Hillary’s announcement had been the proverbial straw. Rather than allowing me to crack, however, Bennett had whisked me away from the angst, and although it had been only two weeks, I felt as though we’d been gone for months. The weight of a recent tragedy and my role in it had pressed its angry bulk against my slim shoulders, nearly breaking me. Bennett had claimed he wanted to travel, but we both knew this trip was more for my well-being than anything else. For the first time in a long time, I’d been unburdened. I’d had no responsibilities for two whole weeks. We’d left my able assistant, Frances, in charge and she’d called us only once so far—to assure us that everything was going well and that she was running a tight ship. Of that I had no doubt.
Tomorrow, however, we’d fly back on the jet Bennett had chartered for this trip. I couldn’t avoid reality forever, but I could enjoy the respite while it lasted. I took a deep sip of the dry white wine, and marveled again at the cool breeze that made this outdoor space a tiny bit of heaven.
“I do not care to speak of him,” Nico said. My ears perked up and I tuned back into the conversation.
Bennett leaned forward along the arm of his wicker chair. “It’s been how many years, Nico? He’s your son. I remember when Gerard was just a—”
“Those days are gone. He betrayed the family and he must pay for his sins. He has not tried to contact me in fourteen years,” Nico added. “I do not even think of him anymore. He is dead to me. My daughter, Irena, is my only living child now.”
Bennett and I exchanged a glance. In his expression I read the same thought that had flashed through my brain: The fact that Nico had been specific enough to say “fourteen” rather than a vague “more than ten” or “almost fifteen” years since Gerard had contacted him led me to believe that his son’s betrayal maintained a tighter grip on Nico’s heart than he cared to admit.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bennett said. “I remember him as a boy—”
Nico sliced the air with his hand as tears welled in his eyes. Blinking, he waved to Gianfranco, who leapt to attention. “More wine.” Nico’s voice was rusty, and no one needed a refill, but Gianfranco dribbled a little into each glass nonetheless.
“Tell me about Irena,” Bennett said, gently changing the subject. “The last time I saw her, she was still very young.”
Nico seemed lost in thoughts of his son. “Irena will be here momentarily. Angelo will fetch her on his way back. She’s eager to meet you both, but wanted to give us old men a chance to reconnect before she joined us.”
To me, his words were a subtle chastisement, a reminder that I was not part of their long friendship. I shifted in my seat.
“I would be happy to stroll your beautiful property,” I said, “to allow you to talk in private.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Angelo’s return. The big man stepped aside to allow a woman—Irena, no doubt—to hurry over to Nico’s side. She was curvy and tall with sun-kissed skin and blonde streaks in her dark hair. She leaned around the edge of his chair, placing her cheek against his weathered one. Though not beautiful in the traditional sense, a flirty combination of lush lips and sparkling eyes gave Irena the sort of playful, interesting face that makes men twist for a second look. She had to be at least forty years old, but with her skinny jeans, wedge sandals, and model-tousled hair, she appeared closer to my age.
“These must be your American guests,” she said with a luminous smile and the barest hint of an Italian accent. “Signor Marshfield? It’s been a very long time since I have seen you.”
“It has,” Bennett said as he and I stood to shake hands with our newcomer. “You were a very young girl last time we met.”