The nurse leaned forward solicitously. Her name tag was cream with red writing that proudly declared she was called Rose. “I take it this wasn’t planned.”
Emily might have laughed, if she weren’t so desperately beside herself. “Not exactly,” she responded quietly, her eyes banking down. “I’m only twenty two, and I have a brother I’m raising. And he – the father – lives in Italy. And… Oh hell.” She rubbed her palms against her eyes, the sting of tears familiar to her now.
Rose reached for a box of tissues and put it right in front of her young patient. “Do you have someone you can talk to about things? To work out how you’d like to proceed?” Her voice was carefully wiped clean of any judgement.
Emily thought of Ewan and nodded. “I guess so.”
“I can give you some brochures, that cover all the, er, options.”
“What are my options?” Emily groaned, dipping her head forward. How had she been so stupid? All her life, it was the one thing her grandparents had drummed into her time and time again.
“Well, dear, there’s the obvious one – to have the baby and raise it yourself. Or, you could have the baby and put it up for adoption. Or, you might choose to terminate.”
“Terminate?” She shivered at the very idea of it. Not because she thought it was morally wrong, necessarily, but because she had a kernel of Sabato growing inside of her, and already she felt she would put her own life down before risking anything happening to their baby. “That’s not what I want. And adoption won’t be an option either. The father would never agree to it.”
Rose nodded sympathetically. “Well then, dear, I think you’ve got a very important conversation in your future, don’t you?”
Chapter 8
The Montepulciano villa sat lofty and proud, bathed in golden reds, high atop a rolling hill on the edges of Tuscany. The sun had set, and the air was cool. Flaming pillars led the way from the street up to the house, and guests had been arriving steadily for hours.
Emily wasn’t late, but Sabato had been waiting for her for a month. His impatience was a physical force now, and it expressed itself as anger and frustration with the world at large. He observed the party below, not dissimilar in nature to the party he’d first met Emily at. Lots of very beautiful, well-dressed women and wealthy men mingled beneath him, sipping champagne and speaking in politely hushed tones.
His mother was a picture, looking twenty years younger than her seventy one summers. She was draped elegantly across a chaise lounge, her husband Nico attentive at her side. Rafaelo, their biological child, greeted guests, his smile warm, his manner proprietorial. It was Sabato who didn’t belong.
Then again, he never had. He was the child they’d adopted because their much-loved son wanted a brother. A brother Corrina could not provide, except by adoption.
He shook his head and grabbed his tuxedo jacket. Brooding was not going to make Emily appear any faster. It would be better to wait for her downstairs. Distracted by the swirling festivities, perhaps it would hasten her arrival.
“Ciao, Sab,” Maria Alenova greeted him as soon as he stepped out on to the terrace. The view of the Tuscan countryside was breathtaking, and Maria was perhaps even more so.
They had been friends for a long time, and lovers briefly, but he could find little more than a curt nod for her now.
She pressed her cherry red lips to first one cheek, and then the other. “You look as good as ever,” she observed, winking, and unashamedly raking her eyes over his tuxedo clad body.
“As do you,” he responded truthfully. She stood almost six foot tall. Her legs were long and slim, showcased in a silken mini dress and sky-high heels.
“Benne,” she shrugged, sending a hint of her vanilla perfume his way.
He nodded towards her empty glass. “Drink?”
“If you’ll join me.”
He dipped his head in silent assent and moved towards the bar. A champagne for Maria and a Campari for Sabato. “Let us stand here,” he nodded toward the edge of the courtyard. The spot was away from the crowds, and afforded a good view of the entrance.
The band was playing the kind of jazz music that was popular during the Second World War, lilting songs that were sung in French, speaking of broken hearts and unrequited love. Sabato was easily able to converse with Maria; they had a long-established friendship. But his mind was not on her words. His eyes clung to the side of the villa, watching and waiting.
When would she arrive?
Emily ran a hand down the black silk dress. It was simple and elegant; plain and unassuming. After all, she wasn’t a guest at the affair. Not really. She was staff – just as she had been at Sabato’s fundraiser that night.
And yet, his emails had been insistent. He wanted her to attend the parties, to get a feel for the life his mother lived. He had noticed, he’d said, the way she imbued her work with atmosphere, and he wanted that atmosphere to be authentic to the Tuscan villa.
Paradise surrounded her, she thought with a shake of her head as she emerged onto the paved courtyard. It was enormous, wrapping the whole length of the villa, showcasing stunning views of the countryside beyond. Butterflies hammered her insides and she felt suddenly besieged by worry.
; For a whole month, she had lived in the height of luxury. And every morning she had felt like an imposter. She was terrified of damaging the luxurious apartment, and so she had barely existed in it beyond the kitchen and her bedroom. Still, acceptance was an inevitability of the human condition, and over time, she’d begun to forget a little of their differences.