Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

Angelo

Our house is a stone structure that stands on a cliff. The wall of rock dives straight into the sea. To the left, a small bay with a strip of sand provides enough protection to tie a boat. Beyond the bay, terraced gardens lead up the hilly side to the house. On the east side, an Olympic-sized pool overlooks the sea. The garden is planted with rosemary, thyme, lavender, and olive trees. A vineyard stretches down the hill at the back. It's a small vineyard that produces a few bottles of mediocre quality wine a year, but it was never meant to be an industrious enterprise. It's my father's hobby. It was always his dream to own a vineyard.

I throw the rope of the yacht to one of our men who waits on the jetty. He greets me with a nod. Once the yacht is secured, he goes on board to close everything and pull the covers over the fittings. I look at the gray sky, taking in the thick bank of clouds as I climb the stone steps that cut through the garden to the front of the house. There will be snow on the mountains, tonight.

My mother waits on the veranda. Wisps of dark hair showing the first streaks of white blow around her face. She's wearing a beige rollneck sweater and white slacks, the clothes hanging loosely on her frail frame. She's lost too much weight. My father's illness has taken a toll on all of us.

Spreading her arms, she pulls me into a hug. "Angelo."

Her hair smells of fried butter and zucchini. She's been cooking.

"I kept you some lunch." She pulls away to look at me, her brown eyes piercing. "How was your trip?"

"Good. How's Papa?"

"Better." Her smile gives nothing away. "He's over the worst of the cold. He's waiting for you instead of lying down. I told him you wouldn't be here before three." She turns for the house. "Come on. I'll dish up a plate for you."

I linger a moment to appreciate the view. The sea runs from turquoise into a darker ring of blue. The colors are lighter here, not blackish blue like the deep, stormy waters of the Cape.

"Angelo," my mother calls from the house.

I go inside and close the door. The house is warm. The high ceilings and big windows allow for plenty of natural light, but today, the soft, golden ceiling and floor lights expel the grayness of the day.

Thanks to the yellow color of the sandstone walls, the three-story building isn't gloomy like most of the other strongholds guarding the coastline. Not like the hovel in which I was born before my father made enough money to buy and renovate this place. With teak floors and whitewashed ceilings, the house looks spacious and bright.

Heidi, our housekeeper, takes my coat. The man who took care of the yacht enters with my bag and satchel. He hands me the satchel and takes my bag upstairs.

A clanking of pots and cutlery comes from the kitchen. Classical music plays in the background. My mother likes to cook while listening to Mozart or Bach. The radio in the kitchen is always on, tuned to a classic station. A fragrance of garlic, oregano, and bell peppers hangs in the air.

It's home.

These are the things I value—my mother humming in the kitchen, Mozart playing on the radio, the smell of fried aubergine and garlic, and the sourdough rising in my late grandmother's big porcelain bowl under a kitchen towel on the table. It's the only thing my mother brought with her when she married my father—that bowl with the blue flowers painted around the rim.

A bout of coughing pulls me from my peaceful state. I walk to the library. My father sits on a chaise in front of the fireplace with a blanket over his knees. He's twirling a glass of red wine in front of the flames, studying the color in the light. A box of cigarillos lies open on the coffee table.

I go over, squeeze his shoulder, and pull up a chair.

He takes a sip of the wine and sloshes it in his mouth before swallowing. "The grapes had too little sun, last year. Too much wind, perhaps."

I sit.

After putting the glass aside, he takes a notebook from the table and jots something down. "Did everything go as you'd hoped?"

"Better."

Taking the contract Edwards signed from my satchel, I hand it to him. I had our lawyer draw it up. My father hasn't seen it yet. He was too unwell to accompany me to the appointment. He takes his time to read it, going over every line.

My mother enters with a tray. She puts a plate loaded with deep-fried aubergine and a generous helping of ratatouille as well as a wine glass on the coffee table in front of me.

"Thank you," I say.

I stopped telling her to let the housekeeper do the work a long time ago. My mother needs to do this. She likes to spoil us.

Her smile is warm as she leaves the room.

My father looks up from the papers in his hand. "This is a lot more than we bargained on." He drops the documents in his lap. "What did you do to make him sign? Hold a gun against his head?"

"Something like that."

I remove the black book from my satchel and hand it to my father.

He turns it over and flips the cover. His expression gives nothing away as he scans over the contents. He flicks through a few pages and then lifts his gaze to me. "How did you get it?"

"Walked into his house and took it."

He doesn't ask how. It's not important. "If you have the book, you don't need the girl." He picks up the papers in his lap and waves them at me. "Not with this."

I tense at the mere sound of that. Taking the bottle from the side table between us, I pour myself a glass of wine. "The deal is on."

"Why?"

I taste the wine. My father is right. It's too tannic. "She was promised to me."

"That's your reason?"

"Do I need another reason? You told Edwards to his face the wedding will happen no matter what. It's your honor I'm protecting, your word."

"Is that the only reason, or is it because you liked what you saw a little too much?"

"No one takes away what belongs to me. Whether I liked or hated what I saw didn't matter before. Why would it make a difference now?"

"Because, by your own design, you have a chance to make a choice. You can pick and choose from all the single women. You can marry for looks or love or money or whatever you please. Few men of our standing have that kind of freedom. Your cousins don't. Your uncles and I didn't."

"You love Maman."

He coughs, gargles, and clears his throat before continuing. "It took time, and I can tell you it wasn't smooth sailing. It helps that your mother is a good woman with an iron will who knows her duty and who loves her family. I'm not an easy bastard to live with."

I chuckle at that. The illness has made him soft, but he's not as bad as he makes himself out to be. Everyone knows he dotes on my mother.

"I made up my mind," I say. "When she turns eighteen, her father will give me his blessing, and she will say yes."

"Why are you so set on seeing this through?"

"They have a good name. It'll be valuable for the business."

He can't contest the fact.

Saying nothing, he hands me the book and the contract and picks up his glass again.

I put the book and the documents in the satchel and eat my lunch. When I'm done, my father is snoring, the empty glass tilting in his hand. Removing the glass carefully, I set it on the table. After pulling the blanket up to his waist, I grab the satchel and exit quietly.

My mother waits on the other side of the door, standing small and almost guiltily in the hallway like someone who doesn't have the right to roam freely in her own house.

I frown. I don't like that she's sneaking around like a mouse, too scared to make a peep. After all this time, she should be used to the luxury and the grandness of everything. My father rules the business, but the house is her domain. She should be queen here, not creeping down the hallways and tiptoeing through the rooms. The kitchen is the only place where she lets her guard down and where she truly seems carefree. Is it a coincidence that it also happens to be the only room in which my father never sets foot?

"What are you doing out here?" I ask.

"Waiting for you."

"Is something the matter?"

She juts her chin at me. "Tell me about the girl."

I'm not keen on discussing Sabella. It's private. "She's nice."

"Kind?"

"Yes."

She waits.

"Unpretentious. Honest."

"She sounds nice."

"That's what I said."

My mother holds my gaze. "Does she want this? You?"

"Does it matter?"

"She liked you."

I take in the permanent circles under her eyes and the fragile bone structure of her face, how the hollows beneath her cheekbones leave shadows on her clean-scrubbed, olive complexion. How happy is she truly?

"I never said she liked me." I motion with my head toward the library. "Have you been listening to our conversations?"

She shrugs. "The walls have ears."

My mother never oversteps her boundaries, but I sometimes forget how perceptive she is. She's so quiet, I sometimes forget she's here. "What are you getting at?"

"That you shouldn't have spoiled that."

"Spoiled what?" I ask, the muscles around my eyes tightening.

"Spoiled good feelings. There are little enough of those in life as it is."

It's not her business, but I know she means well. Still, I can't help my curt answer. "There wasn't another way."

She clutches her hands together in front of her. "Than stealing information from her father?"

"Yes." My tone is clipped, my impatience winning out. "Without something to hold over Edwards's head, he'd never let the marriage happen. Even if she was willing, he would've turned her against me."

"If you waited until she was older?—"

"Feelings are fickle," I say, repeating my father's words. "One day, she'll understand why I had to do it."

"She doesn't know?"

"Not why I did it. Her father hasn't told her about his promise or about us. She's young. In another year's time, she'll be more mature and better equipped to handle the truth."

"You should tell her. Keeping her in the dark won't make it easier for her later."

The handle of the satchel pushes into my palm as I tighten my fingers around it. "I'll deal with it as I see fit. The discussion is over. Don't bring it up again."

Something like hurt passes through her eyes, but before I can get an accurate read on her, she averts her gaze.

"Ang!" Adeline cries out, barreling down the hallway.

I just have enough time to drop the satchel before catching my sister as she throws her arms around my neck.

She smacks a kiss on my cheek. "You're back." Laughing, she lets me go and wipes something from my face, presumably her lipstick. "You should've told me. I would've come home straight after my last class instead of going to the library."

My mother gives an awkward smile before slinking away, allowing us space as if she's not welcome in our circle. Like an outsider. Guilt constricts my chest as I follow her retreat with my gaze over Adeline's shoulder.

"Hey," Adeline says, punching me in the stomach. "I'm talking to you."

"Quiet." I glance at the library. "Papa is sleeping."

She blows out a breath. "It's been hard." Then her expression brightens. "But the doctor reckons he'll be fine in a couple of days. It's only a cold." She picks up the satchel and hooks her arm around mine. "Have you eaten? If I know Maman, she's been cooking all day. Let's grab a hot chocolate and you can tell me all about the love of your life."

I scoff. "She's hardly that."

She swings the satchel around and punches me with it. "Be nice."

"Love takes time to grow. It doesn't happen overnight."

"Pff. You're such a cynical man." Pulling me toward the kitchen, she continues. "What did you give her for her birthday? I hope you made an effort with the gift. Women pay attention to small details like that. The bracelet was nice, but Papa chose it. It's not the same, you know?"

Adeline's enthusiasm and love of life are always contagious. Smiling despite myself, I say, "I did give her a cat."

"You said she rescued it."

"I got everything the cat needed."

Drawing me into the kitchen, she shakes her head. "Nope. That doesn't count."

"A phone?"

She dumps the satchel on a chair. "Getting better, but that's still last year. What about this year?"

I take a seat at the table and fold my hands on the top.

A kiss.

No. That was for me.

"So?" Adeline asks with her head buried in the fridge. "I hope you didn't have something impersonal delivered." She straightens with a carton of milk. "Like flowers or chocolates." She makes a face. "That's for men who don't want to take the time to think about it and put effort into picking out something themselves."

"I gave her my ring."

Silence wraps around us as my sister freezes on her way to the stove, gaping at me with round eyes.

Why did I tell her that? It wasn't my plan. It wasn't not my plan either. If anyone notices that my ring is missing, I have no issue about telling them what I've done with it. Maybe I just wanted to shut her up.

It takes her a moment to come to her senses. She glances at the naked ring finger of my right hand and back at my face. A slow smile curves her lips. Pointing the milk at me, she says, "Now that's a birthday gift with meaning."

"I'll replace it with her own ring of course."

"Of course." Her expression is radiant. "And like a considerate fiancé, you'll let her choose it."

I don't reply.

I doubt Sabella will want a ring, especially not from me. Not that it matters. There won't be a choice. Not in the ring she wears, and not in the husband she marries.