by Liz Fielding
Cleve ordered an espresso. She refused to be tempted by cheesecake. Cleve paid the bill, checked the time and stood up. ‘The tiles are being delivered this afternoon. You can stay in town if you like but I’d better get back.’
She knew that nothing would happen until four o’clock when the shops would reopen and the town would come to life but she’d inadvertently invoked bad memories and sensed he needed some time alone.
‘The village has grown since I was last here. It’s almost a town now and I’d like to explore a little. Walk off lunch.’
‘Take care riding back. See if you can find a helmet.’
‘I will if you promise not to go up on the roof unless I’m there.’
He drew a cross over his heart. ‘Scouts’ honour.’
‘If you need me just ring the bell.’
His steel-grey eyes softened. ‘Never doubt that I need you, Miranda.’ She was still taking in his words when he caught the back of her head in his hand and kissed her. His mouth lingered momentarily as if tasting her and then he was gone before she could catch her breath.
She raised her hand to her mouth. It hadn’t been a heavy kiss, just firm enough to leave the faintest tingle and send sparks flying in all directions.
A promise.
The waiter returned with his receipt and, startling him with a smile, she said, ‘I think I’ll have that cheesecake after all.’
When she returned, there was a car outside and in the courtyard Cleve was erecting a scaffolding deck. ‘Where did that come from?’ she asked.
‘I hired it. Health and safety. I don’t see a helmet.’
‘I couldn’t find a motorbike accessories shop. Has Matt brought his mother? I thought we might have scared him off. Did he say anything?’
‘I was inside when they arrived and he took her straight down to the beach.’
‘I’ll try and catch them when they come up. To thank them for the marmalade. I would have bought a replacement jar but the shop isn’t open until four.’
‘We can pick one up in San Rocco tomorrow and drop it off on the way back,’ he suggested.
‘You can ask him to be your witness.’
He nodded, tightened a clamp.
‘I’m going to see if I can start the little runaround. I’ll feel safer driving into the city in that and we’ll have somewhere to put the shopping.’
‘My knees will be under my chin. Why don’t you see if you can start the convertible?’ he suggested, testing the connection before adding another piece.
‘That is a valuable vintage automobile and I’ve seen how the locals drive.’
‘Like Ben Hur in a chariot race?’
That was so close to her own thought that she laughed. ‘Exactly.’
‘Point taken.’ He was smiling when he looked up. ‘My knees and chin will probably survive the indignity.’
*
The capital, San Rocco, was one of those enchanting old cities that had everything. Ancient buildings, tiny courtyards and alleyways, steep steps disappearing around corners, tantalising glimpses of gardens through wrought-iron gates. Wide open piazzas with cafés spilling out onto the pavement. Pedestrian-only streets lined with what had once been palazzos, built in some golden age when the island was a crossroads for trade, but which now housed elegant boutiques.
And perched above it was the castle, dominating the city and protecting its ancient harbour far below.
‘I can’t believe this place isn’t overrun by tourists,’ Andie said. ‘It has everything.’
‘Everything except an airport.’
‘Why don’t they build one?’
‘Maybe they like it the way it is.’
‘If I lived here I think I might, too,’ she admitted. ‘It’s tough on the young people who have to leave to make a living, though.’ She mimed a stab through the heart.
‘Not many tourists but there is an information office,’ he said, crossing the piazza. ‘With luck they can direct us to a notary.’
An hour later they had sworn statements, paid to have them translated into Italian and were told they could pick them up the following afternoon.
‘Well, that was easy,’ Andie said. ‘Now for the tough bit.’
‘Tough bit?’
‘I hate shopping for clothes. One of the great things about my job is the uniform. I don’t have to think about what to wear. Immi got all the power dressing and high heels genes.’
‘Come and help me find a suit and I’ll help you pick out a dress. And high heels.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she said, aghast at the thought.
‘I can’t? Why?’
‘It’s…you know… Unlucky.’ She felt an idiot just saying it.
‘Unlucky?’ Cleve stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, grinning broadly. ‘And what have you done with the efficient, totally focused and thoroughly down-to-earth Miranda Marlowe?’
‘That’s the work me. This is the me me.’
‘Are you saying that you don’t walk under ladders?’
‘Only an idiot would do that.’
‘You toss spilled salt over your shoulder? Believe a broken mirror brings seven years’ bad luck, bow to a magpie… I wouldn’t have thought you had a superstitious bone in your body.’
‘I don’t.’ Cursing herself for making a mountain out of a molehill, she said, ‘I never bow to magpies but some things are ingrained. Part of the DNA.’
‘Like the groom seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding.’
‘There’s always something behind these old superstitions,’ she said. ‘I can imagine some poor lad, being forced to marry the next-door neighbour’s middle-aged daughter in a land grab, catching sight of his bride before the vows were sworn and taking to the hills.’
‘So you’ll be wearing something old, something new, something borrowed?’
Stuck with her stupid superstition, she said, ‘I’m sure I can find something amongst Sofia’s things.’
‘What about blue?’
Oh, good grief… ‘Of course.’
‘But not a sapphire. Your eyes are hazel. Green and gold.’ He took her hand in his so that her fingers were laid across his palm. ‘Maybe a yellow diamond?’
‘What? No…’
He indicated the building behind her and when she turned she was looking into a jeweller’s window. That it was a very expensive jeweller you could tell by the fact that there were only a few stunning pieces on display in the window.
‘We’re going to need rings. You could leave it to me but you’ll be wearing them for a lot longer than the dress and no doubt you’d rather choose your own.’
‘Ring singular, Cleve.’ Something plain like the one her mother wore.
‘And have everyone think we had a hole-in-the-wall wedding because you’re pregnant?’ he said as, still holding her hand, he pushed open the door and ushered her in ahead of him.
Inside, in the kind of hush provided by deep carpets and serious reverence accorded to expensive objects of desire, they were met by a man so exquisitely tailored that he had to be the manager. He showed them to gilt chairs placed before an ornate desk, before taking the seat opposite them.
‘Signor, signora. Benvenuto. How may I be of service?’
‘We would like to see engagement and wedding rings,’ Cleve said.
‘Of course.’ He turned to her. ‘Have you a stone in mind, signora, or do you prefer a classic white diamond?’
Signora wished she hadn’t made a fuss about the dress and was safely ensconced in a boutique changing room right now.
‘The signora has hazel eyes with a predominance of gold,’ Cleve said, before she could begin to think of an answer. ‘I thought a yellow diamond.’
‘Perfetto. A deep yellow.’ He nodded to a man standing beside him, who disappeared and a few moments later returned with a tray of rings that gleamed in the soft concealed lighting.
‘These are paired rings. The wedding ring has matching stones and is shaped so that the e
ngagement ring will sit perfectly against it. Your hand, signora? So that I can measure your finger?’ he prompted when they remained in her lap.
She looked at Cleve, sending a desperate message that this was crazy. These rings cost a fortune…
His response was to take her hand, pick a ring from the tray and slide it onto her finger. ‘How is that?’
She cleared her throat. ‘It’s a little loose.’
‘Try these, signor.’
Cleve removed the ring and replaced it with a pair of rings handed to him by the clerk. First the wedding ring, in which yellow and white diamonds had been set alternately into a plain polished white gold channel, and curved so that when he placed it on her finger the simple yellow diamond of the engagement ring sat snugly against it. It fitted perfectly and was so unbelievably beautiful that she was unable to suppress a sigh.
‘È molto bella.’
‘Cleve, no…’
She made a move to slip the rings from her finger but Cleve stopped her. ‘These rings could have been created just for you, Miranda.’ He was looking at her rather than the diamonds glittering on her finger. ‘Beauty without frills, designed for strength, made to last a lifetime.’
She swallowed in an attempt to shift the rock in her throat but in the end simply shook her head, unable to meet his gaze.
‘You think it is too much?’
When she didn’t answer he touched her chin, forcing her to look at him, and she said, ‘You know it is.’
‘Would it help if I told you that I followed you to L’Isola dei Fiori with only one thought in my head? To ask you to marry me.’
‘But you didn’t know…’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’ He turned to the manager, who was doing his best to appear oblivious to their conversation. ‘This pair for the signora,’ he said, allowing her to remove the rings and place them on the velvet mat in front of them. ‘And something plain for me.’
For him? Andie looked at his hand and realised he wasn’t wearing the ring that Rachel had put on his finger. He’d been wearing it when he broke down but there was no mark, no telltale whiteness, to suggest he’d worn it recently.
The manager clicked his fingers and a tray of men’s white-gold wedding rings appeared.
Cleve picked up a plain, polished band. ‘This one,’ he said, without hesitation.
‘A perfect match, signor. It will be a little large, I think, but we can adjust it.’ He checked Cleve’s ring size and made a note. ‘You will be able to pick it up tomorrow afternoon. Shall I keep all the rings until then?’
‘Just the weddings rings. The signora will wear this one.’ He placed a card on the desk and while the manager whisked it and the wedding rings away, he picked up the engagement ring and placed it on her finger.
Miranda’s hand was shaking so badly that the stone flashed golden sparks in the light. ‘I d-don’t know what to say.’
‘There is only one word I want to hear you say, Miranda, and that is yes, although I suspect the staff are waiting for you to show your gratitude with a kiss.’
‘Scusi, signor, but your bank would like to confirm the transaction.’ The manager handed Cleve a phone and retreated out of hearing.
‘Saved by the bell,’ he said, with a wry smile before dealing with the bank’s security check. He declined the offer of champagne, handed her the glossy little carrier holding the ring box and, having assured them that he would return the following afternoon, took her arm and headed for the door, which was opened for them by a beaming clerk.
On the threshold she stopped, said, ‘Wait.’
He glanced back. ‘Have you forgotten something? Changed your mind? If you’d rather have a white diamond…’
‘No. I just wanted to do this.’ And she rose on her toes, closing her eyes as she touched her lips to his. For a moment that was all it was and then Cleve’s arm was around her and the kiss deepened into something intense, real. The kind of kiss a teenage girl could only dream about. That a woman might yearn for all her life.
Who knew how long it would have gone on but for a spontaneous burst of applause behind them. They broke apart and a touch shakily she said, ‘It would have been cruel to disappoint the staff.’
Wordlessly he laid his hand against her cheek, then put his arm around her shoulder and they were back in the piazza.
Feeling decidedly weak at the knees, she made an effort at normality. ‘Right. Time to find you a suit worthy of this,’ she said as, still scarcely able to believe what had just happened, she looked again at the ring. ‘Always assuming you can still afford one.’
‘I’m going to need a restorative espresso before I do anything else.’
She looked up. ‘Was the ring that expensive?’ she asked, horrified.
‘It has nothing to do with the cost of the ring.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLEVE FOUND A cream linen suit that he was happy with, but, stupid superstition or not, there was no way Andie was having him along while she shopped for a dress to wear for their wedding.
‘I could go for a walk,’ he suggested.
‘No need.’ She’d had a far better idea. ‘Sofia has wardrobes, trunks full of fabulous designer dresses. She used to let us dress up in them when we stayed.’
‘She sounds more like a fairy godmother. Will they have survived the dressing up and the passing of the years?’
‘Not all of them, but they were stored in sandalwood-lined trunks. I’m sure I’ll find something I can wear.’ Anything would be better than having to stand in her underwear while elegant assistants, speaking in fast Italian, made her feel less than adequate. ‘Vintage clothes are all the rage.’
‘Like drystone walling?’
‘But not so hard on the hands.’
He didn’t look entirely convinced and he might be right. Mice might have got in and made nests in the couture clothes.
‘Whatever happens, you have my word that I won’t stand in front of the mayor smelling of mothballs.’
‘Just as long as you’re there.’ He took her hand. ‘Let’s go and find a jar of marmalade.’
They had lunch in the village and then, on the way home, they stopped at Matt’s cottage.
‘We came to return your marmalade and ask you a favour,’ Cleve said, when he opened the door.
‘You’d better come in, then.’
‘Thanks. We won’t keep you long.’
He showed them through to the back where his mother was sitting, enjoying the warmth of the sun through the glass.
‘Hello, Mrs Stark. I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Gloria, please. And it’s lovely to have visitors. Sit down. Will you have coffee?’ She looked at Miranda. ‘Mint tea, perhaps?’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘We came to ask you a favour, Matt,’ Cleve said, turning to look at him. ‘Miranda and I are getting married in a day or two. Just a stand-up-in-front-of-the-mayor job. We were hoping that you will be a witness.’
‘Of course, that would be my pleasure!’
‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy,’ Gloria said admiring Miranda’s ring. ‘Have you known one another long?’ she asked.
‘Six years, eight months and four days,’ Matt said. ‘Actually, make that five days.’ Gloria frowned. ‘Cleve told me. It was Andie’s eighteenth birthday, she’d just got her pilot’s licence and he watched as she made a perfect landing in a tricky crosswind.’
This description of their first meeting was met with a moment of total silence.
‘You fly?’ Gloria asked, stepping in to rescue the moment.
‘I’m a commercial pilot but Cleve’s wrong about when we met. It’s seven days. Six years, eight months and seven days.’
Gloria gave Cleve a wry smile. ‘If it was her birthday, you’d better memorise the date. It’s fatal to get that wrong.’
‘Miranda’s birthday is on the twelfth,’ he said. ‘It’s the day we met and I will never forget that.’
Andie risked a look at him. He was looking anywhere but at her.
‘Perhaps you forgot to account for the leap years,’ Gloria said, filling the suddenly awkward silence.
‘So, are your families flying over for the wedding?’ Matt asked. ‘The villa is hardly fit for visitors but we have a couple of spare rooms if you need somewhere for your parents to stay.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Cleve said, standing up. ‘Would you mind if we take a rain check on the coffee, Gloria?’
‘Not at all. Drop by any time.’
‘Thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Cleve was in such a hurry to leave that Andie had to go back for her bag and was just in time to hear an exasperated Gloria say, ‘Matt, you talk too much.’
‘Do you think so? I thought I’d said just enough.’
She backed away and quietly shut the front door. Her bag would be safe enough where it was for the moment.
*
Cleve drove in silence back to the villa and Andie was too busy trying to work out what had just happened to speak.
He’d told her in the jeweller’s that he’d come to the island with the express intention of asking her to marry him. She hadn’t known what to make of that. Guilt? Or had her resignation shaken him into the realisation that whatever they’d had six years, eight months and seven days ago was still viable? Or did he just need an anchor?
That was the role she’d chosen for herself, so that was all right. Except he knew to the day—minus the odd leap year—when they’d first met. Girls remembered things like that…
No. She refused to read anything into it. It had been her eighteenth birthday. The sort of occasion that stuck in the mind even without the close encounter in the shrubbery. She worked for him so he knew exactly how old she was and she supplied the office with cake on her birthday.
Which accounted for the years. But the months and days?
They were so close in the little car. His arm brushed against her when he changed gear and above the smell of hot metal, oil, there was a combination of warm cotton, the scent of Cleve’s skin, the shampoo he always used, familiar as her own.