“Do you approve of him? For me, I mean?”
“I respect him,” he said in Italian. Then he cleared his throat. “No one will ever be good enough for you, my heart. You’re my baby. Mine.” He touched his heart. “And if Saverio is a man worth your time, he’ll always remember that he’s not. But he’ll be damned if anyone else is either. Therefore, in your honor, he’ll always strive to do the best for you that he can.”
What else was there to say? After a few minutes of silence, I sighed. “I better get going. I don’t want to be late for practice.”
I went to get up, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Forgive me, my heart,” he said, his voice gruff. “Have mercy on me for things that are beyond my control.”
It took a lot for my father to say those words, and my throat grew tight.
“I have,” I barely got out. “It’s—”
“I know,” he said. “I know all the things you can’t say.”
It was a relief that someone did.
I leaned down to kiss his head and told him I loved him in Italian.
“Give me a minute,” he said, pulling himself out of the pool. “I’ll walk you. Mamma will want to see you before you leave.”
“Where is she?”
“Picking lavender in the field.”
I nodded and waited for him to change in the pool house. While he did, I gazed out at the property. It was so pretty, like something out of a painting. But that didn’t hold my attention. I’d seen plenty of beautiful places growing up. Palaces with golden gates didn’t matter to me. The only thing that counted was that it felt like home.
Home wasn’t a place but a person.
The man with the amber eyes running laps around the property—he took my home with him wherever he went.
“I’m so fucked,” I muttered to myself.
“What?” papà said, coming to stand next to me. He was still drying his hair with a towel, making it stand all over the place.
I grinned at him. “You look wild.”
His grin came slow. “I am,” he said, flinging the towel over his shoulder. “Let’s go find mamma so she can tame me a bit, ah?”
“I doubt tame is the right word,” I muttered as we made our way toward the field.
It was a gorgeous sight in the early morning light. The sun painted a pastel picture, and rows of purple blanketed the ground. The smell was heavenly, even without a breeze. A few bumble bees circled through the air, making Magpie laugh. She was my father’s mother, and she was as eccentric as a hot-pink mushroom. She andnonnomade quite a pair.
I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the glare as I watched the scene in front of me come to life. Papà had already made his way to mamma, who was smiling up at him, a wide-brimmed hat on her head, a basket hanging over her wrist, while she fixed his hair. Magpie danced around the field like a gypsy.Nonnosat in an Adirondack chair, watching her.
“That is it, Margherita,” he said. “Charm the bees.”
“That’s how we get honey!”
He laughed and I smiled, walking over to him. When I was close enough, he took my hand, holding it. A feeling of unease settled over me when he did. He was holding the hand with the ring. My grandfather was a traditional man, and I didn’t want him to find cause to meddle in a decision that was mine.
“This is new,” he said in Italian, and I struggled not to slip my hand from his as he admired the ring. But if I did, he’d know that it made me uncomfortable. I loved my grandfather, but I needed time to think this through.
“A gift,” I said, not lying to him. “Saverio gave it to me.”
“For the left hand?”
He knew which hand, but he wanted me to admit it.
