‘At least you didn’t threaten pirates,’ Toni’s mother mumbled with a huff that reminded him of her daughter.
His lungs were seizing up again at the resemblance and he needed to get away from her family before he burst a vein.
‘You understand now?’ he asked superfluously, turning to Cillian.
The boy gave a solemn nod.
‘I should— A meeting. You enjoy your stay on the island and… listen to your nonna.’ He backed away with what he hoped was a warm smile on his face.
He thought he’d escaped when Cillian’s voice stopped him. ‘Excuse me! What’s your name?’
Santo Cielo, of all the questions he could have asked, that one was the worst. Gabri froze, his jaw working as though that would help his brain provide an answer to an impossible question. He couldn’t lie to a child; everything in him rebelled at that. But he felt the older woman’s gaze, couldn’t be certain what Toni had said about the week she’d spent with ‘Gabri’.
He could still summon the memory of Toni panicking at the thought of her mum finding out how they’d truly spent their week – and it still gave him a twinge of hurt, even though he understood her reasons. Angelo. Riccardo. Dante. Anything would do.
‘Gabriele.’ He didn’t look to see if the granny reacted.
‘Gabriele?’ the boy repeated, unable to roll the ‘r’, but otherwise capturing the lilt of his name tolerably well.
He gave the boy a wobbly smile. ‘What’s yours, little adventurer?’
Cillian drew himself up. Gabri had no idea if he was tall for nine years old, but he seemed taller in that second, and Gabri realised what he’d called the boy. An adventurer. Like his father. Merda, he could do nothing right.
‘My name’s Cillian,’ he said with a polite smile, holding one hand out to Gabri.
His throat thick, Gabri took the small, pale hand and shook it gently, desperate to ignore the prickle on his skin of some kind of connection. He didn’t want it. Couldn’t have it.
‘Piacere.’ He muttered the Italian from the depths of his foggy brain. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Cillian.’ He hoped the boy didn’t realise how deeply he meant it.
The prickle became a cold sweat as he made his way back to his car without seeing anything. He was supposed to meet Toni and Donatella at the beach, but human interaction would be too much to ask right now.
One thing was certain: Toni would be angry with him. There was no way she wouldn’t find out. Any minute, his phone could ring and it would be her, telling him he wasn’t fit to be around her son, and her mother had worked everything out and he’d ruined her life – or her week, at least.
But his phone didn’t ring.
22
Enthusiasm was supposed to be contagious, but apparently, Toni had developed immunity.
‘I’m sothrilledthere’s a turtle nest on our wedding beach. Of course we won’t go anywhere near it. It’s sospecial, like nature celebrating with us – asymbolof new life and love!’
The groom, Nathaniel Mason, spoke in emphasis, punctuating everything he said with his wide grin and a small display of affection for his fiancée, Alison. Toni was certain it was all very promising for their future together, but all the ‘symbolism’ and ‘life and love’ was giving her a headache. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk some water and she was about two hours past her usual dinner time.
She’d spent the day sifting through supplies for the wedding favours, place cards, fabric decorations – and also creating ‘bride’ and ‘groom’ mountain biking helmets for the wedding party’s excursion into the hills tomorrow.
Keeping busy at least had stopped her mind from wandering to everything that had happened over the past week, although when Donatella had mentioned that Gabri had been and gone, the twinge of disappointment hadn’t been welcome.
‘Do you think they’ll hatch while we’re here? During the ceremony?’ the bride asked drily. Alison seemed a little more down-to-earth, planning for the photos and the fun rather than the sentimentality. Nathaniel probably needed it.
‘Turtles usually hatch at night,’ Toni answered, using the new-found knowledge she’d gained from spending half an hour frantically researching the Loggerhead sea turtle that inhabited these waters. ‘Since we’ve planned the wedding for sunset, it’s extremely unlikely.’
Donatella had spoken to the municipality to ensure there would be no negative press about holding a wedding near a turtle nest, but they were still waiting for a final answer.
‘Perhaps a delicate turtle theme in your decorations could include this wonderful natural phenomenon in your joyous occasion,’ Donatella suggested with a less-than-delicate glance at Toni. ‘The turtle is so suggestive.’
‘Suggestive ofwhat?’Alison asked with a snort.
‘She means emotive, evocative,’ Toni explained hurriedly, refusing to think about the moment when she’d looked it up in an online dictionary while in bed with Gabri, teasing him about his mistake. ‘But haven’t we—?’ She fell silent at Donatella’s pointed look.
