Vicky and Carl told his parents at lunch, after they had spent the morning talking and walking, and holding each other close, with an intimacy and happiness that neither had experienced before.
Her only moment of anxiety had come when Carl had said he wanted to tell his mother and father straight away.
What would they say? Would they –justifiably – consider her to be that which Clive had accused her of being? A social climbing gold digger. That would be ironic. And there was something else that had troubled her, was the first thing she had asked – ‘What about you and Anna?’
Carl dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
“Despite what it might appear, she is not, nor ever has been, my fiancé. That ring she always wears was given to her by my mother as a birthday gift some years ago. She placed it on that finger and kept up a constant pretence, as though if she insinuated it long enough, everybody, including myself, would believe it.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know what would have happened in the end, but one thing is certain. We would never have married.”
Vicky had nestled closer to him, feeling the comforting warmth from his body. And it made her feel good.
The Contessa, face beaming, kissed Vicky on both cheeks.
“My dear, I’m so happy for you both.”
“Congratulations Vicky,” John McKinley smiled, and he too, kissed her on her cheeks.
The Contessa wagged a finger at her son.
“I knew the moment I saw her, Carl, that you were in trouble. As for your bad moods...” She smiled, “... that really gave the game away... John and I knew then that Vicky had captivated your heart.”
Carl pulled a face, and winced.
“Was it that obvious, mother?”
The Contessa chuckled, “Yes it was.”
John McKinley drew Vicky to one side.
“Let’s go out on to the terrace – just for a moment.”
They excused themselves, and walked together, their arms linked.
“Do you mind having me for a daughter-in-law?” she asked a little apprehensively.
“Mind?” He stopped, and held both her hands in his.
“Vicky my dear, just think. Mary and I...”
His eyes had a far-away look, and they began to mist over. It was only then that she realised just how emotional this silver-haired man, whom she would soon be calling father, really was.
“Just think,” he paused, then after an effort - “what might have been?”
He looked at her, his eyes filling up.
Vicky threw her arms around him – as she realized her Aunt had done all those years ago, and they both shed a tear.
Exhausted, she slept in her room all afternoon. Vicky heard nothing. It was the Contessa who later on told her that there had been an unpleasant encounter between Carl and Anna. Afterwards the latter had packed some things and left the villa.
Saddened that there had to be some unhappiness in an otherwise wonderful day, Vicky and Carl nevertheless continued to make plans.
It was the Contessa who suggested a celebration dinner that night at one of the family’s favourite restaurants in the mountains.
The evening was hot and humid, so Vicky selected a light cotton dress with thin straps that left her shoulders and back cool, but took a pashmina for later.
The family-run restaurant was tucked away on a hillside above a valley with a picturesque village below.
Every now and then Carl’s hand found hers beneath the folds of the tablecloth as the candlelit meal progressed in an easy and leisurely fashion.
It was close on midnight when coffee was being served.
Perhaps it was the wine, but Carl’s eyes seemed to be on her more and more. It made her blood and every fibre in her body tingle with expectancy – at the promise of a fiery, dark intimacy, an entwining of half perceived physical desires and love that would go on and on all their lives.
Vicky had to tear her gaze away from him in order to cool down her surging blood. Her heart was pounding at a speed that began to frighten her, that she felt if she didn’t excuse herself, it would surely burst.
She wandered down the steps and along the shadowy flag-stoned path, to the ladies’ room set behind the inn.
Some five minutes or so later, she came out again into the night air pulling the pashmina over her shoulders at the slight chill.
“Vicky.”
The voice was just a whisper, coming from the direction of the garden. Puzzled, she paused. The night-smell of flowers and fir trees drifted to her nostrils.
“Who is it?” she questioned.
“Vicky.”
The whisper came again, full of an air of mystery. “Please come outside. I have something for you.”
The grounds fell away into the forest that surrounded the restaurant, with the twinkling lights of the village, visible far below.
But her searching eyes could see no one.
“Who is it?” she said. “I can’t see you.”
“I’m over here,” the voice beckoned. “By the steps.”
Full of curiosity, senses dulled by the heady events of the day and the more than plentiful glasses of Chianti at dinner, Vicky moved to a dimly seen balustrade that marked the boundary of the upper terrace.
It was more than likely one of the girls from the family restaurant, with a small engagement gift to impart – a posy of flowers from the mountains; or a hand-made veil perhaps.
She had been told that it was a custom in these parts and probably the girl was too shy to bring it to the family table.
As if to confirm her supposition, as she reached the balustrade, the voice now sounding strangely different, repeated –
“I have something for you.”
She was still unable to see anyone at the bottom of the stone steps that led to the lower garden, only the dark, mysterious shapes of clipped hedges, gathering around like a menacing crowd.
Gingerly, she edged her way down until she was at the bottom step.
“Where are you?” she asked, suddenly feeling unease.
Out of the darkness, caught in the light coming from somewhere high above the restaurant, two eyes, like those of a cat, glimmering with an inner fire.
She knew then – even before she saw the face – just who it was. And that the fire in those eyes staring at her was a fire of a mindless jealousy. A cold, paralysing fear reached the pit of her stomach, and closed its icy fingers about her back; the figure that now confronted her was no young girl from the restaurant, but Anna!
The two women held each other’s stare in silence.
“What do you want?” Vicky finally managed.
“Want?” Anna gave a low chuckle.
“I don’t want anything – from you. What’s mine, is mine. I warned you to go back to England.”
Suddenly, for no reason that she could think of, Vicky felt sorry for Anna Mioretti. After all, she had been sitting pretty until she had come along. But there it was. Life was like that.
Vicky said hesitantly, “I do.... understand. Really, I do and I’m very sorry. Won’t you come and join the party? I’m sure everyone would love to see you.”
Vicky stepped forward, offering her hand in a token of friendship, but Anna slapped it away.
“I don’t want your damned sympathy,” she screamed.
Startled, Vicky stepped back a pace.
“If that’s your attitude, there’s nothing further to say.”
Anna’s face twisted, her voice edged with sarcastic malice.
“There’s nothing further to say,” she mimicked.
Vicky spun on her heel, and began to walk away, hot tears welling in her eyes. But she got only one foot on the first step when two large figures came out of the gloom.
Carl frowned as he looked at his watch for the umpteenth time.
“I wonder what’s keeping Vicky? Do you think she’s alright?”
The Contessa put her hand on his shoulder and smiled.
“Of course. Patience, Carl. Patience.”
John McKinley’s eyes twinkled as he looked at his wife.
“Come now, my dear. They’re in love. And young love is always impatient.”
Carl, momentarily distracted, smiled at his parents. But when Vicky had still not put in an appearance several minutes later, he became really agitated.
“Mother, would you go along and see if she’s all right? She said she was only going to the ladies’ room, and she should surely have been back by now. Maybe she’s slipped on something.”
The Contessa removed the napkin from her lap, patted her lips, and placed the square of linen on the table.
“All right, Carl. If it will put your mind at rest, I’ll go and powder my own nose while John settles our account.” The Contessa smiled knowingly. “Girls do like to pretty themselves, you know. You’ll just have to learn to be patient.”
Semi-placated, Carl stood up, and held his mother’s chair back from the table for her.
John McKinley exchanged pleasantries with the proprietor and his buxom wife as he counted out the money to pay the bill, while Carl stood behind them, eyes on where his mother would reappear – with Vicky. But the Contessa returned alone, a worried look on her face.
“What is it, mother?” Carl asked anxiously. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” the Contessa shrugged. “She’s certainly not in the ladies’ room.
“But” Carl insisted, “she must be.”
“I tell you she is not.”
The Contessa’s voice was firm.
“I've checked.” Her face clouded. “But...”
“But what?” he asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The Contessa had stepped out onto the terrace, knowing it was the only way that Vicky could have gone. She misconstrued the reason, thinking that Vicky had perhaps found everything overwhelming, and needed a moment alone in the fresh air. It was a big step for anyone, pledging their life to another for ever and ever, and it had happened so quickly, though she had no doubt about their love for each other.
Suddenly and uncharacteristically roughly he placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders.
“What is it? Why do you hesitate?”
“The garden below,” she said. “I thought Vicky was probably getting some fresh air before returning.”
“And?” Carl snapped.
His mother looked desperately from him to her husband and back again.
“It was empty – but her shawl was on the ground – and her handbag.”