Page 7 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

He followed her to the sitting area and waited for her to sit down before he sat. He waited a moment to give her a chance to take charge of the conversation but she just looked at him, waiting.

That was fine with him. He had countless questions. “I thought you were blonde,” he said. “Or was that just color?”

She almost smiled. “I’m a natural blonde. When I was young I had silver blond hair, but it darkened to the gold shade in my twenties. I dyed it black after Marius’s funeral. I couldn’t stand looking into the mirror and seeing myself. I didn’t want to be me anymore, especially as seeing my hair, reminded me of Marius. He’d loved my hair, the pale gold color, and so every time I saw myself, I felt angry. Cheated. I covered it up. Looking back, it was my way of mourning.”

“Did it help?”

“It did. I felt different. Strange to myself which helped me cope with all the grief.”

“Are you still grieving?” he asked.

“I will always grieve his loss, but the fire that used to consume me is gone. The rage and pain have become acceptance...reluctant acceptance.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” And then in the next moment she shook her head. “Forgive me. Of course you do. I can see it in your face, in your eyes. You’re still wearing your grief, but you’ve lost so many people that I’m not surprised.”

“And you have your son which gives you purpose.”

She hesitated and then nodded. “Yes, it does. And hopefully when you meet Adriano, you will feel some of the hope I feel.”

Hope. Such a strange concept, Rocco though, suddenly unable to remain seated. He rose and walked the width of the terrace, briefly glancing out past the garden to the rocky cliff and the dark blue sea beyond. “Tell me about my nephew,” he said, walking back toward Clare. “Is he much like my brother?”

“He’s a toddler, almost of preschool age, but in other ways, very much a baby still. It’s hard to say who he’s like, but he has your brother’s coloring, and his smile.” Her expression softened. The tension in her job easing. “Just as Marius’s smile lit up the room, Adriano’s does that, too. His nanny adores him. Those that know him love him. I know I’m biased as I’m his mother, but I do think he’s special. I look forward to hearing what you think.”

“But he’s happy?” Rocco persisted.

“Very. He laughs a lot. He smiles a great deal. He brings tremendous joy to my life, and those around him.” The light in her eyes dimmed, shadows returning. “I don’t think I would have survived the last few years without him.”

Rocco forced himself to sit, trying to contain his energy. Everything within him felt stirred—restless—and he didn’t like it. He took a sip of his drink. It was no longer cold and he set it down, knowing he wouldn’t try it again. “And his intelligence? Is he bright? Marius was always very smart, very curious.”

“He is speaking three languages, or more accurately, he can understand three languages. I speak several languages, but only speak to him right now in English and Italian. His nanny speaks to him mostly in Spanish, which I thought important, seeing as his father loved the family home in Argentina. I thought Adriano should know the language should he ever visit.”

“Thank you,” Rocco said simply. “In case there’s any doubt, let me reassure you, that I have no wish to take him from you. He is your son. That is not a point of contention. I am merely here to meet the son of my beloved brother.”

As if on cue, a young woman appeared in the doorway and spoke to Clare, addressing her in Spanish. Clare answered the young woman in Spanish. It sounded as if the child had finished his snack and was ready to join them. Clare instructed the nanny to bring Adriano out, along with a few of his toys, and maybe the green ball he liked so much.

Ava stepped back into the house and Clare focused her attention on Rocco. “He’s coming now.”

It was just a minute later when a childish laugh came from within the house and then a boy burst through the door, at a run, heading straight for Clare.

He was small but sturdy, and he flung himself at Clare. “Mama,” he cried, climbing onto her lap.

Her arms wrapped around him and she pressed a half dozen kisses to his cheeks, forehead and then finally the tip of his nose. “Hello, my baby, my beautiful boy. Did you have a good nap?” she said in English.

“Sì,”Adriano said firmly, answering her English with Italian.

Rocco checked his smile, remembering how Marius used to do the same thing as a young child. He understood everything, but chose to answer in whichever language he felt like answering in.

Clare turned the toddler around on her lap, so Adriano was facing out. “We have a guest,” she said, tone cheerful. “Adriano, this is your papa’s brother. This is your uncle, Zio Rocco. He has come to meet you. Isn’t that exciting?”

Rocco watched Adriano’s expression shift, his friendly smile growing slightly more guarded, his pale brow creasing. He had long thick lashes, a firm chin, a firm press to his lips and a dark but focused gaze.

“Adriano, it is true. I am your papa’s brother. I was the big brother. I loved your papa very much.”

Silence stretched. Adriano processed this, expression still guarded, no emotion evident.

Rocco noticed that Clare allowed the boy to respond when and how he wanted. She didn’t hurry him, or tell him how to respond. Rocco approved.

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