Her smile was nothing like His. In fact, it was only their eyes that were similar. “I dreamed I met this tall, dark, handsome stranger and he was seriously kinky but also seriously amazing and that he insisted on whisking me away to his Tuscan love-nest for two days of … well …”
His smile felt heavy on his face. “Two days of?” He prompted, turning the car a final time and pointing it through the gates. The vines on either side had grown rampant and it scratched the driver side as he steered through.
“We’ll see,” she finished, winking over at him. She sat up straighter and peered through the front window. It was a dark night, and the headlights only showed what was directly in front of the car. So she didn’t see the peach grove to one side and the old lake to the other; nor did she see the rose garden that had, at one time, been manicured in the style of the Boboli Giardiniera but now grew wild and untamed, groaning under the weight of the sweetly full blossoms that Summer had gifted them. Those delights would await her when morning came.
It was only the farm house that Kate could make out, slightly dilapidated but with an eerie charm that instantly captivated her. It sat at the crest of a hill; square in shape but three stories high with arched windows and several chimneys. The roof looked to be a dark tile — she guessed red, going from the style of the house. The door was timber, with iron detail, and there were pots at the front of the house that might have, at one time, been neat little entry markers. Now, the citrus trees planted in them had grown far too large forthe pots, and looked to be in danger of toppling out. There were geraniums chasing hungrily over the ground and when she pushed the door of the car open in rapt wonder, she was assailed by the scent of night-flowering jasmine and honey suckles. A bird made a high pitched evening-whistle and she let out a low, soft laugh at the beauty of it all.
“Imustbe dreaming,” she said, spinning around to look at him. Her smile was dazzling. Bright and enormous, it erased any hint of coldness from her face. The moon emerged from behind a cloud for a moment and she saw that the far wall of the house was covered completely in bougainvillea.
“This is like something from a fairy tale,” she said, walking across the crunchy gravel to stand beside him.
Or a nightmare, he thought with a frown. This place had been like that for him once; a joyous destination that, as a boy, he’d loved to visit. He’d spent more summers than he could count running through these gardens and swimming in the stream. But it was Carlo’s home. And Carlo was dead.
“Come.” He stalked to the house, as though he might be able to outrun the ghosts of his past.
The key was an old-fashioned brass style; he inserted it into the lock and turned it. The door didn't budge. He kicked it with his foot and then nudged it with his shoulder and it finally gave, making a creaking noise of complaint at the intrusion as it shuddered inwards.
He reached across and flicked the lights; they too blinked to life reluctantly. Two of the four bulbs in the entrance were broken.
“It looks like no one’s been here in forever,” she marvelled, stepping into the home with no idea that he was looking at the house in a state of heartbroken contemplation.
“No,” he said quietly, taking in the spider webs along the ceiling and the cracks that had formed in the plaster work. “Not for years.”
“Lights still work though,” she pointed out, flicking another switch further down and illuminating the farm kitchen. She made a sound of pleasure as her eyes took in the perfectly rustic and original space. It had the original stonework exposed and instead of modern appliances there was an old brick fireplace with a stone grill across the top.
“I had the bills paid,” he said, following behind her.
Where had he last seen Carlo? When had been the last time they’d been here together?
Kate though had always been good at reading other people’s emotions; it was a trait that had been essential with her father. She’d been able to tell, eventually, what kind of mood he was in by the way he closed the door to his car.
“You don’t like it here,” she said quietly, putting a hand on his arm as a gesture of comfort.
It surprised him. He shook his head and pulled his hand away on instinct. Though they had made love, it was hard for him to forget who she was; it was hard for him to look at her with anything other than white-hot hatred and contempt for the family she came from.
“I have mixed feelings about it,” he said stiffly.
“Why?” She walked into the kitchen and turned the tap on. The water spluttered several times, splashing the front of her dress, then gave way to a full stream. She switched it off and began to open the cupboard doors.
“I used to come here often as a child.”
“But not recently?” She pushed, taking a tea towel from a drawer and dampening it at the edge.
“No. Not for about four years.”
She nodded, though she knew there was far more to it than she understood. “I haven’t been home in a long time either,” she said, her head bent away from his assessing gaze as she wiped the bench top clean. Plumes of dust lifted into the room. He studied her, but her face — what he could see of it, anyway — gave little away.
“This isn’t my home.” He reached across the bench and put his hand on hers. Big blue eyes startled up to him. “Why haven’t you been home?”
She swallowed and her gaze darted past him. Curiosity flared inside him. “Oh. I … because I…” She shrugged. “Lots of reasons.” Her smile was cool. She was pulling that shield about herself again; the one that she’d evidently perfected that transformed her into some kind of untouchable ice-maiden.
“Yes?”
She nodded. “We should open all the windows. This place is really dusty.”
He stroked a finger across her wrist. “I want to know about you. Everything about you.”
Her laugh was shaky. “That’s not possible. Not in two days.” She flushed. Thathad sounded as though she were begging him for time. She covered it with a laugh. “And that’s definitely all you’re getting, buster. That’s all you’ve paid for.”
