Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  As he’d provided this history, Bennett had adopted a wistful, resigned look. “We lost touch over the years, Gracie. I think Nico was ashamed of his son. Having managed so much wealth so successfully himself, he expected no less from his progeny. His disappointment in Gerard’s irresponsible behavior was too much for him.”

  “And they have no contact at all anymore?” I’d asked.

  Bennett had given a thoughtful sigh. “I should be a better friend to Nico,” he’d finally said. “We were so close so many years ago, and I’m beginning to grasp how little we’ve kept in touch.” Turning to me again, he forced a smile. “Neither of us is getting any younger. Maybe this trip will allow us to reconnect.”

  I’d patted his arm. “I’m sure it will.”

  Now, as Bennett introduced me, Nico took my hand in both of his. He was probably my height, but seemed shorter due to his stooped posture. Behind his age-spotted, sun-scarred face, I could see the handsome man he’d once been. Deep smile lines and twinkling eyes led me to believe his spirit embraced a more youthful existence than his body allowed.

  “Grace,” Nico said, holding tight. He gave me a surreptitious once-over. “Your name suits you.”

  “It’s my great pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “Bennett has told me a lot about your adventures at school.”

  He chuckled. “I hope he hasn’t told you everything,” he said. “I have a reputation to uphold.” Letting go of my hand, he turned to Bennett with a glimmer of understanding in his eye. “When you told me that you would be accompanied by an assistant, I confess I had entirely different expectations. You are still quite the active man, aren’t you, my good friend?”

  Bennett cleared his throat. “You misunderstand. Grace is my n—”

  “Curator,” I volunteered, realizing that by cutting Bennett off I was probably feeding directly into Nico’s assumptions. I couldn’t allow myself to be identified as Bennett’s niece, though. Not yet, anyway. Not until we knew for certain, and we both understood that day might never come. “And estate manager,” I continued. “I’m in charge of the artifacts, the tourism, and the grounds.”

  “Ah,” Nico said in a gracious tone that made it clear he didn’t believe a word I’d said, “my mistake. Allow me to present some of my assistants. They are nowhere near as lovely as you are, Grace, but I am in need of a different sort of comfort these days.”

  As though to emphasize his words, Nico lifted his free arm and the man who hadn’t been arguing with him grabbed it and helped lower the elderly man back into his chair.

  “Please, join me. Sit,” Nico said. He gestured blithely to the other man. “That is Angelo, and this”—he pointed up toward the fellow who was now arranging pillows—“is Gianfranco. Neither man speaks any English, although I believe they’ve begun to catch on to a couple of words here and there.”

  At the sound of their names, both men made eye contact with us and gave a small nod of acknowledgment. As Bennett and I sat, forming a small U-shaped conversational area around a low, painted table, I studied the assistants. The larger of the two, Angelo, the one who had been arguing with Nico as we’d approached, stood about fifteen feet away from us, hands crossed in front of his waist, his pale face impassive, eyes staring straight ahead like a soldier who had just been told, “At ease.”

  Gianfranco, by contrast, was slightly built with a darker complexion. His glare bounced from us to Angelo, to Nico, to the house. His fingers were long and thin and in constant motion, much like his furtive glances. He attempted to refill Nico’s wineglass, but when he lifted the yellow-and-blue pitcher to pour, nothing came out. Gianfranco barked an order at Marco, who disappeared back inside the house without a word of complaint.

  Bennett and Nico faced one another, with me between them. I couldn’t help but notice Nico’s keen interest in my presence. “Your Marshfield Manor is doing well?” he asked Bennett, keeping his attention on me.

  “Grace has been instrumental in boosting attendance,” Bennett said. “She’s been the best thing to happen to Marshfield in a long time.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Nico said. “And apparently the best thing that has happened to you, my friend.”

  Bennett sat forward. “I know you don’t mean to offend, Nico, but you must stop this at once. Grace is my trusted assistant.” He shot me an apologetic smile. He’d warned me that Nico was—in his words—saltier than most of his contemporaries. “She is like a daughter to me.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Or a dear niece. Your innuendo is making us both uncomfortable, and I’m certain that is not your intent.”

  Nico listened, watching me with a shrewd expression. “I am deeply sorry,” he said finally. “I am but a lonely old man in a broken-down body who lives vicariously through my friends’ adventures. Please accept my apology.”

  “Of course,” I replied. Without wanting to make too big a deal out of another pressing matter, I ran my hands down my skirt. “May I impose on you, Signor Pezzati?” I made a gesture toward the house. “Is there a place to freshen up?”

  He smiled widely. “Again, I apologize. I was so eager to greet my good friend that I neglected to have Marco see to your needs.” He waved to Gianfranco and spoke to him in Italian. The slim man smiled and beckoned me to follow.

  When I returned a few minutes later, Nico regarded me with interest. I couldn’t decipher his expression. But I didn’t have long to wonder. Nico lifted a hand to summon Angelo. The brooding man was at his boss’s side instantly. Speaking Italian, Nico pointed to the two of us and issued commands that I didn’t understand. Angelo watched us both as he listened. The big man asked a question Nico didn’t have an answer for, while staring at me with a glint of interest. After our host gave an elegant shrug and smile, Angelo nodded and left.

  Nico explained. “I told him to have your luggage taken to a second guest room. Again, my apologies. When you arrived, my servants acted on an assumption and delivered all your belongings to a single room.”

  That would have been awkward. “Thank you for your understanding,” I said. “May I trouble you to know what Angelo asked? I may not speak the language, but he seemed curious about something.”

  Nico smiled. “You are an astute observer,” he said. “Angelo wanted to know if you are married. I told him I didn’t know the answer to that. Are you?”

  “What difference could that possibly make?”

  “Angelo is not a man who hesitates,” Nico said. “He moves quickly when he sees something he wants. Your wholesome American beauty has intrigued him, my dear. If you are not otherwise spoken for”—Nico chuckled—“or even if you are, Angelo would like to get to know you better.”

  “But . . .” I reminded him. “I don’t speak Italian, and Angelo doesn’t speak English.”

  “Who needs words when you communicate in the language of love?”

  For the first time since we’d arrived in Europe, I wished we were on our way home.

  Chapter 2

  BENNETT MADE EYE CONTACT WITH HIS friend. “It would be best if Angelo kept his distance.”

  Nico nodded. “I will see to it that he does.”

  Angelo keeping his distance was as much as I could hope for. At the moment, I was doing my best to avoid thinking about the big man handling my luggage upstairs.

  “He appears to have quite a temper,” Bennett continued. “When we arrived, we obviously interrupted an argument. He seemed rather agitated with you.”

  “Bennett.” Nico’s face creased into a wide smile. “Like you, I was born and raised in the United States. I raised my family there as well. I understand your concern, but here in this gorgeous country we are less afraid to share our emotions. Angelo speaks loudly and with unrestrained gestures, yes, but he is kindhearted and loyal to me. He will do whatever I ask of him, even if he does not always agree. As will Gianfranco.”

 
As though summoned, the slim man stepped forward. Nico waved him back, and I was struck by the level of his servants’ attentiveness. Back home, Bennett maintained a staff of personal assistants, but he’d never tolerate this amount of in-your-face responsiveness. Bennett preferred to do things on his own as much as possible, and I wondered if Nico’s limited mobility now owed itself to years of dependence on others to complete simple tasks.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Bennett said, but the concern in his expression didn’t fade. Whatever we’d disrupted had been far more anger-filled than our host was letting on. Bennett kindly did not push the issue.

  “Your trip up to my home was uneventful, I take it?” Nico asked as Marco returned bearing a tray with a pitcher of wine, fresh glasses, and a plate laden with cheeses and fruit.

  “Thank you very much for picking us up,” Bennett said. Marco poured wine all around and set out small plates on the low table before us. Surveying his work, he gave a quick, smiling bow, and returned inside. “This is a beautiful country. Grace and I have been enjoying ourselves immensely.”

  Bennett and I had been in Europe for two weeks and were set to depart for home tomorrow after spending the night here at Villa Pezzati. The first half of our trip had been devoted to touring France; the second week, Italy. The absence of responsibility, coupled with a change of scenery, had done wonders for my soul, but I found myself eager to be home again.

  “My staff is at your service,” Nico said. He grabbed a handful of grapes and sat back against his chair’s plump cushion. He began tossing grapes into his mouth, one at a time. “Now, what can you tell me about our friends back home? There are not so many still living anymore, are there?” The question was rhetorical. He chewed his grapes thoughtfully, and mused, “You and I are getting old.”

  To me, Bennett wasn’t old. Though in his seventies, Bennett kept fit and trim, and from the time I’d begun working for him at Marshfield Manor I’d been impressed with his sharp wit, his vigor, and his strength. I admired him, possibly even more than he realized.

  “You remember Bill?” When Nico nodded, Bennett leaned forward to talk about an old school buddy who had recently relocated to Florida in order to launch a new hotel chain.

  I let my mind wander as the two men caught up. We were surrounded by a vista of gorgeous green, rolling hills, and a scent that made me realize how hungry I’d gotten. I reached for a few morsels of cheese, took a sip of wine, and reminded myself to enjoy the moment. We would be going home soon, and this fabulous vacation—we’d spent more time playing hooky than working—would be over soon. As much as I missed Bootsie, my little kitten, and my roommates, Scott and Bruce—who were no doubt spoiling her rotten—this getaway had provided me precious time to think. I’d contemplated my recent foolishness in matters of the heart, Jack’s abrupt resignation, and what life in Emberstowne would be like now that Bennett’s stepdaughter was moving in.

  Hillary’s announcement had been the proverbial straw. Rather than allowing me to crack, however, Bennett had whisked me away from the angst, and although it had been only two weeks, I felt as though we’d been gone for months. The weight of a recent tragedy and my role in it had pressed its angry bulk against my slim shoulders, nearly breaking me. Bennett had claimed he wanted to travel, but we both knew this trip was more for my well-being than anything else. For the first time in a long time, I’d been unburdened. I’d had no responsibilities for two whole weeks. We’d left my able assistant, Frances, in charge and she’d called us only once so far—to assure us that everything was going well and that she was running a tight ship. Of that I had no doubt.

  Tomorrow, however, we’d fly back on the jet Bennett had chartered for this trip. I couldn’t avoid reality forever, but I could enjoy the respite while it lasted. I took a deep sip of the dry white wine, and marveled again at the cool breeze that made this outdoor space a tiny bit of heaven.

  “I do not care to speak of him,” Nico said. My ears perked up and I tuned back into the conversation.

  Bennett leaned forward along the arm of his wicker chair. “It’s been how many years, Nico? He’s your son. I remember when Gerard was just a—”

  “Those days are gone. He betrayed the family and he must pay for his sins. He has not tried to contact me in fourteen years,” Nico added. “I do not even think of him anymore. He is dead to me. My daughter, Irena, is my only living child now.”

  Bennett and I exchanged a glance. In his expression I read the same thought that had flashed through my brain: The fact that Nico had been specific enough to say “fourteen” rather than a vague “more than ten” or “almost fifteen” years since Gerard had contacted him led me to believe that his son’s betrayal maintained a tighter grip on Nico’s heart than he cared to admit.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Bennett said. “I remember him as a boy—”

  Nico sliced the air with his hand as tears welled in his eyes. Blinking, he waved to Gianfranco, who leapt to attention. “More wine.” Nico’s voice was rusty, and no one needed a refill, but Gianfranco dribbled a little into each glass nonetheless.

  “Tell me about Irena,” Bennett said, gently changing the subject. “The last time I saw her, she was still very young.”

  Nico seemed lost in thoughts of his son. “Irena will be here momentarily. Angelo will fetch her on his way back. She’s eager to meet you both, but wanted to give us old men a chance to reconnect before she joined us.”

  To me, his words were a subtle chastisement, a reminder that I was not part of their long friendship. I shifted in my seat.

  “I would be happy to stroll your beautiful property,” I said, “to allow you to talk in private.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Angelo’s return. The big man stepped aside to allow a woman—Irena, no doubt—to hurry over to Nico’s side. She was curvy and tall with sun-kissed skin and blonde streaks in her dark hair. She leaned around the edge of his chair, placing her cheek against his weathered one. Though not beautiful in the traditional sense, a flirty combination of lush lips and sparkling eyes gave Irena the sort of playful, interesting face that makes men twist for a second look. She had to be at least forty years old, but with her skinny jeans, wedge sandals, and model-tousled hair, she appeared closer to my age.

  “These must be your American guests,” she said with a luminous smile and the barest hint of an Italian accent. “Signor Marshfield? It’s been a very long time since I have seen you.”

  “It has,” Bennett said as he and I stood to shake hands with our newcomer. “You were a very young girl last time we met.”

  “With braces on my teeth and pigtails in my hair,” she added, placing a palm against her eyes in mock shame. “I look at pictures from those years and cringe.” Everything about the woman was polished, from her nails to her cool, firm handshake. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said to me. To both of us, she added, “Father has talked about nothing else but your visit here, for weeks.”

  She joined us at the low table as we resumed our seats, and in moments, Gianfranco had poured her a glass of wine and again refreshed all of ours. He and Angelo retired to chairs that had been set off to the far side of the patio. Both men kept a close eye on our group.

  Irena’s arrival had spared me the discomfort of feeling as though I was infringing on Bennett and Nico’s private time. She crossed her long legs and patted her father on the knee as she addressed us. “This patio is my father’s favorite place in the entire villa. He shares it only with those he truly cares about.”

  “We are honored,” Bennett said.

  “Father says that you two have known each other since you were boys?” she asked, the lilt in her tone a clear request for tales about her dad’s youth. “When we were little, he told stories. . . .” She caught herself, possibly at her inadvertent reference to her brother. Her cheeks grew pink and she flashe
d a worried look toward her father, who apparently didn’t notice her slipup. “I remember begging him always to tell more about the extraordinary Marshfield. Is that where you live?”

  Clearly pleased to be able to share, Bennett nodded. “Marshfield is a magnificent home,” he said without conceit, “but for a child, it was wondrous. Nico—that is, your father—and I spent hours there exploring hidden passages and disappearing whenever we got into trouble.”

  I thought about those secret passages and wondered how many more there were that hadn’t been revealed to me yet.

  “Except for stories about his adventures with you, we . . . er, I . . . know so little about his childhood.”

  “Oh bosh,” Nico said. “You know all you need to.”

  Irena’s eyes sparkled, and she shifted to face Bennett. “Tell me, Signor Marshfield, is it true that my father was a scoundrel when he was young?”

  “Who told you such a thing?” Nico demanded.

  Gripping his fingers, she leaned toward him. “Father, I’m only teasing,” she said quietly. With an apologetic look to us, she tried again. “I would love to hear all about my father’s boyhood.”

  Unmoved by her explanation, Nico turned his head and stared off into the distance.

  Irena let go of his hand, lacing her fingers across her knee. “As you know, I was born in America and lived much of my life there, but I have taken to this country”—at this, she opened her arms wide, as though to encompass Italy in its entirety—“with all my heart.”

  “You speak the language, then?” Bennett asked.

  “Fluently. I studied in high school in New York, but there’s nothing to compare with living among native Italians. This country has been very kind to me.” She slid a sideways glance at Nico, who still seemed miles away. “As it has been for all of us.”