Arches down the side formed a breezeway that wrapped around both levels then overlooked the pool—which needed repair and filling—but it offered a view of the Med that rivaled Cesar and Sorcha’s.
Inside, the rooms were desperate for updating. Rico went a step further and said, “This floor plan should be completely reconfigured.”
“When are they moving out?” she asked, looking at the furniture draped in sheets.
“They’ve already taken what they want. We would buy it as is. Mother will know which collectors to call to get rid of most of this.”
The scope of the project was enormous, but Poppy was strangely undaunted. In fact, as she discovered a spiral staircase, she excitedly scooted up it. The small rooftop patio looked in every direction for miles and doubled as a sheltered place for intimate dining, utterly charming her.
“We could build out this direction,” Rico said, firmly holding on to Lily as he leaned to see off the side. “Perhaps put a guest cottage at the edge of the orange grove.”
There were other fruit trees along with a flower garden and a plot off the kitchen for a small vegetable garden, something Poppy’s grandparents had always had when she’d been young. It became too much for all of them in later years, but the idea of Lily eating fresh strawberries gave Poppy such a sense of nostalgia and homecoming, she had to swallow a cry of excitement.
“Everything is pollinated by the bee hives in the lower corner,” Rico informed her, referring to some notes on his phone. “Apparently we would have our own honey.”
Poppy blinked. “Why do I love the idea of keeping bees?”
“I don’t know, but I’m intrigued, too.”
As they walked out a lower door to view the hives, Rico nodded meaningfully at an exterior door. “Wine cellar.”
She knew what he was driving at and shook her head, not wanting to get her hopes up. It was too perfect already. “You’d need it for wine, wouldn’t you?”
They entered a big, dim room filled with nearly empty racks. While he glanced at the labels on the handful of bottles left behind, she explored the rear of the cellar, discovering a narrow, windowless room with a low ceiling. A few shelves held empty glass canning jars, suggesting it was a root cellar. A bare bulb was the only light.
Poppy was overwhelmed by what seemed like her birthday, Christmas and every other wish-making day come true. She began arranging her future darkroom. The tubs would go there, the enlarger there. She might cry, she wanted this so badly.
“Am I wrong or is this everything we want?” Rico was carrying Lily and followed Poppy into the narrow room.
This was everything she could ever wish for herself and her daughter. The only thing she could want after this was her husband’s heart.
Her own took an unsteady tumble as she realized how deeply she was yearning for that when every other part of their marriage was slotting into place.
Then he slid his free arm around Poppy and scooped her in for a quick kiss, sending her emotions spinning in another direction.
“Well done.”
“We haven’t seen the bees yet,” she pointed out, wobbling between delirious happiness and intense longing. She worried often that his feelings toward her were still very superficial, but if he was willing to give her this—not just the castle above it, but the space to explore the creativity inside her—surely that meant he cared for her on a deeper level?
“By all means, let’s go see the bees,” Rico said magnanimously, oblivious to her conflict. “If there are birds to go with them, I’m sold.”
“Your daddy thinks he’s funny,” she told Lily, trying to hide her insecurities.
“Da.” Lily poked him in the cheek.
“Dada, yes.” He caught her hand in his big one and kissed the point of her tiny finger. “You’re as smart as your mama, aren’t you?” He kissed Poppy again. “Yes?”
She shakily nodded.
Rico called to make an offer before they left. A week later, Poppy added meetings with interior designers and landscape contractors to her already busy weeks.
Even with those small successes, she was hideously nervous when she finished dressing for the Montero gala. It was an annual event, one that Sorcha and Rico’s mother hosted on alternate years. Sorcha had told her what she had spent on her own gown and said, “Match it. This is your debut as a Montero.” Then she had sent her favorite designer to the penthouse to consult with Poppy.
Poppy turned in the mirror, feeling like the biggest fraud in the world. Who was that woman? Had she gone too demure? The gown had a high neck and cap sleeves, but the fitted bodice accentuated her curves. The top was a very dramatic gold satin with a floral pattern in carmine and saffron and chestnut. The skirt was an A-line in crimson silk that moved like pouring paint, graceful and luxurious, following her in a small train even after she put on five-inch heels.
Her final touch was an art deco bracelet the stylist had recommended. Poppy, neophyte that she was, hadn’t realized the stones were genuine sapphires and topaz and the gold twenty-four karat until the woman had looked up from her phone with excitement.
“Your husband signed off on it. He does want to make a statement, doesn’t he?”