‘You’ve seen my schedule.’ Luca shrugged, and then expanded a little. ‘I ring, I send money, I try to get back when I can…’ He knew it sounded lame, knew she thought him a selfish person, and that was completely fine with him.
They stopped walking, Luca picking up a handful of stones and skimming them out to sea, looking out at the rolling waves and the high crescent of a new moon. He relented a touch about his family—he told himself it was because he didn’t want to kill the mood, but…she was nice to talk to. ‘It’s not just the view you get tired of—but the place, the people, the unspoken rules…’
‘Rules?’
‘Familia.’ There was a scathing note to his voice. ‘Everything is for appearances’ sake—that is why I am here, remember! What will people think if the brother, the only son, just drops in for the wedding? That is the type of question you hear all the time as you grow up. They are so worried about how they appear, what people will think. There is shame that their only son has not settled down. Every time I come home, it’s always the same questions…’
‘And that’s enough to keep you away?’ She didn’t buy it. ‘A few questions?’
‘You see a frail old man near death, Emma.’ She felt the prickles on the back of her neck rise as he continued, ‘And the village sees the patriarch of the D’Amato family, close to the end of a good and rich life…’
‘What do you see, Luca?’ she asked quietly.
‘My mother’s fear.’ If it was only a hundredth of it, it was still more than he’d ever admitted to anyone, and there was this curl of trepidation in his stomach as for the first time he broke the D’Amato code of silence. ‘How, even when he can hardly walk, she still jumps when he enters a room, still laughs too loudly at his jokes…’
‘Was he violent towards her?’ Emma asked.
‘A bit.’ His guard shot back up. ‘Yet he is weak and pathetic now—there is nothing more to fear.’
‘Is that why you stay away?’
Luca shrugged, a bit guilty now, embarrassed perhaps at admitting so much, and he tried to laugh it off. ‘Apparently I should have married some sweet virgin, produced several children by now—no matter whether or not it makes me happy.’
‘But you haven’t,’ Emma pointed out.
‘Because there are no more virgins—no goodlooking ones anyway.’ His mouth curved into a smile at his own joke and then, appalled, he remembered. ‘Emma, I’m sorry!’ He had to run to catch up with her. ‘I forgot, okay?’
‘Just leave it.’ She shrugged him off, angry, annoyed, embarrassed and very, very close to tears. She was sick of it, sick of it, sick of it!
‘Hey.’ He caught her hand and spun her around. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you—I just never thought—’
‘No, you didn’t!’ Emma flared.
‘You’re not ugly…you’re gorgeous,’ Luca attempted, ‘and the guy who gets you will be a lucky man indeed.’ Huge green eyes looked up at him. ‘I’m just not sure that should be me…’ He stared at the oh, so, familiar beach, dragged in the familiar smells, and though he so desperately wanted her, he didn’t actually have to have her—there was sweet relief in just her company tonight and the knowing that she would be beside him tonight.
‘Even if I want it to be you?’
‘Emma…’ He didn’t finish so they walked on in silence, and it was Luca who finally broke it. ‘Come on, let’s get home. I’ll text Ma and let her know.’ Which to Emma seemed a strange thing for a thirty-four-year-old playboy to do, but she was too upset about how the night had turned out, and really never gave it another thought, especially when they stepped into a house that was in darkness.
‘They must have gone to bed,’ Luca said, and then the lights snapped on.
‘Surprise!’ She saw the usually deadpan Luca grinning at her stunned reaction, as shouts of ‘Happy birthday’ and ‘Tanti auguiri’ rang out, and slowly the realisation set in that this was all for her.
Luca could never have known how much this might mean to her, how completely overwhelming this was, because there were gifts all prettily wrapped and a table set with glasses and liqueurs and, centre stage, a cake. A huge sponge filled with cream and iced on top and in shaky handwriting the words Tanti Auguiri Emma.
Her first birthday cake, her first birthday party— well, at least, the first she could remember.
‘Sorry,’ Mia said. ‘Rico wanted to stay up but he was tired.’ Emma could see the mood in the house was actually better without him, and then Mia apologised that the cake was home-made, which made Emma’s eyes well up. ‘Luca only told me yesterday, there was no time to order one—and—’