She nodded.
“What do they do?”
“My dad’s a teacher – English literature. Mum’s a florist.”
He lifted his brows, surprise evident.
“Not what you expected?”
“Honestly, no.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose I would have guessed something medical. Something…no-nonsense.”
“Because of how I am?”
His brow furrowed. “Si.”
She wasn’t offended; on the contrary, his description was somehow flattering, as though he saw her in that same category.
“No. Mum and dad look at me as a sort of alien sometimes, I’m sure. My emotional reserve is a trait they’ll never understand.”
“But you haven’t always been this way?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I presume losing your husband contributed to your ability to keep people at bay?”
“Not all people,” she responded in a teasing tone even though something in her chest was beginning to ache. She tapped the tip of his nose to underscore a casual disclosure.
“What about your patients?”
Her smile slipped. “What about them?”
“You don’t get close to them?”
For a second the pain was blinding, every goodbye etched into the fibre of her heart like acid burn. “No, never.” The sky beckoned – anything to ease the connection between them. She chased the shapes with her eyes, looking for meaning that didn’t appear.
“That must take effort.”
She didn’t reply. It wasn’t a topic she wished to speak about.
“I like Yaya,” she said instead. “She’s spirited. Feisty.”
His laugh was a deep rumble. “Excellent ways to describe her. Yes, she’s both.”
“Was she strict, when you were growing up?”
“In some ways. Gianfelice liked the house a certain way and she obliged, but they both doted on us, really.” His voice was hypnotic. She closed her eyes so she could hear him better, the dusky words settling deeper inside Lauren, with all her sight closed off. “Grandma has lived with some…regrets…for a long time. I think she saw us coming to live with her as a second chance.”
With her eyes shut, Lauren reached for him, trailing her fingers over his arm slowly, lightly. Despite that, she could almost feel the hum of his blood, the beating of his heart conveyed in that small bodily act. “Regrets over Camilla?”
As she’d felt his pulse’s movement, she felt his muscles stiffen, the surprise at her question evident in his response. “How do you –,”
“She spoke of her often when I first arrived.” Lauren sighed. “The medications she was taking in the immediate aftermath of the stroke made her quite talkative. I listened, without judgement. That’s my job.” She opened her eyes – they were heavy, the world over-bright – and turned to face Raf. “Her heart seems broken by it all.”
“Yes.” He turned to face her, a complex web of emotions reflected in the depths of his eyes. “I don’t think she would have chosen to cut my aunt from her life. Camilla was only sixteen years old when she got married. I know Yaya missed her, a lot.”