“You’re an old cynic.”
“Perhaps, but a wise cynic. After you make love he’ll never bother to kiss you like that again, for hours and hours. It turns into something else, and kissing is no longer the goal, but the means to an end—and in my experience men usually prefer to skip that bit altogether and jump right to the end as fast as possible. Mind you play hard to get.”
“He’s already got me.”
“No, he hasn’t. Don’t go giving in too easily. A man like that might suppose a girl like you is something she’s not.”
Floriana was appalled. “I’ll be a virgin on my wedding day, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, of course you will. Still, this is the time you need a mother to tell you the story of the stork.”
“But I have you, Signora Bruno.”
“I knew there must be some purpose to my life. If I wasn’t intended to marry a prince myself, I was charged with making sure you do.”
“When I marry him, you’re going to come and live with me at La Magdalena.”
“Oh, good. I’ll die happy.” She pushed herself up with a groan. “Right, the day is beginning. I can’t sit around in my dressing gown all morning. There are things to be done—and that cretino has overwatered his geraniums again.” She clicked her tongue.
Floriana lay on her bed fully clothed, but she was too excited to sleep. She replayed the night over and over, dwelling on the kiss and closing her eyes to relive it. Dante was back, and he loved her; nothing in the world mattered anymore. She could hear her father snoring in the room next door. What a useless, selfish man he was. She longed to have a father who loved her, with whom she could share her innermost thoughts and wishes. A father she could be proud of. But nothing would convince her to introduce Elio to Dante.
Dante appeared for breakfast on the terrace where a round table had been set up in the shade. His mother in a wide sunhat was sipping coffee, her pale skin shiny with moisturizer, eyes hidden behind big sunglasses. Giovanna sat sleepily, nibbling toast while Damiana drank coffee and ate a bowl of fruit. Beppe presided over the table like a king, surveying the remains of the party from the lofty height of the terrace.
Already the team was back to dismantle the tent and take away the tables and chairs—and the guest who had fallen asleep in the corner. By evening the gardens would be restored to their former perfection and the view of the park once again unbroken.
“Ah, my son,” exclaimed Beppe. “Come and sit beside me and tell me what you thought of your party.”
A butler pulled out his chair. Dante sat down and asked for a black coffee. “I had a blast, Papà.”
His father beamed proudly. “Good boy. No one throws a party like I do. Any girls worth mentioning?”
Dante hesitated. The one girl he wanted to mention was unmentionable. “Many.”
Beppe patted his son’s back. “That’s my boy. Many.” The butler poured Dante a cup of coffee just as breakfast was interrupted by a telephone call. Beppe disappeared off to take it in his study.
“So, girls, how was it for you?” Dante asked.
“It was magical,” said Damiana, brightening up now her father had left the table.
“It was the best night I’ve ever had in my life,” enthused Giovanna.
“I saw Costanza was here,” said Dante carefully. “She’s grown up, hasn’t she?”
“But little Floriana didn’t come,” his mother interjected mournfully. “I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.”
Dante was surprised. “You invited her?”
“Why shouldn’t I? Really, Dante, you’re as bad as your father. She’s adorable, and I’m extremely fond of her.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“So, she lives in a modest house in Herba—why should that make a difference? In fact, I don’t know where she lives, so I gave her invitation to Costanza’s mother.”
It didn’t take Dante long to work out what had happened. “I doubt that woman ever gave it to her.”
Violetta took off her glasses. “What are you suggesting?”
“That she’s a terrible snob.”
“You really think she would be capable of such unkindness?”
“Absolutely.”
Violetta’s face relaxed into a smile. “I do hope there is some mistake, but not misconduct. I thought it odd that Floriana didn’t come.”
“She would have loved to come,” Damiana reassured her. “She adores it here, and she adores you, Mamma. You’re the mother she has never had.”
“I’m sure Costanza’s mother wouldn’t have done it on purpose,” said Giovanna. “Perhaps she just forgot or mislaid it.”