His and Hers (13 page)

“A sister’s gotta ask.” Desiree’s brows shot up. “Are you sleeping with him yet?”

“No.” Misty eyed the younger girl, lips twitching with humor. “Would it bother you if we were?”

“Not really. He digs you. It’s obvious. But just so you know, Cain doesn’t have casual affairs. He’s a family guy.” She fell silent a moment. “You must think I’m a crazy little sister.”

“Not crazy.” Misty walked in step with her, shoulder to shoulder. “You guys are close, that’s obvious.”

“I just know how his mind works.” Desiree led her on a shortcut through a stand of trees, down a slight embankment. “For some reason, finding you now, it’s really perfect timing for him.”

Misty skidded behind, feet sliding over the crumbling leaves, twigs, and stones that littered the hillside. “Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, he won’t have to kill time playing matchmaker for Poppa Anton anymore.” Desiree settled on a large granite boulder.

Misty joined her, alongside and finished her wine. “That’s sort of sweet…playing matchmaker.” She observed sunlight shining through the bowl of her glass before Desiree’s words clicked. “Poppa Anton?”

Her mind spun back to the paintings in the house. The scrawled signature hadn’t started with a T, but a G. Her mouth went dry. “Your grandfather. He’s Anton Giacomo?”

“That’s right. My mother’s father. He’s the one Cain went to pick up at the airport.” Desiree smiled as a growling engine started up the drive. “Did Cain tell you?”

“Not exactly.” A ball of heat formed in her gut, building with the slight rumble of an approaching vehicle.

Just then, Cain’s truck rumbled up the hill with a honk. Misty spied Cain behind the steering wheel, her grandmother in the seat behind sitting next to a grinning, white-haired gentleman who could only be Grandma’s online admirer.

Chapter Twenty

Misty swirled the fettuccini around her plate, trying hard to keep her tornado of thoughts in focus. Grandma and Anton laughed and shared stories. Cain’s parents poured wine, served platters of rich, steaming pasta, baskets of bread, and promised specially prepared
canolli
for dessert.

“You’re angry with me,” Cain’s gravelly voice whispered. He leveled his gaze from her right.

“No.” Her word, dagger sharp. She was all too aware of his body, mere inches from hers. Even in this room full of people, her traitorous senses focused on him. With them sitting thigh to thigh at the packed table, their knees brushed. Misty took a deep cleansing breath, and turned with a plastered-on smile. “I’m not angry. Just confused.”

For a long moment, he stared, then heard his name mentioned, and acknowledged a story his father was telling about the concert. He gave a disjointed attempt to join in, though clearly she’d affected him with her ill mood.

Misty refused to be concerned about that. Sweeping her gaze around the dinner party, she noted how everyone now had pushed back from the table and had engaged in telling loud, boisterous tales. If she were editing, the scene would have ended up a long, continuous shot, melding from one conversation to the next, starting with where Grandma sat—across from her, next to Cain’s grandfather. She animatedly interjected her own version of a tale Adele had told him of their ‘widow’s cruise’ from the year before.

Shift point of view to Desiree, filling in her parents on the project she and Misty had worked on all afternoon, which everyone agreed would be a resounding success.

Back to Grandma and Anton, how he clasped her grandmother’s fingers between his hands, voicing his concern about the path they’d agreed upon taking.

Misty let herself fade to the background, letting the conversation flow over her like an encroaching tide, and mopped up a last bit of sauce on her plate with a crust of bread. She took a long drink of wine, murmured a thanks as Cain tipped a refill.

He tilted his head. “Where do you go, when you do that?” His voice low, for her ears, alone. “You look so far away.”

She snorted a laugh and took a long sip from her glass. “Sometimes it’s easier to imagine all this is a movie.” She held her thumb and forefinger out, framing the scene.

“Then you don’t have to be involved?”

His firm words brought her back to present a challenge. She raised her brows, considering. “Better chance for a happy ending.”

Misty turned. She did her best to return to her brood, to find that filmmaker’s angle. The detachment she sought eluded her. He’d shaken her back into harsh reality.

Though no one at the table mentioned it, she couldn’t get past the obvious. The entire reason they were doing this fell on her mistake. Saturday night would be a night of reckoning, and she wasn’t sure she was up to the task. Her heart rushed like rapids in her ears.

Everyone had finished eating, yet no one moved to do anything about it.

Her mind couldn’t keep up with the frenzy of conversation. Misty took that moment to gather her utensils on top of her plate and begin clearing dishes.

“
Cara
.” Cain’s mother stopped Misty’s hand as she reached for a plate, though her eyes twinkled. “You don’t have to do that.”

Misty shook her head. “Remember what you said earlier? You did all the work in the kitchen. Dish duty is mine.”

“I like this one, Cain.” Isabella handed her plate up into Misty’s waiting hands. “She’s a keeper.”

“In that case, I’d better help dry.” Cain hopped up and gathered empty bowls and serving platters, following fast through the kitchen doors.

Misty filled the sink with steamy water and bubbles. Rinsing, rubbing the scrubby sponge over the Talavera plates, she found peace in the repetitive tasks.

Cain kept up with her, dish for dish, filling the drying rack with the fruits of Misty’s annoyance. He kept silent, waiting—she guessed—for her to get to what was eating at her. And knowing that he knew her well enough to let her stew made it impossible to stay angry. But she wasn’t ready to let him know that just yet.

“Well, Trovato.” Misty swept her damp dishrag over the granite counter, wiping the surface to gleaming. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Actually, I’ve got to make a pot of coffee.” He turned, and filled the coffee pot with water. “To go with the
canolli
.”

Misty tilted her head. “Are you planning to tell me this online affair between our grandparents had nothing to do with you?” Arms crossed, she waited.

“I’m not planning on telling you anything.” He slipped a filter into the machine, followed by several heaping spoonfuls of rich, dark grounds. “You’re doing quite a good enough job all by yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She turned, hands on hips, her back to the sink.

“It means, you’re going to think whatever you want until you’re ready to listen.” He flipped the machine on to brew, and turned his heavy-lidded gaze to hers. “So whenever that is, you just let me know.”

She watched him walk from the kitchen out the back door, allowing it to slam shut behind him.

A hush from the dining room, and Misty knew that the dinner party guests now strained to hear the lovers’ quarrel. Sighing, she followed Cain out into the moonlight.

Stars peeked out over the olive groves, the hills of Long Valley spread out below, rows of streetlamps illuminating broad swaths of streets. Houses filled with countless families just sitting down to dinner. Such a picturesque scene of a life she’d once dreamed of, but thought lost to her—a life she could actually imagine again—this time with Cain Trovato in the leading role.

Silent and staring into the night, he turned up the sleeves of his shirt, hands snapping the fabric into even folds.

Still fuming, she guessed, watching Cain jam one shoulder against the porch post.

Inside, the conversation filtered out in low tones, punctuated with Desiree’s high-pitched laugh.

Glancing to the large paned, open windows, Misty stepped toward him. She placed a tender hand to his exposed forearm. “I’m sorry.”

He turned to face her, scowl sliding into a smile. “You’re sorry? For what? I’m the one who encouraged this.” He gestured to the group inside. “Now look at them.”

At the table, Anton swept his hands over his tangle of white hair, an easy smile on his craggy, handsome face. Shadows, perhaps, of what Cain would look like in his late seventies, she mused. He wrapped a protective arm around her grandmother’s back, her head to Anton’s shoulder, eyes closed, a satisfied smile dusting Nona’s beautiful face. Misty’s heart tugged at the sight. How long since Grandma Nona had laughed so much, looked so light and free?

She turned to Cain. “You should have told me.”

“You know what? Your grandmother mentioned something rather interesting about a letter you wrote. Something about a note sent without her reading it, where you…How’d you put that again? Oh right, embellished a bit, yourself?”

“That was different.” Misty jutted her chin, and leaned on the rail beside him. “She sent it by accident.”

“And that accident brought them together,” he whispered in her hair. “Who cares how it happened.”

Her mouth curled into a smile as he moved to stand behind, wrapped her in his strong embrace. Delightful chills ran races across her skin. In his arms, she could almost forget how her stomach twisted with thoughts of showing the film they’d made. Of how Grandma Nona’s long-standing reputation as America’s sweetheart would soon be tarnished forever.

Her soul swirled with the tumult and worry, but Cain held her firm—steadfast in the coming storm—as the low lights and laughter from inside the Trovato house pushed back the darkness.

Chapter Twenty-One

Cain strolled up his front drive, hands in pockets, chasing his moon shadow with every step. The Trovato house, dark and quiet, save for the lamp light from the front window. He sighed at the sight. Mom never failed to leave on a light for the last one home. What used to comfort was now more along the lines of awkward and pathetic. How long could a grown man live under his parents’ roof?

Crossing the wide front porch, he stopped, then rested hands on the rail and caught sight of Misty turning out her bedroom light at the Darling house on the opposite hill, and thought on their goodnight.

He’d driven the ladies home, her grandma had said goodnight while he and Misty took a turn on her swing. He’d already decided that old, white wicker bench was his new favorite place in the world. There, side by side, his arm across her shoulders, breathing in the sight and scent of her, he knew. She was the one.

He’d upturned her chin with tentative fingers, drank from her waiting lips, found them warm and willing. The intensity of their deep, rich kisses, heated with passion of a day apart. A day!

Her bare shoulders sparked under his hands. That little tank top and shorts could have been the finest lingerie. He’d inhaled her—fresh orange blossoms—until he was drunk with the woman. Then, at last, he’d forced himself to walk home, uncomfortable and alone, while she watched from the front door, a sentinel in the dark.

Cain paused, keys to his parent’s home jangling. Neither he nor Misty had places to call their own. That would become complicated. Especially considering how difficult their goodbyes were getting. He licked his lips. Orange blossoms. His heart did a slow dance, while his head filled with a song centering on her name. Rubbing thumb to forefinger, he frowned. Itching to write the love song that rounded his thoughts. Maybe it was time. Could it really be time?

What he wouldn’t give for his own digs. A place they could share—maybe one of those little Victorians with the railed-front porches and little neat front yards, near the shop in the center of town. Where they could stroll to the Farmer’s Market. Go grab a coffee, or dinner, or a show on a summer night. And, of course, they’d have to put up a porch swing of their own.

The hall clock sounded the late hour, followed by the grandfather clock, then the mantel clock, and others scattered throughout the house. Dad never could get them all to chime at once. Not like he was in past curfew, as a grown man, his mother didn’t care if he came or went, just that he called if he would miss a meal. Foolish, how something so natural just the day before now such a point of concern. Something he’d start looking into tomorrow, Cain decided with a yawn, putting foot to stair tread.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Grandpa Anton’s voice sounded like a cannon blast in the empty house. A lamp flipped on, shrouding him a pool of light.

“You’re up late,” he managed to say, eyes closed, and took a deep breath to still his racing pulse. “Scared me, Poppa.”

“It takes awhile to adjust. Back at my villa, it’s just now time for
antipasto
.” Poppa spoke in his thick Italian vibrato. “What about you, Cain, eh? Lost, in thoughts of your young lady?”

“Always.” Cain accepted the shot of brandy his grandfather poured, and plunked down at the footstool by the old man’s feet. The drink burned a trail to his stomach. He took another sip.

“I, too.” Poppa nodded. “
Bellissima
, this angel, her grandmother. I like her very much.”

They talked of the women who shared the house on the opposite hill. Cain listened to his grandfather speak of Tuscany, of marriage, and of family. The old man’s words of wisdom had his own mind turning. Every story, carefully translated into haphazard English, and each one, a bittersweet memory.

“I’ve been looking through your mother’s house. At the pictures your grandmother painted. Our villa. Our life. So happy…so full of love.” His pale blue eyes welled with tears quickly blinked away.

“She was a beautiful lady, Pop.” Cain nodded, glancing at one of her paintings, a knot in his throat at the mention of his grandmother. He recalled the subtle grace of her brush on the canvas while she’d painted it.

“Si.” He swallowed a long drink, finishing his glass. “Do you think she would smile on this?”

Cain frowned, considering. He had only thought of his grandfather’s loneliness when he’d agreed to translate the letters. He’d never imagined that Grandpa Anton would really fall in love. Now, they were both in it, and deep. So, what would Grandma think about this? A picture of her swept through his mind, and brought a laugh, lightened the mood—just as his grandmother would have done.

“I think…” He licked his lips, meeting the old man’s stare with his own. “Grandma would probably chase you with a wooden spoon.”

A shared laugh erupted from each.

“Shh!” Cain darted a glance up to the ceiling, knowing his Mom had ears of an elephant, then shook his head and sighed. The truth behind the image speared back any hint of sadness.

Anton nodded. “Oh, that’s for sure. But after…I think she would like Nona. Approve. Eh?”

“I do, too,” Cain agreed, and meant it.

Above, a door creaked. Footsteps stomped to the second floor landing. His mother’s voice muttered in Italian, followed by the English translation. “Poppa! Cain! Go to bed!”

They collapsed shoulders into one another, laughing again.

“Soon,
cara
. Soon,” Anton assured his daughter.

“
Va bene
.” Her footsteps padded across the floor upstairs, back to her room. Door shut, a bit harder than necessary.

“It’s a good house.
Familia
.” He looked back to Cain. “But, you’re a grown man. You need your own roof. Your own roots,
capice
?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“The Darling women…” Anton’s eyes were lost in the crease of his grin. “They are both good choices, both, no?”

“
Si
, Pop.” Cain reached over and clasped his grandfather’s outstretched hand, and felt something hard and round in its palm. “What’s this?”

Anton cleared his throat. “This was your grandmother’s. I gave it to her the day after I met her. Not a rich man, but I had deep roots. Like you. I had no home of my own, like you. Only the love for a woman, and that made me very rich indeed. For the rest of our days.” He placed his palm on Cain’s shoulder and squeezed. “You understand?”

Cain stared at the band of white gold, the tiny ornate olive leaves that circled the diamond. He remembered seeing it on Grandma’s finger. Of toying with the band when he was a small boy. He never imagined it would be his, to give to the woman of his choosing. Thoughts swirled to Misty. Her laugh. Her smile. Her heart. Just the heart he’d want caring for his own kids, someday.

His stomach did a quick flip and a twist. Cain clasped his grandfather’s hand, gave it a warm shake. “
Capice
.”