As the many pieces of my life were still trying to find each other in all that madness, at least my conscience and willpower were revamped, as Mr. Clean’s words had begun to sink in. It did take a lot of courage to overhaul my life completely with the decision to lose weight. But I had courage to spare. With all the changes I’d brought about in my life over the years, and all that had happened to send me reeling and landing with a painful thud on my ass, what were a few squats in comparison? And dieting? Nothing I hadn’t done before.
To the point I went home, to where Rosina had made an exquisite lasagne, and fixed myself a tuna salad for dinner – no mayo, no oil, just tuna and lettuce. And no bread, of course. Maddy and Warren watched me as they chomped away on their glorious food, Paul’s portion safely tucked away in the microwave for when he got back from Chef Alberto’s. Even if I knew Paul wouldn’t have any space (or inclination) left after eating Alberto’s food. Just the thought of Alberto’s goodies made me weak in the knees and I put my fork down, overwhelmed with a craving for real food and not this joke.
‘Aren’t you hungry, Mommy?’ Maddy asked as she held out some of her lasagne for me, bless her generous little soul.
‘No, sweetheart,’ I said, caressing her pink cheek.
‘Mom’s got to lose some weight or she won’t fit into her wedding dress,’ Warren sentenced, and I flashed him a pox disguised as a smile.
‘Is your wedding dress pretty, Mommy?’ Maddy asked.
The one in the shop was, I wanted to say. But in my size, it would look like a deflated hot-air balloon. ‘Very pretty, sweetheart. Almost as pretty as yours.’
Her face lit up. ‘I get a dress, too?’
‘Of course. You’re going to be my flower girl.’ Hopefully before she started dating.
She gasped in bliss. ‘Flower girl…!’
‘That’s right, honey.’
Maddy thought about it. ‘Then no pasta for you, Mommy.’
How right she was. I was on a mission now. Saturday was a non-fat day, as well, and even on Sunday I’d done myself proud with a long walk into town and back without even glancing at the eateries that dotted the corso. And on top of that, in the privacy of my bedroom I also performed fifty squats in my pajamas for good measure.
But, as it often happens, by Sunday evening I’d chickened out. The memory of all those skinny people whizzing around like jumping jacks while I could barely stand on one foot made me feel inadequate. I’d vowed to keep up with them somehow, but how? I wasn’t so sure anymore. I needed a push of some sort. Besides my reflection in the mirror, I mean. And then the light bulb over my head lit up.
‘Paul, you absolutely have to come with me – I can’t go back there alone!’ I said as I cleared the table for his laptop.
‘Go to the gym? With all those sweaty, stinking, grunting, leotarded losers? You must be joking. I’ll sign up for dance classes with you, though.’
Dance classes with Paul was how I’d lost the weight the first time. But now I needed more. I needed a crash course, a crash diet and a crash helmet, because I was in for one helluva ride that would hopefully get things going once and for all. And I didn’t want to do it alone. Besides, wasn’t Paul my partner in crime?
‘I thought gay men liked the gym?’ I pressed, and he turned in his seat to look at me as I loaded the dishwasher.
‘That’s so biased! And politically incorrect.’
I shrugged. ‘I just thought you might like some eye candy, that’s all.’
He sat up. ‘Were there any good-looking guys?’
A swish of purple legwarmers and carbuncular sweaty faces flashed before me. ‘Uhm…’
‘Right. I’ll come to one lesson.’
‘Yay!’
‘Don’t get excited. One lesson means one.’
*
As it turned out, Renata came as well, only she really should have stayed at home, because all her cackling and making fun of the crazy outfits was distracting me while Mr. Clean (I still didn’t know his name) was explaining a new exercise.
‘Will you shut up?’ I hissed. ‘Go home if you’re not interested.’
‘Are you kidding me? And miss out on all this fun?’ she hissed back. ‘Just look at that woman and that Brazilian outfit. Is she for real?’
‘Can’t you be more respectful?’ I asked. ‘That’s just so mean.’
‘Erica?’ Mr. Clean called over the crowd who, like synchronized swimmers, turned all at the same time to look at me.
I swallowed, feeling two inches tall, an apology on my lips, when he said, ‘Erica, I need you to stay behind today.’
Everyone continued to stare at me and at the ragtag trio I was part of: the obviously gorgeous and gay man on my right, and the tattooed, big-boobed, big-mouthed Marxist on my left.
Great – all I needed was for everybody to notice me. I’d spent all my life trying to fit in and not stand out, and now everyone knew my name. So much for Athletics Anonymous. It was like high school all over again, only I’d never got into trouble back then.
‘See what you’ve done?’ I hissed again, hiding behind a red-headed bombshell in front of me as the music resumed and an even more complicated series of steps and jumps and lunges started.
Paul did his very best and looked very much the part while Renata was doubled over in the corner, holding her sides and guffawing her ass off at the pseudo-haka number.
‘That’s it,’ I snapped at her. ‘You’re out. Go home.’
‘Aah… I had so much fun, Erica. Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Actually, I didn’t. It was all Paul’s idea. Because he doesn’t know you as well as I do. He thought you’d actually be able to behave yourself.’
She giggled. ‘I’ll have to come back for another laugh,’ she said, drying her eyes as I rolled mine.
‘No, you won’t. Now go home and think about what you’ve done.’
But she just burst out laughing again while she collected her gear.
When the session was over, I waited for Mr. Clean to finish talking to someone.
‘You, ah, wanted to see me? Sorry about that, by the way.’
‘You mean Renata? Don’t mention it. She could never keep a straight face in a gym.’
I blinked. ‘You know her?’
‘Cara, everyone knows everyone in Castellino, don’t you know that by now? Plus, we used to be in the same class at school.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t let her put you off, Erica.’
‘Oh, it’s not Renata,’ I defended her.
‘Then what is it?’
I shifted uneasily. ‘It’s just… it’s too difficult. I feel big and slow and… awkward.’
He studied me for a minute. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you stay behind for Pilates and a half-hour workout?’
‘Now?’ I had to go home, make dinner, supervise homework and, oh – strap on an oxygen mask pronto.
‘Just this once. See how it goes. Pilates is nice and quiet and the workout is at your own pace. What do you say?’
‘We’ll watch the kids for you,’ Paul, always a Judas in these situations, chimed in. ‘Stay. I’ll hitch a ride with Renata.’
I shrugged. ‘OK, then.’
It turned out that, with fewer people in the hall, it didn’t stink so much. The lights stayed on and the music was so soft I could actually hear him – and the others – breathing.
First, we quietly stretched and did all sorts of gentle movements that didn’t make me feel like a two-ton elephant. Even Mr. Clean’s voice had toned down. If this continued, I could actually enjoy it. I looked around, comforted by the presence of women my age and even older, some even pleasantly plump, clad in clean but no-nonsense sports gear that didn’t glow in the dark or give you a wedgie. Their hair was tied up in scrunchies and, most of all, there was a lot of smiling and deep breathing going on. Yes, this, I could do. The haka? Not so much.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I studied my reflection. Next to my similars, I didn’t stand out like a yeti. Actually, I kind of looked… normal, you know? I felt ten feet tall for fitting in.
And when Mr. Clean kneeled before me to check my position, he winked in approval.
‘How was that?’ he asked me at the end as I was putting my sneakers back on.
I looked up and smiled. ‘It was good.’
‘Excellent. And by the way, Erica, I used to weigh much more than you.’
I swear my eyes popped out of my head. This four-foot-nothing, lean Mr. Clean?
‘Really? You?’
‘Sì. So- see you on Wednesday?’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Wednesday.’
‘And, Erica? Bring your friend again.’
‘You know she’s married…’
He shook his head. ‘The other one…’
‘Paul? Sure.’ Well, well, well…
*
When Julian returned, he marveled at how well I’d done with the cake business.
‘I had to do something. I was going crazy,’ I admitted.
‘I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart,’ Julian promised, moving to stand behind me as I was changing into my nightgown, his reflection infinitely more pleasing than mine in the mirror as he wrapped his arms – his very long arms – around me, lacing his fingers over my levitating midriff and gently drawing me back against his chest. ‘The wedding, my absences, the locusts, everything.’
Now that the decision to forgo the riding school had been made, he seemed much more relaxed. At least one of us was on the up and up.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I assured him.
‘How about we just go ahead and do it when I get back from my next trip?’
‘What?’
‘We’ll just book a normal restaurant, get Padre Adolfo in and get it done.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course. You already have everything else ready.’
‘So you’re ready to marry me, just like that? Anywhere we can find?’
‘Of course. Who cares if it’s a restaurant and not a fancy place? All I want is you, Erica.’
If I’d cared before, now I was past that. All I wanted was to marry the guy, already.
‘So if I can book Padre Adolfo, we’re in?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal!’
Julian kissed my ear, nibbling lightly. ‘Have I told you lately how sexy you are? Mind-blowingly sexy.’
‘OK, you don’t need to overdo it,’ I warned with a resigned chuckle, placing my hands over his and craning my neck backward to let him kiss me in what could only be classified as a Titanic kiss.
If you haven’t already tried it during the movie craze when people were re-enacting the famous scene and consequently falling off boats all over the world, try it now, even without the ship. You don’t need it if you have a man who rocks your world and blows your insecurities way out the water.
‘What?’ Julian said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I love you, Julian.’
He reached down and pulled my hand to his lips. ‘I love you more,’ he whispered back. ‘Now pull on some clothes.’
‘Don’t you usually say the opposite at this point?’
‘Not this time, love.’
I shrugged. ‘OK. Where are we going?’
Julian was grinning at me, his dark eyes mischievous, and something inside me twisted. God, I really did love this guy.
‘To celebrate.’
‘But, Warren and Maddy…’
‘I’ve got a sitter.’ He winked. ‘I’m taking you to your favorite restaurant.’
‘L’Archetto? The one that serves pane Arabo?’
‘The very one.’
‘Cool! Thank you!’
‘You’re very welcome, sweetheart.’
So after our meal of pane Arabo (which is basically a large pita bread filled with fresh ingredients like mozzarella cheese, prosciutto di Parma and rocket lettuce, with a drizzle of olive oil and grilled for a few minutes), I sat back with a sigh, content as I watched other diners laughing and drinking, glasses clinking and forks chiming against emptying plates. Even for a few moments, life could slow down if you let it.
The Casciani issue now hopefully over, the wedding plans in Paul’s hands, baking gave me the chance to spend more time with Maddy and Warren. Even he enjoyed watching (and licking the bowls). It was so nice to have them home and I truly cherished watching them growing up. Something which I hadn’t been able to do in Boston while pulling eight-hour shifts (and traveling) for The Farthington.
As far as Julian was concerned, even when he was home, we rarely spent time together, immersed as he was in his career. And Sienna. Most of the time he worked with her over the phone (when she wasn’t here) until way into the night, breaking into a hearty laugh from time to time. She apparently kept him well entertained. While I hadn’t, being either asleep or too damn deflated by the time he turned in.
Not that he was offering, lately. And we weren’t even married yet. I couldn’t even remember the last time we made love. What with the stress of the locusts, losing the crops, replanting the crops, and everything else, I was just too exhausted – and fuming – even to lift a finger after dinner, let alone engage in some hot sex.
Hot sex. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d even longed for it. Were we aging too quickly? Was life passing us by so fast we’d forgotten to live, love and be happy? Had the thrill already gone? How could I make it come back?
*
Later that day, I got a call from Paul’s amazing chef, Alberto.
‘Can you meet me at my restaurant?’ he asked. ‘Paul’s in Florence and I need some decisions made.’
Made for what, a wedding that may never, ever happen? I eyed the kitchen clock. My roast was in the oven. Not that I’d be partaking, but still, the family needed to be fed.
‘Give me half an hour.’
As I pulled up to De Gustibus, Alberto’s restaurant, or Bust De Guts, as I still liked to call it, he was waiting outside with a sheepish grin. At the question mark that must have blossomed on my forehead, he laughed.
‘Come.’
‘Where?’
‘To a food lover’s dream place – a farm in Pienza. They will, if they pass my test, be providing their cheeses and other kinds of produce for your wedding dinner. I told them you’re a tough cookie and that you want nothing but the best.’
Which was true. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Hop in.’
‘Or… we could go in mine,’ he suggested, pushing a small remote.
Behind me was a thick thud. I whirled round to meet the blinking eyes of his famous black Ferrari.
Suddenly, whizzing off to Pienza for a food and wine afternoon with another man seemed odd to me. But I wasn’t doing anything wrong, was I? It wasn’t like I was going up into the mountains to a log cabin with the guy, right? So rumor had it he flirted a bit. OK, more than a bit. But at the end of the day, he was Paul’s love interest and if I could do anything to bend Alberto’s ear to Paul’s fabulousness, I would. But, between you and me? I was not getting the gay vibe.
As we soared (there’s no other word for traveling in a Ferrari) through the Siena countryside, I admired the backdrop of yellows, russets, auburns and greens and the winding paths guarded on either side by towering cypress trees. Before I knew it, the ride was over and Alberto parked under the medieval walls of Pienza.
I turned to look over the ramparts and almost died and went to heaven. Below us, as far as the eye could see, spread the breathtaking Val d’Orcia. I’d forgotten it was so beautiful.
‘Up we go,’ he said, putting a gentle hand at my back to push me forward onto the road weaving into town.
And in two minutes flat, I was struggling. Mr. Clean would be ashamed of me. I understand not being able to do the haka, but a tiny Treka up a hill? Was I that out of shape? Jesus.
Alfredo shot me an amused glance. ‘Need a boost?’
‘I’m fine,’ I wheezed, trying to sound normal, my chest about to explode.
Christ, how much did I weigh again? Certainly more than eighty-six, judging by my wheezing noises I was frantically trying to smother behind my fake cough and throat-clearing.
Through winding paths (and me trying not to pant too loudly or sweat too profusely), we emerged through to Piazza Pio II and the cathedral. I stood in silence (also because breathing at this point had become tricky), absorbing the familiar and yet still astonishing site.
Alberto stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood back to admire what he obviously knew like the back of his hands. ‘You know, Pienza is dubbed La Città Utopia.’
If there was anyone who had done their homework on the province of Siena, it was me. I flashed him a smile. ‘The Ideal City.’
He made an impressed face. ‘Ah, you already knew that. But did you know that it’s the birthplace of Pope Pius II?’
I grinned and he grinned.
‘OK, I can tell you know that, too. But did you know, my dear Erica, that Pienza has two very romantic roads?’
Romantic? That caught my attention. I could bring Julian here and maybe, with a bit of luck…
‘Ah-ha,’ he said, his amber eyes twinkling. ‘Here, let me show you.’
And he took my hand and dragged me up another steep street as with my free hand, I tugged surreptitiously at my bra, which seemed to want to give up its fight. I could only hope that it would, if you’ll pardon the pun, hang in there and not give up its fight altogether, especially now.
Higher and higher we climbed, my feet getting heavier and heavier, my breathing reduced to a strangled wheezing. Just as I thought I’d crash onto the cobblestones like a felled bull in a ring, he stopped.
‘This, my beautiful friend, is Via del Bacio.’
‘The street of the kiss,’ I translated rather badly.
It sounded awful in English. Why did Italians make everything sound better? Look and taste better, too? Because Italians were people of love.
‘Exactly. And did you know that there’s also a Via dell’Amore?’
The Street of Love? Whoa.
I looked up at him and he nodded, not letting go of my (sweaty) hand and leading me through a maze of medieval paths (that gave no sign whatsoever of leveling out) winding through ancient stone archways. In two minutes, we were standing under a sign that read, to the point, Via dell’Amore.
He stopped and glanced at me. What? For real? Was he trying it on with me? What about Paul? Not that Alberto had mentioned him all afternoon and whenever I happened to slip in his name, Alberto chuckled and said, ‘Please – no work this afternoon, sì?’
And now he was flirting with me? Had he run out of fodder? Paul would kill Alberto (and me) if I had proof he wasn’t gay. Not that I ever suspected he was. He was just too manly and gruff, in a way. Nor was he the politest guy in the world (I’d seen the way he kicked his staff around). But there was something about him – his boyish arrogance, maybe – that made him almost… well, endearing.
Or, most probably, it was the fact that he’d whisked me away on a carefree day and begun to womanize me for a few hours while I couldn’t get my own groom-to-be to pay some intimate attention to me.
So what if he was flirting? So I kind of flirted back, albeit subtly. Plus, I could handle him easily. He was a classy playboy, nothing like the town playboy, Leonardo Cortini. All they had in common was the type of car they drove.
No, Alberto was an interesting guy, a god in the kitchen. He had an under-the-skin sexiness that got into you after you spoke to him for a while and you realized how soulful he was, with that bitter sense of humor and the gaze that held much more than meets the eye. In another time, another life (and if neither Paul nor Julian existed), I’d have easily fallen for Alberto’s enveloping, protective manner. Of course, I’d have much preferred to be with Julian, but as usual, he wasn’t around.
Alberto ran a hand through the short hair at his nape and removed his denim jacket. Underneath he wore a black T-shirt revealing tribal tats. Oh, bad boy, was he, then?
‘Scusa,’ Alberto suddenly said to a teenager rollerblading by. ‘Ci faresti una foto, per favore?’
A picture? Here, in the Street of Love? Ho, boy. The man was sure pulling out all the stops. A soft thrill traversed me and I kept telling myself it was all in harmless fun. Tomorrow, I’d be back in my own frustrating reality. But for today, I’d sit back and enjoy some innocent banter. It had been such a long time since I’d felt this important in anyone’s eyes.
The teen braked and shoved his cellphone into his back pocket as Alberto pulled out his own phone, pulling me back against the brick wall with the street sign Via dell’Amore above us.
As the boy waited for the right moment to shoot, Alberto casually put his arm around me, leaning in close to my face. Paul would absolutely kill me if he found out about this outing (or the lack of Alberto’s outing).
‘Grazie. And now,’ Alberto said to me, his arm still slung over my shoulder, ‘for the reason of our trip.’
‘You mean you’re finally going to feed me?’
He looked down at me, his eyes focusing on my face, then grinned. ‘I’m going to feed you, yes.’
‘Cool. Because I’m not on a diet today, in case you were wondering.’ Screw Mr. Clean. Today was a day away from reality.
He opened a door to reveal what looked like a hole in the wall. I shot him a glance before I peered into a large, dark cave, welcoming the coolness inside after my rubber soles had practically melted on the smoldering cobblestones.
‘In there?’ I asked, and he nodded, his eyes twinkling.
‘After you, my lady.’
As we walked down a narrow corridor, he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ll be blown away, trust me.’
He was right. What was supposed to have been a mere tasting of cheeses and cold meats for our wedding antipasto turned out to be a full-blown lunch. Parma ham, cooked ham, smoked ham, a type of salami called finocchiona seasoned with fennel seeds and an array of soft cheeses including the Cacio di Pienza, Marzolino di Pienza and the famous Pienza Pecorino Toscano DOP. All accompanied by an amazing focaccia drizzled with olive oil and oregano, olives, capers and every succulent Italian antipasto I could think of.
Sadly, it looked like Alberto cared more about my wedding day than Julian did. I knew it was silly of me even to think so and that Alberto was only doing his job the best he could (which included some very classy personal touches). If Julian could be here, he’d take more part in the preparation. Right?
As we sat down, he ordered a selection of Montepulciano wines. Bingo. No Italian meal was a meal without wine.
‘I’m going to get you the best wine in Tuscany for your wedding,’ he promised.
My wedding. Huh. I snapped my head back and glugged the contents like a Coke can and Alberto laughed.
‘Well, I’m glad that you’re on top of my wedding. Is work all you ever think about?’ I said breathily.
Uh-oh. That was supposed to be me wheezing, but it came out a bit too flirty. But Alberto was man enough to ignore that little nudge, thank God. There was no way in hell I’d ever entertain a little foray into adultery and I wanted to make damn sure he got that much straight. But he reassured me with a smile.
‘Yes, work is my life.’
‘Don’t you have a… companion of sorts? Seriously now.’ A little digging for Paul to show him I was only looking out for his interests would maybe ease the blow of our little outing together.
Alberto laughed. ‘A companion? Let’s say I’m never lonely.’
Lucky you, I thought as I polished off the wine and stuffed a square of focaccia into my mouth, chewed and washed it down with some more vino.
‘Are you happy?’ I asked. ‘With your life, I mean?’
He smiled. ‘I have the best job in the world, I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and I’m young and healthy. Why wouldn’t I be happy?’
Well, why not indeed… He himself had said he wasn’t lonely. A slight shadow of envy passed over me. No, not envy. Just… wanting to be happy. Wasn’t that one of the main goals in life?
The sun was low when he dropped me off at my car in front of De Gustibus. And speaking of Bust de Guts, as I called it, I was splitting at the seams from the gorgeous food and wine.
‘Thanks for a great time, Alberto.’
He looked at me and squeezed my shoulder. ‘Thank you, beautiful.’ And then he let go. ‘Take care.’
On my way home, he sent me a text with an attachment: the two of us posing like a couple in Via dell’Amore. I laughed and shook my head, humming ‘Here comes the bride’ to myself all the way home.
*
As I had an eighteenth birthday cake to start tomorrow, today I was pre-prepping some meals, particularly my panzanella, a summer salad made with stale bread dipped in balsamic vinegar and olive oil layered with sliced onions, olives, tomatoes, tuna or ham, corn and a generous dose of mint or basil, whatever you have in the house. This is because Tuscan cuisine is based on the ancient tradition of using whatever is left over from the previous meal to reinvent something new. It’s called ‘cucina povera’ and everyone in my house loves it. It’s too bad you have to wait while it sets in the refrigerator for twenty-four hours.
‘I just got a call from Sienna,’ Julian said as he came into the kitchen. ‘She wants me to do a photo shoot to promote my book.’
I looked up from my panzanella-in-progress. She really was seeing more of him than I was. What happened to halving the times he’d be going abroad?
I bit my lip. ‘Right. When are you going?’
‘Tomorrow morning. But I’m only going to Milan. Be back by the evening, sweets,’ he promised, kissing the side of my head. ‘And, oh, Terry’s flying over to discuss a few promo ideas.’
I snorted. ‘You mean like the last time, when he wanted you on the cover of your book in a baseball outfit so badly torn there was more skin than stripes?’
Gorgeous skin, mind. Because he was such a beautiful man. As opposed to me, the grizzly bear with boobs who had to starve to death to look half-decent. How the hell had I managed to pull this guy in the first place?
‘He’s only trying to do my what’s in my best interest, Erica.’
‘Your interest – hah! I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to pose in shredded briefs. Tell him you’re not a fashion model like David Beckham.’
‘OK, Victoria,’ he said with a grin.
I speared him with an icy look. ‘You think this is funny? Terry’s not to be trusted. Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That if he told you all the pantiles on the rooftops in Castellino were made of gingerbread, you’d believe it.’
Julian looked at me and then went all stony and defensive like I’d never ever seen him before. The look on his face made me stop and think I was being a bitch. I shouldn’t be so aggressive. This man had saved me.
‘I’m sorry, Julian. I just don’t want you to get duped.’
‘I won’t get duped,’ he insisted.
‘Oh, trust me, you will. You know I’m good at reading people and he… he scares me. He’s not a friend of yours. All he wants is all the money you can make him. Every time he sees you, his eyes light up in dollar signs.’
Julian shrugged. ‘That’s what agents do.’
‘No. There are agents, and then there are good agents. A good agent takes care of his people. But Terry only takes care of himself. Can’t you dump him and just keep Sienna?’
Whoa, had I just suggested that? You see, I am a selfless woman who cares about her man’s career, after all!
‘Erica, I had three completely different careers before I even met you. I don’t need you to worry about me. Besides, Sienna is my European agent. Terry knows the other side of the pond like the back of his hand.’
I glanced at him as I finished prepping my panzanella. What was happening here? Before Terry and Sienna had come into our lives we were just fine. I was his sounding board. I was indeed his Victoria Beckham, but now, apparently, he didn’t need my opinion anymore. Now wasn’t the time to drag out all my insecurities. I didn’t want to seem needy to him.
I shrugged and with all the indifference I could muster, said: ‘Suit yourself, superhero.’
He’d noticed the shift in my demeanor. And he didn’t like it. So he tried a different tactic.
‘Hmm, panzanella – looks great.’
‘It’s not for now. It has to sit in the refrigerator for a few hours,’ I explained. ‘I’ll save you some for when you get back.’
Julian took my hand. ‘And when I do, for your once-a-week reward, I’ll bring back a nice dessert and we can have a late night, just the two of us, on the terrace under your beloved pergola, how’s that?’
I turned to him, unable to hide my concern. He acknowledged it with a sweet, resigned smile that meant we were good again, that no one could come between us. And that, come hell or high water, we would find a way to get married.
I took his face in my hands and whispered, ‘Hurry home, future husband.’