“Thought you might like a real, immersive, authentic Italian dinner. Not the shit hotel bars and tourist traps like to serve.”
Her sea-green eyes widen with mock surprise. “Are you saying that cheeseburger I ate last night wasn’t authentic Italian cuisine?”
My lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “No.”
Growing serious, her face softens. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
I pull out her chair. “I wanted to.”
Her smile is a little shy, a little grateful, but it’s genuine, and the sight of it makes my damn heart ache.
“Thank you. This is really lovely,” she says, taking a seat.
Maribella, one of the waitstaff I hired while here, emerges from a nearby doorway and places a basket of warm rosemary focaccia on the table.
Speaking with the kind of Italian lyrical intonation that makes even the simplest words sound poetic, she says, “Good evening, Mr. Montgomery. Mrs. Cutton. May I start you off with something to drink?”
Elizabeth greets her with a kind smile. “Is an IPA okay? Whatever you have. I’m not picky.”
I hold up two fingers, letting Maribella know to bring me one as well.
Elizabeth leans her elbows on the table and lowers her voice. “I hope I didn’t offend her.”
Amused that she thinks she insulted the waitstaff, I reply, “They drink beer in Italy, Kitten. L’IPPA is a good one.”
She places a slice of bread in front of her, but doesn’t eat it, only picks at the crust. “Ryder and I never got to travel like we had planned. Between medical school and having the kids, wekept putting it off.” She looks up, the color in her cheeks rising. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She trails off.
What’s left unspoken hangs between us like a ghost that always follows, clinging to the living in hopes of escaping its purgatory.
“Elizabeth.” I wait until her eyes are on me. “It’s okay to talk about him. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”
“I know you came to see him.”
Her direct bluntness catches me off guard.
“I did.”
“And you were at the funeral. Ifeltyou there.”
Not a question. A statement of fact. But my attention is solely focused on how she said she felt me there. She was always too damn perceptive.
Elizabeth sits back in her chair, her face a mask of pissed-off beauty. “You’re a jackass.”
God, I love this woman.
“I know.”
“Have you forgiven yourself?”
Well, shit. She went right for the jugular. I’ve spent twenty years trying to make up for what happened, for what Peter did and my part in the nightmare he caused, hoping in some way my good deeds could somehow erase the guilt. It hasn’t.
“Still a work in progress,” I reply.
“I’m flying back tomorrow.”
“I know,” I say again.
Sitting up straight, she drums her fingers on the tabletop.
