She had started decorating the nursery, and Sandro, who had thrown a fit one day when he’d returned from the office early to find her perched on a ladder attempting to paint the walls, had done the painting. She spent a great deal of time in the nursery, adding little touches here and there, often going out and shopping for furniture and toys. There really was very little left to do but she still kept adding little stuffed toys and tiny infant-size clothes. The color scheme was cream and pale lilac. She had started out with blue but had come home from visiting Lisa one day to find that Sandro had changed the color to something more “gender neutral” as he’d put it. She hadn’t protested too much because she had found the new color scheme soothing and prettier than the blue on white she’d planned.
She also found Sandro’s touches elsewhere in the nursery. He bought toys—girls’ toys. Stuffed dolls, teddy bears, toy ponies, anything a little girl’s heart could possibly desire. Theresa chose not to acknowledge them in any way, and every time she came across one, usually sneakily hidden among the toys that she had bought, she would relegate it to the corner farthest from the beautiful crib that they had selected together. There was a quite a collection forming in the area which she had dubbed Toy Siberia. She did not know why he kept buying those things, and she refused to ask. He never mentioned the heap of toys that she had stowed in the corner but just doggedly kept adding more and more to the nursery.
Their two hours three times a week had branched out into a few hours every day. There was no longer a time limit on the amount of time they spent together because Theresa had stopped enforcing it once it became clear that Sandro was going to sneak a little time every day. It just became easier to pretend not to notice it. Theresa’s health continued to fluctuate, her pregnancy being a lot more difficult than she, Sandro, or the doctor had ever anticipated. She had been diagnosed with preeclampsia the month before, and Sandro had turned into a paranoid old woman about what she could and could not do. He had even stopped going into the office, working from home and hovering twenty-four seven. She didn’t know how she would get through the final two months of her pregnancy without resorting to some form of violence because the man was driving her completely crazy.
Now she sat with her feet up, staring gloomily out at the rain pouring down outside. It was an unusually wet and miserable spring afternoon, and Theresa had long ago abandoned her book in favor of her roiling thoughts. So absorbed was she in those thoughts that she didn’t hear Sandro come in, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a large hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured, bending down to drop a quick kiss onto the soft, exposed skin where her shoulder and neck met. “I called your name at least twice but you were totally wrapped up in your own little world.”
“I was just thinking…” She shrugged, her voice trailing off.
“About?”
“Everything. Nothing.” Another listless shrug.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, coming down on his haunches in front of her.
“I’m fine. A little tired…” He lifted a hand and gently traced one of her delicate cheekbones with his thumb before nimbly jumping to his feet and sitting down on the sofa next to her. Neither of them said anything for a while; they just listened to the rain and watched it cascading down the window like a waterfall.
“I want you to meet my father,” he suddenly announced unexpectedly, and she froze before turning her head slowly to meet his brooding eyes.
“What?”
“My father,” he repeated, and she bit her lip before clearing her throat uncertainly.
“I don’t know if that’s…” she began, but he interrupted her before she could finish.
“His condition is deteriorating rapidly,” he said abruptly. His voice broke slightly as he said the words and his jaw clenched.
“Oh, Sandro, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes going liquid with sympathy for him. “When’s your flight?”
“I’m not leaving,” he told her grimly, and her eyes shadowed in confusion, before flaring as she realized why he refused to go and be with his father.
“Sandro.” Her voice was so low it barely carried to the man who sat inches away from her. “You can’t stay because of me. You have to go and be with your family. Your place is with them right now.”
“You’re my family too, Theresa,” he snapped, a maelstrom of frustration and pain welling up in his eyes. “And I refuse to leave you here alone.”
“Hardly alone, Sandro,” she dismissed airily. “The staff, Lisa and Rick, and even my father are here for me. Go home to your family.”
“This is where I have to be, this is where I’m staying. Stop arguing with me for God’s sake!” he growled.
“You are not going to blame me for this too, Sandro,” she fumed impotently. She recognized the stubborn tilt of his jaw and the steely resolution in his eyes and knew that his mind was made up. He wouldn’t budge on the issue unless something drastic happened to change his mind. “The only reason you’re here now is because of my father and his corrupt little blackmailing scheme! My father and I have messed up your life and your family enough; don’t make it worse by staying here with me of all people, when the family you sacrificed your freedom for needs you the most.”
“Don’t you ever,” he seethed, grabbing and gripping her hand so tightly that he nearly cut off the circulation, “lump yourself into the same category as your father again, Theresa. None of this is your fault and right now you need me too.”
“I do not need you,” she enunciated clearly. “I refuse to let you martyr yourself like this. Duty above all else. Is that right? Long-suffering Sandro, who’s always doing the right thing and always putting everybody else’s needs before his own. Sacrificing his happiness at the altar of familial obligation. I am not going to be your obligation, Sandro. I refuse to. Go and be with your family!”
“You are my family, damn it! You, you, you!” He shouted, and she jumped in fright, her jaw going slack as he leaped from the sofa to loom over her furiously. So rarely did Sandro lose his cool that Theresa stared up into his frustrated, wretched face in shocked silence. All the air seemed to leave his sails and his shoulders sagged as he dropped to his knees in front of her, bringing his eyes down to the same level as hers. “I want to be here with you. Why is that so hard for you to understand?” His voice had dropped to a whisper. His eyes suddenly, shockingly, filled with moisture, which he made no attempt to hide from her, and he muttered something in Italian, his voice thick with emotion. She bit her lip and shook her head.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered regretfully, and he reached out a hand to cup her cheek.
“My father is dying, cara,” he repeated in English, his voice absolutely wracked with emotion. “Please, I need you not to fight with me right now.” She nodded and reached out with both hands to stroke his hair back from his broad, proud forehead. The gesture seemed to undo him, and his face crumpled before he wrapped his strong arms around her thickened waist and buried his face in the mound of her stomach while Theresa curled her upper body protectively over his head as she whispered soothing little snippets into his hair.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to make this more difficult; I just thought that you were staying out of some misguided sense of honor and obligation. I would hate that, Sandro. I would hate for you to stay and then if the…if the worst happened, you would blame me because you couldn’t be there at his side.”
“I know,” he murmured, lifting his head to look up at her, his face inscrutable, despite the roiling emotion she could see in his eyes. “And I can see why you would think that. I have blamed you for way too much in the past and treated you terribly, but you have to believe me when I tell you that the last thing in the world I want to do anymore is hurt you, Theresa.” She said nothing, knowing that even though it would not be intentional, he would still hurt her when he eventually left. And then again when they divorced and he eventually married Francesca. All of those things were as inevitable as the sunset. They would happen and they would devastate her.
“So what did you want to ask me?” she asked, without acknowledging his fervent words. The omission did not go unnoticed and Sandro flinched slightly before taking a deep breath and levering himself up off his knees to sit down on the sofa beside her, angling his body so that he could face her.
“I want you to meet my father,” he repeated, and her eyes showed her confusion.
“I’m not sure I understand. You know that Doctor Shelbourne has prohibited any flying during my third trimester.”
He smiled slightly before shaking his head. “Theresa, cara, you really need to catch up to the twenty-first century,” he teased halfheartedly. It had become a standing joke between him and Rick, of all people, that Theresa was so technologically backward. She could barely operate her mobile phone, so e-mailing, instant messaging, and every other form of electronic –inging left her completely baffled. She had wiped out the hard drives on three laptops in as many years and now kept her records strictly on paper in a filing cabinet in her office.