Page 1 of My Fake Italian Marriage

ChapterOne

Il padre è la radice più robusta, il figlio l’albero più promettente.

(The father is the strongest root, the son the most promising tree.)

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Fathers were supposed to be strong and loud and overbearing, not lying in a hospital bed, frail and helpless. Luca watched his father sleep, the way his father had no doubt once watched over him.

When had Babbo shrunk so small? He’d been a big man once, taller and more dominating than most other fathers. He’d been the man who’d stood at the side of the football pitch and shouted colourful invectives at the referees. Who’d taught Luca to ride a horse, fire a shotgun, and drive a car, all in the fearless, hold-nothing-back style of all Fioravanti men. Now he lay, pale and weak, while a machine beeped out his heartbeats.

Not that it was a heart attack that had levelled this once-vital man.It was only a mild stroke, the doctor said. Luca wasn’t sure how accurate that “only” was.

“He’s expected to make a good recovery,” said a woman’s voice.

Luca straightened, re-arranged his expression, and turned to the nurse in the doorway. She was young, probably not much more than mid-twenties, and though she wore shapeless blue scrubs and sensible shoes, she was worth a second look. Luca always looked. That was another thing he’d learned from his father—to appreciate beauty.

She stepped into the room. “It was a mild stroke, and most patients make a good recovery. You must be patient.”

Patience had never been his father’s strong suit, but Luca produced a smile that hid his emotions, a smile born of years of practice, one that, whenever he used it, ensured that no one took him too seriously. “He’s a fighter.”

She smiled back. “That will help.” She moved to the bedside to check the machines and the IV. No rings on her fingers, Luca noted out of habit.

Competent, practical hands to match the sensible career choice. At a guess, she was a woman who never acted on impulse, who served others and seldom gave in to her own passions. She cast him a quick sideways glance, the kind of second glance he’d come to expect, then scribbled a few notes in his father’s file. As she left the room, she paused on the threshold to toss him a hesitant, flirtatious smile.

He smiled again, more genuine this time, until she was gone.

Then he turned back to the bed where his father slept, his shoulders slumping again. It was easier to maintain his devil-may-care confidence before an audience. Not as easy when there was nothing to distract him from worrying about the mess his father’s stroke had dropped them all in.

Ten minutes later, his mother returned with the coffees she’d gone to find. She, too, looked older than he remembered. Luca visited his parents at least once a week for Sunday lunch, sometimes more often, so how had he not noticed how grey they’d both grown? It made him feel old too.

“We’ll need to hire a nurse when he comes home.” Luca took a tentative sip of the awful hospital coffee.

His mother shook her head. “I will look after him myself.”

“You are over sixty. How will you lift him?”

She raised her chin in a way that made Luca sigh. His mother could be stubborn when she wanted to be, and clearly this was one of those moments.

“At least get someone in to help you,” he pleaded.

“I have Pierina.”

“Who is as old as you.”

Clearly the wrong thing to say. His mother’s eyes flashed. “I amnotold. Though I will be by the time you settle down and marry and give me grandchildren. If you had a wife, then Iwouldhave someone else to help.”

How did she do that—manage to turn even the simplest thing into a dig at his single status, when she knew better than anyone he simply wasn’t marriage material? “You already have grandchildren.”

“Huh! You know what I mean.” She meant that she wanted grandchildren she could show off to the world. “Even your cousin Camillo has given his mother two grandchildren.”

Years of experience had inured Luca to being compared unfavourably to his relatives. Mostly. “Oh, that’s alright then. So, if I adopt two orphans from a faraway country,thenyou’ll be happy?”

“Don’t cheek your mother!”

They both turned to the bed. While Giovanni Fioravanti’s voice was thinner than usual, and slurred, it was as commanding as ever, and Luca felt instantly remorseful. His father struggled to sit, and Mamma flitted to his side to help. Giovanni swatted her away, scowling at his own helplessness. But at least annoyance brought a healthier colour to his pallid cheeks.

Luca stayed quiet until his father was propped up. Only when he was sure he had their attention, did he broach the subject that had kept him awake all night. “Someone needs to run the vineyard until you’re able to return to work.”IfBabbo was ever able to return to work.

His father sighed, closing his eyes as if too tired to give it much thought. “You will have to do it, I suppose.”

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