Page 22 of Italian Weddings

S HE REMEMBERED THE NEARBY town of Senzafine from the first time she’d visited.

It was the sort of Italian town that was so picturesque it could almost have been a film set, from the whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, tiny wrought iron balconies with colourful washing strung from one side of the winding street to the other, elderly Italians sitting around uneven tables, playing cards and drinking liquor.

The air was heavy with the smell of flowers and garlic, and even now, with a leaden, winter sky as the backdrop, there was a beauty to this place that almost took Willow’s heart away.

Or maybe that had something to do with the man walking beside her, holding her hand despite the fact the rest of the family had stayed behind in the villa, while they came into town in search of lunch supplies.

Even that wasn’t strictly necessary. The villa was obviously well stocked, with a team of staff who ran most of the essential functions.

But there was something so delightful about the idea of exploring the local market and stores that had Willow itching to come into Senzafine for the morning.

When she said as much, over breakfast, Portia had insisted she should, and naturally everyone presumed Francesco would accompany her.

Despite the fact they’d made love well into the early hours of the morning, she hadn’t expected him to be like this.

To put his hand on her knee as they drove, to come around and open her door once they parked, to lace their fingers together as they strode through the streets, side by side, so close they were brushing up against one another.

She hadn’t expected it, but she liked it more than she could say. She liked it a whole lot.

She’d been in the town before, and always found it charming, but there was something about exploring it with Francesco that layered a sort of magic over it, so she found herself reluctant to head back to the villa, even when they’d walked down every side street and identified the ingredients they wanted to pick up.

“There’s no rush,” Francesco said, as they passed a quintessentially Italian wine bar, with seats and tables set up on the footpath. “Let’s stop here a while.”

Her heart leaped into her throat, forgetting, temporarily, that it was supposed to be safeguarding Willow from stupid mistakes and hopes. She nodded, rather than trusting her voice to speak.

They took a seat on the pavement and a waiter immediately descended upon them, fluttering menus and offering charm.

He spoke in rapid fire Italian, which Francesco returned, though paused to translate for Willow, so she was included in the conversation.

Beyond some basic tourist phrases, she was out of her depth.

Francesco ordered a local prosecco and some entrees to share, and then, they were left alone, to watch people strolling past, and observe all the local colour of the town.

“Do you come here often?” Willow asked, once their prosecco was brought and poured by the waiter.

“At this bar?”

“In town, I meant.”

“A fair bit, yes.”

“In the bar?”

He grinned. “The town. There was another bar we went to more than is healthy, when we were teenagers. Think cheap drinks, and an abundance of tourists, looking for a holiday fling with a local guy.”

She smiled at that. Francesco had been born confident, able to charm anyone and everything. She could imagine how easy it would have been for him to make those connections.

“Our school was on the outskirts of town—that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction from which they’d come. “So, we passed through here every day. As boys, we’d stop for gelati, then, as we got older, coffee or a beer.”

She tilted her head to the side, remembering this version of Francesco. “You always seemed so care-free. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that your own upbringing was far from a walk in the park.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his pose relaxed, even when there was a hint of tension in the way he held his mouth.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

Willow sighed softly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

He turned to face her. “Do you?”

She bit into her lower lip. “After your father died, you opened up to me about it.”

Surprise was obvious on his features.

“Did I?”

“You’d been drinking; I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

“I remember you being there for me. I remember being glad for that. And a little surprised.”

Warmth radiated through her like a wave. She cleared her throat, not letting his ego-stroking. “Why would you have been surprised?”

“We weren’t that close.”

Warmth gave way to something else. Crumbling earth beneath her feet.

She looked away sharply and felt only the little girl she sought to protect, always.

Alone and afraid, aware that she was being tolerated.

That she wanted so much more from the people in her life than they wanted or needed from her.

She couldn’t respond. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that they had a closeness that defied explanation.

A sort of connection that didn’t hinge on time spent together or stories shared, but that was ridiculous.

Their closeness, as he would see it, came after his father’s death, when Willow had shown herself to be loyal and discreet.

Two qualities she knew Francesco valued, almost above any others.

“I always wondered why you put your life on hold to get me through that, if I’m honest.”

She blinked quickly, the question making her mouth dry out. “You were hurting.”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s not it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t act like I was hurting. I acted—like I was fine.”

“But you weren’t fine.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I recognized what you were feeling. You acted fine, but I saw you as stoic. You had the weight of the world on your shoulders. You were holding it together, but I just knew that behind closed doors, it would crumble apart.”

“How did you know?” he pushed. “How did you see that, and no one else did?”

She appreciated that at least he hadn’t gone all macho and tried to deny it. After all, his father had died. That had to bring with it a world of grief.

“I guess I just recognized the feeling.”

“Because you feel it?”

If he was going to be honest, then she would be, too. “Yes.”

“Losing your mother must have been tough.”

She sipped her prosecco. It was dry and super bubbly, so she savoured the feeling as it travelled through her. “I was very young,” she admitted. “I don’t remember her that well. Just little bits and pieces.”

“Yet you feel it, still.”

Willow expelled a soft breath. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured.

“Try me.”

When she looked at him, and their eyes met, she felt a rush of emotions that she couldn’t explain. He was looking at her as though understanding how she felt was the most important thing in his life.

“I just…” she tried to find the words, but a streak of compunction held her silent. A feeling that she was being disloyal, when Meredith had probably done her best, made Willow reluctant to say what she truly felt.

“Tell me,” he said, gentle but insistent, and beneath the table, his hand curved over her knee. Sparks fizzed through her entire central nervous system.

“I guess, we have this idea in our minds of what a mum is meant to be like,” she said. “From movies, books, TV. It’s something I’ve always…dreamed of. That closeness.”

“And you wanted it from Meredith?”

“I don’t know if I ever consciously wanted it,” she said, then shook her head, because that wasn’t accurate. “I mean, I wanted her to love me, for us to be close. Genuinely close, like a mother and daughter. Not to replace my mum, but just to…”

“Love you like her own daughter.”

Willow’s throat felt like it was going to close over. She sipped her drink quickly.

“But she didn’t.”

“No.” Willow felt a wave of feeling roll through her – an acknowledgement of failing. Like there was probably something she could have, and should have, done to make this better. To make Meredith love her.

“Then seeing her with the twins must have been hard for you.”

Her stomach fluttered. He had an incredible ability to tap into exactly what she was thinking, to understand it. She lifted her shoulders. “I love my sisters.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.” Her eyes held his and something surged inside of her.

“Is she the kind of mother to them that you wished she’d been to you?”

Willow sipped her drink, thinking that through, even when she knew the answer right away. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Well, she’s still Meredith,” she pointed out, with a soft laugh. “I don’t know if that woman’s capable of happy, easy going, given-without-expectation love. But yes. With the twins, she was always…more. More engaged, more…proud. More of a mother.”

His eyes had a shining intensity when they latched to hers. “You must know that’s not your fault.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nothing to do with you.”

“I know that, too. But when you’re just a little girl—or a teenage girl?—,”

“Or a woman of twenty-five,” he said, gruffly, interrupting.

She nodded slowly.

“It’s hard,” he finished.

“Very.” She looked down at her lap, her thoughts clogged by the strength of her feelings.

“I guess family is something a lot of people take for granted, but not me. I mean, I love my dad, and Meredith, and the twins, but…I don’t really belong with them. To them. I don’t belong anywhere.”

She stared at him for the strangest whisper of time, just a beat of her heart, nothing more, she felt like maybe he would contradict that.

Maybe he would say that she belonged right here, in Italy, with him.

That maybe he’d promise her the one thing she’d ever really craved, and never known she could reach for until recently: love.