She’d been eleven, maybe twelve – Niccolo had still been living at home so it had been before he’d gone off to university – and they’d gone to the Martinellis for the Easter weekend. Gennaro had still been living there too. Not long after their arrival he’d appeared in the garden and casually handed her a gift bag.
“I was passing an art shop in Florence the other day and thought of you,” he’d said.
Inside the pretty paper bag had been a set of watercolour pencils and a book of thick drawing paper.
He’d disappeared back inside before she’d found her voice to thank him.
To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She frantically blinked them back.
So he’d done one nice thing to her in her twenty-seven years on this earth? Well, so what? One long-ago memory didn’t change anything.
It took another two hours of sitting in the chilly air before she dared go back into the suite.
She hadn’t drawn a single stroke.
It was the buzz of his phone that woke Gennaro the next morning. Even as he reached for it, he knew the suite was empty.
Luisa had slept on one of the sofas… or maybe not slept. Through the beam of moonlight that had poured through a crack in the drapes, he’d watched her emerge through the balcony door carrying the bag he was certain was filled with her art supplies, and tiptoe through the archway into the living area and then disappear from his sight. After that, he’d not seen or heard her, but instinct had told him that the long hours spent willing himself to sleep had been the same for her.
So many thoughts and feelings had consumed him, memories of the shy little girl whose quirky art had touched his heart… until that night, he’d seen no evidence Luisa had drawn so much as doodle throughout their marriage… and the beautiful, intelligent woman with the mesmerising eyes she’d grown into.
He read the message and almost smiled.
Gone for brunch with Marisa at the bistro. Let me know when you’re ready for me to play your nodding dog/ dutiful wife.
He could practically feel the sarcastic defiance she’d written those words with.
He should be out of bed already and giving his brother a much-needed reminder of everything he stood to lose if he didn’t up his game. Instead, his thoughts were still consumed with the woman whose face had hovered behind his eyes for all the long hours it had taken him to fall asleep and whose face had then haunted his dreams.
There was something off again about Marisa, a skittishness that Luisa would have probed her about if she wasn’t feeling so skittish herself. Gennaro had messaged her back.
Need to see Niccolo to discuss what you and I spoke about last night. Will join you when I can.
She had to read the message a number of times to make sense of it.
Need to see Niccolo to discuss what you and I spoke about…? Did that mean her observations he’d dismissed?
She thought hard but couldn’t think what else it could mean.
“Are you okay?” Marisa asked, her forehead furrowed with concern. “You look like your head’s somewhere else.”
She pulled a face to convey that this was like the pot calling the kettle black and then gave a dazed laugh. “Gennaro… It’s only taken two years but he’s finally taken something I said seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing I can talk about. You know, that damned contract he made me sign.”
Marisa did know, although, strictly, she wasn’t supposed to. But then, Niccolo wasn’t supposed to know the truth either and Luisa knew he did. Siblings were a whole different ballpark when it came to secrets and lies, and it suddenly came to her that if Gennaro was capable of loving anyone, it was his brother and with that thought came a deep pang down in the pit of her stomach.
“Luisa?”
She blinked and met her sister’s concerned stare. Mustering a smile, she cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just thinking of something I shouldn’t.” And feeling something she shouldn’t because she shouldn’t care that Gennaro was incapable of love.
“Gennaro?” Marisa asked.
She nodded, wishing she could deny it. Wishing she could pretend to herself that her feelings for him weren’t growing. Mushrooming.
Wished, too, that she could pretend to herself that her mushrooming feelings were tied solely to her desire for him.