“Yeah?”
“It suits you. Strong, dependable, but not trying too hard to prove anything.”
Did she not hear him? He was trying to proveeverything. Still, the compliment warmed him more than the wine had. “So what’s your brilliant plan for tomorrow?”
“I was hoping you had one.”
“I do.” He leaned forward. Lowered his voice. Offered her a smile. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Here went nothing. “We go in as a married couple on our honeymoon.”
She blinked. “Honeymoon?”
“Think about it. Luxury resort, medical conference happening in the background—what better cover than newlyweds who booked the place for a romantic getaway and don’t care about whatever boring medical stuff is going on? We can move around freely, ask innocent questions, maybe even charm our way into restricted areas.”
“And if we get caught?”
“We’re just honeymooners who got lost looking for the spa.”
For the first time all evening, she laughed, her whole face lighting up. “A fake marriage. After everything we’ve been through, that’s your master plan?”
“You have a better idea?”
“No. It’s brilliant in its simplicity.” She grinned at him across the table. “Though I should warn you—I’ll make a terrible wife.”
“Good thing this is pretend.”
Silence as the words hung between them, thick, full.
The waiter picked right then to bring dessert—mango sticky rice arranged on a white plate, golden mango slices fanned beside purple-tinted rice, drizzled with coconut cream.
“Yes,” she said finally as she picked up her fork. “Good thing.”
CATANIA, SICILY, 2014
Alan lost himself in the scent of garlic and marinara sauce that drifted from the kitchen as he came into thecasetta. Evening light slanted through the open windows—painting everything a warm amber. Red-checkered tablecloths dotted the small dining room.
He took his corner table. Same spot every night for over a year now.
Francesca approached with her signature smile. The one that crinkled her dark eyes and made her look younger than her twenty-eight years. He used to feel ancient next to her, but five years older didn’t seem so much anymore.
Not since life had simplified.
Not since he’d started over, begun to see something new for himself.
Francesca carried steaminglinguine alle vongolein one hand, a bottle of local Nero d’Avola in the other.
“Ecco,Alfonzo.” She set the plate down in front of him. “Mama says you’re too skinny. She added extra clams tonight.”
Yes, Alfonzo.The name settled around him like a comfortable coat—months of careful hiding wrapped up in those three syllables.
“Your mama thinks everyone’s too skinny,” he said as she poured the wine into his glass. “Tell her I appreciate the maternal tyranny.”
Francesca laughed. Wind chimes in a Mediterranean breeze. “Tyranny? You wound her heart.” She darted a look around thecasetta.No demanding patrons, so she slid into the chair across from him, stole a piece of bread from his basket. “She just wants to feed you properly. Sicilian mothers have one setting—suffocate with love.”
“I’m not complaining.”