Grace Takes Off (3 page)

Nico listened, watching me with a shrewd expression. “I am deeply sorry,” he said
finally. “I am but a lonely old man in a broken-down body who lives vicariously through
my friends’ adventures. Please accept my apology.”

“Of course,” I replied. Without wanting to make too big a deal out of another pressing
matter, I ran my hands down my skirt. “May I impose on you, Signor Pezzati?” I made
a gesture toward the house. “Is there a place to freshen up?”

He smiled widely. “Again, I apologize. I was so eager to greet my good friend that
I neglected to have Marco see to your needs.” He waved to Gianfranco and spoke to
him in Italian. The slim man smiled and beckoned me to follow.

When I returned a few minutes later, Nico regarded me with interest. I couldn’t decipher
his expression. But I didn’t have long to wonder. Nico lifted a hand to summon Angelo.
The brooding man was at his boss’s side instantly. Speaking Italian, Nico pointed
to the two of us and issued commands that I didn’t understand. Angelo watched us both
as he listened. The big man asked a question Nico didn’t have an answer for, while
staring at me with a glint of interest. After our host gave an elegant shrug and smile,
Angelo nodded and left.

Nico explained. “I told him to have your luggage taken to a second guest room. Again,
my apologies. When you arrived, my servants acted on an assumption and delivered all
your belongings to a single room.”

That would have been awkward.
“Thank you for your understanding,” I said. “May I trouble you to know what Angelo
asked? I may not speak the language, but he seemed curious about something.”

Nico smiled. “You are an astute observer,” he said. “Angelo wanted to know if you
are married. I told him I didn’t know the answer to that. Are you?”

“What difference could that possibly make?”

“Angelo is not a man who hesitates,” Nico said. “He moves quickly when he sees something
he wants. Your wholesome American beauty has intrigued him, my dear. If you are not
otherwise spoken for”—Nico chuckled—“or even if you are, Angelo would like to get
to know you better.”

“But . . .” I reminded him. “I don’t speak Italian, and Angelo doesn’t speak English.”

“Who needs words when you communicate in the language of love?”

For the first time since we’d arrived in Europe, I wished we were on our way home.

BENNETT MADE EYE CONTACT WITH HIS
friend. “It would be best if Angelo kept his distance.”

Nico nodded. “I will see to it that he does.”

Angelo keeping his distance was as much as I could hope for. At the moment, I was
doing my best to avoid thinking about the big man handling my luggage upstairs.

“He appears to have quite a temper,” Bennett continued. “When we arrived, we obviously
interrupted an argument. He seemed rather agitated with you.”

“Bennett.” Nico’s face creased into a wide smile. “Like you, I was born and raised
in the United States. I raised my family there as well. I understand your concern,
but here in this gorgeous country we are less afraid to share our emotions. Angelo
speaks loudly and with unrestrained gestures, yes, but he is kindhearted and loyal
to me. He will do whatever I ask of him, even if he does not always agree. As will
Gianfranco.”

As though summoned, the slim man stepped forward. Nico waved him back, and I was struck
by the level of his servants’ attentiveness. Back home, Bennett maintained a staff
of personal assistants, but he’d never tolerate this amount of in-your-face responsiveness.
Bennett preferred to do things on his own as much as possible, and I wondered if Nico’s
limited mobility now owed itself to years of dependence on others to complete simple
tasks.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bennett said, but the concern in his expression didn’t fade.
Whatever we’d disrupted had been far more anger-filled than our host was letting on.
Bennett kindly did not push the issue.

“Your trip up to my home was uneventful, I take it?” Nico asked as Marco returned
bearing a tray with a pitcher of wine, fresh glasses, and a plate laden with cheeses
and fruit.

“Thank you very much for picking us up,” Bennett said. Marco poured wine all around
and set out small plates on the low table before us. Surveying his work, he gave a
quick, smiling bow, and returned inside. “This is a beautiful country. Grace and I
have been enjoying ourselves immensely.”

Bennett and I had been in Europe for two weeks and were set to depart for home tomorrow
after spending the night here at Villa Pezzati. The first half of our trip had been
devoted to touring France; the second week, Italy. The absence of responsibility,
coupled with a change of scenery, had done wonders for my soul, but I found myself
eager to be home again.

“My staff is at your service,” Nico said. He grabbed a handful of grapes and sat back
against his chair’s plump cushion. He began tossing grapes into his mouth, one at
a time. “Now, what can you tell me about our friends back home? There are not so many
still living anymore, are there?” The question was rhetorical. He chewed his grapes
thoughtfully, and mused, “You and I are getting old.”

To me, Bennett wasn’t old. Though in his seventies, Bennett kept fit and trim, and
from the time I’d begun working for him at Marshfield Manor I’d been impressed with
his sharp wit, his vigor, and his strength. I admired him, possibly even more than
he realized.

“You remember Bill?” When Nico nodded, Bennett leaned forward to talk about an old
school buddy who had recently relocated to Florida in order to launch a new hotel
chain.

I let my mind wander as the two men caught up. We were surrounded by a vista of gorgeous
green, rolling hills, and a scent that made me realize how hungry I’d gotten. I reached
for a few morsels of cheese, took a sip of wine, and reminded myself to enjoy the
moment. We would be going home soon, and this fabulous vacation—we’d spent more time
playing hooky than working—would be over soon. As much as I missed Bootsie, my little
kitten, and my roommates, Scott and Bruce—who were no doubt spoiling her rotten—this
getaway had provided me precious time to think. I’d contemplated my recent foolishness
in matters of the heart, Jack’s abrupt resignation, and what life in Emberstowne would
be like now that Bennett’s stepdaughter was moving in.

Hillary’s announcement had been the proverbial straw. Rather than allowing me to crack,
however, Bennett had whisked me away from the angst, and although it had been only
two weeks, I felt as though we’d been gone for months. The weight of a recent tragedy
and my role in it had pressed its angry bulk against my slim shoulders, nearly breaking
me. Bennett had claimed he wanted to travel, but we both knew this trip was more for
my well-being than anything else. For the first time in a long time, I’d been unburdened.
I’d had no responsibilities for two whole weeks. We’d left my able assistant, Frances,
in charge and she’d called us only once so far—to assure us that everything was going
well and that she was running a tight ship. Of that I had no doubt.

Tomorrow, however, we’d fly back on the jet Bennett had chartered for this trip. I
couldn’t avoid reality forever, but I could enjoy the respite while it lasted. I took
a deep sip of the dry white wine, and marveled again at the cool breeze that made
this outdoor space a tiny bit of heaven.

“I do not care to speak of him,” Nico said. My ears perked up and I tuned back into
the conversation.

Bennett leaned forward along the arm of his wicker chair. “It’s been how many years,
Nico? He’s your son. I remember when Gerard was just a—”

“Those days are gone. He betrayed the family and he must pay for his sins. He has
not tried to contact me in fourteen years,” Nico added. “I do not even think of him
anymore. He is dead to me. My daughter, Irena, is my only living child now.”

Bennett and I exchanged a glance. In his expression I read the same thought that had
flashed through my brain: The fact that Nico had been specific enough to say “fourteen”
rather than a vague “more than ten” or “almost fifteen” years since Gerard had contacted
him led me to believe that his son’s betrayal maintained a tighter grip on Nico’s
heart than he cared to admit.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bennett said. “I remember him as a boy—”

Nico sliced the air with his hand as tears welled in his eyes. Blinking, he waved
to Gianfranco, who leapt to attention. “More wine.” Nico’s voice was rusty, and no
one needed a refill, but Gianfranco dribbled a little into each glass nonetheless.

“Tell me about Irena,” Bennett said, gently changing the subject. “The last time I
saw her, she was still very young.”

Nico seemed lost in thoughts of his son. “Irena will be here momentarily. Angelo will
fetch her on his way back. She’s eager to meet you both, but wanted to give us old
men a chance to reconnect before she joined us.”

To me, his words were a subtle chastisement, a reminder that I was not part of their
long friendship. I shifted in my seat.

“I would be happy to stroll your beautiful property,” I said, “to allow you to talk
in private.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Angelo’s return. The big man
stepped aside to allow a woman—Irena, no doubt—to hurry over to Nico’s side. She was
curvy and tall with sun-kissed skin and blonde streaks in her dark hair. She leaned
around the edge of his chair, placing her cheek against his weathered one. Though
not beautiful in the traditional sense, a flirty combination of lush lips and sparkling
eyes gave Irena the sort of playful, interesting face that makes men twist for a second
look. She had to be at least forty years old, but with her skinny jeans, wedge sandals,
and model-tousled hair, she appeared closer to my age.

“These must be your American guests,” she said with a luminous smile and the barest
hint of an Italian accent. “Signor Marshfield? It’s been a very long time since I
have seen you.”

“It has,” Bennett said as he and I stood to shake hands with our newcomer. “You were
a very young girl last time we met.”

“With braces on my teeth and pigtails in my hair,” she added, placing a palm against
her eyes in mock shame. “I look at pictures from those years and cringe.” Everything
about the woman was polished, from her nails to her cool, firm handshake. “I am so
pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said to me. To both of us, she added, “Father
has talked about nothing else but your visit here, for weeks.”

She joined us at the low table as we resumed our seats, and in moments, Gianfranco
had poured her a glass of wine and again refreshed all of ours. He and Angelo retired
to chairs that had been set off to the far side of the patio. Both men kept a close
eye on our group.

Irena’s arrival had spared me the discomfort of feeling as though I was infringing
on Bennett and Nico’s private time. She crossed her long legs and patted her father
on the knee as she addressed us. “This patio is my father’s favorite place in the
entire villa. He shares it only with those he truly cares about.”

“We are honored,” Bennett said.

“Father says that you two have known each other since you were boys?” she asked, the
lilt in her tone a clear request for tales about her dad’s youth. “When we were little,
he told stories. . . .” She caught herself, possibly at her inadvertent reference
to her brother. Her cheeks grew pink and she flashed a worried look toward her father,
who apparently didn’t notice her slipup. “I remember begging him always to tell more
about the extraordinary Marshfield. Is that where you live?”

Clearly pleased to be able to share, Bennett nodded. “Marshfield is a magnificent
home,” he said without conceit, “but for a child, it was wondrous. Nico—that is, your
father—and I spent hours there exploring hidden passages and disappearing whenever
we got into trouble.”

I thought about those secret passages and wondered how many more there were that hadn’t
been revealed to me yet.

“Except for stories about his adventures with you, we . . . er, I . . . know so little
about his childhood.”

“Oh bosh,” Nico said. “You know all you need to.”

Irena’s eyes sparkled, and she shifted to face Bennett. “Tell me, Signor Marshfield,
is it true that my father was a scoundrel when he was young?”

“Who told you such a thing?” Nico demanded.

Gripping his fingers, she leaned toward him. “Father, I’m only teasing,” she said
quietly. With an apologetic look to us, she tried again. “I would love to hear all
about my father’s boyhood.”

Unmoved by her explanation, Nico turned his head and stared off into the distance.

Irena let go of his hand, lacing her fingers across her knee. “As you know, I was
born in America and lived much of my life there, but I have taken to this country”—at
this, she opened her arms wide, as though to encompass Italy in its entirety—“with
all my heart.”

“You speak the language, then?” Bennett asked.

“Fluently. I studied in high school in New York, but there’s nothing to compare with
living among native Italians. This country has been very kind to me.” She slid a sideways
glance at Nico, who still seemed miles away. “As it has been for all of us.”

Nico worked his jaw, then made as if ready to stand. At once Gianfranco and Angelo
were at his side. “Signor?” Gianfranco asked.

Nico brushed him away. “I don’t need your assistance to go to the washroom,” he said.
“Not yet, at least.”

The two manservants looked to Irena, who directed them silently. Her request was pointed
and unmistakable:
Keep an eye on him.

Nico took several excruciating moments to unfold himself and get to his feet. Once
there, he looked around in panic until Gianfranco rushed forward with a walker he’d
hidden off to the side. Although his face was in profile, I read a combination of
fear and fury on Nico’s face: embarrassed to be seen needing help to get around, relief
when his fingers finally wrapped around the apparatus’s handle.

Irena watched them go, and the moment the glass door slid shut behind them, she sighed
deeply and turned to us. “My father is a wonderful man, but he suffers. And often,
he forgets to be polite. You are our first visitors in a long time, and I’d hoped
he could stay cheerful at least while you were here.” Her eyes closed, briefly. “I
apologize if he’s been difficult.”

“Not difficult,” Bennett said, “though I can’t help but worry about him. How long
has he had trouble getting around by himself?”

Irena wrinkled her nose. “It has been gradual,” she said. The three of us were alone
on the patio, but she lowered her voice anyway. “He could do more if he allowed himself
to, but ever since Gerard—” She pulled her lips in, shot a wary glance at me, then
continued, speaking primarily to Bennett. “My father doesn’t like us to speak of Gerard,
but he’s my brother and I miss having him around.” She paused, looking hopeful. “You’ve
been my father’s friend for longer than I’ve been alive. . . .”

Bennett breathed deeply, and sat back. “Nico shut me down when I wanted to talk about
Gerard,” he said. “And Grace and I are only here for the day. We return to the United
States tomorrow.”

Irena leaned forward to pat him gently on the knee. “I understand.”

“If I’d known the situation, I could have planned to spend more time with your father.
He may have come around. As it is,” Bennett continued, “our charter leaves in the
morning. If I weren’t required to be at a board meeting the day after . . .” He shot
me a look Irena wouldn’t understand—Bennett had successfully steered a tricky buyout
of another company and this meeting was key to final negotiations. “If it weren’t
for that, I’d consider changing plans. I’m sorry.”