He could get away from a woman, but from himself, never. He had no idea where he was going, but to be on the ocean was right for now. He wasn’t appropriately attired, dressed only in a thin cotton shirt and trousers. He took the bottle on deck and sat under cover at the helm. It was getting cold, and the wind whipped through him from all angles, causing him to shiver, so he took another swig from the bottle to warm himself, and then closed his eyes.
***
Polly Montgomery nibbled the end of her pen and peered at Joanne over the top of her glasses. “No, Byrne hasn’t been here and his phone is switched off. He’ll never darken this office again…”
Was this the right time to ask her editor for some time off, especially as she’d been away for the past few days? But that was on assignment and not on holiday, although it had felt very much like one.
She sat forward in her chair. “So the article was all right?”
“Yes. I already told you that. The problem has been getting the photographs.”
“You couldn’t get in touch with your contact in Italy?”
Polly shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s Mr. Alphonso. I haven’t been able to make contact with him. He’s not answering his phone. I rang the hotel you were staying at and spoke to his brother, but he said the family hasn’t seen him since yesterday.”
A sharp pain hit her like a thunderbolt. “That’s odd. I would have thought he would be available to family members, especially after his brother-in-law’s death. He said he had a funeral to arrange.”
“Well, we must not jump to any conclusions. Now, what did you want to ask me?”
Joanne’s editor seemed to second guess her every thought. “Well…” She shifted on her seat. “I know I’ve been away from the office for a few days, but I need to take some leave so I can go back home to see my mother. I’m a bit concerned in case anyone has told her about the publication of that article. It’s a small village, and as you can imagine, the gossips will have a field day with that story.” It wasn’t the real reason she wanted to go back home; there was a far more pressing reason than that.
Polly looked at the ceiling as if deep in thought and then sighed. “Yes, I think we can spare you for a couple of days, but when you come back, I might pile the work on you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Okay. I need you to look at the article layout to see if you like the look of it before it goes to print. We might have to scrap the photos from Sicily if I can’t contact Mr. Alphonso, and just use the ones taken over here.”
“That would be a shame, though.” Images of a time at the winery and the vineyard danced before her eyes. “It would have been nice to see the man at work.”
She needed to contact Byrne to get those photographs from him.
***
Dante opened his eyes. The sea was getting rough as the boat rocked back and forth, making him feel nauseous, while the sea spray splashing over the side made both himself and the deck wet. It was a mistake coming out here in this weather, especially without suitable clothing. So different to that calm day with Joanne.
He went below deck to fetch a blanket to wrap around himself as he steered the boat back to shore. He hadn’t sailed that far away, and it wouldn’t take long to get back. He stepped down from the helm and walked across the deck with the spray hitting his face. He rubbed his eyes to see where he was going but became blinded by the burning salt water. He began sliding, reaching out for something to hold onto, but his hands grasped at air. Then he was falling backward, desperate to keep himself upright, the cold spray hitting his body as he toppled. His head hit something solid and everything went black.
***
Joanne had taken a cab to Byrne’s house. She pressed the doorbell with her thumb as she gazed at the tree-lined street and waited. Through the frosted glass, she saw a figure coming to answer the door and hoped it was him. Disappointment reigned when she realized it was one of Byrne’s teenage sons, Joshua.
He looked her up and down.
“Oh hi, Josh, is your father around?”
He shook his head. “He’s nipped out for a few minutes.”
“What about your mother then?”
The boy turned to look and shouted, “Mum!”
He walked away, leaving her on the doorstep. A harassed looking woman arrived, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “Joanne, isn’t it?” She smiled in recognition. “Please excuse me. I’ve been baking; we’ve got a dinner party tonight. I’m afraid Jackson has popped out to pick up the wine, but he shouldn’t be long if you would like to come in and wait.”
She hadn’t intended to. She chewed her lip for a couple of seconds in deliberation, but as she was invited inside, what did she have to lose?
“Yes, that would be great, thanks. I shan’t stop long.”
She was shown into a room that looked like some sort of television lounge, all neat and tidy for tonight’s event. Off that was a conservatory where it appeared a dinner table had been laid, complete with red napkins, crystal wine glasses, and a large floral centerpiece. The table had been set for eight. Did Byrne have that many friends? No doubt it would be people the couple both knew.
“Please take a seat. Would you like coffee while you wait?”
“Yes, please.” Joanne seated herself and looked around the room at the framed prints. There was one of the couple with both boys, a striking family portrait taken a few years ago by the look of it. Another few Jackson himself had taken of celebrities. And one in the corner of the couple on their wedding day, both looking young and happy. Did Lorraine Byrne know her husband was such a cheat? Did she turn a blind eye to his misdemeanors, or hadn’t she a clue? Perhaps it was the latter, as to all intents and purposes they looked the ideal family with two children and a Scottie dog that was running all over the house and barking intermittently.
Lorraine returned after a few minutes with a mug of coffee and a small cake. “I made these strawberry tartlets for the dinner party. Would you like one?”
Joanne nodded her thanks, although a sharp pang of guilt hit her full force. Byrne had brought this on himself. “Thanks.” She took the plate and mug and smiled.
Lorraine wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Do you know what? I could do with a break myself. I think I’ll pour myself a cup of coffee and sit with you.”
She returned moments later. The pair chatted amicably for a few minutes. Then Joanne heard the front door open and Byrne’s footsteps walking down the hall. “I managed to get the chardonnay but couldn’t get the claret you wanted, so I got a couple of bottles of merlot instead—”
His eyes widened so she could see the whites of them as he entered the room, his mouth opening and closing again.
“Hello, Jackson,” Joanne greeted him.
Byrne put down his carrier bags and loosened the collar of his shirt. “Joanne.”
She smiled at him. You slimy slug.
“Thanks, darling,” Lorraine stood and kissed her husband’s cheek. “How would you like a coffee?”
He nodded, wordless for once, and his wife left the room.
Like a shot, he sat next to Joanne. “Now you’d better get out of here quick, Joanne, before I—”
Joanne sat rooted to the spot; he wasn’t going to intimidate her. “Before you what, Jackson?”
He sneered. “Before I do something you might regret.”
“How about I do something you’ll regret, like telling Lorraine about that flight attendant? I know for a fact you met up with her in Sicily. You creep, writing that article and making out it was my story. I’m going to tell Lorraine all about your dalliances, not just in Sicily but at the office party too.”
“You wouldn’t have the bloody nerve.” He grabbed her arm, his grip hard enough to hurt.
“Oh just try me, why don’t you?”
His eyes widened for a moment, and then he appeared deep in thought. “Okay. How about I pay you to shut up?”
“I want something
, but not money,” she whispered. “I want those photographs you took in Sicily, both sets. The official ones of Mr. Alphonso and the sneaky ones of me and him.”
He nodded. “Very well, but I don’t have them right now. They’re locked away in my garage at the end of the road.”
“Well you’d better get them then.”
“But I can’t do that. Lorraine will wonder where I’m going again, and the guests will be here soon.”
“You tell Lorraine when she comes back with your coffee you’re giving me a lift home; during that time, you get all of those photographs for me, capice?”
He nodded.
“Hold the coffee a moment!” he shouted to his wife, “I’m just going to run Joanne back home.”
“What am I going to do with this?” Lorraine asked as she walked toward him with his coffee mug.
“Have another on me,” Byrne said as he escorted Joanne off the premises.
“Thanks very much for the coffee and cake. It was delicious!” Joanne shouted from the hallway.
Lorraine stood there with a bemused expression on her face as if a tornado had just entered and left her living room.
Once outside on the drive, Joanne turned to Byrne and sent him a stinging blow across his face. “That’s for setting me up with that article!” She gritted her teeth.
His head snapped back, and he put his hand to his cheek and rubbed it but didn’t say another word. She followed him to his car for the short drive to his garage. He didn’t know it yet, but he was driving her home too; he owed her that much at least. It was one way to right the wrong he had done to her. That attendant in Sicily had proven to be her trump card.
Chapter Nine
The journey back to Wales on the train had been arduous, and she was glad to get off in Cardiff and take the bus back home. She hadn’t even told her mother she’d be arriving; she didn’t know what to say, because today was the anniversary of her father’s death. It had been sixteen long years.
She stopped at The Flower Basket florist shop and bought her mother’s favorite flowers: yellow roses. Her father had always brought her those. She asked for them mixed with white roses as they were her own favorite. Maybe they could take some roses from the bouquet and lay them on his grave and keep the rest at home. It would make things more personal. She knew the young assistant who served her. Had she read that article? It made her cringe to think people might perceive her as a gold digger when nothing could be farther from the truth. The young Goth-looking girl seemed oblivious to her plight. If she knew anything, she wasn’t showing it. She would never have sold her story to a magazine and betrayed Dante. Although he was a millionaire, she earned a good salary at the magazine. She’d worked hard to get there, sweeping aside relationships, even the thought of starting a family, to get where she was today. At great cost, so no way would she jeopardize her good name and reputation.
She arrived with some trepidation at the small terrace house that was so familiar to her, with the small flight of steps to the front door, hedgerow garden, brick chimney, and slate roof. She paused to look around. It hadn’t changed much in the village since she was a little girl. She remembered coming home from school to a coal fire, home cooked Welsh cakes, and a glass of milk. Her mother was a great cook, making many specialties like cawl and Welsh rarebit.
Letting out a breath, she turned the knob on the front door. The door was often left unlatched during the day; it was that sort of community, where everyone knew everyone else and trusted their neighbor. Unlike London where she knew next to no one and hadn’t even spoken to her neighbors in the apartment next door.
“Mam!” she called down the narrow passageway.
She heard the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and then her mother stood before her, holding out her arms, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“Oh cariad, I’m so pleased you’ve shown up today of all days. I’ve been worried about you. I thought you might have forgotten.”
“Mam,” she said with tears in her eyes. “How could I possibly forget?”
Ten minutes later, they were seated with a cup of tea in the best china cups and a slice of her mother’s homemade teisen lap. Home cooked food was so comforting; it made her think of the great tastes of Sicily and Dante. Dante. Even thinking about him induced a knot of pain in her stomach that just wouldn’t go away. When she’d taken those photographs into Polly yesterday, who was over the moon with her retrieval of them, she asked if any contact had been made with him, but Polly had shook her head. Maybe he was ignoring her editor’s calls as he figured the magazine was unscrupulous.
Her mother hadn’t said anything about the article, so she mentioned it to her. If she was shocked, she didn’t show it and said it would be a “nine day wonder”, whatever that meant. Her mother was always quoting little sayings that made her smile.
“Mam,” she broached. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about Dad’s death…”
“Go on.” Her mother put down her mug of tea and stared intently into her daughter’s eyes. Although her hair was salt and peppered, at one time she’d turned many heads. Her eyes had a vibrant quality to them; they were still young and clear looking.
“I don’t know if you realize this, but I always blamed myself for Daddy’s death.”
Her mother sat open-mouthed. “But why, Joanne? Why blame yourself when it was an accident?”
Tears sprung to her eyes. “I suppose it was because if I hadn’t almost drowned that day, he would never have had to rescue me.”
Her mother patted her hand. “I wish I’d known you felt that way. Let me tell you, your father could be a headstrong man, a bit like yourself in some ways. I warned him not to go in the sea as neither of us could swim, and told him to get help, but he wouldn’t listen. It was his choice. So none of it was ever your fault. It was his instinct to save you.”
That’s what Dante had said to her.
“I suppose you’re right. Someone else told me the same thing the other day.”
She ended up telling her mother all about the trip to Sicily and Dante. Her advice was to give him time to realize she wasn’t the person he thought she was.
Their visit to the graveside was both poignant and touching. It was the first time she stood there without feeling she had somehow put him in the ground. Her mother went to fetch water from the tap in an old plastic bottle to fill the vase on top of the grave, while she stared at the headstone and took in the words: Dewi Smith, Tragically taken away on September 21st, 1998. Father, Husband, Son. Rest in Peace. Her eyes began to water and she wiped a tear away, but this time her tears were healing ones. Her mother arrived at her side and squeezed her hand gently. Then they kneeled and arranged the yellow and white roses together on his grave.
When they’d finished, her mother turned to her and said softly, “Life is too short for regrets, Joanne. If you have unfinished business with Dante, you need to go to see him.”
She nodded and they walked in silence down the hillside back home.
***
Swallowing her pride that night, in her old bed, she tried ringing Dante’s number. It went straight through to his voice mail. She trembled at the timbre of his voice. It was reminiscent of when he said amore mio to her. She blinked back tears. Would he ever say that to her again?
She put down her phone, and for the first time since coming home to the U.K., she slept well.
The following morning she awoke to the smell of bacon cooking; her mother had made her a freshly cooked breakfast with bacon, sausage, and eggs from the local farm shop. She felt ravenous and ate with gusto.
Her mother looked at her and said, “We’ll go shopping in town later—”
Joanne’s phone rang. She answered to discover it was her editor.
“Joanne…”
What was wrong?
“Yes?”
“It’s Dante. I rang his brother’s hotel again, and I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
She almost d
ropped the phone from her grasp. “No?”
“He had an accident on his boat. It doesn’t look good; he fell and slipped and hit his head. He was lying on the boat undiscovered for several hours by the look of it, exposed to the elements. He was picked up by some local fishermen. He’s in the hospital.”
“Is he all right?”
There was a long pause. “No. It doesn’t sound like it. He’s unconscious.”
Joanne looked at her mother and explained in brief. “You must go to him, Joanne,” she advised.
“I need more time from work. I’m going back to Sicily,” she informed Polly.
“But that’s not possible. You need to work on that feature article for me about Sabrina Chance.” Sabrina was a Hollywood starlet made good, who’d risen to fame as a movie star and donated a lot of her time and money to the street children of Brazil.
“I know, but I can always interview her over the phone or on webcam, can’t I? I can write it up and e-mail it back to you. Please?” She was appealing now to Polly’s better nature.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t allow this really, although under the circumstances, I suppose it could be a form of compassionate leave. Okay, then, but I don’t want you gone more than a few days, promise?”
“I promise. I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.”
She thanked her editor, clicked off her phone, and putting her head in her hands, wept. Her mother draped an arm around her shoulder, and then held her tight.
***
When she arrived in Sicily the following evening, Giovanni was there to meet her at the airport.
“Are you sure you don’t want to rest before I take you to the hospital?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.
She shook her head. “No, I have to see him. I blame myself for this, Giovanni. We did not part on good terms.”
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