His mother walked over to the desk and picked up the fountain pen his father had always used. 'My own mother always said one of her greatest joys was watching you and Bianca grow up.'
This was a new one. 'Nonna was a very special person. I miss her.'
'She was in her early twenties when I was born, and I, of course, was very young when I had you. She was still only in her forties when she became a grandmother. Young enough to be active, to be able to play with you. Of course, her dearest wish was to see you marry, have a family of your own.'
'She was taken from us too early.'
'I will be sixty next year, Marco. Sixty.'
He was impressed; she didn't usually admit to her age. 'And you don't look a day over forty-five. Are you sure you have the right year?'
But she wasn't in the mood for gallantry, barely raising a smile at the compliment. 'I want to see my grandchildren, Marco. I want to know them, watch them grow up, not be an old lady, too tired and ill to be able to play when they finally arrive.'
Marco sighed. 'Mamma...'
'I want you back home, back here, where you belong, heading up the Santoro family. I want you settled down and married with children of your own.'
'I know you do. It's all you've ever wanted.'
'I just want you to be happy, Marco.'
He fought to keep his voice even. 'I know. But you have to accept that happiness comes in many different forms, in many different ways. I like what I do. I like London.'
'And what of me? Of the business?'
'There are other options. Bianca, for instance. Come on, Mamma, you must have considered it. Bianca is more than fit to take over from you. She's the best of us all when it comes to figures, she's ambitious and she's a Santoro to her fingernails, no matter who she marries and what her last name is. Don't overlook her. You'll be doing all of us a disservice.'
His mother only smiled. 'You think I haven't considered her? That your father didn't? Of course we have. You're right, in many ways she's the cleverest of us all and when it comes to the finances there's no one I would rather have in charge. But she doesn't have what your father had-what you have-she doesn't have the flair, the inspired spark.'
Guilt flared as she compared him to his father and Marco's hands curled into fists involuntarily. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'Yes, you do,' she said, staring at him as if she could imprint her words into him. 'Bianca and I can manage, we can audit, we can run-but you and your father can build. Can take an idea and make it grow, see where opportunity lies and grab it with both hands. I'm not discounting Bianca because she's a woman and getting married, I'm discounting her because she won't grow the company like you will. Because you are the heir your father wanted.'
Bitterness coated his mouth. 'Papà didn't want me to be inspired. He didn't want me to be anything but an obedient clone. He sat in this room, at this desk, and told me if I went to England, continued to mess around with antiques, we were finished.'
'They were just words. You know what he was like. Words came too easily and he never meant them-it was what he did which counted. And he was proud of you, Marco. He followed your every move. People would tell him of you, people you worked with in Venice, further afield, would seek him out to talk of you and he would drink in every word.'
The ache in Marco's chest eased, just a little. 'He never said, never showed that he even knew what I was doing...'
'You didn't give him the opportunity. Besides...' she shrugged '...he was too proud to make the first move. He was proud, you are proud and here you are.'
'He sat there and disowned me and when I disobeyed him he...' But he couldn't say the words.
'He had a heart attack,' she finished calmly. 'It wasn't your fault, Marco.'
Easy for her to say. He knew better; he'd always known. 'Of course it was. If I had settled to be what he wanted...'
'Then you wouldn't be you. He knew that. But it hurt him that you barely returned. That from the moment you went to London you never again spent a night under our roof.'
Misunderstandings, pride, stubbornness. Family traits passed on from father to son. 'I couldn't. I didn't dare. I couldn't let his health blackmail me into compliance, nor could I let him work himself into one of his passions. It was better to stay away.' He stopped, bleak. 'He died anyway.'
'Sì. But not because of anything you said or didn't say but because he didn't listen to his doctor, didn't listen to me, didn't exercise or take his pills or cut down on red meat. Stubborn. But it's not your fault, Marco. That first heart attack would have happened anyway, you must know that. We're lucky we had him for another ten years.'
But Marco hadn't had him; he'd lost his father long before. 'And now it's too late, he's gone and he didn't even know I said goodbye.'
Her eyes were soft with understanding, with love. 'He knew. You came straight away. He was conscious enough to know you were there. Forgive yourself, Marco. Nobody else blames you for any of it, nobody ever did. But I would like you to come home, at least to be here more often. To advise me even if you won't take over. I just want to see my son more than a couple of hours once or twice a year.'
'Yes.' His mind was whirling. Why had his father never told him that he was proud of him, never said he hadn't meant a word of the bitter denunciation that had left him in the hospital and Marco in exile? But his mother was right. Marco hadn't stayed away just out of fear he would trigger another heart attack, he'd stayed away out of pride. Just as bad as his father. Maybe it was time to let some of that pride go.
'Yes,' he said again. 'I can be here more often. And I can't promise you I'll take over, but I can advise-and make sure you have the right people in place to help you. You need to delegate more, Mamma, and accept that people who aren't Santoros can still care about the company.'
'It's a deal.'
Relief flooded through him. They had compromised and, for the first time, he didn't feel that she had tried to manipulate him; she had respected his decision. He would, should spend more time in Venice. It was only right that he at least took a board role in his family company.
He bent, kissed his mother's cheek and turned to leave but stopped as she called his name softly. 'Marco?'
'Yes?'
'Ten years wasted, Marco, out of pride, out of anger...' She paused. 'Don't make that mistake again. I know you say you aren't ready to marry and I know you are angry with me, with your father, for what happened ten years ago. But don't let that pride, that anger, push Sophie away. She's a lovely girl, Marco. But I don't think there will be second chances with that one. You need to get it right.'
'Mamma, we've only just met.'
'I know, and I am staying out of it.' Despite his prickle of annoyance he couldn't help an incredulous laugh at her words. 'Just think about it. That's all I'm asking. Just take care with her.'
'Okay.' He could promise that with an easy mind. Taking care came easily to him; he knew how to tread for an easy relationship and an easier exit. 'I'll take care. Now I really have to get on.' But as he walked away her words echoed in his mind. No more second chances. He didn't need a second chance. He liked Sophie, he liked her a lot, enough to know that she deserved a lot better than anything a man like him could offer. He should thank her though, for all her help. He might not be able to offer her happy ever after-and she probably wouldn't take it if he did-but he could offer her one perfect day. It was the least he could do. It had to be; it was all that he had.
CHAPTER NINE
TO SOPHIE'S AMAZEMENT Marco was still in the breakfast room when she came down, having overslept again. She stopped and hovered at the door, stupidly shy.
How she could feel shy when he'd left her bedroom just four short hours ago, how she could still feel shy after the things they'd done in that bedroom, eluded her and yet her stomach swooped at the sight of him and her tongue was suddenly too large for her mouth, like a teenager seeing her crush across the hallway.
They hadn't eaten breakfast together since that first morning. He was usually already out working when she came downstairs, their first communication of the day at lunch. Lunch was civilised, easy to navigate, but breakfast? Breakfast was an intimate meal. She wasn't ready for breakfast...
His presence wasn't the only thing that had changed. The atmosphere in the palazzo seemed lighter somehow, less fraught. Less weighted with the air of things left unsaid, when the silences were more eloquent than words. For the first time since the party she and Marco had stayed at the palazzo for dinner last night and Marco hadn't tensed up too much when his mother had quizzed Sophie once more about her future plans and shot him meaningful glances every time she did so. Marco's mother was very charming, but over the space of the evening she'd ramped up the inquisitional levels to almost overbearing, her hints so broad Sophie hadn't known where to look half the time. She'd aimed for obliviousness, but it was difficult to look unknowing when she was invited to try on Marco's dead grandmother's engagement ring, asked about her perfect honeymoon plans or how many children she wanted and didn't she think her eyes with Marco's colouring would look cute in a baby?