An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,42

of the same. A bigger building, a shopping centre, and so on. Five years ago I moved to New York and started doing the same thing there.’

‘And now you’re doing it in Sicily.’

He hesitated for a second’s pause and then nodded. ‘Yes.’

The waiter came with the wine, and Lucia watched as Angelo swirled it in his glass and tasted it. He nodded once, and the waiter began to pour. When had he learned about such luxuries? she wondered. When had he become accustomed to three-thousand-euro suits, fast cars and fancy restaurants? It was all so removed from her own small world, her shabby apartment and her working-class job. How on earth could a relationship between them ever work?

‘Taste,’ Angelo said, and she picked up her glass. The wine was rich and velvety-smooth, warming her insides.

‘Delicious,’ she said, although in all honesty she couldn’t really tell one wine from another.

‘So tell me what you’ve been doing these past fifteen years, Lucia, besides working.’

She smiled wryly. ‘Not much.’

‘You must have other pursuits. Hobbies.’

‘I like to read.’

‘What kind of books?’

‘Anything, really. I like…’ She felt herself blushing, which was ridiculous, but there it was. ‘I like travel books. Memoirs about people going places, seeing things.’

‘And would you like to travel yourself, one day?’

‘One day, perhaps.’ She hadn’t yet had the chance.

‘Those postcards,’ Angelo said slowly, his considering gaze sweeping over her. ‘You used to collect postcards from places all over the world.’

‘Just the ones nobody wanted any more,’ she said quickly, and he chuckled.

‘I wasn’t accusing you of stealing, Lucia. I’d just forgotten, that’s all. You had a scrapbook.’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted to go to Paris,’ he spoke slowly, as if the memories were surfacing in his mind, popping like bubbles. ‘You had a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We looked at them together.’

‘I bored you with them, more like.’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘You don’t need to rewrite the past, Angelo,’ she said quietly. ‘I know well enough how it was.’

He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘Then tell me how you think it was, Lucia.’

She glanced down, felt her face warm. ‘Mi cucciola, remember? I was like an annoying little puppy to you, always frisking at your heels. Sometimes you’d pat me on the head and sometimes you’d kick me away.’

He sat back, silent, and she risked a glance upwards. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

It was absurd to feel hurt by his admission, but she did. She’d always known he hadn’t really cared about her, had tolerated her and sometimes enjoyed her company, but that was all. She’d known that absolutely, and yet…it hurt for him to admit it now.

‘That was my problem though,’ he added quietly, ‘not yours.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged one powerful shoulder. ‘I didn’t appreciate you. I didn’t realise what I’d had with you until I’d left.’

She swallowed past the ache in her throat. ‘You’re still rewriting history, Angelo. You can’t expect me to believe you even thought of me once while you were buying and selling your businesses.’

He didn’t answer, and that ache in her throat spread, strengthened. She swallowed again, trying to ease its pervasive pain. This really shouldn’t have hurt. It was no more than she’d always known, even said to him, yet that had been when she’d been trying to convince herself she didn’t care. Now that she’d admitted she did, it hurt more.

‘You’re right,’ he finally said. ‘I didn’t think of you. But that was a choice, and it took more energy and determination than I ever realised to do it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I missed you,’ Angelo said simply. ‘I may not have realised it at the time, but I missed you, Lucia. I’ve always missed you.’

And just like that the ache dissolved into a tentative, hopeful warmth. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said quietly.

‘So tell me what else you’ve been doing these past years,’ Angelo said after a moment. He had to clear his throat, and Lucia took a sip of wine. Admitting you missed someone might not seem like much, but she knew to Angelo it was a big deal. He didn’t do emotion, and certainly not vulnerability.

‘Not much else, really.’

‘You were helping that other maid. Maria.’

‘Yes—’

‘How?’

She shrugged. ‘She has trouble with reading and writing, and so I help her with her letters. I know I didn’t get much schooling—’

‘No less than me.’

She nodded, accepting. They’d both quit school at sixteen; they’d both needed to work. ‘I enjoy it, and it helps her.’

‘Have you helped others?’

Another shrug. ‘A few. A lot of women in