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All that day, they’d traveled around the island together. It had been beautiful. Perfect. Serene.
Whenever they’d found a moment alone, Alex had kissed her again, again, again. Her mouth, cheeks, shoulders and neck all glowed with his caresses.
He’d kissed her until she laughed, giggled like a little girl.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he’d said, smiling at her, obviously a little embarrassed. “But I can’t stop myself.” And then he’d started kissing her once again, working his way slowly from the sensitive spot behind her ear down to the soft indent in her throat, in between her collarbones ...
There was another big family dinner that night, the food and atmosphere just as perfect as on the night that had come before it. Huge platters filled with local delicacies and Italian classics filled the table. Pinot grigio flowed easily. There was laughter, talk and celebration all around. The Marinos, Lana realized, needed no special event in order to celebrate. Their celebration was life itself, life and togetherness.
Again, Alex sat across from her at the table. His presence made her feel warm, safe and ... excited. Never before had a man had this effect on her. Not even Tom, in their early days together. There was something that flowed so naturally between them. Something so easy, so rich, so real.
But what she was doing was wrong. She knew it. Couldn’t escape it.
And yet ... what she and Tom were to one another was becoming increasingly blurry. Less and less could she imagine a life with him. Less and less could she feel for him what she once had. She pictured him, still on the island, taking in the sites alone. Did he feel regret for what he had done? Was he reflecting? Or was it simple anger and annoyance he felt, that she had left him on his own?
She shook him from her thoughts, let her fingers encircle the space where her engagement ring had once been. Without it, she felt free. But more than that, she felt more like herself. More like the person she hoped to be ... for her. A person that the man opposite her made her feel was worthy, brave and beautiful.
That afternoon, she and Alex had eaten a delicious seafood lunch at a little cafe on the boardwalk, then carried on their journey round the island. He’d shown her everything he could from the water, telling her fascinating stories and histories and island lore, promising that the next day they’d take the car and visit some of the places they’d seen for real. He knew so much about the island, Alex. Had been such an obliging host. And, she acknowledged, so much more.
After dinner, the women of the family sat talking in the living room, while the men moved off to the upstairs library.
Sitting beside her on the expensive oyster-colored Italian couch, Giana was as elegant as she had been the night before. She wore a dark pantsuit with a glittering gem-filled necklace, leather mules, and her hair was long and sleek and full.
The same admiration Lana felt for Giana went out to Luna and Bella, both of whom were wearing pastel dresses that fit to perfection. Lana herself was wearing a little teal-colored dress of her own. She felt at home in what she wore and good in her own skin.
As the women’s voices filled the beautiful room around them, Lana marveled openly. The coffee table and sideboard were both gorgeous, ornate Italian antiques. The rug by the fireplace was a silken Persian masterpiece. Setting off the larger furnishings to perfection, the lamps, ornaments, pillows and other soft furnishings around the room were all similarly beautiful, speaking of immense taste and a keen eye for design.
“Did you design this room, Mrs Marino?” Lana asked.
“I did. Do you like it?”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Mama is exceptionally talented when it comes to interior decor,” said Luna. “No need for a designer when you’ve got Mama’s eye.” She smiled.
“Artistic flare seems to run in the family,” said Lana. “Your father said you recently held an art show in Milan?” she asked Luna.
Luna smiled. “I did, yes.”
“She sold lots of pieces,” said Giana, proudly. “The collectors are really starting to notice her work.”
“It must be wonderful, being creative for a living,” said Lana. “I’d love to know more about your work.”
Luna gave her a warm smile. “Well, I paint mostly. Acrylics. The occasional oils. But I also do mixed media pieces. And I’m also experimenting a little with photography.”
“Luna’s work is very modern,” said Bella, proudly. “Daring. Avant garde. She’s always taking risks with her work. Isn’t that right, Luna?”
“In art, you have to keep experimenting, I think. You have to keep pushing. Seeing what’s possible, what’s new. Of course, you can also master one specific technique, and make that what you’re known for. But I think it’s so much more fun to find out what you don’t know. To explore. It’s a bit like life that way.”
Bella put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Luna was always drawing, from the time she could hold a crayon,” she said. “Meanwhile, I was always the one collecting her pictures, after she’d thrown them over her shoulder and said: ‘Okay. That’s done. Now I want to make a new one.’’” She chuckled.
From their first afternoon together, Lana remembered Bella’s son Mario also saying something about his Mommy collecting pictures. But what did that mean? Suddenly, Lana felt a little embarrassed. She and Bella had spent so much time together, and she hadn’t thought to ask Bella about her passions and work. “I feel a little silly admitting this,” said Lana, “but I just realized I’m still a little in the dark about what you do, Bella. I should have asked you days ago.”
Bella shook her head with a kind expression. “Don’t think twice about it. You’ve had more than enough on your mind lately.” She gave Lana a wink. “I’m an art curator, as it happens.”
“Wow,” said Lana, impressed.
“Bella studied art at the same university I did in Italy,” said Luna.
“While my sister has passion for creation, I got the passion for the histories, the stories and the lives of the artists themselves,” said Bella.
Lana smiled. She realized she was, again, just a little envious of the Marinos. Not only did they have a beautiful, loving family around them, not only did they enjoy financial success, but they each had personal, creative fulfillment.
She sighed. Perhaps if she’d been a braver, more clear-headed person, she’d have known never to have studied finance out of school. And then, never needed to have made an emergency shift into a brand new career after life wasn’t turning out like she’d hoped. Even now, she admitted, the work she did didn’t make her totally happy. Copywriting was alright, of course, and at least her daily medium was words, not numbers. Still, she longed to make a more lasting impression on the world. A more lasting, meaningful impression than the sales copy, web copy and press releases she created could ever hope to. An impression of the kind the Maronis made. Creative. Passionate. Inspiring.
Her novel was, of course, her attempt to do that. But it was a long shot, she knew. A very long shot. Publishing was a competitive game. And the publishers’ tastes changed all the time. And even if you were published, there was never any guarantee your work would ever find a loyal audience ...
Little Mario toddled into the room just then, rubbing his eyes, asking for his mother and Luna. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “I want Mama and Luna to read me a story.”
Bella and Luna both rose together. “He likes it when I read to him and Luna explains the pictures,” Bella said. “Usually, he’s out like a light in ten minutes. Will you excuse us?”
“Of course,” said Lana.
The two sisters went upstairs, with little Mario in tow.
“Mario’s a very lucky little boy,” said Lana. “Having a mom like Bella and an aunty like Luna,” she said. “I notice Mario’s got the artistic genes too. When I first met him, he couldn’t stop drawing.”
Giana nodded proudly. “It’s the Marino way,” she said. “To create is, for us, life.” She smiled. Then she looked at Lana a little more closely, her eyes sparking with curiosity. “But Bella was saying that you also have a creative spirit? That you ... write?”
Lana gave a little nod. “Yes. I write for a living,” she said. “I’m a copywriter. It pays the bills but it’s not my, um, passion. My real passion is creative writing, fiction. I’m working on a novel at the moment.”
Giana looked impressed. “That’s wonderful. Have you ever published any of your work?”
Lana was pleased that she could at least say yes, she had. “A little. A few short stories here and there. Some things in magazines. But never anything big. Never a book.”
“But a book is what you are working on now?”
“Yes.”
“How is it going?”
“It’s almost done. I’m just having some ... trouble with the ending.”
Giana nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps you will find inspiration for the ending here on the island.”
“Yes, I’m hoping so.”
“A change of environment is always good for creativity,” Giana continued. “Sometimes, other changes help too. A new job. A new set of clothes. A new haircut. A new man?” She raised an eyebrow.
Lana felt her cheeks suddenly flush. She gave Giana a surprised smile. “How much did Bella tell you about my, um, adventures over the past few days?”
Giana placed a kind hand on Lana’s knee. “Just enough for me to know that you are a brave girl, Lana Davis. And that it sounds like you made the right decision, leaving your fiance some time to ...” she chose her words carefully, “think about his behavior. In the meantime, you enjoy yourself. Enjoy being young. My son certainly can’t hide the way he feels about you. At least not from his Mama. I don’t recall him ever behaving this way, if you must know the truth.”
Lana considered Giana’s expression closely. How much did this elegant lady know? She wondered. How much of what she was saying was mere politeness? And how much of it real truth?
“I imagine you must think badly of me,” Lana said suddenly, shaking her head, “for carrying on like I am. I mean. Given everything that’s happened. And my fiance not far away ... still on the island.”
A soft hand fell on her shoulder. “Life is complicated, my dear,” said Giana. Her eyes were kind and full of understanding. “It is not always tidy. It doesn’t always go how we’d planned. All we can do is ... make the best of it. And accept help from kind, handsome strangers when it’s offered.”
Lana took a breath, both embarrassed and warmed by Giana’s kindness and understanding.
Suddenly, there were voices from the upper floor. Giana smiled, as Alex, Jake and Ricardo began making their way downstairs. “Ah, here he comes now,” she said softly to Lana. “Your knight in shining armor.” She rose. “I think I’ll go make a cup of tea in the kitchen,” she said with a wink. “Then head to bed.”
She moved over to her son and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight, Alessandro,” she said to him, as she moved past. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mama,” he said. “Goodnight.”
Soon, everyone had given their goodnights. She and Alex were alone in the living room.
“Are you tired?” he asked. “It’s been a big day. I’ll understand if you’d like to go to bed.”
She shook her head. Sleep was the last thing on her mind. “No,” she said. “I’m not very tired. It’s been an exciting day. I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”
“Then ... come with me,” he said, taking her hand, his eyes lighting up. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
It was a beautiful evening, calm and warm, with a sweet, gentle breeze. Hand in hand, she and Alex walked around to the side of the house. They stopped before three sets of double-wide garage doors. With the touch of a button, all the doors began to lift in unison. Soon, light was flooding out onto the drive.
Lana stood rooted to the spot, her eyes growing wider with disbelief. Inside were at least ten or eleven classic sportscars, all Marinos, all immaculate, all in perfect condition. In the center was Alex’s. Next to it, the roadster his sister drove. But there were so many others. Cars from different eras. Some classic, vintage. Some far more modern. All gorgeous.
“It’s unbelievable,” she said.
“It’s the family legacy,” he said, smiling. “Come.”
Tightening his grip on her hand, he led her over to the leftmost car, a bottle-green cabriolet with round headlights, a shining chrome grill, and curves that reminded her of waves in the ocean.
“This was the first,” said Alex. “The car that kickstarted Marino Automotive decades ago. My father worked on the design for months, the story goes. Months and months. Late into the night, every night. My mother laughs about that time. She said it was the closest my father ever came to being unfaithful.”
“It’s ... beautiful,” said Lana, letting her fingers rest lightly on the gleaming bodywork. “How did your father learn to design?”
“Self taught,” said Alex, proudly. “Totally.” He chuckled. “They called him a madman.”
“But he wasn’t,” said Lana, her eyes lingering on the machine. “Not at all.”
“No,” Alex said proudly. “But it took a while before that became clear.” Suddenly, he walked over to the cab and popped the hood from inside. “Look at this,” he said, making his way back over, and raising the hood, propping it open.
“Wow ...” Lana’s eyes sparkled. “Twin turbocharged V8,” she said, letting her fingers roam over the beautiful, chromed engine before her. “The Maserati Biturbo was the first with an engine anything like this, I think. What year was this car made? It must have been near the cutting edge, for the time.”
Alex stared at her in disbelief. “Lana ... how ...” He couldn’t quite get the words out. “How do you know all that?”
She gave a little laugh. It always surprised people when they found out that she knew a little, alright maybe more than a little, about cars. “My father always liked fast cars,” she explained. “Cars and mechanical things in general. I remember how he was often working on some old car he was trying to fix up. Peering under the hood. Or lying underneath the chassis, with just his legs sticking out. He was always trying to get these old beautiful cars he found to run again, or run better. From the time I was small, he liked to show me what was going on with them. Mechanically, I mean. And he didn’t hold back. He told me pretty much everything he knew. Then, even after he ... left, I couldn’t quite shake my curiosity. He’d sparked an interest. A real one. Something I couldn’t get rid of. So I learned a lot on my own. I guess it was his legacy to me. Nothing as grand as the legacy your father left to you. But something.”
“Wow ... ” said Alex, turning to her. He couldn’t help the flood of emotion suddenly rising within his chest. Instantly, he saw her in his mind, a beautiful, shy, dark-haired little girl, looking under the hoods of cars with her father and understanding just a little, then more, then more. Instantly, he wanted to protect her. Both back then ... and now. To keep her safe from all the hard, wounding lessons life has to teach.
At the same time, he realized that felt a deep, real anger towards her father for abandoning their family. How could he have done such a thing? Did he know what he was giving up? Did he know what kind of woman his daughter would one day become? Could he have?
Without words, he gently enfolded Lana in his arms. She took a breath in his embrace, her chest rising and falling slowly, and he felt her body melting against his. “Lana, you’ve been so brave,” he murmured, turning her gently and stroking her hair. “I don’t think I really realized. You’ve had to face so much ... on your own.”
He gazed deeply into her eyes. Who was she, this woman? Every day, every hour, practically, he learned something new about her, something more unbelievable than the last. Her eyes were shining as she looked back at him. Deep pools that were filled with wisdom and soulfulness and bravery. All at once, he let himself flow into them, flow into her, around her, wanting so desperately to protect this fragile, unique being who had fallen into his life. Without words, he kissed her. Kissed her as he had never kissed another woman before. Let himself go with her completely. Let all defenses fall.
––––––––
That night, Alex couldn’t sleep.
He paced the room, running his hands through his hair. He looked through the window, out at the cool, dark ocean. He looked at his drawings. He looked at his hands. Stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Never before had a woman done this to him. Caused such a flood of nerves and joy and peace and terror, all at once. He felt his heart racing in his chest. He touched his forehead and found it clammy.
They had had a perfect day together, she and him, out on the ocean. And now, a perfect evening. And yet, he wanted, craved more. It was undeniable. Inescapable. All he needed to do was close his eyes and he could imagine her limpid, soulful eyes, her beautiful, naked body ... He could feel himself making love to her, letting go with her. Entwining his soul with hers in ways that went deeper than he had ever dared to dream.
And yet, things were complex. So complex. She was still engaged to another man. A man who was still on the island.
How did she feel about this fiance, this Tom ... now? And how did she feel about him?
His mind swirled, trying to make sense of it all.
Without thinking, he sat down at his drawing table and lifted his pencil. Drawing always calmed him. Helped him focus. Soon, the lines were flowing from his hand, like gentle ocean swells. Then they began to cascade.
He let himself go, lost in his creativity. Suddenly, he felt he could see it there right before him, the design he’d been waiting for ... a design that was still hovering just out of reach.
He drafted one version, then another. All the time honing, perfecting, clearing away the fog, the uncertainty of form and flow.
Only in the early hours of the morning did he put the pencil aside and at last, sleep.