a goblet glass, she waited for its warmth to infuse her. Lorenzo sat on the couch opposite, his drink on the large low table between them.
“Better?” he asked.
“Better,” she confirmed, as the alcohol began to mingle with her blood and relax her a little.
He leaned forward and picked up his glass. “I’m thinking of getting a fire going,” he said, gesturing at the huge ornate marble fireplace. “And I think we could do with some decorations, don’t you? It’s not festive enough in here. How would you feel about visiting the Christmas markets tomorrow?”
She looked at him, her expression startled and wary. Lorenzo was getting into the Christmas mood? “I’m not sure. I’m only going to be here for a couple of days. I just don’t want to impose.” She took another careful, fortifying sip of her brandy, trying to find her balance and not give away how discomposed she still felt. “I remember the markets. I used to enjoy them when I lived here.”
“Well, how about enjoying them again and getting a shot of that special Venetian seasonal spirit while you’re here?” he suggested.
She exhaled. It was ironic that he was suggesting she needed a dose of Christmas cheer, when he had almost killed it for her once upon a time. But, if she let her skepticism, his legacy of the love-hate relationship she had with the holiday, show too much . . . her determination to prove to herself that she’d got past him would be shown to be hollow. And she had to concede he was trying to be a good host.
“I suppose so.” That sounded a little prickly. This was so hard! She tried to infuse her voice with a little more polite interest. “Have you thought about festive food?”
She noticed his lips quirking as if he knew she was just about as enthusiastic as Scrooge. “I’m just about to put in a call to Giuseppe at the alimentari,” he explained, “and get him to bring us supplies for tonight and tomorrow morning. I’ll make a list for him of food for Christmas Eve dinner and the Christmas Day meal, and get him to deliver it all tomorrow afternoon. But there will be some items that we need to buy from the markets.”
“You’re really getting into the swing of it already, aren’t you? Whereas when we were married, you thought nothing of nearly missing it all together because you preferred to work and other things.” She squeezed her eyes shut as her tart remark hung between them, and recriminated herself for letting her feelings rip. She shouldn’t have had the brandy! So much for the I-don’t-care attitude. She stood up, needing to retreat. “I think I’d like to go for that bath now and then unpack, if that’s okay.”
Lorenzo paused and looked at her. His expression gave away nothing as to what he thought. Then he rose too, gesturing for her to accompany him. “I’m putting you in the guest bedroom next to my study,” he told her matter-of-factly.
She walked behind him as he went out into the grand hall. As their footsteps echoed on the marble floor, she recognised the doors that led to the kitchen, the dining room, the guest bathroom, the master bedroom, the first and second guest bedrooms, and, at the very end, what Lorenzo had just referred to as his study. But to her, that small room meant something very different; it had been the one that she’d planned to have converted into a nursery. Her heart constricted violently and her composure trickled away, as she remembered that and the baby that she’d wanted so much—the baby that never was . . .
Chapter Two
‡
Lorenzo was in the kitchen, unpacking the boxes and bags of food and drinks that Giuseppe had sent round from his grocery store. He was in a reflective mood.
His mind wound back to Christmases past when he and Ash had still been married, before that Christmas when everything had fallen apart. They’d never spent the holiday in Venice—he’d had no family here since his grandmother had died when he was in his teens—and Ash had always returned to her family in England. The O’Reillys had made him feel welcome but, if he was honest, he’d avoided their seasonal celebrations as far as he could. At that time, he’d been perplexed by the way the British liked to drag out the holiday—Christmas Day, Boxing Day on the twenty-sixth, then visiting friends and relatives and shop at the sales between then and another big party on New Year’s Eve. He’d told himself that work didn’t stop for a set of rituals, and that Ash would be fine with her nearest and dearest. Usually, he had aimed to arrive in England for Christmas Night, when the O’Reillys would hold their big meal back for him, and then he’d be away on a plane the following day.
Even before his mother was gone, his grandmother had been too poor to do much in the way of food and gifts at Christmas . . . too poor, too drunk and too grudging. His poverty-stricken origins lingered in his mind. He’d always vowed he would never feel sorry for himself or let his bad start in life hold him back. For a long time he’d used the art he’d perfected of pushing away any troublesome thoughts: money, work and sex were what drove him. But recently, accepting that his heavy memories were always lurking, ready to grab him when he was tired or alone, he’d started trying to make sense of the brutality, the lack of love and stability that had framed his youth. He’d come to th
e conclusion he had to stop using obsessions to banish his demons and let life, and possibly regret, in.
He paused with the unpacking. He wondered at the twist of Fate that had brought him and his ex-wife together again. He also wondered why he’d asked her to stay, when there was bad blood between them. He could have left it at saying, “Hi,” and walking away. But, he couldn’t just pass by and leave her there. She’d needed rescuing from the stress and chaos of the airport, and she’d looked so beautiful, smelt so familiar and lovely, when he’d kissed her in greeting. He’d been suckered in by some invisible force, which had urged him to hang around and find out what would happen next, if he invited her back into his life. Did he want anything to happen? She held that same tremendous physical allure for him that she’d always had. But it was obvious she was still raw about how their relationship had ended.
At that moment, she came into the kitchen, and he was captivated by just how pretty she looked. He felt himself become aroused. She’d bathed, so was make-up free and her hair hung damp and wavy around her shoulders, and she was dressed simply in jeans and a pale-colored sweatshirt that clung to her generous breasts. She looked so damn fuckable. But, he also noticed that though her complexion had its usual creamy sheen, there were blue smudges of fatigue under her eyes and her expression was strained. He willed his body to simmer down.
“Hi,” he said. “Did you find everything you wanted?”
She nodded. “Yes, thanks. Your guest bathroom has everything a weary traveller could ever need, and there’s nothing like a good soak in the tub to revive a person.”
He thought how she sounded a little too forced and jolly. She was so uncomfortable about being here, being with him.
She looked at the counter he was stood behind, and at all the provisions laid out on its top. “You’ve had the supplies delivered.”
“Si. Despite the fact that there’s a blizzard outside, Giuseppe has done us proud. He’s coming back tomorrow with our Christmas feast.”
She smiled, but he sensed the tension in her. “Don’t suppose the ingredients for a plum pudding will be included?” she asked gruffly. “While I was in the bath, I was thinking about making a traditional English pudding as a way of saying thank you to you for taking me in.”
His own shoulders relaxed at her peace offering. She was trying to be agreeable. Maybe if he teased her a little, like he used to, he’d get her to loosen up some more. “If you really are dead set on making one, we’ll have to get those ingredients tomorrow at the alimentari. But I have to confess, I haven’t gotten over successive Christmases of eating your mother’s puddings, and the ensuing indigestion.”
“Lorenzo!” she exclaimed, and he was gratified when her expression softened and she was unable to stop herself breaking into a giggle. “Her cooking isn’t that bad!”
“A little heavy on the suet for me, tesoro. Anyhow, you’re in Venice, where you can have panettone with crema di marscapone and amaretto,” he responded, referring to the sweet loaf filled with candied fruits and raisins, served with a sauce made of marscapone cheese and eggs and a sweet liqueur that was a Christmas staple in Italy.
“Why can’t we have both?” she declared, warming to her cause now. “I know what you mean about Mum’s puddings, but if I can find a recipe on the Internet for something a bit lighter . . . Per favore, Signore di Grechi,” she pleaded.
A curl of excitement rolled itself out inside him as he realized that she’d lapsed into the playfulness they’d practised as partners when she’d wanted something and had needed him to agree. Maybe it was this easy to slide back into how they used to be? “Oh-oh. When you call me Signore, I know that you want something, and you’ll go on and on until you get it.”
But, just as suddenly, he saw her check herself and her face become severe and guarded again as she, too, registered the time-slip that had just taken place. “It was just a suggestion,” she replied curtly.
Mistake. She was determined not to cut him too much slack. He decided to back off and give the that-was-then banter a rest. “And a good one too. I’d like to try your pudding.”
She allowed him a tight smile. “I’ll have to go online and check out some recipes, then. Something nice and light.”
“That would be appreciated. Why don’t you sit down, pour yourself a glass of wine.” He inclined his head towards the large kitchen table.
She hesitated but then said, “Thanks.” He watched her as she made her way over and sat down, then helped herself to the bottle that had been placed on the table. “This is very pleasant,” she said stiffly, though he could tell she was savoring its smooth fruitiness as she sipped it.
“A Barolo, the noblest of all Italian wines. Sit back and enjoy it.”
“I’ll try,” she mumbled, looking down into the deep ruby depths of her glass.
He stopped unpacking and leaned against the counter, surveying her. “You’re not happy about being here, are you?” he said forthrightly.
She gave him a harrowed look. “It’s hard, Lorenzo.” She took a deep breath and he was surprised by what came next: plump tears that welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks as she started crying silently.
“Hey,” he said, “surely it’s not bad?” And walked over, attempting to comfort her by placing a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. He took a deep breath. In the past, intense emotion like this would have made him withdraw from her, but this time he felt compelled to stay. He sat down on the chair next to hers. She continued to weep quietly.
“What is it, cara?” he asked after a while. “Tell me.”
She shook her head, then wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up at a place somewhere over his left shoulder. “It’s difficult being back here again with you . . . but when I saw the door to the little room at the end of the hall . . . ” Her face screwed up as her tears overflowed again and she hung her head as she sobbed.
For a moment, Lorenzo was puzzled, and then it hit him. “Ah,” he said, “the nursery—”
“It just all came flooding back,” she choked out suddenly. “I-I can remember when you talked with the builders about converting the room, and we chose the new color scheme. We were thinking shades of pale yellow . . . ”
Lorenzo looked at the moisture dripping between her fingers. She was wound like a ball of misery. He got up, stretched to tear off a couple of sheets of kitchen paper and offered them to her. “Here.” He sat down again and waited while she blew her nose. “I’m sorry, he said awkwardly, “I didn’t think—”
Her head jerked up as she looked at him through blazing, reddened eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you? You never did.” She jabbed at the tear-trails on her cheeks with the paper towel, then blew her nose. “We lost a child, Lorenzo. Didn’t you ever mourn our baby?”
Caught on the back foot by this sudden attack, he couldn’t help himself freezing and withdrawing a little. “Ashlynne . . . You know I was very disappointed that your pregnancy ended in miscarriage.” And he winced to himself, because he knew how stuffy and unemotional he sounded.
“Disappointed? That might have been your son or your daughter, and you were disappointed.” She threw the used towel on the table in frustration.
They sat in silence for a while, and he could feel waves of red-hot pain and anger rolling off her, almost as strongly as he recalled they had when she’d lost the baby, and again, when they’d got divorced. Back then, he’d been unable to articulate what she wanted to hear, hadn’t known what it was that she’d needed him to say to get rid of the hurt. He raked his hand through his thick, dark hair and stood up, searching for a way to break the thick, toxic silence. Earlier she’d made a pretence of saying that time had passed, and that she had healed. But, clearly she hadn’t.
“You’re very tired and hungry. You always had a short fuse when you needed to eat—”
“You patronizing . . . Stop talking to me like I’m troublesome child—oh, to hell with you!” She leapt up from her seat and whirled out of th
e kitchen and down the hall. He heard a door slam.
He thought about going after her, but instead, sank his head in his hands. He was catapulted back to that terrible time after she’d lost their baby, when she’d also believed—wrongly—he was sleeping with his assistant. She’d gone to a black place, and he couldn’t reach her because he hadn’t known how to make her distress go away. Then he had chosen to work instead, squashing and flattening down his difficult feelings until they could be packed away in the storeroom at the back of his mind, along with all other the bad things that had happened to him in the past. But, every now and then, they’d rear their ugly heads.
A couple of years ago, when it had finally dawned on him that pulling all-nighters, always striving towards the next acquisition, seeing the profits mount up and chasing and sleeping with some of Europe’s most beautiful women were no analgesics to the lingering pain, he’d decided he had to sort himself out. Some harsh words from an old friend and mentor had sealed it for him. It had been hard, but he’d finally been able to admit to himself that he’d messed up, was messed up, and needed to change. Though just now, he mused, he’d reverted to reacting how he used to when he was married to Ash—emotions on shutdown, controlled and detached in his responses. It was all too easy to reverse back into old ways.
He groaned to himself. Perhaps it wasn’t worth trying, that there’d never be an end to the war between them. Then, it struck him that he had a responsibility to her—to lessen her loss by telling the truth and letting her know that he had cared about the baby. Could he also make her understand he wasn’t the terrible person she seemed to believe he was, that he hadn’t been having an affair? He could partly make things up to her by giving her the Christmas she’d always wanted.