The Costanzo Baby Secret

by Catherine Spencer

  “And that’s all there was to it?”

  “In a nutshell. But since you seem to have so little trust in me or my judgment, why don’t you ask Yves yourself?”

  “I can’t. He died in the accident. In fact,” Dario said bluntly, “he caused it, though not through any fault of his own. Apparently, he had a heart attack while he was at the wheel.”

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth, assailed by one shock too many. “Oh, no! I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea he was so seriously ill. He was such a gentle person, so kind, and much too young to die.”

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of more bad news. And I’m sorry that I doubted your loyalty. I’m your husband. I should have trusted you.”

  “But you didn’t, and maybe the reason is that you were looking for an excuse to be rid of me.”

  “What the devil are you talking about? I married you, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, the memory of their early days together rising sharp and clear in her mind. “You put on a very good front, were every bit the dutiful husband, both in public and in the privacy of our bedroom, but a front is all it ever was. You proposed only because, when you found out I was expecting your baby, you felt you had no other choice.”

  “There’s a strong element of truth in that, I admit.”

  She winced, and wondered why this admission, coming as it had on top of others much worse, should leave her feeling so miserably hollow inside. Hadn’t she told herself, their last morning in Tunis, that he was a man of honor who would never shirk his responsibilities? Well, that she could still call herself his wife was living proof she’d been right.

  “But let me point out that I didn’t know you were pregnant when I went to the trouble of looking you up in Vancouver,” he continued. “That I did because I cared about you.”

  She nodded sadly. “‘Cared about’ is certainly a nice, inoffensive way of putting it.”

  “What else do you want me to say?”

  “That you were at least a little bit in love with me when you married me, as I was with you.”

  “I can’t,” he said, the candor she’d once found so disarming striking a fatal blow. “Love came later.”

  “Did it? You never once told me so. How do you think it made me feel that all the time I was falling more deeply in love with you, you never once said, ‘I love you, Maeve’?”

  “I’d have thought it was self-evident. If you remember as much as you say you do, you can’t have forgotten the nights we spent making love.”

  “Sex was never a problem for us, Dario. The last few weeks are proof enough of that.”

  “It was more than sex.”

  “Not the night I conceived, it wasn’t. You made that abundantly clear the next day.”

  “I know. And nothing I say now can excuse my actions then. The best I can do is tell you I will regret them for the rest of my life. I treated you appallingly for something that was entirely my fault.”

  “By seducing me, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked so haunted, so miserable, that she felt constrained to say, “In all fairness, you didn’t exactly drag me off kicking and screaming.”

  “That doesn’t absolve me of what followed. All the signs of your innocence were there, if only I hadn’t been too self-absorbed to recognize them. Your timidity, your almost catatonic submission…only much later, after we were married, did I realize that you always react that way when you feel under fire or inadequate.”

  “Was I very inadequate, that first night?”

  “No,” he said, his gaze soft and warm. “Your honesty and generosity were beautiful. They were what made you so hard to forget. You were like no other woman I’d ever known. I might not have planned to marry you, amore mio, but I can tell you in all truth, that I now consider it to be the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  “I want to believe you, Dario, I really do,” she sighed. “But I keep coming back to the fact that you couldn’t be honest with me. You let me think we were on a second honeymoon, when all the time you harbored suspicions that I was going to leave you and take Sebastiano with me. Although,” she added, conscience again prodding her to acknowledge that she’d brought some of that on herself, “I suppose I did give you reason to doubt me.”

  “Does any of it really matter now?” he said, catching her hand and drawing her to him. “This is no longer about what happened in the past, Maeve. It’s about you and me, and where we go from here. Mistakes have been made on both sides. Can we not learn from them, forgive ourselves and each other and start over?”

  She felt torn clean down the middle, half of her wanting to hate him for deceiving her so well. And half of her simply wanting him. “I’d like to think so, but the way you cut me out of Sebastiano’s life, and hid all evidence that he’d ever been born, and kept everyone else away from me…you treated me as if I’d died!”

  “In a way you had, Maeve. You weren’t the wife I thought you were. At least, that’s how it appeared at first. But I know better now. I have known better, more or less from the day you came home again. And this last week…mio dolce, it truly has been a perfect second honeymoon.”

  “Really? Is that why you made sure there was no trace of our son at the penthouse, either?”

  “There never was much to start with, and the few things you’d left behind I had put in storage weeks ago.”

  “What do you mean, left behind? Are you suggesting you still believe I was running away with him?”

  “No, of course I don’t. But he spent only the first few weeks of his life there. When you decided you’d rather stay on the island, you took all his things with you, making it very clear to me that you didn’t consider the penthouse was your home. The few items you didn’t take—some of his clothes and the bassinet—he outgrew ages ago. But if you’ll give us another chance to be a family, I’ll make a brand-new nursery for him so that he has his own room no matter which place he calls home.”

  He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “What do you say, my love? Can we pick up the pieces and put them together to make it work for all the right reasons this time?”

  “I want to,” she admitted. “I think so. But…”

  “But what?” he said. “Tell me, tesoro, and I’ll make it happen.”

  “What I want most is to be with my baby again. Can you make it morning already?”

  “Unfortunately not.” He stroked his knuckles along her jaw. “But I can think of a way to make the time pass more quickly.”

  His touch, his voice, tugged at her heartstrings, disarming her. Be careful, the voice of caution warned. You’ve been through this many times before, where all he had to do was touch you, and you were putty in his hands. But you’re not an innocent anymore. You’ve learned the hard way that it takes more than great sex to build a marriage.

  But her heart knew better than her head. It takes forgiveness, too. Love, real love, outweighs anger and disappointment. And you love this man, you know you do. You have found your son again. Happiness is at your fingertips, yours for keeps. All you have to do is reach out and take it. Let yesterday go and celebrate a tomorrow that promises true contentment.

  Sighing, she melted against him. Joy permeated her soul. She felt alive, truly alive, at last. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, his hands on her body.

  “Show me how,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MAEVE didn’t complain about the slow passage of time again. From the outset, there’d been a powerful chemistry between her and Dario, a pulsing awareness that might not have been love on his part, but it had held them together during the rough first weeks of their marriage and it was what held them together now.

  Not that she could have resisted him, even if she’d tried. He was too skilled a lover, too utterly, gorgeously seductive. Too everything. Any lingering resentment shriveled to dust in the heat of his kisses. His smile, the slumbrous appreciation in his eyes when he looked at her naked body,
made her insides flutter as if a thousand tiny wings were beating to get free.

  With no more secrets between them, and all the doubts and fears laid to rest, they had no reason to hold back all that lay in their hearts. Every touch, every glance, every whispered word spoke of a newfound trust, one able to withstand whatever fate might hold in store for them.

  They had walked through fire and lived to tell about it. Through it all, sex had been their ally, stoking the furnace of their desire when all else failed to bring them together. This time it took them further. Past raw physical need to a deep, quiet intimacy that welded them together seamlessly, in body and in soul.

  “I love you, my beautiful wife,” he muttered on a fractured breath, seconds before he lost himself in her clinging heat.

  They were the sweetest words on earth, and she’d waited what seemed like a lifetime to hear him utter them. They were worth every tortured second, healing her as nothing offered by men of medicine ever could.

  Dawn had traced a silver line across the eastern horizon when exhaustion finally caught up with them. Maeve curled up in Dario’s arms and fell into a sleep no longer haunted by shadows. She didn’t stir until the aroma of coffee brought her awake again.

  Squinting in the shaft of sunlight piercing the room, she found Dario standing by the bed, dressed in casual trousers and a polo shirt, and bearing a tall, steaming latte cup. “Buon giorno, innamorata,” he murmured, his voice a caress. “Time to get moving.”

  She stretched drowsily and yawned. “Already?”

  “If you want the early start you spoke of last night, then yes. We’re leaving in half an hour. If, on the other hand,” he added teasingly, “you want to spend the morning in bed with me, that also can be arranged.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she scolded on another yawn, and reached for the coffee mug. “Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable, although how I’ll manage to do so might be difficult since, unlike you, all I have at my disposal is an evening gown much the worse for wear. Thank goodness I have my cape to cover up the mess.”

  “Don’t worry about it. No one will see you. I’ve ordered a helicopter to pick us up here at the yacht and take us to Linate where the company jet’s waiting to fly us straight to Pantelleria.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to go to the penthouse to clean myself up and choose something more appropriate to wear for what I have to do before we leave Milan.”

  “What happened to the mother so anxious to reunite with her son? Last night all you wanted was to be back with Sebastiano as soon as possible.”

  “I still do. But I have unfinished business to take care of in the city first.” She drew in a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I’ve made a decision, Dario. I’m going to see your mother. This warfare between us does nobody any good and has to come to an end.”

  “But Maeve, angelo mio…!” He flung out his hands in a manner so quintessentially Italian that she almost laughed. “Are you sure you’re up to such an undertaking?”

  “I have to be,” she said. “I’m a wife and a mother, not a child. It’s past time I faced my insecurities for what they really are—weaknesses that only I can conquer. And the place to start is with your mother.”

  “If that’s what you feel you must do, then I’ll come with you.”

  “No. You’ve protected me long enough. I need to do this alone.”

  Talk was cheap when more than eighty miles lay between her and her adversary. Bearding the lioness in her den? Not quite as much.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Signora Costanzo,” Maeve said, so vibrantly aware of the other woman’s scrutiny that it took a great deal of effort not to squirm. “I realize my visit has come as a surprise.”

  “Indeed.” Celeste Costanzo nodded permission for her to perch on the edge of one of two white velvet sofas in a drawing room so tastefully furnished that it defied description.

  How does she do it? Maeve wondered. How does she manage to look so perfect in cashmere and pearls, with no sign of last night’s fracas leaving bags under her eyes, as Maeve was sure she had under hers? Does she never have a bad hair day? Never smudge her mascara or get a run in her stocking or break a heel?

  Taking a seat opposite, Celeste crossed her elegant ankles, folded her manicured hands in her lap and waited, her finely plucked eyebrows raised in silent question.

  She wasn’t going to make this easy. But then, why should she? Maeve asked herself. When have I ever made things easy for her?

  Shoring up her courage, she plunged in. “First, I should tell you that I’ve recovered my memory. I remember all the events of the past year, up to and including the accident.”

  “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  Ah, me! Could she not sometimes give a little, for a change?

  Burying a sigh, Maeve plowed on. “I understand your reservations about me, signora. I am, as you’ve so astutely observed on more than one occasion, a nobody, and Dario is a very rich man.”

  “What is your point, Maeve?” Celeste inquired, her icy demeanor remaining unmoved. “Are you asking my forgiveness for your shortcomings?”

  “No,” she said staunchly. “I’ve done nothing to require your forgiveness. You have a beautiful grandson because of me, and he, by any measure, makes up for whatever disapproval you might hold for his mother.”

  “Then exactly why are you here?”

  “To set the record straight, once and for all, not about who I am not, but about who I am. I don’t pretend to have come from the kind of privileged background Dario enjoyed, nor did I achieve the same level of education. However, I am not unintelligent, and most certainly not ashamed of my upbringing. I know the difference between right and wrong, and I have a deeply ingrained sense of fair play.”

  “And you’re baring your soul to me now because?”

  “Because whether or not you choose to believe me, there was no affair between me and Yves Gauthier. We happened both to be Canadian, and that was our only connection. I love Dario. I have from the day I met him, and I always will. We’ve not had an easy time of it, these last few months, but we are a team and I will allow nothing to come between us ever again. Not another man, not a near-death experience…and not you, Signora Costanzo.”

  “I see. Is that all?”

  Was that grudging respect Maeve saw in her eyes? Bolstered by the possibility, she said, “No. If my son one day were to present me with the fait accompli of a pregnant stranger as a daughter-in-law, my initial reaction would be one of deep concern. Words such as entrapment and fortune hunter and social climber might occur to me, as I’m sure they have to you.”

  “Then we share something in common, after all.”

  “What we have in common, Signora Costanzo, is that we both love Dario and we both love Sebastiano. I am not asking you to love me as well, but can we not overlook our differences and, for the sake of our families, forge a closer relationship, one based on mutual respect, if not affection?”

  “I don’t see that happening,” Celeste said.

  Her reply, spoken with such uncompromising certainty, reduced Maeve’s hard-won courage to a deflated heap.

  “At least,” Celeste added, a hint of something approaching warmth in her tone, and her mouth almost turning up in a smile, “not if you persist in calling me Signora Costanzo.”

  She wanted to be called Mother? One day, perhaps, Maeve thought, balking at the idea. But now was too much, too soon.

  “‘Madre’ would be a little premature, of course,” Celeste continued with unnerving prescience, “but do you suppose you could bring yourself to call me Celeste?”

  Maeve had been gone more than two hours, during which time Dario paced the floor like the anxious expectant father of triplets. He never should have allowed her to confront Celeste alone. He loved his mother, but he was under no illusions about her ability to reduce the most assured individual to babbling idiocy, if she so chose. And although Maeve was certainly no
idiot, underneath her smart navy blue jacket and skirt, she was a fragile, vulnerable woman.

  When she did finally show up at the penthouse, all she’d say was that she’d bring him up to speed later, but that her most immediate concern now was to get to the airport and head home to Sebastiano. Since he was equally anxious to reunite with their son, he called for the car to be brought round.

  She settled in the backseat, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, and smoothed her skirt over her long legs. Grinding his teeth, he did his best to curb his trademark impatience. But when, some ten minutes later, they’d left the toll zone and were traveling along the Via Marco Bruto, no more than a couple of kilometers from the airport, he could contain himself no longer.

  “You’re going to keep me hanging until the last possible minute, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied saucily. “It’s my turn to be the one with all the answers.”

  “At least tell me it wasn’t horrible.”

  She patted his hand reassuringly. “Do you see blood?”

  “No, but nor did I expect to. My mother doesn’t need a knife to inflict wounds. She can slice a person open with one look.”

  “Oh, I learned many years ago to withstand that kind of attack, Dario. You ought to know that by now.”

  “I’m beginning to think I don’t know the half of it. When did my shy, defenseless wife turn into such a warrior?”

  She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “When her husband told her he loved her.”

  “How could I not?” he muttered, embarrassed to find his throat thick with sudden emotion. “You overwhelm me, my lovely Maeve. I know of no one with a bigger heart, and I thank God that you gave it to me, even if I was at first too blind to recognize how lucky I am.”

  “It isn’t how you start out, it’s where you end up,” she said sagely. “We’re together, and will soon have our son again. For me that means everything. Tell me about him, Dario. What’s he like now? Have his eyes changed color? Does he still have lots of hair?”