Leo hands me a handkerchief, and I blow my nose loudly.
“Didn’t take you for such a sentimental type, Olive,” he says.
“I am a total sucker for a wedding,” I reply. “I love that people are so blindly and naïvely caught up in the moment. It’s so pure. Because, you know, most of these marriages end, don’t they.”
“Jesus,that’swhy you were crying?”
“No,” I snap, and then smooth the skirt of my dress across my thighs. “Maybe a little.”
Leo looks sympathetic, if a little concerned by my admission. “They don’tallend.”
“Nope, but every couple thinksthey’llbe the lucky ones,” I say with a whisper. “It’s a huge leap of faith.”
“Come on,” he says, standing as the bride and groom pass,beaming at their guests, and we start to file back out. “Let’s go eat and dance.”
We walk about ten minutes down a blue stone path toward a huge villa with a perfect lawn overlooking a vineyard below. There are two long tables, each seating about forty guests, running almost the length of the grass, with curved iron poles wrapped in green vines holding elaborate chandeliers and crisscrossed fairy lights above the tables.
“Wow,” I say. “This is going to be magical as the sun goes down.”
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“How did you get an invite to your third cousin’s wedding, anyway?” I ask, as we collect glasses of champagne from a table stacked with welcome drinks and nibbles. I am noticing that Leo doesn’t seem to know a lot of people here, and those he does know, he’s a little awkward around.
“Chiara,” he says with a laugh. “When Mum was dying, I think she worried about me being all alone with no family back in London. I didn’t really grow up with this lot.” He waves his glass toward the guests milling around on the grass, kissing cheeks and raising toasts while the bride and groom stand on the stairs doing photos.
“She’s been on a mission to integrate me with the family here. If I’m in town, no one is allowed to throw even a dinner party without invitingpoor Leo,” he says.
“What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s no one,” he says. “Left when I was a baby. Bit of a dickhead, by all accounts.”
We are interrupted by Chiara, bowling through the crowd toward us with her arms outstretched as she pulls Leo into an embrace. And then she turns to me and does the same.
“Forgive me these last days,” she says, patting me on the back. “I’m just an old lady who loves her nephew a little too much.”
“It’s fine, Chiara,” I say. “I’m glad someone likes him.”
Leo narrows his eyes at me, and I tip my glass toward him.
“Come, come,” she says to me. “Did you see the house?”
This is clearly code forI want to talk to you.
I’m almost dragged away from Leo, who stands alone in the middle of the lawn, but he’s quickly joined by a couple of other men, his eyes lighting up when they approach. Chiara motions for me to head up the stone stairs and onto the little balcony to look at the view. I slow my pace as she struggles to keep up with me.
I gaze out across the hills, the sun bearing down as the afternoon heat peaks and a humid breeze threatens rain. Chiara joins me and waves a hand out.
“Sì,” she says, simply. “It’s beautiful.”
But I know we are not here to look at the view.
“Olive,” she says.
“Yes, Chiara.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t very kind to you, Olive,” she says. “I got a surprise. I talked to Leo after Nicky died and asked him what happens with the restaurant, and he was waiting to learn.”
“I see,” I say, biting my bottom lip as I fold my arms protectively.
