Page 119 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“I’m terrible with small talk.”
“Evidently.” She inhales a quiet breath. “My first husband suffered for more than two years before the cancer finally killed him. We were constantly in and out of the hospital. Everything in our lives revolved around him being sick. I’m not complaining, you understand, just explaining that was our reality. Waiting for him to die. Watching him get weaker and sicker. The helplessness I felt at not being able to do anything to stop it . . .”
She trails off into silence. I think I hear a faint sniffle, but can’t be sure. Her voice is stronger when she comes back on the line.
“When I married your father, he vowed I’d never go through anything like that with him. He extracted a promise from me that if he were ever to fall sick and have to be hospitalized, I would stay away. I refused at first, but when he said it would be easier on him, not having to watch me watch him waste away, I agreed.”
Her soft sigh is full of pain. “Since we’re being so open, I have to tell you it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It nearly killed me to stay away, but that’s what he wanted. So I honored my promise.”
“And I yelled at you for it,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.
Her voice turns gentle. “Oh, my dear. You didn’t know.”
“I nicknamed you the WS,” I blurt as if it’s a murder confession. “For Wicked Stepmother.”
She chuckles. “That’s rather clever, isn’t it? I do enjoy a good nickname.”
Definitely drinking.
She says, “You’ll be wanting to know about Matteo, of course. He’s dreadfully in love with you.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of wine. Instead I gulp it down, gasping. “Uh—”
“It’s been giving me such delight watching him try to manage it. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, as you no doubt know.” She chuckles again. “That runs in the family, I’m afraid.”
Wine. Drink more wine. That’s the only rational thing to do. I obey myself and guzzle.
“When you came in the other night at dinner, he was asking my advice on how to court you. Isn’t that sweet? So old-fashioned. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he really doesn’t have much luck with women.” She laughs. “Always trying to be so macho. He’s like his father that way. Can’t stand to be seen as weak. The ego! Ha! It’s their Achilles’ heel.”
I drop my head to the table and proceed to repeatedly smack my forehead against the wood.
His face. Oh God, his face when I asked him what he was talking about with his mother. I’ll have to get down on my knees when I beg him to forgive me.
“Speaking of ego, he’s also terribly vain. Terribly. His morning routine takes a lifetime. The hair products alone . . .” She exhales, a great gust of air that conveys affection along with disappointment.
“He told me about Maria. About how you always had to have a Great Dane in the house so he would never forget how he refused to come in and see his father on his sickbed before he died.”
There’s a long awful pause, in which I imagine I can feel how much I’ve hurt her with my words.
“That’s what he thinks? That I was punishing him? I thought it would comfort him to have the same breed as Maria around. He and that dog were so close.”
I groan. “Oh crap.”
“Indeed,” agrees the marchesa. “It seems all of us have been operating under false assumptions.”
I polish off the last of the wine in my glass. “One last question.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know why my father didn’t tell me about you?”
“I asked him to wait until we could meet face to face.”
That startles me so much I freeze. “Why would you do that?”
She says softly, “Because you’d never had a mother, and I’d never had a daughter. I thought . . . it’s silly, I know, but I thought we could both get what we’d always been missing at the same time. You’d arrive after your honeymoon and we’d meet, and we’d all be one big happy family. I had a big party planned. Like a surprise party.” Her voice grows tight. “I’m sorry, it all seems so stupid now.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. Big fat tears of sorrow and joy.
