Grey had known right from the beginning of their courtship that she was keeping something secret from him. The recurring nightmares, when she cried out in her sleep then sobbed in his arms, hinted at something dark and terrible that she was unable to share. He hadn’t ever asked her what it was, for he had trusted that, in time, when she was ready, she would tell him. He hadn’t expected it to take so many years. Now she took his hand, and they walked down to the beach where she had spent so many hours gazing out to sea, mourning her inability to conceive. They strolled up the sand, and Marina took her time.
“Will you promise me one thing, Grey?”
“Of course.”
“Will you try not to judge me?”
“I won’t judge you, my darling.”
“Yes, you will. It’s only natural. Please don’t think less of me because I hid this from you. It was the only way I could cope.”
“All right.”
“And you know that I love you.” She stopped and took both his hands in hers. “I love you for your patience, your compassion, and for the fact that you have always loved me, in spite of knowing there was a depth in me that I never let you reach.”
“Marina, darling, whatever it is, I’ll still love you.”
She took a deep breath, and without being aware of it, she gripped his hands tightly. “My name is Floriana Farussi. I’m Italian. I was born in a little seaside town called Herba in Tuscany. My mother ran off with a tomato seller from the market, taking my little brother with her, leaving me with my inebriated father, Elio. I was as good as an orphan, but I always dreamed of something more.”
She was so intent on telling her story that she hadn’t noticed her husband had gone as gray as a carp.
She talked at length, and she told him everything. They sat on the sand, and she described the summer she fell in love with Dante, the time she nearly killed herself jumping off the high cliff into the sea, and the moment he had made love to her. She told him about Good-Night and Costanza, and the wickedness of her mother, the countess.
As she told him about her pregnancy, her hopes for her future with Dante, and the loss of her child in the convent, Grey began to understand her more profoundly. He realized now why she had paced the sand, mourning the loss of her child whom she had nurtured for such a short time, and why her later inability to conceive had nearly destroyed her. He understood why she had suffered night terrors, and why she had, at times, seemed so haunted by loss.
“So, when I finally saw Dante, I realized that I couldn’t ask him for money. I just couldn’t.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her temple. “Of course you couldn’t.”
“It would have reduced everything else to dust. He would have thought it a cynical ploy to exploit him. But what we had was precious, and the son we made together is out there somewhere and so much more important than the Polzanze.” She turned round and smiled at him. “You see, it all became very clear to me in Italy. You are important to me, Grey. You, Jake, Clementine, Harvey, Mr. Potter—you are my family and I carry you in my heart wherever I go. So, it doesn’t really matter whether we continue on here, or start again somewhere else. As long as we’re together we’ll be okay.”
“But your son, darling.”
“I might never find him.” She turned away and her eyes glittered in the reflection of the sea. “I hope he’s happy. I hope he knows nothing about me.”
“I know it’s late, but I think you should tell Jake and Clementine,” he said as they walked back up to the house.
“You’re right. I hope they are as understanding as you are.”
“I’m glad you told me. You make more sense to me now. I think you’ll find you make more sense to them, too.”
Clementine and Jake reacted very differently to her confession. Clementine was fascinated by the romance and tragedy of it. She felt every bit as desperate as Marina as she described her love affair and the loss of her son, while Jake found the emotions hard to comprehend. As a man who had never been in love, who had never suffered, he failed to grasp the enormity of it all. The fact that she had withheld it gripped him far more than the story itself. It seemed little more than a great adventure. However, he admired her for not asking Dante for money, and vowed that wherever Grey and Marina chose to begin again, he would go with them and support them one hundred percent.
Rafa paced his room while Biscuit lay uneasily on his bed, watching him stride back and forth as if the floor were made of hot coals. Suddenly, he was unsure. When he had set out from Argentina he had been so certain of the validity of his quest. He had set about his search with the enthusiasm and curiosity of a young detective on his first case. But he hadn’t considered the emotional consequences of the truth, once discovered. He hadn’t imagined he would fall in love with Clementine; he hadn’t considered that he might love Marina, too. He hadn’t anticipated the terrible fear the answers would expose.