by Joanne Walsh
He rubbed his hand over his face and straightened up. First things first. He’d finish putting away the supplies, then start on making their supper. Things always looked brighter on a full stomach. He’d learned that during the worst of times back when he was a kid. And he needed to find someplace where they might begin communicating too, in the Italian way—over a table of food and wine . . .
*
The meat sauce was simmering on the hob, the fresh pasta was ready to drop into a pan of water when it was heated to boiling, and he’d prepared a huge bowl of salad and his own special dressing. Half an hour must have passed since Ash had rushed out of the kitchen. Lorenzo braced himself. He needed to go check on her, persuade her to come and eat, show her that he cared, try and move things on.
When he reached the guest room Ash was occupying, he found it empty. He noticed that the door to the smaller room next to it was open and the light on. He moved to the doorway and saw her sitting in the middle of the floor and hugging her knees, her auburn curls waterfalling around her.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She looked up at him and a shoot of something tender in his heart sprouted as he saw the vulnerability in her crumpled face. “Hey,” she replied. She paused. “Sorry I shouted and cursed at you,” she said sheepishly.
“It’s okay,” he said, walking a little way into the room and halting to lean against the wall, his hands in his pants’ pockets. “I’m used to it. I’ll live.”
She smiled uncertainly. “So this room became your study?”
He nodded his head. “Yes, cara. As you know, the international hotel business is twenty-four-seven, so it really helps to have an office here at home, where I can start work early in the morning, or finish up in the evening.”
A finger went up to twirl a curl thoughtfully. “So you still work all the hours God gives? I thought you said you were travelling less?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I used to do. But not now. I’m at home a lot more and set myself a cut-off time for working of midnight. And I don’t start before seven a.m.”
Her eyebrows raised in silky arches of surprise. “My, you’ve changed. Many’s the time I’d wake up in the middle of the night when we were married and you were actually home, and find an empty bed. What happened?”
“Maybe I’ve gained a different perspective on life since we last met. Perhaps, I can tell you about it while you’re here.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Though, to be fair, I’ve learned myself how hard you have to work when you run a business. I have my own company now, you know.”
“I do know. And it’s very successful, by all accounts. I’d like to hear more about it.” He noticed that she had lost her air of fragility and instead her expression had opened up and was lit by a small glow of pride.
“Okay. Be prepared to be bored witless,” she responded with the trace of a laugh in her voice. “It’s proved to be my salvation; given me something to nurture and tend to, I suppose.”
“Work can be very . . . healing,” he agreed, thinking how personally he’d taken that belief to excess.
“It’s helped, it really has . . . ” She stopped and she became pensive. “Though I’ve found that the body can heal relatively quickly, the emotional healing process takes far, far longer. Years maybe.”
“And you don’t feel fully emotionally healed yet?”
She shook her head and her curls shimmered about her shoulders. “I’m not as far forward with that as I’d convinced myself I was,” she confessed. “Coming here has opened old wounds.”
He found himself grimacing sympathetically, then he moved towards her, her talk of old wounds encouraging him to seize the chance to open up. “Can I sit beside you?”
“Go ahead.”
He squatted down and sat on the floor next to her. “You know, I grieved for you when you lost that pregnancy.” It surprised him how easily he vocalized that truth after all that time of keeping it close.
She gave him a penetrating sideways glance. “You did?”
He nodded. “I grieved for your grief. And I also mourned the loss of you.”
Her expression became puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“When you lost our baby, I lost you as well, and I didn’t know how to get you back.”
She pondered this for a moment, a frown furrowing her brow. “Why didn’t you tell me this at the time? Or when we went for the divorce?”
He turned and held her gaze. “I couldn’t. Typical guy, I suppose. Men get nervous about talking to their partners about things they know will upset them; get reluctant to broach the topic in case things spin out of control.”
She sniffed. “That’s just self-indulgent and cowardly. And things spun out of control with us anyway.”
“I know. It was the time when we needed each other most, wasn’t it? And I screwed up, not being there when it happened . . . and not being there for you afterwards. I was afraid that I couldn’t do anything to take away your pain.”
She surveyed him for long seconds, her dark-aquamarine eyes wide. He could see she was very surprised. “I’m amazed. I never ever thought I’d hear you say that,” she breathed after a while.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think. The way I grew up, it was important for me to appear emotionally strong, not to show any sign of weakness that could be taken advantage of or used against me. It’s become part of my DNA to show very little to the outside world and to avoid any emotional conflict.”
“Right. You never really told me much about your childhood, apart from that it was quite tough—you were poor, your mum died young and you were raised by your grandmother.”
“No, it wasn’t something I was willing to share with anyone for a long time. But since you’re here again in Venice, I’d like to show you where I was raised, and tell you a little more about it, if you’re willing.”
“That sounds good.” She put her head on one side, leaned towards him and threaded her arm through his. He appreciated the gesture, liked the intimacy. “I always felt that though I knew you, I kind of didn’t, if that makes sense,” she confided. “There was one side of you that I and the world saw, and another a side that you kept hidden.”
There was a long pause as he thought about that. She was right. He had kept the dark side to himself, hidden from everyone, even her, when she was his wife. “I’ve often thought about contacting you since we split,” he said after a while, determined to let her know that he hadn’t just pushed her to one side and carried on regardless.
“Why didn’t you?”
He exhaled. “Pride, I guess. Guilt, at being away when you lost the baby. Not wanting to stir things up and hurt you again.”
She gave a self-mocking smile. “Actually, you needn’t have worried. I was quite happily doing that all on my own.”
He untangled his arm from his and let it rise to push her curls away from her face. “So, if I’d come back and offloaded my guilt . . . ?”
“Misery loves company. No, actually you were right to feel nervous. You would have felt the full force of my anger.” She paused. “For a long while, in my quiet moments, I felt very lonely and isolated. I kept on going over and over in my mind what I could have done differently, to not have lost you and the baby.”
Touched by her honesty, his hand went to her chin and raised it slightly, so that she looked him directly in the eye. “Stop that right now,” he ordered. “There was nothing you could have done about the pregnancy. You know that.”
“I know it in my brain, but my heart never stops searching for the reason.”
“The reason? As I recall, the gynaecologist said that there are any number of reasons why the body chooses to reject a pregnancy, and there was a no reason why you shouldn’t carry your next one to full term.” When once more her face crumpled a little, he went on, “I know, it’s easy to say.” His hand moved up to stroke her cheek. “I’m a guy, and we like to have solutions.”
“Like you wanted to find a solut
ion to the pain and despair I was feeling?”
“Yes,” he admitted honestly.
She surprised him by giving him a little grin. “It’s good talking with you like this.”
Now, it was his turn to frown and look puzzled. “But surely you had a lot of people to talk it over with—medical professionals, family, friends—”
“Oh, yes, I had all of that. But, I didn’t have the person who made the baby with me to talk to. The one person who would have loved our child as much I would, had he or she survived. Who would know what my pain felt like.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Suddenly, he understood—how little he’d understood. “I would have loved to have a child—our child.”
He noticed that her eyes were glistening again, but her lips was also curved upwards in a welcoming smile. “You’re not going to start crying again, are you?” he teased.
She shook her head. “No. Just happy to find out that you do understand how I feel. Thanks for sharing.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached an arm around her and pulled her to him in a hug.
“Something smells good,” she said.
“Supper’s ready, cara, whenever you want it.”
“I want it now,” she stated with gusto, and he searched her face, thinking I still want you, badly. He shut the thought down. It wasn’t helpful to lust after his ex-wife, especially when she, and he, clearly still had a lot of emotional reflection to do.
He rose up and offered her his hand to help her haul herself off the floor. “Come on then.”
Soon they were seated back at the kitchen table, over steaming plates of pasta and sauce, accompanied by hunks of fresh crusty bread and salad on the side, refilled glasses of Barolo and aqua minerale.
“I’d forgotten how wonderful the bread is here,” Ashlynne said, using some to mop up her sauce. “And you’ve done that wonderful salad dressing of yours. I never got the recipe off you, and I often regretted that.”
“Remind me to give it to you before you go. Now, tell me about this business of yours. Hairdressing services and online products, isn’t it?”
“Yes, The Curly Bird, for people with curly and frizzy hair. The Curly Bird—do you get it?”
He looked serious as he thought about her question. “I’m not sure I do.”
“It’s a play on words. Maybe you don’t know the English saying: The early bird catches the worm?”
He shook his head, obviously completely puzzled. “What have worms got to do with hair?”
“Nothing! It’s . . . oh, never mind.” She waved her hand at him. “Anyway, as I’m sure you remember, I used to bemoan the lack of good effective products for us curlies, and I’d already made a name for myself at Sergio’s doing specialist cutting for curly hair—”
“Ah, yes, Signore Gennaro. How is Sergio?”
She gave him a curious glance. “But Sergio used to be your hairdresser in London. I thought you’d keep in touch with him.”
Lorenzo couldn’t stop frustration from creeping across his features, and he raised his hands in an expression of just that. “Sergio stopped speaking to me after our divorce. He blamed me and believed your version of events. I started visiting another salon when I was in town.”
“Ah.” He saw that her face looked wary again. “He was absolutely furious with you for preferring to spend time with Claudia, rather than attend to your pregnant wife.”
Tension crackled through the air once more as Lorenzo laid his cutlery down and folded his hands, trying to keep his temper down as it bubbled and protested. It was hard not to retaliate at the injustice of what she’d just said. “We’re going to have to talk about that, Ashlynne. You really did get that wrong.”
He could see her wavering between keeping calm and let her own emotions have full rein. He was glad when she seemed to choose the former, though he realized she was losing the battle when she let her fork slip through her fingers and hit her plate with a clatter, and she replied with a hard trace of grit in her voice. “So, after all this time, you’re still maintaining your innocence, and that your affair with her never happened?”
He held her gaze levelly. “I am,” he told her coolly, letting his frustration morph into tough resistance. “And I’m sad that you can’t seem to let it go.”
She huffed loudly, looked away and placed her elbows on the table top, running distracted hands through her fiery hair. When she looked up again, her eyes had assumed their stormy-sea color, and when she spoke, her voice wobbled. “Why won’t you admit it?”
“Because it never happened.” He rose and started clearing his plate away. “Do you want some ice cream for dessert? I’ve got your favourite flavors: pistachio and mango.”
She gave a frustrated groan. “Just for a while back there, I thought you’d changed. But you’re still the master of control and denial. As soon as the going gets rough, you chop to another subject.”
He could feel his mouth thinning at her needling. “And you’re still like a dog with a bone. Now, do you want some ice cream or not?”
She stood up, pushing her chair back. “No, thank you,” she clipped. “I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed. Thanks for a lovely meal.” She turned and left the kitchen.
He massaged his temples wearily. Just when he thought that, perhaps, they’d reached some accord and could begin some sort of reconciliation . . . His honesty about his feelings for the baby hadn’t been enough. There was a minefield between them to clear, full of unexploded emotional bombs, including the one with Claudia’s name written on it. And, he was still not handling her right.
He rose and began clearing away the supper things, scraping plates and filling the dishwasher. She was as contrary as ever: bubbly and delightful, intense and stubborn; sparkling with fun and enthusiasm one moment, on the verge of explosive passion the next. And all of it still turned him on. He stopped what he was doing and leant his hands on the counter. He needed to turn those urges off. She wasn’t his anymore, and it would only inflame the already decidedly ragged atmosphere if he started coming on to her.
What could he do? He couldn’t undo the past. Both of them definitely needed a big injection of Christmas spirit. His mind moved to thoughts of the next day. Venice was special at this time of year, and it wasn’t hard to be carried away the joy of the season here, sampling all the festive delights there were on offer. Perhaps the city could work a little bit of its magic for him and Ash this year, help them to regain some measure of understanding and trust?
When he’d finished cleaning up, he made his way along the hall, thinking he might just stop by his study and check his emails. He’d had his phone turned off since he’d begun cooking supper. As he passed Ash’s room, he saw that her door was slightly ajar and the light turned off. He stopped. A strange compulsion overtook him—he wanted to hold her, like he used to when they’d first met and in the early days of their marriage. Not in a sexual way. He just wanted to have her in his arms, feel her skin, smell her sweet scent again, make her feel safe. It was a need he couldn’t deny, and it propelled him to move to push the door open and enter her room. The blind at the window was slightly raised, and in the silvery half-light made by the reflection of the drift of snow on the sill outside, he could see she was laid on her back, her flaming curls spread out on the pillow, her eyes closed in sleep, her breathing rhythmic. He slipped off his shoes and carefully lay down on the double bed beside her. He gently wrapped his arms around her and she moved without waking, making a contented little moan as he molded himself to her body. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his hands, just as he remembered it, and perfumed with the faint scent of flowers. Her hair smelled of coconut and was silky when he touched it lightly. As sleep gradually overcame him, he felt a long-lost sense of contentment, and realized how much he had missed it—and her—during the previous five years.
Chapter Three
‡
Ashlynne came awake slowly. Mmm . . . she felt deliciously languid and relaxed. She stretched
a little—and made contact with another body lying behind her. Her heart began thumping hard, and she opened her eyes and looked back over her shoulder to see Lorenzo! He was fast asleep, fully clothed, with his arm was draped possessively around her waist. She turned back and lay very still while her sleep-fogged mind revved up and started whirring. What had happened? Why was he here? As far as she could recall, she’d got into bed last night feeling upset and exhausted, and had fallen asleep practically before her head hit the pillow.
She swallowed hard and steadied her breathing. So, Lorenzo was in her bed. Had anything occurred that she didn’t know about? She lifted the comforter gingerly and peered down; she was still wearing her pajamas and, apart from the legs of the pants riding up a little, they looked as they would after an uninterrupted night’s sleep. It struck her, too, that she was lying under the comforter but he was actually on top of it. Don’t be silly, she admonished herself. He was capable of a lot of things, but he would never take advantage of her like that.
Carefully, she wriggled around to face him completely without disturbing him. Oh, God. He looked so beautiful lying there, his closed eyelids hemmed by long dark curling lashes that rested on his upper cheekbones, his hair darkly glossy and mussed, a noticeable growth of beard shadowing his strong jaw. She was enveloped by an insistent tide of memories and longing. She used to wake up early sometimes and watch him sleeping like this when they first met and started courting. Back then, she hadn’t quite believed that he was with her, or been able to help herself from touching him to remind herself that he—and they—were real. She’d run her fingers down his broad tanned and muscled back or over his bronzed, hair-sprinkled chest, then lower to caress his firm buttocks and his proud erect manhood. Usually that would wake him up, and within seconds he’d be covering her with that amazing body and making love with her passionately . . . He hadn’t been able to get enough of her.