Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,114

and I’d known he meant it, but I’d resisted.

I remembered my final day here so vividly. My father had called while I was working in the gift shop. When he told me about my mom, I fled. I knew that time was critical, so I raced to my room in the girls’ dormitory on the vineyard grounds, packed my bag, and hopped on the next bus to Firenze so I could catch the first flight home. I had left Marcellino a note, but once I was home, the only thing I could think about was my mother, and after she died, well, I just didn’t care about anything. My letters and emails were few and far between and then dwindled to just an annual card, which, if I was honest, was an afterthought.

“After my mother died, I just—” My words trailed off. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Stopped living?” he guessed.

“Yes, that.” I felt my throat get tight. I took another sip of wine, picked at my sandwich, and then glanced up and forced a sad smile. “I wish I had been better about staying in touch. I wish I’d come back sooner.”

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.” Marcellino reached across the table and held my hand. “Mi dispiace per la perdita di tua madre.”

“Grazie,” I said. His sympathy about my mother’s death touched me. Possibly, it was hearing the words in Italian. I mean, I’d have to be made of rock not to respond. I squeezed his fingers with one hand and brushed the tears off my face with the other. I didn’t want to dwell in the past. I wanted to live in the now. “Basta. Mangia.”

Marcellino smiled at me and let go of my hand. I could tell by the look of relief in his gaze that he didn’t know what else to say to me about my loss. After Mom passed away, I got good at reading people and their emotions about grief. The people who were relieved when the topic went away were usually the ones who hadn’t lost anyone near and dear and didn’t know what to say to someone who had. They were uncomfortable when surrounded by someone else’s grief and tried to avoid it as if it might be contagious.

I didn’t fault Marcellino for it. I used to be jealous of people who had no experience with having their heart ripped out, and I’d wonder why me instead of them, but I’d grown as a person over the past seven years as I worked with people engaged in the fight of their life every day. Witnessing their losses along with my own, I wouldn’t wish that misery on anyone.

“To your return,” he said. He held up his glass, and I tapped mine against his.

I smiled. I was delighted to be here—I was. And if there was a tiny part of me that missed Jason and wondered what he’d make of all this—I could just see him taking in this castle—then I pushed it aside. I was here to rediscover myself. Besides, Jason would be here in five—okay, four and a half—days, but who was counting? Not me.

* * *

• • • •

THE NEXT TWO days were out of a dream. Marcellino was attentive and kind but restrained, as if he didn’t want to push for more than I was willing to give.

We took long walks through the Tuscan countryside, which was ripe with wildflowers ready to burst into bloom. He showed me the improvements he’d made on the vineyard, and we ate every meal together and spent our evenings strolling through the small village, reading together on the couch in the living room of his castle, or simply savoring the beautiful spring evenings on the terrace while we drank wine and admired the stars. After Paris had gone so horribly awry, in just about every conceivable way, Marcellino was the perfect antidote.

Each morning, I awoke to a bouquet of handpicked flowers and a fresh carafe of coffee outside the door to the small cottage in which I was staying. On the second day, Marcellino fretted over my pasty office-worker skin and bought me a wide-brimmed bright-blue sun hat that was decorated with a bunch of silk daisies.

He cooked all our meals, tailoring the food to my tastes. Knowing my love of books, he gave me a stack of English novels to read when he had to tend to vineyard business. When a neighbor stopped by with a litter of puppies and