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‘Love you, too, Jessie, big time.’
Ending the call, Jess cursed the decision she’d made all those years ago, and the secret she now had to keep because of it. It had given Salvatore way too much power over her. One day she’d make it right. She had to. At least for Chiara’s sake. Maybe she should send the paperwork off before she left Italy, to get the ball on a roll. At least, then, once she arrived back here, she’d know for sure. And then she could plan her next steps.
Wandering back out to the balcony, she felt the combination of sleep deprivation and worry twist nauseatingly in her stomach. Leaning against the green railings, she looked to the plastered facade of the Santo Spirito church. The Renaissance-era basilica was the perfect example of not judging a book by its cover. So very plain on the outside, so unassuming to the naked eye, but take a step through the arched doorway and the visitor was met with priceless treasures, including a wooden crucifix crafted by none other than Michelangelo when he was only seventeen years old. Florence was a melting pot of history and beauty, that was for sure. With a resigned sigh, Jess looked to her watch. It was time to head to her part-time gig at her family’s trattoria.
Jess shoved the crumpled paperwork into her oversized handbag, just in case she felt driven to post it, along with her favourite pair of low heels, then hopped from one foot to the other as she slipped her bare feet into her memory foam sneakers before closing her apartment door behind her. Having to descend eighty-two steps was one thing, but a twenty-five-minute walk to the renowned Sabatini Trattoria was another – heels weren’t made for the cobblestone streets. The women who tried to walk in them usually ended up with a sprained ankle, or worse. She’d helped her fair share of embarrassed heel-wielding tourists up from the pavement over the years.
Heading downstairs and out the ancient front doors, all around her the air shimmered with heat and lingered with endless possibilities. Florence was a magical city, one that encouraged romance at every corner. And every which way she looked, couples were holding hands, kissing, loving on one another. But she didn’t feel that way. She honestly didn’t know if she’d ever allow herself to feel the butterflies of falling in love ever again. Because it never lasted, and when it didn’t, it hurt way too much. Her fragile heart couldn’t take any more of a thrashing. All the loss she’d endured in her short life was way too much for a whole lifetime.
First, her parents.
And then, Morgan.
Her stomach backflipped at the memory of him.
With each of her hurried footsteps resounding upon the narrow cobblestone street that led past the Pitti Palace and towards the medieval mouth of the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, lined with overpriced jewellers and wide-eyed tourists, she considered the soul-crushing decision she’d made all those years ago. Here, she had been able to hide from it. Now she had to face it, literally. It had been a good idea in theory, finally returning to her hometown after so many years spent avoiding it, but now the wedding was only around the corner, the reality was hitting her mighty hard. She was exhilarated that her brother and best friend had finally found the time to tie the knot, but she was also terrified of going back to Silverton Shores. Home was where the heart lived, apparently. Returning to the place that had once been a respite from the rest of the world was going to be tough, but add in seeing the only man who’d ever given her his whole heart – well, it was going to make it even tougher. Especially with the life-altering possible truth she was keeping from him.
Not one for social media, she wondered what Morgan looked like now. Had he aged well? Had he let himself go? Would she even recognise him after all these years? Would he recognise her? Respecting her wishes, Shanti never spoke of him. Although, more recently, and understandably, she’d had to hear his name several times as he was Roberto’s best man, which meant she’d have to be around him, converse with him and, lord help her, perhaps dance with him on the wedding night. With him at the forefront of her mind, she couldn’t help but think about what might have been, if she’d been in her right mind and chosen differently. A mixture of regret and longing swirled as she desperately tried to get rid of the anxiety gripping her stomach. La dolce vita, the sweet life, that’s what she craved. But no matter which way she turned, no matter how many years she put between herself and the past, that sweetness eluded her. And likely would until she discovered the truth and, if it was what she thought it to be, made things right.
The row of matchbox shops jutting out and over the Arno river drew her towards the beating heart of the Renaissance city. Weaving her way through the hordes of tourists, her freshly washed and blow-dried hair fell freely about her bare shoulders. Having chosen her favourite ankle-length dress, she liked the way the silky material fluttered sensually against her legs. It was a typical Florentine summer evening now that the dark clouds had dissipated, taking the threat of rain with them, although the heat and humidity of the day hadn’t fully subsided. Drawing in a deep breath, she looked to the south, up at the hilltop villas surrounded by towering cypress trees and gnarled olive groves almost as ancient as the stone walls of the buildings surrounding her. Even after nine years of calling Florence home, she was still wowed by the medieval buildings and the grandeur of the Duomo.
As she approached the alleyway that was a short cut to the trattoria, a black Fiat 500 zoomed around the corner, slowed and then pulled to a stop beside her. Her gut tightened, and she steeled herself. The window wound down, and she was greeted with her daughter’s cheerful face, and her ex’s seemingly ingrained scowl.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ Leaning in the window, she met her daughter’s kiss. ‘How was school today?’ She was so glad her baby girl had been attending an international school, giving her an advantage with her English curricula.
‘Oh, you know,’ Chiara huffed as her shoulders lifted. ‘It was a bit boring.’
‘Yes, it can be sometimes, but other times it can be lots of fun, too.’ She crouched down a little further. ‘Salvatore.’ Her tone was clipped.
‘Jessica.’ Salvatore raked his fingers through his impossibly thick, jet-black hair. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have her home by nine-thirty, like the court order states.’ He’d snappily answered what was going to be her next question before she’d even had time to ask it.
Why did he always have to mention the court order in front of Chiara?
Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile. ‘Great, thank you.’ He was almost always late, or worse still, now that he had a new girlfriend, quite often forgot his designated night during the week and every second weekend with Chiara. ‘You have a nice time and I’ll see you at home then, love, okay?’
Chiara beamed her a bright smile. ‘Okay, Mum, I love you.’
‘Love you too, sweetheart, lots and lots.’ She stepped back a little. ‘Bye for now.’
‘Hang on, Jessica.’ Salvatore’s imposing voice pulled her back down to his eye level. ‘Are you really sure you want to go all the way to the ends of the earth for some wedding, and leave Chiara with your grandfather for two whole weeks?’
‘Yes, of course I am, she’ll love her time with her great-nonno.’ She hated how Salvatore played her as the bad guy in front of Chiara. ‘And for the record, it’s not justsome wedding.’
‘I wish I could see Uncle Roberto and Aunty Shanti, too.’ Chiara pouted. ‘Ireallywanted to come with you, Mum.’
‘I know you did, sweetheart.’ Jess’s heart squeezed as tightly as she was gripping the windowsill. Damn Salvatore and his maliciousness. ‘But I haven’t been able to find your passport.’
Chiara’s high ponytail swished, as her freckle-dusted face crinkled. ‘I know that you’ve tried to.’
‘Yes, well, if it were me, I wouldn’t be going,’ Salvatore cruelly added.
Without slinging mud back in Salvatore’s face, Jess didn’t know what to say, and she wasn’t going to bethatkind of parent, one who pushed the other under the bus to save face.
Salvatore blew a weighty sigh. ‘Oh well, Chiara, your mother has made her mind up, and when she does that, trust me, it’s useless trying to change it.’ His steely gaze cold as ice, he offered Jess his practised smile. ‘You have yourself a good night, won’t you?’
Before Jess had a moment to catch her angry breath, he hit the accelerator and was zooming away from her. ‘You piece of crap,’ she muttered beneath her breath while waving Chiara off. ‘One day, you’ll get your comeuppance,’ she grumbled as she strode in the opposite direction.
Minutes later, she stepped through the wood-framed glass doors of her nonno’s life’s work, Sabatini Trattoria, where a family-style atmosphere reigned, and laughter and chatter could always be heard around the communal tables. Here, locals enjoyed home-style specialities to be proud of, and tourists got to try unknown dishes that quite often became their favourites. With many friendships forged here, love stories born, and problems given thoughtful solutions, the walls of the open-beamed, terracotta-floored, wine bottle–filled room would be able to write the juiciest of novels. Every day there was a different menu, depending on what produce was locally available. Her nonno, and now her cousin, were sticklers for supporting local producers and using what was in season. And the open kitchen gave customers a bird’s-eye view into the goings-on of an authentic Italian cucina.
