by Portia Moore
“It’s the most beautiful country on Earth,” he tells us. I believe him. I’ve never seen anything like this. “The countryside is lush, and the cities are magnificent. We have the best food you’ve ever tasted and the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen. You’re going to fit right in,” he says with a grin at Erin and a wink at me. He leans over, his eyes still on the road as he whispers in my ear, with his lips brushing against the shell of it, “I can’t wait to make love to you here, Poppy.”
Anxiety washes over me, but at the same time, I feel a small thrill run down my spine, that pleasurable ache of anticipation warming my blood as my body responds. What woman wouldn’t be a little turned on by one of the most handsome men she’s ever seen telling her how he’s going to make love to her like never before in a foreign country? One who she was in love with once, who she thought was in love with her? I imagine Vincent whispering sweet nothings in my ear in Italian, and my heart mourns what could have been. Then I remember his hands gripping me as he yelled at me the other morning, and the desire chills.
“I can’t believe you grew up here,” Erin gushes, her eyes wide. “What was it like?”
“Free. We were little hellions most of the time, but my cousins and I ran free all summer, getting lost and making up stories and doing just about whatever we pleased.” He glances over his shoulder, smiling at her, and I see a hint of wistfulness in it. “Don’t grow up too fast,” he tells her suddenly. “Once you do, you’re not free anymore.”
“What are the best places to eat?” Erin asks, the bit of fatherly advice going right over her head. “Can we hang out in the city?”
“I’ll try to find time to take you to the city,” he says agreeably. “And the best place to eat in all of Italy is my mother’s kitchen,” he tells her with a laugh. “But there’s a place in the little town near my parents’ home that is better than anything you’ll find in any big city, too. We’ll definitely go there.”
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes briefly. I want more than anything to enjoy this. I want to be swept away in the story of it all, the one Erin believes is real—that my handsome, charming, rich fiancé is bringing me home to meet his parents at last. I’ll get to see where he grew up, get to know who he really is beneath the polished veneer of wealth I’ve always seen him hide behind. A small part of me almost believes it’s true—that it’s just the stress of the city and his job that makes Vincent mercurial at home, that this carefree, happy man is his real self, the one I’m marrying.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes,” Vincent says, glancing casually at his watch. I tear my eyes away from the Tuscan countryside and my frantic inner thoughts to glance over at him. “What’s the name of the town where your parents live?” I ask curiously, realizing that he hasn’t told me. All I know is we’re somewhere in Tuscany, and I only know that because I overheard him speaking to the pilot.
Vincent glances at me as if trying to figure out why I’m suddenly so curious, but then looks back at the road. “Montepulciano,” he says casually, downshifting the car as we turn onto a narrower, tightly curving road. “Known for the best wines in all of Italy and some of the most beautiful Renaissance architecture.” He gives me another glance, this one accompanied by a smile. “Maybe you can set your novel here, Poppy. You know, the one you’re always talking about wanting to write when you’re finished with school.” My throat tightens from being reminded of my dreams. The dreams Vincent shot down and vetoed.
“You don’t have to go to school to be a writer,” Erin says with a snort from the backseat. Vincent gives her an approving smile, but I barely hear her. It’s been a while since Vincent has mentioned me going to college. He’s put me off-balance again, as he always does, wondering if deep down he does care about me. He hasn’t forgotten that I want to write a book, or that I have dreams and goals of my own.
No, that tiny voice cautions again. Vincent doesn’t forget anything. He just doesn’t give a shit.
I want so badly for that not to be true.
We come around a bend in the road, and I hear Erin gasp. When I look up, I nearly do, too.
Vincent’s parents’ estate—because that’s the only thing this could be—is massive. I’ve seen some beautiful and extravagant things in my time with Vincent, but nothing could compare to this. The graveled drive that we’ve turned down is still some distance from the courtyard in front of the main entrance, but I can see the palatial estate rising in front of us, grand and imposing.
It’s Italianate architecture at its finest, sprawling out over the property arrogantly, all earthy creams and reds and terra-cotta browns that fit in so well with the landscaping that it looks as if the house must have sprung up from the earth fully formed. As we draw closer, I see a huge fountain with two rearing horses in the center of the courtyard, water spilling from their open mouths.
“It looks like a castle,” Erin breathes reverently, leaning forward between the two front seats. “You’re a real-life princess, Rain!” she exclaims, nudging me as if to ask why I’m not more excited over it, too. In truth, I know I should be. But I feel frozen to the seat, my face stuck in an expression of startled surprise, all of my thoughts focused on the people inside of that house. Vincent’s family—his parents, his mother, most specifically. What will they think of me? Will they think I’m white trash, too simple and stupid to appreciate what a prize I’ve won? Or will they—and this is possibly worse—think I’m a gold-digger, out to get Vincent for his money and nothing else?
Well, aren’t you? You just want him to keep paying for your father’s treatment. You don’t love him anymore.
It’s different, I insist in my head, my thoughts in a tangle. I don’t want Vincent’s money for me; I want it so that my father can survive. Once he’s in remission, I'll pay him back, I insist to myself. Once I’m free and working and earning my own money, I’ll pay him back every cent he’s ever spent on my family and me. I’m not a gold-digger.
But even as I think it, I know it’s impossible. I’d have to have a Nora Roberts-type career to pay Vincent back for everything he’s doing.
“Well, then that must make me Prince Charming,” Vincent says playfully in return to Erin calling me a princess, turning to flash her a grin. She blushes, pushing her hair behind one ear. I swallow hard as Vincent pulls up in front of the steps of the house, putting the Ferrari in park as he steps out and gallantly comes around the car to open the door for me.
The grand mahogany front doors fling open before our feet have even touched the first step, and I see an older man and woman step out. Are these Vincent’s parents? I wonder, but then I see that they’re dressed similarly to how I see Andrea dress around our house—crisp black trousers and a white button-down shirt with a black blazer over it for the older gentleman, a high-necked and calf-length black dress for the woman, whose hair is pulled back into a neat bun. I feel myself go red with embarrassment for my near mistake.
I watch as Vincent strides ahead of us and up to them, the woman reaching out to grasp his hands and kiss him on either cheek with a broad smile on her lined face. The man is beaming as too, reaching out to clasp one of Vincent’s hands between his and shaking it firmly as he says something to him in Italian.
I suddenly wish that out of all the languages I could have learned—and ended up learning none of them except some basic high school Spanish that I haven’t retained any of—I would have picked Italian. I’d give anything right then to know what Vincent is saying, especially as they glance over at me.
“Poppy, come here,” Vincent says, and I try to ignore the way that it almost sounds as if he’s calling me to heel. “This is Francesca and Lorenzo, the house managers here at the estate.” He smiles warmly at them. “I’ve known them since I was a little boy.”
“It’s true,” Francesca says, her face lined with happiness as she beams up at Vincent. “I changed this one’s diapers! Now look at him. Such a grown man. And so long since he’s been home, too.” Her eyes na
rrow at him with a touch of reproach, but Vincent only waves a hand at her.
“Well, I’m home now,” he says cheerfully. “And where is my mother?”
“Right here, darling.” A tall, beautiful woman who hardly looks a day over forty-five appears in the doorway, sweeping outside into the Tuscan sunlight and looking up at her son. There’s no doubt she’s Vincent’s mother—they look exactly alike, from the thick dark hair to the aquiline nose and imposing cheekbones. For some reason, I pictured Vincent’s mother more like Francesca, plump and warm but stern. Not the Devil Wears Prada. Behind her is a somewhat older man, still handsome with iron-grey hair, green eyes, and a more pleasant smile on his face. Vincent’s mother looks like a queen, and her husband looks…well, more approachable, is the first thing that comes to mind.
“My Vincent has come home!” Francesca says delightedly. “And he’s brought his lovely fiancée?” She spies the ring on my finger, and her smile widens. I blush, nodding.
“Congratulations, dear,” Francesca says, leaning up to plant kisses on Vincent’s cheeks then turning to me to envelop me in a warm hug. Something about the softness of her arms and the genuine affection for someone she’s only just met makes me return the hug gratefully. I miss my mom, I realize, squeezing Francesca back briefly before stepping back and waiting for Vincent to introduce me to his parents.
“Isn’t she so beautiful?” Francesca enthuses. “I’m so happy for you both, Vincent. Congratulations.”
I hardly hear her, though. Vincent’s mother is looking at me with piercing dark eyes, the only thing Vincent didn’t get from her. She looks like a model, wearing a yellow sundress I saw in Gucci when I took Erin shopping, and diamond studs in her ears—small enough to not be flashy but perfect in cut and clarity, displaying her obvious wealth. The dress sets off her perfectly tanned olive skin and expensively cut, curled hair. I instantly feel like a mousy child, despite the fact that I’m wearing designer clothes and a ring that could buy a small condo—in Chicago, at least.
“Mother!” Vincent doesn’t seem in any hurry to introduce me. His eyes light up as soon as she walks outside. He goes over to her the moment Francesca releases him, rushing over like a small boy excited to see his mother and lifting her up in his arms in a tight hug. Her entire expression changes as he sets her down, her face glowing as she touches her son’s cheek and says something to him in Italian. Vincent’s father looks overjoyed as well as he steps forward to hug his son. He’s as tall as Vincent and broader, and for a moment, Vincent almost seems like a child as he hugs his father back, looking much smaller in the big man’s embrace.
My throat is closed over with nerves. I’m glad I haven’t had to say anything. Vincent turns to me and gestures for me to come and join them.
“Mother, this is my fiancée, Poppy,” he says, his hand on the small of my back as he nudges me towards his mother. “Poppy, this is my mother, Gianna, and my father, Ezio.”
“It’s so nice to meet you….” I start to say, but his mother just looks down her nose at me, smirking lightly.
“Your fiancée? I’ll be the judge of that,” she says, flicking her eyes over me again. “And Poppy? Is that one of your silly nicknames?”
The lump in my throat seems to grow bigger by the second.
“Rain,” Vincent corrects himself quickly. “Rain Carlisle.”
The sound of my name on his lips sends a shiver of longing through me, one that I haven’t felt in a very long time. It’s been so long since I’ve heard him call me that, not since things were different between us. It’s almost as if it marks the beginning of the shift in our relationship when I went from being pursued to being his possession. Rain makes me think of the most perfect dinner I’ve ever had with the skyline of Chicago in the distance, of Vincent slowly unzipping me out of the dress he sent me, of a night of pleasure far beyond anything I’d ever imagined.
It all feels like a dream now, like it never happened at all. Still, Vincent saying my name instead of the awful nickname I hate so much brings it all back, so viscerally that a shiver goes through me.
“That’s almost as ridiculous as Poppy,” she sniffs, her face unreadable as she looks at me appraisingly. And then, at last, just as I feel like I can’t take this a second longer, she cracks a smile that’s so similar to Vincent’s when he smiles that I’m taken aback. “She’s lovely,” she says, looking over at her son, “and she’ll make some beautiful grandbabies for me,” she continues with a laugh, stepping forward to give me a hug.
As her arms wrap around my shoulders, the expensive floral scent of her perfume filling my nose, my stomach plummets to the ground at the thought. The last thing in the world I want to do is have kids with Vincent, something else to tie me to him irrevocably. I feel numb as she embraces me, pulls back, and gives Ezio a turn to hug me.
Then I hear Vincent introducing Erin as my sister. I feel like I’m watching all of this from above us, in a detached way as if I’m watching a movie. I look at Vincent’s mother again as she coos over Erin, and that’s when I remember why we’re here.
But this woman looks as far from a severely ill person as someone can get. She’s almost perfect—healthily tanned with not a hair out of place, her makeup so flawless it almost looks as if she isn’t wearing any, her dark eyes shining with the serene arrogance I’ve seen so often in Vincent’s face; the look of someone who knows the world is at their fingertips.
Sure as hell not like someone who's sick and dying.
I don’t have a chance to think about it any further, though, because Francesca and Lorenzo are sweeping us into the house. Francesca insists that it’s far too hot to be standing in the sun, and besides, there’s a lovely brunch spread just waiting for us. I have to fight hard not to stare as we walk through the house to the center courtyard. Vincent’s penthouse and our New York brownstone are beautiful, but this is something else entirely—all old-world glamour, Persian rugs and gleaming wooden furniture, vaulted ceilings and stone fireplaces, art that must be originals, and antiques everywhere. It’s like walking through a museum, but one where people live.
The courtyard is gorgeous as well, all stone with beautiful landscaping and plush chairs under a veranda to shade us all from the sun. There’s a long table spread with food, and Francesca is already pouring us wine, a chilled white that I accept gratefully and immediately take a sip of, trying to quell my nerves.
I’m starving, my stomach rumbling as soon as I see the food, but I know better than to pile my plate full. As Vincent does exactly that, I take small bits from the platters—some scrambled eggs that look light as air with chives and smoked salmon, a little fruit, some slices of hard cheese, and a serving of Caprese salad with basil that looks as if it was picked just this morning.
“How are you doing?” Vincent asks his mother as we all sit down, his forehead lined with concern. He doesn’t even seem to notice what’s on my plate for once, and I instantly regret not getting more. He’s so focused on Gianna that I almost wonder if he’s forgotten that I’m here.
“I’m wonderful now that you’re here, darling,” Gianna says with a smile, looking tenderly at her son.
Vincent tenses, glancing at me, and I can’t keep my suspicions off of my face. The idea that his mother isn’t really sick passes soundlessly between us. For a second, I get a glimpse of what Vincent and I would be like if we were happy, exchanging knowing glances like an old married couple.
He looks back at his mother, clearing his throat pointedly, and Gianna’s smile falters a little. “Francesca, would you show Erin the room you made up for her and let her get settled in?” she asks stiffly. I can feel the atmosphere in the courtyard grow even tenser as the four of us—me, Vincent, Gianna, and Ezio—all look at one another.
Erin starts to protest, but I frown at her. “You can take your plate up with you,” I tell her quickly. “Just go with Francesca, okay? I’ll come up in a minute.”
Erin pouts a little but gets up and follows Francesca back into t
he house.
“I may have…embellished things a little,” Gianna says lightly to her son.
Ezio snorts. “Just a little?” he remarks sarcastically. Vincent glances sharply at him, frowning.
“What’s going on?” he asks, looking back and forth between his parents. I set my plate down, my appetite now totally gone. There’s so much tension I can practically feel the air crackling.
“Well, I did have surgery for a hernia,” Gianna says, waving a hand in the air. “But I’m perfectly fine now, darling. Good as new.”
“A hernia.” Vincent’s voice is flat as he lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “I thought you were dying, Mother. Or at the very least, extremely ill.”
I feel every muscle in my body tense as I wait for Vincent to explode at his mother, to show the same impatience and quick, sharp temper that he’s started to show me. Why wouldn’t he? It’s obvious now that she all but flat-out-lied to get him to Italy.
But instead of getting angry, Vincent just sighs again, running his hand through his thick hair as he shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says finally. “I was really worried about you—I thought you were really sick, Mother.”
He pauses then, pointedly waiting for her to explain, and I can’t help but stare at him, especially since he seems to have forgotten about me again. I’m shocked to see him so patient—more so than he’s ever been with me, even at the beginning of our relationship when he seemingly adored me. This is a Vincent I haven’t seen in a long time and hardly recognize anymore; it makes my heart ache a little. This is the Vincent I thought he was. The one I could love and more—a man who is kind and patient with his mother even when she exasperates him, who loves his family, who is happy to be home.