Come Away With Me (The Andrades) (26 page)

So, perhaps
he was more like his father than he knew.

Which
was not good news.

Julia glanced over her shoulder expecting to see Gio smiling
, but instead she caught him fighting back whatever inner demon he denied having. “What are you thinking about, Gio?”

“
Nothing,” he said dismissively.

Julia chewed her bottom lip. “
I thought you were enjoying this as much as I am.”

He stood behind her, pushed the hair off the back of her neck
, and kissed her gently. “I was enjoying you.”

“So, you’ve been humoring me all day?”

He turned her in his arms. “Let’s not argue. It doesn’t matter.”

His words were a cold slap
of reality. “It matters to me. I want to know how you really feel.”

“Do
you?” He looked down at the structure they stood on and shook his head in disgust. “Take a good look at what we’re standing on. Wood over hideous steel. A façade to keep the tourists happy. You want the truth? It’s ugly. Fake.”

Julia
froze in his arms. “Like our day here?” she asked softly.

He didn’t deny it.

“Like us?” Julia searched his face for some hint of how he felt. “You asked me to leave it all behind and I tried to. I tried to tell myself it’s okay that you don’t want to tell me what happened on the island—that you don’t want to tell me anything. These last few weeks have been amazing, but you shut me out of everything that’s important. What are we doing together, Gio? Are we working towards something, or am I just this summer’s entertainment?”

Still he held his silence.

“Say something.” She pushed him away with both hands, then stood in front of him, chest heaving with emotion. “I keep waiting for you to open up to me. I keep thinking that if I give you more time you’ll let me in. But you’re not going to, are you?”

“What do you want me to say, Julia?”
The coldness of his tone tore into her.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Just the truth. Do you love me?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap.

Well, there is my answer.
“I can’t do this. I can’t stay with you knowing that I’m the only one who is going to mourn this when it ends. I’m sorry, Gio. This is my fault. You’re exactly the man you said you were. We need to end this before you break my heart.” She took a step backward, away from him.

“It was a mistake to bring you to the wedding
. . . and to Venice. We’ll fly back to the States tonight. Once we’re back in New York this will all blow over.”

“I am flying home, but not with you. It wasn’t the wedding or Venice. It’s you. You don’t get it
, and I can’t explain it better than I have. Good-bye, Gio.”

“You’re going to leave over this?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because in the end you can’t give me the one thing I want from you.” She stepped away from him. “I’ll take a taxi boat back to the airport. Please send my things back to me in New York.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“Don’t, Gio. Don’t make this difficult. I need to go home.”

“
We’ll fly back together.”

She shook her head.
She wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. He wanted to love her. She could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t ready to love anyone. That was what he’d tried to tell her, but she hadn’t wanted to hear it. “No. There was a reason you came to Italy. I don’t know what you’re looking for, Gio, but find it. Find those answers. Maybe then you’ll understand what I’m asking you for. And if that happens, come find me.”

“Julia—”

Julia turned and walked quickly away. She didn’t want to give him a chance to change her mind. She didn’t want something that looked good on the surface.

She wanted it all.

With Julia’s words echoing in his head, Gio stood in the small courtyard behind his father’s old palazzo. It looked as if every part of it was in need of repair. He wondered if it had looked the same nine years earlier when a younger him had stood in that same spot the day he’d come to collect his father’s remains.

He didn’t remember many details from that day, just the anger and hurt that had filled him. He wouldn’t have described his parents’ marriage as warm, but he’d been unprepared for the reality of how little h
is father had respected it.

While waiting for the paperwork to be completed, his father’s mistress had asked to speak to him. He remembered being enraged by the audacity of her request. He didn’t want to speak to her. He didn’t want her to exist at all.

His mother had predicted that Leora would try to pull him aside. She’d warned Gio that such a woman would say anything to milk them for more money than she’d already taken from his father. “Don’t think she’s above blackmail, George,” his mother had said. “She may threaten to tell her story. You have to keep this out of the papers. The company will suffer enough from your father’s passing. A scandal could do real damage.” Whether her tears were born from anger or loss, Gio didn’t know, but that had been the only time he’d ever seen his mother cry. “I couldn’t handle the shame on top of losing your father. Make it go away, George. Please. Make sure no one ever knows about her.”

And so he’d refused to listen to anything Leora had tried to tell him that day. Instead
, he’d threatened to bring the full force of his connections down upon her if she ever spoke of her relationship with his father. She was worried about losing the house, even though his father had promised to leave it to her. He’d assured her that no one was interested in it unless they heard her name again. If they did, he would utilize every lawyer on their payroll to break the will. She would be left with nothing. Unless she kept her silence.

He’d always believed he’d done the right thing. Until now.

He hadn’t told his brothers because he’d wanted to protect them from the truth. He’d heard part of a row once between Nick and their mother that sounded as if Nick knew something. Or suspected. Nick had been confronting their mother about her role in it, which Gio had never understood. No woman deserved the humiliation of discovering her husband had another woman on the side.

Whatever their mother’s response had been, Nick had been furious afterward. Gio had sworn to his mother that he would never tell anyone about Leora, so even when pressed for answers by Nick, he’d kept the truth to himself.

If I did the right thing, why does it all feel so wrong?

What’s real and what’s a lie?

I don’t know anymore.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and Gio was faced, for the second time, with his father’s mistress. This time, however, he saw her as a person and not the embodiment of his father’s betrayal. She was modestly dressed in a blue cotton blouse and matching skirt. Her short hair curled and framed a face that
, had he not spent so many years despising, he would have said had aged well. She had a classic, simple beauty, without the artificial enhancements he was used to seeing in women her age.

Was it that beauty that had drawn his father to her? Brought him back to her year after year? What was here that had been worth risking everything—marriage, children, fortune?

He was so lost in the past he didn’t realize she was speaking to him. “Gio? Is that you?”

He froze.

She beckoned him to come closer. “It is you. Come. Come inside.”

At any other time in his life, Gio would have said something cutting and left. But Julia was right. He’d come to Italy for answers
, and he wouldn’t find them if he walked away. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be very pleased to see me.”

She opened the door wider. “I’ve waited a long time for you to return.”

He walked up the palazzo’s stone stairs and followed her through the back door of the house and into a salon. The experience was like stepping back into time. From the heavy tapestries on the floor to the ornate wooden ceilings, it was obvious that efforts had been made to retain the charm of the seventeenth-century palace. The furniture was all made from dark wood—simple pieces with worn cloth cushions. But the house was immaculately clean, with no evidence of house staff.

Gio noticed pictures of him and his brothers scattered around the home. On the walls, on the mantel. Everywhere people normally put photos of their family. Nearly ten years after his father’s death. Gio couldn’t understand it. He walked around the room and studied the photos. His father was in many of them, laughing with his boys.

In one photo, the one that stopped Gio in his tracks, his father was holding a baby. Gio looked over his shoulder at Leora.

She nodded
and said softly, “That’s my daughter, Gigi.”

“How old is she now?” Gio asked.

“Twenty and away at college. I borrowed monies against this house, but she’s worth it.”

Gio found another photo of his father and the girl, when she was about ten, holding his father’s hand and smiling up at him. “Was she? Is she?” He wasn’t sure how to ask.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Yes, she’s your half
sister. She has your father’s eyes. As do you.”

“Does she know?”

“That you’re related? Yes. She’s always known.”

Gio took one of the photos of her off the wall and held it out in question. “And you never told anyone?” So many emotions were rushing through him he wasn’t sure how he felt.

Leora asked, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No,” Gio said and a sick feeling came over him. “She wasn’t a secret, was she?”

Leora smoothed her hands down her plain dress. “Your mother had every right to hate me and any child we made. I understood that. Your father loved Patrice, so I did also. I kept my silence out of respect for her.”

Gio laid the photo down on the mantel. “Living with another woman’s husband doesn’t fit any definition of love or respect I’m aware of.”

Leora picked up the photo he’d put down and placed it back where it belonged. “Your mother has always been a complicated woman. She didn’t love your father. She tried to, but she couldn’t fool herself or him.”

Gio turned his back to Leora and looked out the window, seeing but not seeing the boats passing on the Grand Canal
below. “Isn’t that what all married men tell the women they screw on the side? That their wives don’t love them?”

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But in this case, it was true. I have nothing to prove to you, Gio. No reason to lie to you. Your mother is a very unhappy woman. She has been for a long time. Happiness is a choice, you know. Like love. You either open yourself
up to it or you don’t. Your mother could never let the past go long enough to see what all that anger was costing her. She let a man who loved her slip away to Venice. A man who would have gone back to her if she’d ever let him into her heart.” The words were too similar to those Julia had used for him not to be shaken by them.

He turned back to face her, unable to conceal the bitterness in his voice. “My father made a second family here because he loved my mother
so much? Pardon me if I find your take on the scenario tainted by your desire to make it palatable.”

Leora looked at him sadly. “Believe what you want, but Gio loved your mother
, and he loved you and your brothers.”

“Why do you call him Gio? He went by George.”

With memories luring her away for a moment, Leora said, “Not when he was here in Italy. In the States, he was who he thought your mother needed him to be. He may have even been happy in that American lifestyle for a while. But in his heart he was always Gio.” She smiled at him warmly. “Here he laughed louder, worried less about what others thought of him, and enjoyed the simple pleasures—like being a father.”

“Father to a bastard child.”

Leora shrugged. “Call Gigi what you want, but it won’t change what we had. Your father loved us. Just as he loved you.”

When Gio said nothing, Leora walked over to a shelf and took down a leather
-bound book. “Do you think your father loved you less because he had us?” She handed him the large book. “He kept a scrapbook of you and your brothers. He would sit with Gigi and tell her stories about all of you. He promised one day he would introduce her to you and she would have a large family, as he’d always had.”

Gio reluctantly took the book and opened it angrily. His father had filled page after page with the story of his sons
’ childhoods. There were clippings from articles they had been mentioned in, along with notes describing why the event had been important. He closed the book abruptly. “Why didn’t he?”

“Only your father could truly answer that question. Or perhaps your mother.” She studied his face and asked, “Tell me, Gio, why do you choose to use the Italian version of your name? Who are you in your heart?”

“I’m not my father,” Gio said defensively. He thought back to the summer he’d chosen to no longer go by George. It had been during one of his visits to Isola Santos. His cousins had called him by the name and it had felt right. So right that nearly no one called him George anymore.
God, how could I have forgotten? All this time I told myself that I hated them, even as I hung on to the one thing they gave me.