hadn’t she protected herself? She deserved someone with a clean past. A Boy Scout, a student-council president, someone who’d spent spring break building houses for the poor instead of getting wasted.
He took a final drag and flicked the butt onto the loggia. Acid burned in the pit of his stomach. Any villain worth his stripes would take advantage of the situation. Enjoy what he could get and walk away without a qualm. Villains were easy to figure out. But what would the hero do?
The hero would walk away before the heroine could get hurt anymore. The hero would make the break as clean as he could and do it in a way that would leave the heroine with a sense of relief that she’d escaped disaster so easily.
“I heard music.”
He whipped around and saw Steffie padding across the marble floor toward him. This was her last night here. With the kids gone, he’d finally have some peace and quiet, except he’d already told them they could come back every day to swim.
She wore a faded yellow nightgown printed with some kind of cartoon character he supposed he should be able to identify but couldn’t. Her dark, pixie cut was sticking up at the cowlick, and she had a crease on her cheek. As she came to his side, he knew he’d have to rely on all the acting technique he’d ever learned to play Street, because no matter how much research he did, he’d never be able to understand how anyone could hurt a kid. “What are you doing up?”
She pulled her nightdress to her thighs, and he saw a thin scratch on her calf. “Brit’ny kicked me while she was sleeping and cut my leg with her toenail.”
He needed a drink. He didn’t want pixie-haired little girls coming to him for comfort in the middle of the night. During the day it was different. He could detach and observe. But not at night, when he already felt a thousand years old. “You’ll live. Go back to bed.”
“You’re crabby.”
“Go see your mom and dad.”
Her dark brows slammed together. “They
He had to smile. “Yeah, well, life’s tough.”
“What if I saw a spider?” she said indignantly. “Who’d kill it?”
“You would, pal.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“You know what I used to do when I was a kid and saw a spider?”
“Stomp on it hard.”
“No. I’d scoop it up and take it outside.”
Her eyes grew round and horrified. “Why’d you do
“I like spiders. I had a pet tarantula once.” It had died, of course, because he’d stopped taking care of it, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Most spiders are pretty nice bugs.”
“You’re weird.” She squatted down to pick at some chipped blue glitter nail polish on her big toe. Her vulnerability worried him. Just like Isabel, she needed to toughen up.
“Time to cut the crap, Stef. That spider stuff is old news. You’re smart, and you’re strong enough to handle it without running to Mommy and Daddy in the middle of the night like a big baby.”
She gave him the haughty look she’d learned from her mother. “Dr. Isabel says we need to talk about our feelings.”
“Yeah, well, we all know how you feel about spiders, and we’re tired of hearing it. You’re doing some kind of emotional transfer thing anyway.”
“That’s what she said. Because I was worried about my mom and dad.”
“You sure don’t need to worry about them now.”
“You don’t think I should be scared of spiders anymore?” She looked both accusatory and skeptical, but he also thought he detected a hint of hope.
“You don’t have to like them, but stop making them so important. It’s better to face what’s scaring you than to keep running from it.”
She scratched her hip. “Did you know we get to go to school here?”
“I heard.” Jeremy had apparently led his sisters in a rebellion against Tracy’s homeschooling attempts, which had ended up with Harry writing a check to the local officials so the kids could attend the school in Casalleone until they left at the end of November. When Harry had asked his opinion, Ren had pointed out that they already spoke enough Italian for minimal exchanges, and he thought it would be a good experience for them.
“Are you going to marry Dr. Isabel?”
“No!”
“Why not? You like her.”
“Because Dr. Isabel is too nice for me, that’s why.”
“I think you’re nice.”
“That’s because you’re a pushover.”
She yawned and slipped her hand in his. “Tuck me back in bed now, okay?”
He gazed down at the top of her head, then pulled her to his side for a quick squeeze. “Okay, but only because I’m bored.”
They all gathered in front of the villa the next morning to see the Briggses off, even though they weren’t going far. Ren slipped Jeremy a couple of CDs he knew the kid liked, accepted a sticky kiss from Connor, admired Brittany’s final cartwheel, and gave Steffie a last-minute pep talk about not being a wimp. Isabel stayed busy, talking to everyone but him. He wasn’t surprised she was still pissed. In her world the fact that he hadn’t mentioned the arrival of the script counted as a major betrayal.
As the car disappeared down the lane, she waved at Anna, then turned to head back to the farmhouse. Marta was moving in with Tracy to help take care of the kids, and Isabel would be alone there. As he watched her walk toward the path, the roll he’d eaten for breakfast settled into a hard lump in his stomach. He might as well get this over with. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”
She turned. He took in the black sweater she’d knotted around her waist, the sleeves neatly crossed. Everything about her was tidy, except her feelings for him. Hadn’t she figured out yet that she’d gotten caught up in the lure of the forbidden? And she wasn’t the only one.
He picked up the script he’d left between the rails of the balustrade, carried it over to her, and held it out. “Take it.”
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at it.
“Go on. Read it.”
She didn’t get sarcastic as he would have. Instead, she nodded and tucked it under her arm.
As he watched her walk away, he reminded himself he was doing the right thing. But, God, he’d miss having her in his life. He’d miss everything about their time together… except the nagging certainty that he’d somehow corrupt her.
He spent the rest of the morning in the vineyard so he could avoid smoking his way through the nearest pack of cigarettes. As he listened to Massimo, he tried not to think about which scene Isabel might be reading at that moment or how she’d be reacting to it. Instead, he watched the old man glance at the sky and ruminate on all the disasters that could still transpire before the next day’s
When he could no longer handle Massimo’s gloom, he headed back to the villa, but it felt depressingly empty without the kids running around. He’d just decided to go for a swim when Giulia showed up looking for Isabel.
“She’s at the farmhouse,” he told her.
“Would you give this to her? She wanted me to call Paolo’s granddaughter again and ask about the gifts he sent. I talked to Josie last night, and this is everything she remembered.”
Ren took the piece of paper she held out and studied the list. It was made up of practical items, things for the house and garden: clay pots, a set of fireplace tools, a bedroom lamp, a key rack, bags of dried porcini, wine, olive oil. He tapped the paper with his finger. “This lamp… maybe the base…”
“Alabaster-and too small. I asked.”
