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?Very good.” Renzo clasped his hands together and bowed. “Dinner will be served at precisely eight o’clock.”
“And my mother, Renzo? Will she be in attendance this evening?” Gavin released his hold on her, smoothed his hand down the middle of her back in a reassuring gesture, which she found oddly comforting.
She could not depend on this man for comfort, not like this.
“Ah.” Renzo shook his head, his mouth turning grim. “I’m afraid she takes every meal in her suite.”
Disappointment crashed through her. Mama wasn’t going to make this easy. “Does she know we’re here? That I’m here?”
Renzo nodded. “I told signora and she seemed to understand. Sometimes it is as if she’s left us, you know? She’s not…all here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger.
Sadness filled Stasia. Her mother wasn’t in a well state of being. It wasn’t right, wallowing in her loss, allowing it to consume her life. Claudia Renaldi needed to find a purpose again. Needed to realize she had a family depending on her to be strong and pull through. A young grandson who surely missed his grandmother, her sons and their wives, her only daughter...
Stasia frowned. It had been too long since she’d seen her only nephew, Matteo’s son, Matty. The first grandchild, the prodigal grandson and heir, he was precious, the sweet, bright light in her mother’s life.
She knew for a fact her mother hadn’t seen Matteo or his family since their father’s death either. Despite her earlier worry that she was all alone, her brothers did their best to stay in contact with her and keep her informed on what was happening in Italy. Her eldest brother called or emailed Stasia at least once a week, as did Rafe and Vincenzo, though Matteo stayed in touch more frequently. Her big brother had no idea how much she appreciated his efforts. He was the one connection to her old world she could depend on.
“Thank you, Renzo,” she finally said with a faint smile. She couldn’t remember life at the villa without the man. “We shall be in the dining room at precisely seven-fifty-five, ready and waiting.”
The old man chuckled. “Very good.” Turning on his heel, he left, closing the door behind him. Leaving the two of them alone in a gorgeously romantic room.
Nerves made her palms clammy, and she clutched her hands together, fighting the foolish sensation.
“Well, I’m sure you’d like a few hours to rest, shower, whatever you need to do before dinner.” She stepped away from him, needing some distance.
“Yeah, I feel kind of grimy. And I should probably change, try not to look so lawyer-like.” He flashed her a quick smile. It sent a zing to all her feminine parts, leaving her uncomfortably warm.
“Very well.” She sounded too formal and she wanted to roll her eyes. The man made her uncomfortable. “I’ll see you later at the main house?”
“Sure. I can just…walk in, right?”
“Of course. Don’t bother knocking. We’re the only ones in residence, besides my mother.” She frowned. If she was brave enough, she’d go straight into the house and knock on her mother’s door. Demand to be let in so they could hash this out. It was ridiculous, how secretive Mama was being.
Stasia deserved to know answers. But she wasn’t quite brave enough to ask for them.
Yet.
“We’ll work through this, Stasia,” Gavin said, his voice low and full of sympathy. She wondered if he could read her mind. “Don’t worry.”
She appreciated the words, but they were so easy for him to say. He had nothing to lose, nothing at risk. Though she’d already lost everything, maybe someday she could gain some of it back. At least a semblance of peace.
Hopefully.
Chapter Six
Dinner was an elaborate meal for only two people, Gavin mused. At least three different kinds of pasta, a giant bowl of fresh green salad dotted with vibrant red tomatoes from the garden and a basket of warm crusty bread, it was enough to feed a family of ten. Fortunately Gavin was ravenous enough for at least three men, and he ate with an intensity that shocked him.
Probably shocked Stasia as well, not that he could worry about it. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten all day…which, he realized, he hadn’t.
“Renzo’s wife is the cook,” Stasia said as he’d served himself a second plateful. “Elena is very good, no?”
Her Italian accent became more pronounced the longer she was here. “Very good,” he said after he swallowed. His belly might be protesting, but he wasn’t ready to stop.
She smiled, dropped her gaze to her still full plate, dragging her fork back and forth through the cream sauce. “And the shrimp is fresh from the ocean. Renzo picked them up from the market just this morning.”
“They’re delicious.” Plump and full of flavor, they were the best damn shrimp he’d ever tasted, and he’d eaten at plenty of fine restaurants in Manhattan.
