“Not at all.”
He’s different now, older. Taller and broader. He seems a lot harder and has a few scars on his face around his eyes.
How did he get those…was it from fighting?
“I should get going,” I say.
“Will you come to the wake at my mother’s house?” he asks.
I open my mouth to say no. “Yes,” comes out.
What?
“Thank you.”
We stare at each other and I don’t know what to say. “I’ll see you there?”
“Okay.”
We walk out of the church together and a lot of the crowd are now gone, my car is waiting and Giuliano walks across the road and gets into the back of another car that has a few men in it.
“To Milan?” Antonio asks.
Shit.
I know what I should say, but the words won’t come out. “To Angelina’s house, the wake, please.”
Twenty minutes later, the car pulls up out the front of the house and I close my eyes, what the hell am I doing here?
“We will only stay half an hour,” I tell Antonio.
“Of course.” He drives into the circular driveway and stops the car and opens my door and lets me out. Thankfully, it’s stopped raining now, there are people everywhere, a lot more than were at the funeral. Clutching my bag with white-knuckle force, I walk in the front door, look up, and my step falters.
A huge oil painting of my father and Angelina with a small boy hangs on the wall.
They are in a field, they all look so happy and in love.
My eyes instantly well with tears as I stare at it.
Oh….
I weave through the crowd as I walk through the house, there are photos of my father and Angelina with Giuliano everywhere. It’s like a shrine to their family.
This house is such a vast contrast to my mother’s house, with not one photo of anyone anywhere. Especially not of my father.
I walk through to the backyard, it’s full of people and waiters are circulating with silver trays of food and champagne. I catch sight of Giuliano talking to Lorenzo and a few people in the corner of the backyard.
I walk back into the house and look at the photos on one of the side tables, there’s one photo of my father and Giuliano at a football game. Giuliano looks to be about five or six, he’s hugging my father and has a football under his arm. They are both laughing.
Betrayal washes over me.
I don’t remember doing anything fun with my father, he was so absent with us. No wonder…he was always with them.
Suddenly, I need to get out of here.
For the first time, I feel resentful. Mother was right, I shouldn’t have come. No good can come of this, I don’t need to know about his other life.
The one that didn’t involve me.
I walk back to the front door and glance up the stairs, I wonder what’s up there?
I look around guiltily and before I can stop myself, I go up the stairs, I get to the top floor and look around. The house is decorated in Hamptons beach style, warm and friendly, such a contrast to my mother’s Versace decorating style.
I tentatively walk down the hall until I get to Angelina’s bedroom.
I glance up the hall to check nobody is around and I walk in. The air leaves my lungs, a giant black-and-white photo of Angelina and my father hangs above the bed, they are lying on the floor in what looks like a log cabin. They are young and in front of an open fire, naked, strategically covered in blankets, their hair is tousled and they look so in love. My eyes scan the room as a realization sets in.
I can feel him here; his presence is so strong.
This is where he is.
I stare at the photo as tears roll down my face and, overcome with emotion, I sob out loud.
“They’re together now,” a voice says from behind me.
I spin to see Giuliano standing behind me, his eyes are also on the photo, his two hands in his suit pockets.
I wipe my tears, embarrassed that I’m crying and even more embarrassed that I’ve been caught in his mother’s bedroom. “I’m sorry, I was looking for the bathroom.”
He nods as his eyes hold mine, we stare at each other as a weird familiarity runs between us.
“It’s good to see you,” he says softly.
“It is.”
He steps toward me, only centimeters away, his close proximity causes the air to leave my lungs as we stare at each other.
There’s a pull, a yearning to be in his arms.
“Your memory lingers,” he whispers.
The air crackles between us as a wildfire ignites in my memory bank.
If I could say something, I would. But I’ve been rendered speechless. In slow motion, his thumb lifts and he trails it over my bottom lip.
My heart races out of control as we stare at each other. He picks up the ribbon that laces down the front of my dress and holds it between his fingers, his eyes follow his fingers as he pulls it and it slowly undoes.