From his chair next to the fireplace in the living room, Samuel heard a car pull up, the door open and the badante offer her thanks. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was Mario’s voice in response. Fleetingly, he thought of clambering out of his chair and going to meet his long-missed friend, but the car drove away before he could even pull himself to his feet. His unexpected disappointment was tempered by his relief. He took a deeper breath and realised, with a rush of shame, that he’d been worried the badante might not return. It shocked him down to his slippered feet. It was not that she was particularly wonderful. He’d had badanti better at making coffee, and certainly better at gardening. She wasn’t indispensable, though he did enjoy her cooking. He wasn’t anxious about her leaving, specifically. But between the notes of Vivaldi, sneaking in around the memories of holding Assunta close to his chest and dancing at their fortieth wedding anniversary, a window opened somewhere in his awareness of himself and he knew the awful truth.
He was afraid.
When he’d broken his wrist, he’d crossed a line. It was the first fracture of his life. And with a kick to his guts, the next thought—it probably wouldn’t be his last.
He’d thought he’d handled ageing well. He’d sensibly made the decision to close up his and Assunta’s bedroom and move downstairs while he could still choose how to do it, though granted, Assunta’s death had prompted the decision. The room held too many memories, too many regrets. Over many years, he’d made modifications to the house. Renovating the downstairs bathroom had been the biggest, but it was something he knew many older people left far too late. Not him. He planned to stay in this house till his dying breath, no matter what arguments his children might present as to why he should move over to England to live with them. This was where he was closest to Assunta, and this was where he would stay.
But how much longer would that be—a month, a year, ten years more?
Until now, he’d got by with badanti for housework, shopping and cooking. Travelling to Rome with a badante was a new experience. He’d known he’d need help to get through the manic streets of the city and to the Trevi Fountain. He couldn’t ask Matteo to help. Not because Matteo would have refused, but because Samuel didn’t want him to see what he was going to do there at the fountain, throwing away the ring Assunta had chosen for him. Matteo was his only link left to Assunta’s family, and while at times Samuel had tried to refuse his great-nephew’s help and push him away, on the inside he was crying with relief that someone still cared.
There, he’d admitted it. His stubborn pride and ruthless convictions could carry him only so far. He’d once thought he could shoulder the burden of Assunta’s passing alone, and had deliberately distanced himself from her family, letting them hate him.
Even Carlo.
But Samuel had to be strong for his wife, no matter how much he missed the closest person he’d ever had to a brother over here.
It wasn’t just Carlo, though; he missed them all. He missed having people near him who knew his past, who wanted to share plates of food cooked in his kitchen, to open vino and let it loosen tongues and shoes until everyone was dancing under the lantern-lit trees at night. To laugh and joke in that easy way one could with family.
How would things change if he told them all the truth? What would it do to Assunta, who he knew with all his heart was watching over him?
He heard the badante pull up one of the sun lounges outside to watch the sun set. How long would she stay here? He didn’t know anything about her.
He felt his lips twitch into a smile. It was obvious to him that there were sparks between her and Matteo. An image flew unbidden into his mind, a coupling of Matteo and the badante and a whole new family to fill this villa. Where had that idea come from? He tried to extinguish it from his mind, but instead he could see Assunta smiling at the image, her round cheeks and long black hair, her dark chestnut eyes sparkling with glee. She loved a bit of matchmaking.
He shook his head lightly at her, but gave in to her will as he usually had.
Lara. The badante’s name was Lara. Maybe she was the answer.