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He’s joking, but I answer seriously, “Maybe.”
That makes him laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“Actually, I have thought about it. Maybe not actually taking vows as I’m not Christian as such, but I have thought about dedicating my life to the commune and the retreat and to helping others. I’m sorry, that sounds very pretentious. But I know it’s what my father wouldhave wanted. And I just don’t think marriage and children are on the cards for me.”
His smile fades, and he mutters, “Maybe Dad was right.”
“About what?”
He shakes his head. Then he says, “Your life is your own, to do with what you will. I know you believe in holistic healing and I’m sure you think that concentrating on your mental and emotional side will be fulfilling. But we’re physical creatures too. I’ve had a taste of your passion, Scarlett. And I can tell you now that it will be an absolute crime if you don’t explore that with someone. Preferably me.”
Chapter Twelve
Orson
The Uber pulls up outside the restaurant, and I say, “Come on. I think you need a glass of wine.”
She’s been silent for a minute or two, and she doesn’t say anything as we get out and head into the restaurant.
I like this place. The inside of the restaurant is neat and pleasant, but I like the garden out the back. It’s surrounded by bush, kinda rustic, with unpainted floorboards, plain wooden tables, and wooden chairs with scarlet cloth back panels and scarlet umbrellas. Nearly all the tables are filled with guests, most of whom are in casual clothing, and some are even in shorts and tees, as I told her they would be.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good,” she says, looking relieved.
Secretly pleased, I smile at the owner as he spots me, and he comes over. He’s in his late fifties, a suave Italian guy with gray hair I’d kill for at that age. “Mr. Cavendish! Good to see you.”
“Hello, Marco. Thanks for fitting me in at such short notice.”
“There is always a table for you, Mr. Cavendish. Best table in the house. Come this way.”
We follow him across the garden. The fence around it is made from tiny Roman columns, which sounds naff but lends the place an elegant feel. He takes us to a table in the corner which is partly sheltered from the rest of the diners by a small fountain decorated with colorful mosaic pieces.
“Thank you,” I say, and hold out Scarlett’s chair for her. She lowers herself into it, and I tuck it in for her, then go around the other side and sit in mine.
“Bottled water, Mr. Cavendish?” Marco says as he lights the candle on the table between us.
“Please. Sparkling, Scarlett, or still?”
She just blinks at me.
I look back at Marco, who smiles. “I will bring you both,” he says. “And some flatbread and olive oil while you look at the menu.”
“Thank you.”
He gives me the wine menu, then goes off to get our water.
“What kind of wine do you like?” I ask her.
She just stares at me.
“Scarlett?” I frown. “You look as if someone’s switched you off.”
She tears her gaze from me and looks around the restaurant. “That waiter knew you.”
“Marco? He’s not a waiter; he’s the owner.”