by Joanne Walsh
She folded her arms and surveyed him with narrowed eyes. Should she give him the benefit of the doubt? “Well, Signor di Grechi, I like what I’m hearing and I want to believe you. Though you are supremely good at charming birds off trees.”
“Can you believe me enough to draw a line in the sand? Forgive me for not fighting hard enough when we divorced? Forget about Claudia, because it never happened? Let me kiss you again?”
She sat for a while without speaking. He was so masculine, forceful and beautiful, but she couldn’t risk even one more kiss. “Look,” she sighed. “I will never know for sure what happened with you and Claudia. What I do know is that the way you handled it was lacking in the care and respect you should have shown me. It’s taken you so long to understand how I felt. But I can see that you’re different now, and I’m getting really fed up of being the crazy, angry one. And because it’s Christmas, though I’ll never be able to totally forgive you, I might find it in myself to forget about it for the rest of my stay here. But, with no more repeats of this morning—no more kisses. Does that sound like a plan?”
*
“Okay.” Lorenzo nodded and held on to her hands, relishing their soft warmth. They were as small and delicate as he remembered, pale, with freckles on their backs and manicured oval nails—perfect hairdressers’ hands, able to take a head of hair and turn it into something becoming and image-changing with precise snips of her cutting scissors. She was immensely talented, and now a flourishing businesswoman. But she was also sensitive and vulnerable—and he still wanted her like crazy. Excitement ran through his body when he remembered how she’d returned his kiss earlier, followed by frustration hard on its heels because she was pulling down the shutters.
So she couldn’t forgive, but she was willing to let it go for the rest of the time she was here in Venice. How he wished he’d never employed Claudia. She had been good at her job, but also a cunning adventuress, wanting to try and hook him into an affair to gain promotion and financial reward. He hadn’t bitten when she’d gone all out to snare him. His personal assistant, she’d been good-looking and sensual, and it would have been easy to have had a fling with her, then given her the career advancement that she’d desired. But he hadn’t been tempted in the slightest, not when he had Ashlynne by his side; she was the only woman he’d needed. However, he’d underestimated how jealous and manipulative Claudia was capable of being; she’d failed to pass on the message to him that Ash, who gone to London to spend Christmas with her family, had been rushed into King’s College Hospital three months into her pregnancy because she was miscarrying. And then, later, when Ash was grieving and raw, Claudia had called her up to ‘confess’ to a relationship with her husband. And he hadn’t helped the fraught situation by not arriving back in London until late on that particular Christmas Day because he thought the concluding of a business deal was more important, not knowing that Ash had lost their baby that very morning.
That thought made him do an emergency stop. Of course! Tomorrow was the fifth anniversary of that terrible event. He studied her as she disentangled herself from his grasp and helped herself to another cookie, then nibbled distractedly on it, wondering how he could save her from the next emotional tempest that was brewing. In so many ways, he was just another painful reminder to her of all that had happened.
He cast his gaze around the café in an attempt to gather his thoughts and caught sight of a noticeboard on the nearby wall, to which was pinned a poster announcing a series of the Christmas concerts that were so popular at this time of year. There was one today, starting soon at eleven a.m., in the church of La Pieta, on Riva degli Schiavoni in the Castello district. He was going to suggest that they stop there before going on to the food markets. It wasn’t a solution to painful memories, but it was a nice experience that offered an oasis of calm and something really Christmassy.
As he hoped, her eyes lit up at his suggestion and they left Nonna’s, taking a carton of cookies with them. It was snowing lightly again as they made their way along the narrow canal-side streets and she didn’t protest this time when he took her hand again to support her as they walked the icy ground.
By the time they got to La Pieta, the concert had started. They slipped quietly into a pew at the back. The church was aglow with the golden lights of hundreds of candles, and the air was filled with the smell incense, the fragrance of fir and the resonant chords and harmonies of instrumental baroque music. Lorenzo surveyed Ashlynne as she sat back, her face softening as she let the rich smells and sounds wash over her. He slid an arm across her shoulders and was gratified when she snuggled into his body. It was then that an idea struck him . . .
When it was over, she roused from her reverie, looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly, “that was really lovely. I was quite carried away there.”
He smiled back and squeezed her shoulder. “That’s what I was hoping. A little time out for us both.”
Her smile wavered a little when he said that, so he slid his hand down the arm of her coat, then placed it on her waist. “There’s something else I think we should do while we here.” He moved to stand up and take her with him.
“What’s that?” she asked, rising to her feet.
He guided her out of the pew and over to the nave, where a clay and wood crib stood surrounding by flickering tea lights. They watched as two small kids, helped by their parents, took tapers and lit two more, then bobbed and made the Sign of the Cross.
Lorenzo nudged Ashlynne. “Want to light a candle?”
She nodded and watched as he felt in his pocket for his wallet, then took a few coins and dropped them in a box. He handed her a tea light and a lighted taper. “Who or what are you going to dedicate it to?”
She thought for a moment and he saw her features pinch and her eyes fill with tears, her curls burnished red and gold in the candlelight. “Our baby. Our little baby who didn’t make it.” She lit her tea light.
Lorenzo felt his throat close and he swallowed. He couldn’t look at her anymore, so he gazed instead into the dozens of flames terraced on an ornate iron rack around the crib as they danced and shuddered. “Our baby,” he repeated, and felt her as she turned into his body, needing his embrace. He also turned and welcomed her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her and nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. “I’m glad you lit the candle for our precious child,” he whispered into her hair.
Chapter Five
‡
They walked over to Campiello dei Gossi—the gourmands’ square—where a food market was sited—and strolled amongst stalls that were hung with porchetta, prosciutto and other meats, along with bunches of dried herbs. Others displayed regional cheeses, a colorful array of seasonal fruit vegetables, Christmas wreaths and dozens of different wines. Ashlynne felt as if she was floating.
What a morning! She’d woken up in bed with her ex-husband and shared an earth-moving kiss. Then the conversation at Nonna’s had turned her head inside out; she was no longer sure the grounds she had for divorce were actually real. And, the simple act of dedicating the candle to the baby at La Pieta had been a huge release. She was so touched that Lorenzo had thought of that. He had changed. She couldn’t imagine him doing that when they’d been married, or holding her so tenderly in public. He’d held her in private of course, but then it had only been after they’d made love.
She shivered as she had a vision of them lying entwined in a tangle of limbs and sheets, slicked with sweat and high on passion. Reflex! She willed it away. She was going to concentrate on having fun with him now, on enjoying Christmas and the time they had together before she left and returned home to London. She didn’t need to complicate their new-found harmony with sex.
Lorenzo’s question invaded her thoughts. “Tesoro, did you hear me? I’m thinking that we could have the Amarone di Valpolicella with our lamb tomorrow?”
She realised that they had stopped at a vintner’s stall and he was holding up a bottle of dark red wi
ne. She shook her head a little to clear her mind.
“You don’t think so?” he queried.
“No . . . yes! What I mean is, yes, that looks as if it would be great for our Christmas Day meal. Really fruity,” she added, hoping that she sounded as if she was paying attention.
“Are you okay, cara?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied with a big, wide smile. “Just taking in all the sights and sounds. I’d forgotten what a really amazing choice there is here.”
“As you know, the produce comes from all over Italy,” he replied proudly, handing over some Euros to the stall holder for a couple of bottles of the Valpolicella.
“Okay, that’s the wine dealt with. What else do we need?”
“Um. You mentioned decorations and making a fire. And there are the ingredients for my Bramble House plum pudding cake, of course.”
Lorenzo gave a theatrical sigh. “I was hoping that the cowboy cake might have slipped your mind.”
“Lorenzo!” She gave him an admonishing little swat on his arm, causing the wine bottles, which he carried in a bag, to clink together.
“Come on,” he said. “This way to the alimentari, where we can get what you need for your cake.”
The small grocery store tucked away on the side of the square was a cornucopia of edible goods, and Ashlynne was delighted to find everything she needed, including golden syrup and crystallized ginger, though she had to settle for tinned plums as fresh weren’t in season. Lorenzo was incredibly generous and brought out his battered leather wallet, insisting that he pay for everything, even though she had her own credit card at the ready.
As they emerged outside the shop into the darkening gloom of the afternoon, she thought about his wallet and an idea came to her. It was very old and battered, especially for a man who was a self-made millionaire. In fact, she dimly recalled that he’d owned it when they’d been together. She needed to buy him a Christmas gift, if only to thank him for his kindness and hospitality. Perhaps a new wallet would be just the thing. Venice had so many lovely leather stores. She’d try to slip away for a few minutes by herself when their shopping was done.
“Christmas decorations now?” she proposed.
“Definitely. After we’ve stopped by the log stall. I want to get some wood and kindling so that we can have that fire tomorrow.”
“Not tonight?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not tonight, because we’re going out for a traditional Christmas Eve dinner.”
They got to the wood stall and Lorenzo ordered the logs and kindling to be delivered to the apartment later that afternoon. Then it was onward and back to Campo Santo Stefano to seek out decorations. Ashlynne found a stall, which sold hand-crafted ceppos and begged Lorenzo to buy one. He seemed surprised. “Really? I thought you’d want a fir, like your parents have at home?”
“Oh, no, I want a traditional Italian one. I always secretly wanted one when we were married.”
“You never said.”
“Well, we never had a tree, did we?”
“That’s because you always went to London to stay with your family.”
“I guess. And, because you were never at home—” she clamped her mouth shut, wishing that last bit hadn’t come out of it.
But he took it in good heart. “No, that’s true. But all that’s changed.”
She gave him a grin. “I’m beginning to realize that, maybe, it really has.” Then her eye was caught by a stall that glittered and sparkled in the fading light. “Aha, decorations!”
She slithered off towards the beckoning ornaments, trying to keep her balance by holding out the two bags of provisions she carried at arms’ length, and laughing as she wobbled about. Lorenzo skidded quickly to her side, even though he now had a flat-packed ceppo frame, the carton of cookies and the wine to carry himself. “Wait for me! I’m not sure I can pick you and all those cake ingredients up if you fall again.”
“I do feel a bit like a beast of burden,” she admitted, and right on cue, the music to the carol Little Donkey started up somewhere in the square.
“Listen, cara, they’re playing your song,” he quipped without missing a beat, and for at least thirty seconds she couldn’t stop her fits of giggles.
The ornaments stall was a delight. Ashlynne picked out little beaded birds and Murano glass balls, fruit made of wax and silk, gilded pinecones and small boxes wrapped in exquisite handmade paper to look like gifts, while Lorenzo sought her opinion on lights and a star to place at the top of the tree.
“You know, I think we’re done,” he said, after all the trimmings had been bought and paid for.
“Just about,” she agreed, “though would you mind if I went off for a few minutes by myself. Just to pick out a few little things for my nephew and nieces?”
He eyed her for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yes, of course. You remember that there’s plenty to choose from here and on Campo San Maurizo close by?”
“Yes, that’s exactly where I thought I’d go.”
“Okay. Give me your food bags and I’ll make my way back to the apartment.”
“Thanks.” She handed over her carriers to him, but kept hold of the bag of ornaments. “Are you sure you can manage all of that,” she said, looking at the load he was bearing.
“Yes, I’m good. Off you go, and I’ll see you later. Don’t stay out too long. The temperature’s really dropping and you’ll get icicles on your backside.”
She stood and watched as he walked away, trudging over the square’s snowy cobbles with all their purchases, an imposing figure, who stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd. There was a funny ache in her heart. Her time since arriving back in Venice had been a roller-coaster and a revelation. He definitely had changed. He was still an amazing alpha male, powerful and in charge, but the arrogance and the ruthlessness of yore had receded. It was fair to say that she’d found those things very attractive in him when they’d first met—she’d been young and lacking in confidence and she’d felt special when he’d pursued her, and protected by his ability to make everything happen and everyone bow before him. Once they were married, however, she discovered they could be impossible qualities to live with. But now . . . it seemed like the leopard had changed his spots and turned into a bit of a pussycat . . .
She found a beautiful hand-stitched leather wallet in Campo San Maurizo: dark brown calf with a lighter brown silk lining. It was sturdy and strong, but also sleek and smooth, just like him. She had it gift-wrapped.
After stopping to buy some cute little stuffed animals for her nieces, and a simple small watch for Rory, because she knew he was learning how to tell the time, she started on her way back to the apartment. Her Christmas presents for the children were already at her parents’ for them to open tomorrow, but these would make nice additional gifts to make up for her absence at the family celebration.
She found Lorenzo in the living room, on his knees, fitting the wooden ceppo frame together. “There’s a sandwich for you in the kitchen,” he muttered over his shoulder, focusing intently on his building task.
Yes, you really have changed, she thought as she went to find her late lunch. The Lorenzo of old would never have got down on his hands and knees, let alone had a Christmas tree.
*
Lorenzo sat in the kitchen nursing the cup of tea that Ashlynne had made him, and watching her as she made her plum pudding cake. She’d already mixed the cake batter and added the plums, and now it was baking in the oven, from where a delicious sweet-and-spicy smell was wafting. She was hard at work on the glaze, which was a reduction of plums, honey, sugar, butter and ginger syrup.
He’d studied her figure as she’d placed the cake in the warmed oven, savoring the curve of her pert derriere and the way her generous breasts had swayed and bunched as she’d stretched up. Her cheeks glowed from the blast of hot air. She’d matured from a very pretty girl into a ripe beauty—ready for picking. His mind wandered back to the morning, when he’d kissed her
. She’d tasted good, and she’d responded so willingly and fiercely. So why had she shut down on him so rapidly afterwards, talked that stuff about it being—what had she called it—a reflex? That was it. She’d said she just needed to get it out of her system.
He ran a forefinger around the rim of his mug reflectively. She’d talked a load of crap. He knew that instinctively because he knew her. She wasn’t that kind of easy-come-easy-go girl. She said she was single. He’d like to bet that she hadn’t been with anyone else since the end of their marriage. If she’d wanted to get it out of her system, the logic was that she still wanted him. He knew she did. The way she had responded to his touch . . . The fire was still there. Gesu, he wanted to have her back in his bed, to make love to her, so much!
A finger of caution tapped him on the shoulder. He’d learned last night and today what she really wanted from him: not kisses, not sex, but support, friendship, understanding, a little tenderness and maybe even some protection. He wanted to give her those things. And he also wanted to give her something more primitively and instinctually physical—
The oven timer shrilled, rousing him from his thoughts.
“Oh-oh, the moment of truth,” she said, giving the cake glaze one last stir and taking it off the hob. She put on protective gloves and opened the over door, then carefully tested it with a skewer. It came back clean, so she withdrew the cake tin and peered at her creation.
“Come on, let’s see it,” he encouraged.
“Ta-dah!” she sang, turning around and holding the tin out for him to see. The cake had risen into a tempting hill of golden-brown, peppered with pieces of purple plum.
He gave her a quick round of applause and she bowed, her face wreathed with a smile of pleasure. “I’m so relieved that it’s risen,” she said.
“It looks and smells magnificent,” he praised. “What now—the glaze?”
“Not yet. I’ve got to let it cool a little, then turn it out onto the rack to let it cool some more.” She prodded the top of the cake. “I’ll reheat and pour over the glaze later.”