The restaurant was in Avola, ten minutes away. They followed Angelo’s car, and when they arrived at the restaurant there were two large round tables packed with people of all ages who embraced Angelo and Renata and then threw their arms around Lou, Toni and Trinity. Toni thought to herself that he must have contacted half of Sicily. She laughed. She could see the similarities with Ireland.
‘She is beautiful.’
‘They are all beautiful.’
‘She looks like you.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Angelo! You dark horse! Trust you to have these beauties as your daughters!’
Soon the three were sitting down, and Toni was doing her best to avoid wine, holding her hand over her glass and saying no endlessly as the waiters seemed determined to provide the party with maximum gaiety.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘I have to drive us back.’
‘But you can stay the night with us,’ said Renata.
‘I don’t know ...’
‘Yes, you must stay the night.’ Renata was imperious. ‘I insist. We can get taxis back to the villa.
‘It is done.’
The owner of the restaurant came over and was introduced to Lou, Toni and Trinity. There was so much excitement over their presence that people outside the restaurant kept looking in as if wondering who these people were.
‘It’s like being famous!’ said Trinity laughing, drinking delicious Italian fizzy orange juice. ‘I feel as if I’m an influencer or something.’
They spent the afternoon and early evening in the restaurant with Angelo introducing them to everyone, explaining that Lou was his beautiful daughter from Ireland.
‘She is my daughter, but she has another father, who brought her up,’ he said. ‘This is important to know.’
Toni glanced at Lou. Her sister looked at peace and nodded assent.
‘I’m OK,’ she mouthed to Toni.
‘Angelo, thank you,’ she said out loud. ‘I don’t want you to feel that you’re not my father.’
‘I am the man who gave you life, but the person who brings you up, he is your father. And we revere him.’
Everyone raised their glasses for a toast. There were lots of toasts. Every part of the meal and everyone at both tables was toasted and eventually, Toni was feeling no pain, and was thinking that she was having quite the best time of her life.
A tall, lean man in an indigo shirt with several inches of tanned smooth muscular chest revealed had been monopolising her attention for the past hour. His name was Matteo, he was a relative of Renata’s and was a sculptor. At this, Toni had looked at him warily.
‘The sculptors I know can be very tricky,’ she said. ‘My mother is a sculptor.’
Matteo had laughed out loud at this, a deep throaty laugh, ‘How many do you know?’
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Enough not to trust them.’
‘But you can trust me,’ he said, then resting a finger briefly on the delicate bone on her wrist. ‘You have lovely skin,’ he said, ‘and the fine muscles in your arm would be wonderful to sculpt.’
‘Stop petting me,’ she said.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I am, how would you say, very attracted to you.’
Toni laughed. ‘You’re at least ...’ she looked at him critically, ‘fifteen years younger than me,’ she said.
‘So?’ said Matteo, raising his hands. ‘What is wrong with this?’
