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“Livvie,” he corrected, voice hoarse. “Bianca was non-plussed but for Livvie, it was the beginning and end of her world. She loved it like you wouldn’t believe. So now, I hate it,” he said gripping his cup tighter. “I tried to get out of coming here, you know. Each year, I do my best, but my mother insists, and you’ve seen what she’s like.”
“I think she probably understands how important it is for you to be with the people who love you most in the world, especially at Christmas,” Portia said, moving closer, drinking her coffee and holding Dante’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I wish there was something I could say or do to make it better…”
“Would you come for a walk with me?” He asked. “I want to show you something.”
And though Portia was conscious of the time, and their impending trip back to the UK, she wouldn’t, couldn’t, say no to Dante in that moment. So she nodded, and holding their coffees, they rugged up in coats from the bootroom before stepping outdoors. A few hundred meters away, there was a tree house.
“We built it for her,” Dante said. “Dad, Raf and I did, one summer. She was four and loved climbing trees and pretending to be a princess. We gave her the treehouse for her birthday. She couldn’t believe it.” He stood at the bottom, looking up at it.
Portia’s heart pulled.
They stayed out there, drinking coffee, and with Dante opening up to her more than he ever had, in a form of catharsis she just knew he needed, and Portia was glad she was there. Glad she was not just his assistant and friend, but also his family now.
Famiglia é tutto.
* * *
“I’m not goingto lie to you,” Stephanie Mason’s mouth was a disapproving line. “I’m surprised.”
“You’re annoyed,” Portia clarified, hands shaking a little when she reached for the spoon, stirring the gravy as she’d done time and time again at Christmas.
“No, darling, no,” Stephanie responded quickly, surprising Portia with her fervour, then lowering her voice. “Anyone can see how perfect you are for each other, how much he loves you. I’m not annoyed. Surprised, yes, because I’ve spent a long time thinking you and Jack would…”
“I know,” Portia said, propping her hip against the bench. “I thought that too. But we were never right. It took falling in love with Marco to understand that. What Jack and I had…it wasn’t love. Not like it should be when you’re planning to marry.”
“No,” Stephanie’s frown deepened. “I think you might be right about that.”
“We deserved better, both of us. I hope Jack finds someone too, mum. I hope he falls in love, like I have. He just wasn’t for me, and I wasn’t for him. It never would have worked for us.”
Stephanie put an arm around Portia’s shoulders. “Tell me about Marco.”
It was a subject on which Portia could have talked for hours, so she filled the rest of the time they had, raving about his brain and dedication to silent philanthropy, his role in the company, his family—, “Oh, you’ll love them, mum, and they’ve already said how much they can’t wait to meet you and dad. They’re loud and kind of crazy but so fun and loving—,”
“Very crazy,” Marco agreed, grinning as he walked into the kitchen, interrupting, but in a way that was entirely welcome, especially when he put his arms around Portia’s waist and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Will you get married in Italy or here?” Stephanie asked. “Sorry if it’s too early to know—,”
Marco and Portia’s eyes met and they said, in unison, “Italy.”
It seemed appropriate, and neither could say why, only they knew that Marco’s villa was special and important to them both, that there could be nothing better nor more right than pledging to love one another for all eternity there, amongst the grapevines.
“Oh, wonderful,” Stephanie’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “How romantic.”
“We’ll have to get our passports done, eh, love?” Portia’s father Gary strolled into the kitchen, hands stuffed into the pockets of his beige pants.
Portia’s heart swelled with a mix of vulnerable affection and adoration for her parents and the fact they’d never been overseas. Suddenly, she didn’t want them to stop with Italy.
“You should,” she agreed quickly. “And use Italy as a springboard for the trip you’ve always talked about taking. Go to Paris and Berlin and Madrid, all the places you’ve dreamed of.”
“My father was an artist,” Stephanie explained. “We have a list of the galleries that house his most famous pieces. We’ve always said that one day, we’d do a pilgrimage to see his work.”
“Oh, you should,” Portia said, enthusiastically. “Don’t keep putting it off. Once you’re in Italy, you’re halfway there. More than.”
“She’s right, love,” Gary agreed. “No time like the present, eh?”
They atethe classic Mason family Christmas lunch—Turkey, roast vegetables, greens, cranberry sauce, gravy and stuffing—and afterwards, retired to the living room for the King’s address and cups of coffee.
While they sat there, Marco disappeared. Portia didn’t question it. She wondered if he might even have gone to take a nap, in a turkey coma, after so much food.
