Chapter Seventy-Nine

Michaela

Weeks after I called the man who seemed to be my birth father, Adalberto Simone was coming to California. We’d had many chats in the interim, some on FaceTime.

I learned he and my mother met in a club in Milan where he was singing. They had an eyes-across-a-crowded-room moment, a whirlwind romance, eloped, then she changed her mind within days of their honeymoon. He woke to find her gone and that was that.

She’d flitted off to Europe after college and conceived me that June.

Neither of us knew if she’d loved him.

Berto rebounded from his heartbreak to eventually marry his current wife and become successful enough to open the club. She was French, explaining the location. They had three children—boy, girl, boy—so if he really was my father, I had half-siblings.

In our last call, I asked him if he was okay taking a paternity test. So we’d both know for sure. I’d considered waiting to ask until he was here, but thankfully, he wasn’t offended.

August 8^th—heading to LAX to pick him up.

“Michaela. Breathe,” Lincoln said in the passenger seat of my Mazda 6. I’d traded in my Honda during a Memorial Day weekend sale. “You’re going to crack the steering wheel.”

I didn’t have the strength for that, but point taken. I flexed my hands as we crept in traffic. “My nerves that obvious?”

“To me.” My ever-perceptive lover. “I should’ve gotten you off before we left.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re so bad.”

“What? It’s therapeutic. You get a good mellow on after an orgasm or three.”

Shaking my head, I laughed. “It’s what I get for dating a rockstar. But thank you.”

“Always.”

“If only traffic didn’t suck on a Saturday.”

My phone chimed. I glanced at it in the holder. Plane docked at gate.

If he was only just disembarking, we still had a while to go before he’d be at the curb.

“Was he checking a bag?” Lincoln asked. He grabbed my phone.

“For a four-day stay? I hope not.”

“Here, I’ll type that we’re on the way to the pick-up point. In traffic.”

“Thanks.”

After a lot of swearing at people that can’t drive, we finally pulled up to the curb. I texted. The nearby cop wouldn’t let us sit long before making us go around and come back, so I hoped—

“There,” Lincoln said, pointing. He opened his door, then the rear.

I opened my door enough to stand and wave. Lincoln hurried over to Berto and directed him through the crowd. I sat again and got ready to move once they were loaded in.

Berto slid into the front seat. Lincoln hopped in back and said, “Go.”

“Sorry for the rush,” I said.

Berto chuckled. “You’re not the only country with travel chaos. Hello, Michaela.”

“Hi.” The good nature put me at ease.

“Did you introduce yourself?” I asked Lincoln.

“Quickly, but yes. Mom would have my hide if I didn’t offer a man a proper handshake.”

“Si, a good grip. Where are we off to, cara?”

“My house. Please get comfortable. It’s a bit of a drive today.”

Once upon a time, SoCal freeways were pretty clear on Saturdays, but not anymore.

“It’s no trouble. Where I come from, we don’t rush life. Of course, the young can be impatient, but we learn as we mature that everything will get done, eventually, in due time.”

“Michaela did not inherit that gene,” Lincoln said.

“Hush.”

“It’s been one of my primary goals for eight months to get her to worry less,” he added.

“Thanks.”

Berto laughed. “You’re like me with my wife. She, as you say, cracks the whip. But our nightclub wouldn’t succeed without her. Balance, eh? Yin and yang.”

“I have no idea how you and my mother fell in love.” Even for a moment.

“I’m sorry for the pain between you.” He sighed. “She was young, then. When I look back, we got caught up in passion and mistook it for love. She realized it before I did. The mistake was in not being honest. We make unfortunate decisions when we’re young. She might’ve been scared I wouldn’t let her go.”

I glanced at him. “Would you?”

“Without knowing about you, maybe. If it was best for her. We all deserve to be loved by someone who wants to be there.”

“We do.”

Lincoln met my eyes in the rearview mirror. I was so grateful for his heart.

We moved to happier topics for the rest of the drive.

At home, I gave Adalberto the tour while Lincoln picked Matty up from soccer practice. We’d spent summer getting my son used to my boyfriend in ways that would be positive, yet still slow. Lincoln played enough soccer as a kid to kick the ball around in the backyard and they played a few content-appropriate video games.

A bit of a fun-uncle vibe, except I also wanted him to show Lincoln respect.

So, as of August, he was doing some pick-ups when it helped me.

“La tua casa è bella, Michaela,” Berto said upstairs. “What is this style called?”

“Craftsman. Gustav Stickley is credited with boosting the popularity of it in the early 1900s, but locally, Charles and Henry Greene started designing homes in 1894, like the Bolton House in 1906, the Blacker House in 1907, and the Gamble House in 1909. They were so popular, everyone copied aspects of their style to make the California Bungalow.” We entered the guest room. “This house was built in 1910. The previous owners painted the outside in shades of green to honor those Pasadena landmarks. I feel pretty honored to care for its legacy.”

He grinned. “History lover?”

“Not…deliberately, but certain things speak to me. The family I’ve known is from Williamsburg, Virginia, founded in 1632. My grandfather had a tool and die shop and Uncle Harry was a cabinetmaker, so when it comes to things made with your hands…”

“Ah. Traditional arts and crafts. We treasure our local small businesses in Italy, especially in the small towns. Mama has a list of her most trusted people.”

“Shopping local. I like that. America has generally forgotten how to do that with big web-stores taking over the bulk of commerce.” I opened the closet. “This is small, but the furniture is empty, so make yourself at home. Any requests for dinner?”

“I’m not picky.”

I nodded and left him to settle in.

Downstairs, my phone started ringing. I went to my purse by the door.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Simon? You called about scheduling a paternity test. We can swab you today if you get in by three and then results would be ready in two business days.”

“Oh. Wow. Give me a sec.” I returned upstairs. The guest room door was still open. “Hey…Berto? Um, the clinic for the paternity test can take our samples this afternoon. Do you mind doing that today?”

He placed a shirt on a hangar on the rod in the closet, then turned to me. “No, cara.”

“Thanks. We just need to get in by three.”

“Tell me when we need to leave.”

I nodded and returned to the call and downstairs.

“We can get there today. Thanks.” I double-checked the address, then hung up.

Wow…I’d know about my father on Tuesday or Wednesday.

Don’t get too excited.

I texted Lincoln: We’re going to get swabbed for the test once Berto finishes putting clothes away. Do you have an idea for dinner?

So I didn’t hover, I went into the kitchen to look at what I had in stock. Should we eat out his first night? Or keep it low-key after he traveled a ton of hours? I wasn’t used to hosting, especially someone from out of town. If Moira and I had friends over, it was for snacks.

I can make something, Lincoln replied.

Not Italian.

LOL okay.

With Lincoln cooking dinner here sometimes this summer, my kitchen was stocked with more variety than I’d made for myself and Matty since February. What I knew how to make, I did well, but with watching my pennies for ten years, I’d stuck to cheap recipes.

Or dollar menus.

The door swung open. “I’m ready,” Adalberto said.

“Great.”