I picked up a throw pillow—Cinderella twirling under the wordsDreams do come true—
Ironic.
“Please, Chiara?” Jack’s voice took on a pleading edge. I refused to look up at him, knowing one glimpse of his concerned, caring eyes and oh-so-kissable mouth would have me spilling all my secrets.
Part of me hated that I liked him. That he made me feel comfortable with myself, which in turn, made me more vulnerable and emotionally open.
That didn’t make his words any less true, however. Jack was right. I did need to talk about this. Babbo’s death might be related, or at the very least, provide some insight.
I brushed some sand off the pillow. Waves lapped out the open window. The hum of voices. The far off buzz of a motorcycle.
Jack waited me out.
I could do this. I could talk about it.
I sucked in a deep breath. Where to start?
“My mother named the boys.” I stared at the pillow as I spoke, tracing the worddreamswith my index finger. “She had this thing for Victorian artists—Tennyson, Dante, Branwell, you’ll have to ask her to explain it. Anyway, after the boys were born, my parents figured the damage was done. The family curse would carry on. So why not have more children?
“When Mom got pregnant with me, my dad insisted on naming me. Mom had gotten the boys. Now it was his turn. He chose Chiara.”
“It’s a venerated name,” Jack inserted, “related to Clara in English. Santa Chiara or St. Clare of Assisi is one example.”
“Yeah. My name meanslightorclear. Dad always said I was his bolt of light. Hischiarezza. His clarity.”
Memories of Dad flooded in.
His features and build so like Tennyson, wiry and supple, only with darker eyes and hair like me. He laughed easily. He would swing me onto his shoulders, whispering that I could climb anything I wished, be anything I wanted.
He would be my foundation.
“I was twelve when he died. He had kept the madness back for so long, a lot longer than any other D’Angelo in recent history. He was older than most when he . . .” My voice drifted off.
Silence hung.
I couldn’t force more words past the tightness in my throat.
Jack intervened, tone gentle. “As I said, my father died when I was twenty-two. It’s never easy to lose a parent.”
“No, it’s not. You took over all your father’s duties too, didn’t you?”
Jack nodded. “Yes. I became the next Baron Knight. It’s an old title, which meant I had to take my seat in Parliament, in addition to suddenly having the management of several estates and sprawling financial interests. Even though I had been prepared for the task since birth, it was still overwhelming.”
I could almost see him in my mind’s eye. Reeling from emotional loss and laden with the burden of caring for his family and tenants. Valiantly working himself to the bone to care for them all, heedless of how it hurt him. Pushing until he reached burnout.
That was the Jack I knew.
“But you left it all to come excavate in Tuscany?”
Jack looked away. “I’m not sure if I left it or ran away in avoidance. My reasoning was muddled even then.”
Hmmm. Interesting. Burnout.
“Your father’s death is still raw for you.” Jack said the words softly.
I flinched. “Yes.”
It was so much more than that. Jack didn’t know. No one did. I had never told anyone.
