Page 56 of Broken Vows

“You really don’t have to.” She laughs as I slide her back down to her feet.

“I’m rather a stickler for tradition.” And routine. It sets a rhythm to life which makes living bearable, if predictable.

Gigi takes hesitant steps inside as I close the door. For the first time since the night when we joked about getting married, we’re alone.

My heart is beating in my throat, waiting for her to respond to the space.

She comes to a stop, bouquet in hand, and takes in the tall windows and the views over the park. Her gaze travels the expanse of the open-concept first floor, the tiled kitchen with the functional island in midnight blue cabinetry, up to the double-volume ceiling and the industrial look I’ve got going with vent tunnels and whatnot showing.

“So, this is Stephano Scalera,” she says as she homes in on the art covering most of the red-brick wall. “Wow.” She walks closer, then steps back again. “You have some big names here…and several Banksy.”

“They’re only prints.”

“But they’re signed.”

It’s a bit of a mix, but I like it. The best way to view the collection is when taking the stairs to the loft.

“You surprise me,” she says as I come to stand next to her. “I didn’t know you loved art.”

“My mom used to paint when she was young. And she loved to paint with us.”

“Imagine that. I used to paint, too. Went to study at art school and all.”

“You still paint?” We don’t know much about each other except what we’ve revealed in snippets.

“I’m not very good,” she says with a deprecating chuckle. “So I went over to art history and started my own business.”

I don’t buy into the part about her not being very good but say nothing. “You miss it, though?”

Funny thing is she’s staring at an Italian landscape Mom painted, and I can see she loves it. I’m lucky to have this one thing of Mom’s that reminds me of the person she was before she got married to Don Scalera.

“I’ve tried not to miss it, if that makes sense? It’s so calming and quiet. I used to love it. The calm in the chaos.” She pointsat Mom’s painting. “This is Palermo’s Porta Felice. Heavens. I know the exact spot where the artist stood to do this painting.”

“My mom painted that one.”

“Really? She had real talent.”

“Yes. She gave it up, though. What with having six kids, her passion fell to the wayside and then she died.” We haven’t spoken much about our parents, but none were at the wedding today and she didn’t question it. Maybe Tasha filled her in.

“I’m sorry. How?”

“In childbirth.”

She reaches for me, but I’ve trapped my hands in my pockets to make sure I don’t touch her. Now, her fingers rest on my arm, and they burn right through the layers of my tuxedo.

“That’s terrible. You’d think that type of thing doesn’t happen anymore.”

“He was going to kill her, with his fists or in some other way. She wasn’t supposed to have more children after having had us twins. Benedict was a fluke. I’m convinced Don Scalera did something that triggered our sister being stillborn, taking Mom with her.”

Her eyes are wide as my words sink in. I sigh and fist my hands tighter in my pockets. This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have tonight.

“Can I pour you a drink?” We have some things to discuss now that she’s here and we’re alone. I take off my jacket and bowtie and hook them over the barstool by the kitchen island.

“Okay. Yes, thank you.”

I groan inwardly. We were going somewhere with that conversation, but I cut the connection off.

“But first…” Gigi holds up the flowers and heads to the kitchen where she takes a tall glass from the sink where I left it earlier. She fills it with water and dunks the bouquet’s stem in, then puts it on the counter to make sure it’s balanced. She turnsto me, without her protective shield of flowers. “I want to get out of this dress.”

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