“I should never have left it so long.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to return to England and tell my husband everything.”
“Is he the sort of man who will understand?”
“I know he will. He’s a good man, which is why I owe him an explanation for all my irrational behavior over the years. He’s been incredibly patient.”
“Do you love him, Floriana?”
She looked at Dante, aware that her answer would wound him. But she couldn’t lie to spare his feelings. “Yes, I do. I love my husband very much.”
“I’m happy that you found love with a good man, piccolina.” He smiled to hide his disappointment. “Why don’t you stay the night?”
“Rafa doesn’t even know I speak Italian.”
“Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “Not anymore, I suppose.”
“Then we will have a nice dinner with fine wine and good food, and you and I will not talk about the past. You will rest and recover. You’ve just climbed an emotional mountain. It wouldn’t be right for you to stay in some impersonal hotel on the road back to Rome, and anyway, it’s late.” He grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “Please, stay.”
“All right. We’ll stay. But you have to call me Marina.”
He looked appalled. “That is too much to ask. I will call you nothing at all.”
Rafa returned in a somber mood. He had taken a table in the square and sat for an hour over a glass of wine, wondering whether his revelation, when he finally told Marina, would be gratefully received. The butler met him at the steps and showed him into the drawing room. He waited awhile, wandering around the room, looking at all the family photographs. Tanned and glossy people smiled out of silver frames, and Rafa got the impression of a rarefied world where it was always summer and always happy. He gazed at the impressive paintings on the walls, then lingered a long time in front of the large family portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was dated 1979: mother, father, and their three little girls in pretty white dresses and pink satin shoes. He moved closer and scrutinized the man. So absorbed was he in the picture, he didn’t hear the door open as Marina and Dante stepped into the room.
“Rafa.” Marina’s voice extracted him from his thoughts with a jolt. “Come and meet Dante, my old friend.” Rafa wasn’t surprised to hear Marina speaking fluent Italian; it just confirmed what he had suspected all along.
But Marina misinterpreted his pallor and felt the need to explain. “I grew up here,” she said. “Dante is part of my past.”
Rafa took Dante’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“We have agreed that you will both stay the night here at La Magdalena, then return to Rome in the morning,” said Dante.
Rafa was unable to tear his eyes off him. He was older than the man who smiled out from the family photographs, but he was still handsome, with a powerful charisma that filled the room.
“I gather you are an artist. Come, let me show you some of the works of art my family has collected over the generations, and then I’ll take you around the gardens before it gets dark. I find this time of day particularly beautiful.”
Rafa followed Dante into the hall. He caught Marina’s eye and frowned, but she averted her gaze, leaving him to ponder the nature of their relationship.
He was enchanted by La Magdalena, and felt his fears subside when they wandered out into the serenity of the gardens. Marina hung back, allowing her memories to float about her in the smells and sounds of the place she had loved above all others. Some she held on to while others she let go, but with every recollection she felt a little lighter. They strolled into the mermaid garden, where she and Dante had first become friends, and into the olive grove, where she had tamed Michelangelo the peacock. They walked around the fountain and admired the statues, but they didn’t approach the wall where it was still crumbling. The memories that lingered there were too raw for both of them.
They dined on the terrace in the candlelight, and Marina told Dante about Clementine and Jake. Rafa went quiet, remembering his clash on the beach with Clementine. He wanted to text her—she’d love to hear that her stepmother spoke fluent Italian—but he couldn’t act as if nothing had happened. He had to come clean and tell her the truth, now that he knew for sure.
He watched Dante and Marina, the way they interacted with the ease of intimate friends, the way she moved her hands when she spoke Italian, the way she didn’t really have much of an accent at all. Although they included him in conversation, they didn’t pay him much attention, so engrossed were they in each other. Dante’s tender gaze was unmistakable, and she seemed to swell beneath it, shedding the years with each peel of laughter.