Page 49 of My Fake Italian Marriage

She laughed, warmed by the compliment in spite of herself.

Lunch turned out not to be the ordeal she expected. As the weather was warm and sunny, they ate on the shaded terrace beside the house, a simple meal of polenta served with chicken cacciatora, pan-fried chicken slow-cooked in a tomato, garlic and red-wine sauce, which Pierina had left simmering on the stove before leaving for mass and lunch with her sister’s family.

When the meal was done, and they were lingering over the sumptuous red wine, Letizia laid a hand on Cleo’s arm. “We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday about your wedding. Tell me all about it. How did you manage to marry so quickly?”

Cleo shot Luca a narrow-eyed glance. He’d assured her no one would ask. But he was ready with an answer; he laid aside his napkin and smiled at his mother. “You remember my old colleague who is now the mayor? He married us.”

How did he lie like that, so smoothly that it was impossible to tell it was a lie? Clearly, he was even able to fool those who knew him best, because his mother nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to Cleo. “And what did you wear?”

While she had nowhere near as much practice at lying as Luca did, she’d had a whole day and night to prepare for this, and she’d attended enough dress fittings with her sisters-in-law and Sarah to have already imagined the wedding dress of her dreams. “A simple A-line silk dress. It was beautiful.”

“Simple is good. When we married, it was soon after Princess Diana’s wedding, and my dress was inspired by hers; all puffy sleeves, a big skirt and…” Letizia waved a hand around her neckline to indicate flounces, and Cleo laughed. Letizia leaned closer. “It was impossible to dance in, and I kept catching my heels in the hem, until I got so annoyed I went upstairs and changed into an ordinary dress.” Her expression turned dreamy. “Did you have a bouquet?”

Cleo nodded, warming to her fantasy. “A simple arrangement of red calla lilies. A harpist played and…”

She caught Luca’s gaze across the table. Damn him, he was laughing at her! What was so amusing about a girl dreaming about her wedding, even if she was past the age of dreams?

Letizia patted her hand. “We must speak to your family to discuss dates when they can come for a proper reception.”

Cleo swallowed. “Reception?”

“Of course. Your parents must be as disappointed as we are not to have celebrated your marriage with you. We will have a big reception for all the family and friends. Perhaps in the summer? And we can do a symbolic ceremony right here in the gardens. That way, we can all see you in that beautiful dress.”

Heat rose in Cleo’s cheeks. Her parents would be much more disappointed if they discovered Cleo had lied about being married and deceived these sweet people. “Um, there’s no hurry,” she murmured.

Luca grinned across the table at his mother. “Any excuse for a party, Mamma?”

“Of course.” She smiled back, eyes twinkling with shared amusement.

Cleo sagged in relief as Luca deftly steered the conversation away to less fraught topics.

The Fioravantis’ after-lunch ritual wasn’t much different from Cleo’s own family’s Sunday ritual. The men retired to the den, in the basement level of the house, to watch football, and Cleo helped Letizia clear up after the meal. She expected an interrogation over the loading of the dishwasher and soaking of pots, but Letizia as a mother-in-law turned out to be very different from Letizia, the vineyard owner’s wife. Half an hour later, they’d bonded over growing up in a house full of brothers, the importance of ice cream as a form of self-care, and agreed on the best topping for French fries – mayonnaise, of course. Letizia, it turned out, was a lot like Cleo’s own mother, stiff and shy around strangers, but warm and generous with her family and friends.

They were packing away the last of the dried glassware when Luca arrived, leaning against the doorjamb with that amused glint in his eyes. “Now I see why you always wanted me to marry,” he said to his mother. “You wanted another woman in the house.”

She playfully swatted him with a dish cloth. “Of course. Has it taken you until now to realise this?”

He laughed and turned to Cleo. “My mother spends her afternoons gardening in the rose garden when the weather’s good, but I think you would prefer watching football?”

Did he know her, or what? She grinned, and followed him to the basement den, where they spent the afternoon shouting at the TV, alternately booing and cheering, and not once did Giovanni appear to notice that she and Luca behaved more like friends than newlyweds.

ChapterTwenty

La gelosia scopre l’amore.

(Jealousy discovers love.)

On Monday, Cleo woke again to the musical peal of the bells in the piazza’s clock tower. While Luca still slept, she headed out for her morning run. The town was quiet, the buildings dark against a pale, pre-dawn sky. Only the street cleaners and delivery vans were out at this hour. She jogged past the bakery on the corner, waving to the couple who were switching on the lights and powering up the ovens for the day, then through one of the old medieval gateways, her feet pounding a steady rhythm against the tarred surface, exhilaration rushing through her veins as she left the town behind. Beside the road, the trees were long, dark silhouettes against the rising sun.

By the time she returned to Montalcino, her calves getting a strong workout on the slope back up into the hilltop town, the streets were humming with schoolchildren and buses streaming in to the town school.

Despite the fact that she was red-faced and sweaty – and that it felt disloyal to Sarah, who baked the pastries for Beatrice’s taverna – Cleo stopped at the corner bakery to buy a box ofcornetti.

“Sei qui in vacanza?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“Um … no?” Cleo replied hesitantly.

The woman smiled. “You are here on holiday?”

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