Everything had been perfect up to the day before the wedding. That he knew as if it were yesterday. He smiled wryly. For him it practically was. The only cloud on his otherwise perfect blue-sky horizon had been his grandfather’s obvious disapproval of Charlie.
Their first meeting had not been a success; from the moment she’d walked into the ostentatiously formal restaurant in a floral maxi dress teamed with chunky jewellery, her hair silver, it was clear his grandfather was not going to be her biggest fan. He had been slightly mollified when he’d realised that Charlie’s mother was a diplomat and her father a reasonably well-known political journalist and biographer, but that approval ebbed when Charlie confided how much she disliked embassy parties and networking.
He’d clearly hoped that Charlie was just a passing phase, so when Matteo had announced their decision to marry as quickly as legally possible it had led to the first and only argument between them. An argument which had ended with his grandfather downright refusing to come anywhere near the ceremony.
The memory of that fallout was still so recent to him he could still feel the twist of shame and guilt at disappointing the man who’d raised him, the man who believed in him, the man who had given him the only family he’d ever really known.
Matteo reached out for a cube of sugar and crumbled it slowly into his coffee cup, his mind racing. But that wasn’t true, was it? He had always thought of his grandfather as his only real family, the only person willing to raise him after his parents divorced. But although his mother had been too flighty to take care of him herself, his Italian grandparents had wanted him too, had given him long glorious summers here. And when his mother did finally settle down and remarry, she’d offered him a home. He was the one to refuse, his ties to his grandfather by then too strong.
Besides, he’d secretly gloried in the knowledge that he was the chosen one, the heir to a company with roots hundreds of years old. Harrington Industries had grown and grown over the years, surviving wars and depressions to become the globe-spanning behemoth it was today. Much of that growth had been driven by his grandfather and it was up to Matteo to maintain it, to keep growing it, to know where to invest next, where to pull out of, responsible for the jobs and livelihoods of thousands and thousands of people.
He finished the coffee and pastry, leaving a handful of euros on the table before resuming his walk. What else did he know? His last memory was of the day before the wedding. His mood was excited, anticipating the day, their honeymoon, their life together. He’d had no doubts that this was the right thing to do.
What had changed?
According to the police he’d been on his way to Kent when he’d crashed and Charlie had come to the hospital from her grandmother’s cottage, he was sure of it. Why was she in Kent; why had he been on his way there? Had she gone home to her grandmother while he was away; had they moved there? Once more the answers danced around his mind, tantalisingly within reach before darting away again.
Focus. His grandfather had been ill, they’d been on honeymoon, they’d cut it short. And then what? He cursed again. It was time he remembered.
Amalfi was just ahead, busy with tourists and day trippers, coaches swinging down the precipitous narrow roads, small scooters darting here, there and everywhere. Still preoccupied, still trying to remember, goddammit, Matteo glanced casually one way then the other, then crossed the busy road leading into the town, only to find himself crashing to the ground as he threw himself out of the way of a scooter speeding along the road. The rider yelled out some profanities, not even slowing, and Matteo lay there for one long second, every bruise and rib yelling its protestations at further ill treatment.
‘I’m fine…bene…grazie,’ he repeated as concerned people tried to help him up, muttering at the lack of care shown by the scooter riders. He was barely aware of his surroundings as events and memories began to swirl faster and faster through his dizzied mind. Finally on his feet, he headed, as if in a daze, to another café, where he ordered a grappa, drinking it down in one swift gulp. And slowly, slowly, all the jagged memories slotted back together.
He remembered. Everything.
The wedding. Charlie glowing, his pride and happiness. The three perfect days in Paris, followed by the terrifying worry as he had been summoned home to what he thought was his grandfather’s deathbed. Worry—and guilt. Their last words so bitter, his grandfather so angry. Angry at him. His determination to make it up, and with that determination the old single-mindedness. A single-mindedness that meant he barely noticed his new wife’s growing unhappiness until it was too late.
All he could do was let her go, expediate the divorce and try and carry on with his life. It had seemed he owed her that much.
Only then he’d got the divorce papers and realised he would never forgive himself if he didn’t fight for his marriage. For his happiness—for her happiness. He’d been on his way to Kent to beg Charlie to give him a second chance.
He’d been planning to win his wife back.
That plan hadn’t changed. The only thing he needed to figure out was how.
Matteo leaned back in his chair. If he returned to the villa and told her that he remembered everything, would she leave? Knowing Charlie,
