about it. I have a degree in marketing and could help set it up if you ever wanted to expand.”
Isabella looked at her. “Would it cost a lot?”
“My contribution would be free. I owe Cristiano forever.” She reached out and brushed back Dante’s hair, smiling at the precious little boy. He rewarded her with a wide smile and drool on his chin mixed with breadcrumbs.
Isabella nodded. “If you would take the letter and sauce to my brother, it will be enough. Tell him his sister asks after him and to call me!”
By the time Mariella was ready to leave, a small bag containing a jar of sauce and an official letter was delivered to her table by the waiter. She placed in it the carry space of the stroller. After wiping Dante’s face and hands, she placed him in the stroller and paid her bill. A few moments later they were walking around the square. She studied the restaurant that shared the small piazza with the family restaurant. It looked very upscale and trendy. Not the sort of place for a baby or a casually dressed tourist. Glad she’d had an excellent meal, and that Dante had not raised a fuss, she continued on her walk. There was more to see before returning to the lake.
The town was lovely, decidedly bigger than Lake Clarissa, yet nothing like New York or Rome.
But which appealed to her more these days—the big city excitement or the slower pace in these mountain towns? Would she like to raise Dante in a pastoral setting allowing him to experience nature in its raw beauty? Or would the experiences of museums, art galleries and opera be better to round his education?
Dante had fallen asleep by the time they returned to the car. Mariella couldn’t wait to get him home and take a nap herself. The prognosis from the doctor had been good. But she still coughed from time to time.
The next morning, Mariella put Dante in the stroller, retrieved the sauce Isabella Casali had sent from the refrigerator and headed back up the road to deliver to Cristiano. Her nerves thrummed with anticipation.
On impulse, she stopped at the open-air market and bought a bouquet of mums. The fall flowers were vibrant bronze yellow and purple and she knew they would brighten the kitchen. She hoped he’d appreciate the gesture with the flowers. She wanted to brighten his day as he brightened hers.
Cristiano was sitting on the terrace when she arrived. She smiled when she saw him, already anticipating their time together. There was something about Cristiano that drew her like a lodestone. She watched his expression as it changed from surprise, to pleasure, to cautiousness. He rose and came to meet her.
“Buongiorno. We have brought you gifts,” she said as she reached the terrace.
“I need no gifts.” He watched her from wary eyes. He was several inches taller than she was and she had to crane her neck he was so close.
“Well, the flowers are from Dante, so speak to him about those. And this sack is from your sister, Isabella. She hopes you are well and you should call her.”
“My sister?”
“Yes. She says you are becoming a hermit. I told her you weren’t. Look how often we visit.”
The amusement in his eyes lit a spark in her own.
Her spirits rose. She held out the flowers.
He stared at them and slowly took them. “Dante picked them out?” he asked.
“Well, that was the bunch he made a grab for. I figured they were the ones he wanted to give you.”
“Or eat.”
She laughed.
Cristiano stole another look at her. She was beautiful when she laughed. It was as if the sun shone from inside, lighting her eyes and making them look like polished silver. That pesky urge to wrap his hands in her hair and pull her closer sprang up again. He looked away before he did something stupid—like give into that impulse.
“And your sister sent you some more sauce.” Mariella pulled a brown bag from the back of the stroller and held it out. Cristiano took it. Now both hands were full.
“I’ll open the door so you can put the flowers in water and the sauce in the freezer or wherever you wanted to put it. I kept it cold. Delicious, even better made fresh. Still, I think your family could ship it frozen within the country at least. I think the sauce would do quite well—maybe they could send pasta, too. I printed a picture of Ariana, but no one I showed it to yesterday recognized her.”
“Did you even take a breath in all that?” he commented, following her into the house and back to the kitchen. He put the sack on the counter, laid the flowers down and rummaged for something to put them in. Finally he settled on a tall glass. The flowers did look nice. But he wasn’t used to getting gifts from women and wasn’t sure how to handle this.
“I thought they’d look good on the table,” she said.
“Sure.” He set the flowers on the old table, struck by a memory of his mother doing the same thing. Now the forgotten memory flashed into his mind.
“My mother liked flowers,” he said slowly.
“Most people do. I think they look happy. When we stopped at Rosa for lunch after our checkup yesterday, I told the waiter I’d had the sauce before and he apparently told your sister. She came out to meet me.”
For a moment Cristiano wished he had given them a ride, though he wasn’t sure about visiting Rosa just yet. He realized he longed to see his father and sister. Find out how things were going at the restaurant. He had to make sure he was all right before risking it. “The outcome from the doctor?”
“We’re both healthy. Though I still cough from time to time. The doctor said that would fade. So we had most of the day free after seeing him, so we set out to explore Monta Correnti. I recognized the restaurant as soon as I saw the sign. The food was superb. That’s where I met Isabella. There’s a letter in the sack for you as well.”
Cristiano looked in the sack and took out the envelope. It was from the minister of the interior. Cristiano stared at it. It was addressed to his apartment in Rome and had been forwarded to the restaurant.
“Is it bad news?” Mariella asked, watching him.
“I have no idea.” Although deep down Cristiano knew what this letter contained, but did not want to accept it.
“So open it and find out what it says.”
He did. The letter confirmed what Cristiano had already known for a long time. He was being awarded a medal of valor for his rescue of the injured from the bombing. Immediately, he crushed the letter and threw it on the counter.
“Um, bad news,” she guessed.
He shook his head. “It’s a mistake, that’s all.”
Cristiano didn’t want the medal, never had. Why him? Stephano had died. Others from his station had helped with the rescue. There had been so many who died. They had not been able to rescue everyone. Why would anyone want to award him a medal of valor? Especially if they knew of the flashbacks and attacks of sheer terror that gripped him. What kind of man deserved a medal when he couldn’t handle all life threw his way?
“What’s
