Page 39 of Italy and Forever

‘My dad remarried just over a year after my mum died. Don’t you think that’s quick?’

‘You obviously do.’

Another slippery answer, but he unfortunately had a point. Apparently she was still bothered by how quickly her dad had remarried, nearly twenty-three years later.

‘This stupid dating ban is making me question everything,’ she grumbled.

‘What does this have to do with your own life?’

‘Not nothing,’ she replied as she concentrated on opening another spiky burr. ‘I’m terrified the real love of my dad’s life is Vivienne and not my mum, but what does that mean for me? I’m not Vivienne’s daughter. I’m not going to get married in the same church they did.’

She scrunched her mouth shut before more uncomfortable truths made their way out into the light. But this time what broke the silence was something she hadn’t expected. Staring at his boots, Rhys said, ‘I don’t remember my dad. He ran off when I was two. He wasn’t married to my mam anyway.’

‘Oh, I’m⁠—’

He shook his head. ‘You don’t need to say you’re sorry, Ginny.’ His tone was faintly amused. ‘I’m just pointing out neither of us will repeat history.’

‘Is that why you aren’t looking for a long-term relationship? Because you’re worried about history repeating?’

That was definitely a smile on his lips this time. He might prefer to keep himself apart from others, but she couldn’t help imagining the bunch of women out there who knew first-hand what a kiss from those lips felt like, including his mysterious ex-girlfriend.

‘What do you mean by history repeating? That people will leave me or I’ll leave them?’

‘The first, of course,’ she insisted.

‘The second is far more likely,’ he said with a sigh, pushing off the wall and taking several steps away. ‘Now stay there so I can take a few test shots.’

Feeling wobbly – in her legs and her insides – she ducked under the low branches to stand in front of the great chestnut, the pockets of her jacket sagging under the weight of all the nuts. Placing her hands on her hips, she tipped her head up and posed, showing her good side.

That smile on his face endured as he lifted his camera and captured her.

16

Rhys allowed himself a moment to peer at the image on his viewfinder, that patina of Ginny he’d preserved in pixels. It showed both too much and nowhere near enough, hinting at her colourful body language but inadequate to convey the person she was.

Every damn photo he took was inadequate, especially since the accident. He could manage the dramatic light and shadow of an epic landscape shot, or deftly freeze time to show animal life at its truest, but people? He’d struggled before and it was hopeless now.

He couldn’t even tolerably capture Ginny and she sparkled more than most.

Switching off the camera, he tried to turn off the rest of his feelings at the same time, especially the uncomfortable brush of her sadness over him when she’d told him about her father’s remarriage. She should be treasured, but her father had unwittingly let her down, although she probably wouldn’t admit that was what he’d done. She had too much empathy for that.

On a whim, he fetched his Minolta out of the car. He always saw things differently through the old lens and the more time he spent with Ginny, the more he wanted to make these wedding photos special – not that he had any idea how.

They wandered along the road, past two sturdy farmhouses decorated with ornate Gothic script and under an archway of trees. Golden apples hung heavily on one and he could imagine taking a few shots with the wedding party here as well. But as they walked a little farther, the valley opened out before them, the village tucked in below rugged, forested ravines in green and gold, and the stone towers of the Geisler peaks rising in the background. Even at this distance, the fingers of Dolomite stone, tumbling to rubble, inspired awe. He’d love to go up there, hang from a rope and experiment with the verticals and perspective he only ever found on a rock face.

The 35 mm lens was already attached, so he lifted his camera to his eye and searched for the framing. The Minolta was not a point-and-shoot device. There were many steps to follow before he ever pressed that button, and often he never pressed it at all.

‘What kind of camera is that?’ Ginny asked.

‘It’s older than you are,’ he commented absently. Stepping up into the meadow for a little more perspective, he adjusted the exposure settings and looked through the viewfinder again. The colour of the lush grass dominated the image. It looked silver to him but that might have just been his eyes, his brain.

Glancing at Ginny, he held out the camera to her. ‘Take a look.’

She straightened as she made her way up to him, accepting the device carefully as though handing it over were an act of trust she was determined to earn. He didn’t want to tell her the camera was basically worthless in monetary terms.

Squeezing one eye shut, she pressed her face to the plastic housing. ‘It’s so beautiful.’ It was probably instinct, but her finger rested on the shutter release.

‘Don’t take an actual photo,’ he warned.