Starting toward the barn, Celina turned to wave at Marco, who stood in the doorway of the villa clutching his nonna Sara’s hand. Her son was eager to spend the day with his new cousins, Adele’s children, Maria and Gino, who were coming over. While she and Lauro were riding, Sara planned to take all the children through the orchard and gardens to pick fruits and vegetables. Celina smiled. She hadn’t seen her son this happy in a long, long time.
After she’d sold their home in San Francisco, Marco had mourned the loss of his neighborhood playmates, and she’d often wondered if she’d done the right thing. For a boy to lose his father and his friends was difficult. The fault was hers; she couldn’t bear to stay in the house surrounded by the memory of Tony and the love she’d lost.
Celina watched as Sara knelt and Marco flung his arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. My dear Tony’s mother. Surely he would have changed his mind about visiting if he’d known how happy his son and mother would be. If only he could see this now. Wouldn’t he have changed his mind?
She swallowed against the sudden constriction in her throat and pressed a knuckle to her lips, stifling the intense feeling of loss that still assailed her, often when she least expected it. If nothing else, the sight of Marco with his nonna made the journey worthwhile.
This morning, Sara hadn’t forgotten the promise she’d extracted from Lauro yesterday at the memorial.
Though Lauro had balked at the idea, Sara insisted. “My sons grew up on horses. Are you a horsewoman?”
“Tony and I used to ride at a friend’s ranch.” Which was true. Her husband had been a good rider, although she’d had no idea that he’d learned as a child. But then, she hadn’t thought to ask him.
Or had she? Like Marco, she worried that her memory of him was fading. Yet, at other times she still felt his presence, though not as much since she’d sold their home. Alarmed, she’d started writing recollections in a journal so that Marco could read it when he was a little older. Once she’d started writing, her memories poured back, and she couldn’t write fast enough. Soon she’d need another journal.
Continuing to the stables, the tall leather boots Sara had given her to wear crunched on the gravel path. The riding pants her mother-in-law had loaned her fit just right, too. “Wish I could fit in them,” Sara had lamented, but Celina told her she still looked fit and trim.
This morning, Celina had brushed her hair back and secured it with a silver clip, though the light morning breeze tugged free a few wisps around her face. She didn’t care much about how she looked today, but she was determined to enjoy herself, even if Lauro was still in a sour mood.
“Hello?” she called out, wondering where Lauro was. From the stables, two large dogs bounded toward her. She stiffened until she heard their welcoming yaps. Long ears flapped gleefully against their white-and-orange spotted fur.
“What a welcome,” she said, chuckling. They jumped in front of her, delighted at the sight of a new acquaintance. “Lousy guard dogs, aren’t you?”
From behind the stables a sharp whistle cut through the air. “Rubino, Bellina! Giu!”
“Rubino and Bellina, eh?” Celina laughed.
Trotting astride a sleek black horse, Lauro appeared in the clearing. He swung from his mount and strode toward her. At his command, the dogs ceased jumping and began to circle her, sniffing at her boots. “Seduto!”
Celina bent to scratch their heads, “Seduto, seduto.” Minding her, the pair of hounds sat at her feet. “They’re so friendly.”
“Not always,” Lauro said. “But they like you.”
“What sort of breed are they?” As the smaller one nuzzled her, she ran her hands over its silky ears. “And who is this?”
“That’s Bellina. She’s a Bracco, an Italian pointer. Her mate here is Rubino.”
Celina watched as Lauro dropped to one knee to pat the flanks of the large male dog. He seemed to relax with the dogs around.
“Rubino and Bellina,” she said. “What pretty names. They sound like a pair of Shakespearean lovers.”
Lauro threw a swift glance in her direction. “In a way, they are. They’re named after a pair of dogs that one of our ancestors owned. Il marchese.”
Rubino pawed Lauro for more attention.
“Are these their descendants?”
“Perhaps. That was more than four hundred years ago, but the Marquis of Mantua, Ludovico Gonzaga, had such a special bond with them that when Rubino died, he buried him in a casket and erected a tomb in his honor. He did the same for Rubino’s mate, Bellina, who died giving birth.”
“That’s certainly devotion, isn’t it?” Celina watched Lauro’s tense expression dissipate. While scrubbing his hands along Rubino’s neck and relaying the story, he looked as if a heavy cloud had parted in response to a persistent ray of sun.
“You can still see the tombs on the palace grounds. The Gonzagas bred Braccos for years, and these two are probably direct descendants. My family brought them when they moved to this region from Piemonte.”
“Why did they move?”
“My great-grandmother is from Amalfi. After marrying, she grew homesick and suffered from hay fever in the north. The fresh sea air and the juice of lemons helped her. Together they expanded her family’s lemon production by terracing many of the lemon gardens you see now. The groves, where we’ll ride, came later.”
“And the chocolate factory?”
“Also moved from Piemonte, though we still have a factory in Torino.”
Celina ran her hands along the dogs’ coats. This was the most Lauro had said to her since she’d arrived, and though he still wore a slight scowl, he seemed cordial enough. “There’s so much history here,” she said. “Four hundred years ago, America was just a vast, mostly unsettled land. At least, unsettled by Europeans.” After she stopped, Bellina dragged her head across Celina’s shins, begging for more attention. “I’d like to see more of Italy while I’m here.”
Lauro paused. “You’re still leaving at the end of summer, no?”
Celina noticed the tightening in his voice again, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “Marco is starting first grade, and I have to return to work.” That seemed to placate him, and the shadow lifted from his face. “Shall we go?”
Lauro drew up. With a gesture and command, he sent the dogs racing back to the stable.
Celina followed him to the old stone building, which housed about a dozen horses. The scents of hay, leather, and manure mingled with that of the ocean and hung in the air, giving the stable a fresh, earthy aroma. A groomsman was checking the saddle on a gleaming chestnut mare, while other horses neighed in adjoining stalls.
“Lei è docile,” the groomsman said, stroking the horse’s neck.
Lauro turned to her. “I didn’t know how well you rode.”
She ran a hand down the mare’s strong neck and met her inquisitive gaze. The horse pricked her ears. “She’ll be fine.”
Lauro gave her a leg up, and they started off. Following Lauro, she picked her way up a steep trail that stretched toward the summit of a hill.
“You can get a good view from the top,” Lauro said over his shoulder. He’d hardly said a word to her since they’d left the stables, although he’d been murmuring to his horse in Italian the entire way.
Or maybe he was cursing her under his breath.
She sighed. Unlike his parents, he couldn’t make it any plainer that her presence was not appreciated.
Celina clicked her tongue, urging her horse onward. When they reached the crest, she reined her horse in. From this vantage point, she felt as though she were on top of the world. Far below them, the sea hurled itself against ancient rocks worn smooth with time, while on the other side, groves stretched languidly in the summer sun.
She breathed in the scent of lemon blossoms, inspired by how their citrus sweetness mingled with fresh ocean air. Closing her eyes, she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, tasting a faint saltiness in the moisture laden breeze. She imagined how dark, rich chocolate filled with the brightness of a lemon filling and dusted with chunky sea salt might taste. Delicious, she decided.
With a start, she realized how much she missed her work in the kitchen, surrounded by the ingredients she used to create chocolate fantasies that brought smiles of delight to others. She snapped her eyes open, just in time to catch Lauro staring at her with an odd expression of interest.
“What are you doing?” His voice held a faint edge.
She doubted he cared to know about her, let alone her deepest thoughts. Wordlessly, she urged her horse forward to avoid his direct gaze. With his emotional gauge running cold to at best, lukewarm, he was easily the most vexing man she’d ever met.
Her horse paused in the shade of an olive tree. Slender, silvery green leaves sprouted from an old gnarled trunk, shading a bounty of smooth green olives hanging from the branches.
Celina recalled something Tony had once told her. Tony had been particular about his olive oil. Surely that was a safe topic of discussion, although by now, she didn’t much care. Marco and his grandparents were getting on well, and that’s all that mattered to her.
“Do you make your olive oil from these?” she asked.
“We grow most of the food that is consumed at the villa.” Lauro jerked a thumb toward the property that spread beneath them. “Olive oil, vegetables.” Turning in his saddle, he gestured toward another barn and added, “Eggs and milk, too. Fruit trees there. And over there, nocciola. We use those in our chocolate.”
She smiled to herself. At least he was civil when he talked about food.
“Hazelnuts. So you make a paste, gianduja.” Celina said, referring to the chocolate and hazelnut blend that Italy was known for. “For gianduiotto.”
“You know about that?”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m a chocolatière, too.” Did he think she didn’t know her craft? Still, she had never seen an actual hazelnut tree. Though she wouldn’t tell him that.
“So you say.”
There it was again, the challenge in his voice. Reining her horse in, she ignored his comment.
“As I recall, during Napoléon’s regency, cocoa became hard to come by,” she said. “So in Torino, an enterprising chocolatier named Prochet ground up hazelnuts from Langhe to extend his supply. In the mid-eighteen-hundreds, Caffarel created Gianduiotto. Soon, the gianduiotto proved so popular that it became a hallmark of Italian chocolate-making.” Lauro was staring at her with such surprise that she couldn’t resist a satisfied smirk. “So yeah, I’ve heard of it. I’m going to take a closer look.”
A corner of his mouth lifted in what some might have taken for a grin, but by now, she knew better.
Without answering, Lauro clucked his tongue, and his horse started off.
Curious, Celina cantered past him, eager to inspect the trees. Broad, leafy canopies arched over multiple trunks, filtering sunlight that danced around them like fairies on the path. She stopped beside a tree and reached up to bend a branch toward her. A bract of green, fringed leaves encapsulated the hazelnuts.
Inhaling the scents of nature surrounding her, she paused, wondering why her husband had shunned such a beautiful place where she’d found acceptance, welcome, and love. She shifted on her saddle and peered behind her.
From everyone but Lauro, that is.
Celina heard his horse trot behind her. Turning away, she tented her hand and gazed toward neighboring hills beribboned with grapevines arching across mounded earth in neat, graceful lines. Was Lauro the reason Tony had stayed away? Her horse tossed its head. “What do you know, pal?” she murmured to the mare, who only snorted in response. She ran her hand along its silky neck.
Lauro brought his horse to a halt next to her. He held a large, wrinkle-skinned lemon. “These are sfusato amalfitano, and they’re unique to our area.” He brought out a pocket knife and peeled off a slice. Handing it to her, he added, “Go ahead, they’re sweet.”
Celina hesitated. After Lauro bit into the fruit, she tentatively tasted it. She was surprised; it was much sweeter than the lemons grown in California. “It’s good,” she said, peeling back sections to finish it.
After they finished, Lauro tossed the peels aside and shifted in his saddle. “We should keep going. I’m sure you want to be on your way.”
Celina glanced at him. “Your words, not mine. I’m enjoying the ride and the view.”
When he shrugged in response, Celina turned toward him. She’d had enough of his attitude. Since she’d decided to stay here until it was time for Marco to start school, it was time to clear the tension between them. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin toward him. “You don’t like me, and that’s okay. But I deserve to know why.”
Lauro stared at her as to gauge her reaction before he spoke.
“Well?” she said, growing irritated. “Does it have to do with Tony?”
“Nino did what he wanted,” Lauro shot back, throwing off any semblance of polite behavior. “He often had a faraway look in his eyes, even as a child. He was never fully present, always lost in thought.”
“That was Tony, not me.”
Ignoring her comment, Lauro pressed on. “When Nino left Italy for America, you have no idea how much it hurt my mother. He chose to live his life how he wanted, but we live ours. And I don’t have to welcome his...eccentricities.”
“So a wife and child are eccentricities in Italy, are they?”
“You know what I mean. You’re an American.”
“Of Italian descent.”
Lauro expelled a breath of exasperation.
“So that’s why I’m not welcome here? The telegram you sent said something entirely different.” The resentment she’d felt toward Lauro coiled within her. “Whatever was between you and Tony, I had a duty to inform my husband’s family. Your parents have certainly welcomed us.”
Lauro leaned forward. “Who sent that telegram? Who collected you from the train station? I’ve done everything to make you welcome.”
“Except be nice to me. Your only brother’s widow.” She paused as her resentment and hurt transformed into anger.
Throwing up a hand and shaking it toward her, Lauro burst out, “In suggesting you stay at the villa, my parents made a polite gesture to you.” His eyes flashed under dark, lowered brows. “But you are not part of this family. Don’t accept their offer.”
Celina laughed. “Is that a threat?”
Spreading his hands, Lauro leaned back. “I don’t threaten women.”
“I might not be part of your family, but Tony’s son is.” Her horse stepped back, seeming agitated by their exchange. “Your mother told me it’s been years since she’s seen Carmine’s face light up as it does when he’s with Marco.”
His face reddening with frustration, Lauro spat on the ground. “That’s just it. What if you’re using your son to get to my parents?”
“Oh, no. No you don’t.” Swinging her horse around to face him, Celina advanced toward him. “You will not sully their relationship. Your brother’s little boy—who just lost his father and has been grieving over him for months—has a right to have a relationship with his grandparents. Just as they have a right to assuage their grief over their son and transfer some of that love in their hearts to his son. If you don’t like it, you can get the hell away from us.”
For a moment, he looked as though she’d struck him. He muttered, “Spoken like a true American.” His lips curled as if the word itself were distasteful to him.
Nudging his horse closer to hers, he pulled himself up and glared at her. “What is it you want from us? Support for your son? For you? The chocolate factory? Maybe you think you’ll inherit all this,” he added with a wave of his hand.
“Absolutely nothing.” Celina huffed in his face, indignant that he would even imagine that. The idiocy of this man. Lauro was nothing like Tony, who might not have been as cultured as his brother, but her husband’s heart was so big it had burst with love. He had died not from the accident, but from the heart attack he suffered just before impact. How dare Tony’s little brother accuse her of such a thing. “Surely you can’t think that.”
“You’re transparent,” Lauro muttered as he shook his head. “Non capisci una fava.”
Celina lifted her chin to him. “Tu sei una fava,” she shot back. He was the one who didn’t know anything.
“No one calls me stupid.” Lauro grabbed her horse’s rein and yanking it toward him, brought his face close to hers.
“Then prove you aren’t. You can’t possibly believe that’s why I’m here.” He was so close she could feel his breath on her lips. She was appalled to think that he’d been sharing these thoughts with his parents. Staring at him with a mixture of contempt and sadness, she held his piercing gaze, which seemed to bore through to her soul.
In a flash, Lauro’s hand slid behind her neck, and his lips hovered near hers, their warm breath mingling, so close he could have kissed her. Instead, he bit his lip, containing whatever emotions were raging through him. His eyes darkened, and his expression was one of anguished lust—as if he were fighting his attraction to her.
Tearing loose with a cry, she leveled her hand against his cheek, the sting shocking her as much as him. “Don’t you dare take liberties with me.”
She swung her horse around and pressed her legs into its body. What had possessed him to think he had the right to put his hands on her like that? Tears of anger burned across her cheeks and whipped into her hair as she rode.
While her horse gained speed, she glanced back to see Lauro, his head bowed, gingerly rubbing his face.