with my mother. It will be awkward for you.”
“Exactly why I should be there.” His jaw was a stubborn, unyielding line. “I saw you last night, Angie, crumpled on the floor. You were a wreck. This isn’t going to be easy for you.”
She pushed a hand through her hair. “You want to solve this like you want to solve everything, Lorenzo. Snap your fingers and poof, it’s fixed. But it’s far more complex than that.”
“I know that. That’s why the power of two will be better than one.”
She exhaled a breath and stared out at the water, sparkling in the sun like the most electric of blue jewels. “We need to convince her to go back to the treatment facility in California. She’s refusing to go.”
“I may have an option. I called a friend of mine this morning. He had a brother in a facility in upstate New York that’s supposed to be a leading edge program. If your mother was closer, perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult for her. You could visit her more often.”
Her throat locked. The visits to see her mother in rehab had been the worst. Angry, bitter Della Carmichael had not gone easy despite recognizing the help she was getting. To put herself through even more of that with regular visits? The coward in her shrank from the idea, but she was starting to realize running from her problems hadn’t gotten her anywhere—not with her mother and not with her marriage.
“We could go see it,” her husband offered. “Then you can decide.”
She eyed him. Her husband wanted to solve her problem because it was just one more obstacle between him and what he wanted—a wife able to devote her full attention to him. And yet, when he had comforted her last night she could have sworn he truly cared. That she meant something to him.
Perhaps she needed to exhibit a show of faith in them if this was going to work—a tiny, baby step forward, with her head firmly on her shoulders, of course. Last night had proven the need for that.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go see it.”
* * *
Angie and Lorenzo flew to upstate New York the next morning and met with the staff of the treatment center. Nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks, the setting was lovely. By the time they’d finished touring the facility and meeting with the staff and doctors, Angie had an immediate comfort level with it.
They flew her mother up there to see it later in the week. If Della approved of the choice, the center could take her immediately. Surprisingly, her mother liked it. Angie’s emotions were torn to shreds by the time her mother cycled through the anger and sadness that was her pattern before agreeing to stay. But, somehow, with Lorenzo at her side, it wasn’t as much of a nightmare as she’d expected. Her husband was endlessly patient with her mother, commanding when he needed to be, caring when Della required a softer touch. Where had this man been, she wondered, during their marriage?
By the time they’d boarded the jet, headed for home, she felt numb.
“You okay?” Lorenzo looked at her from the seat beside her, his laptop conspicuously absent on the console.
She nodded. “I hate leaving her there. Please let this be the last time we have to do this.”
He closed his fingers over hers. “Hopefully it is. If it’s not, we’ll keep doing it until she’s better. You’re strong, Angie. You can do this.”
She looked down at his hand curved around hers. Warm and protective, as he’d been all day. Her confusion heightened until it was that thick gray cloud, blanketing her brain. “Thank you,” she murmured huskily, “for being there for me this week. I swore I’d never do this again because it hurts too much. But I’m learning running doesn’t solve anything.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, eyes darkening. “But sometimes we need to do things in our own time. Allow ourselves the space to heal.”
Lucia. He was talking about Lucia again. A tight knot formed in her stomach. She couldn’t ignore it any longer—this ghost that had always lain between them. She knew it was at the heart of figuring them out.
She pulled her hand out from under his. “What you said the night before the party—that you had worked through some things. Was one of them Lucia?”
A guarded expression moved across his face. “Yes. When I met you, I thought I had moved on, gotten through the worst of the grieving process. But after you left, I realized I hadn’t left that process behind as fully as I’d imagined. That perhaps I had carried some of that baggage into our marriage—baggage which did make me emotionally unavailable at times.”
She frowned. “You told me it was my issue with Lucia that was the problem.”
His mouth twisted. “Because you made me furious. Pointing fingers at the ghost of Lucia was your favorite card to play when you were angry with me, cara.”
Her eyelids lowered. She couldn’t deny that. She’d lashed out in whatever way she could to get a response out of him. Something, anything to show he’d cared. She’d known it was wrong to use Lucia as a weapon against him, but their fights hadn’t exactly been rational ones.
“Tell me about her,” she said quietly. “Tell me about what happened. I need to understand, Lorenzo. Maybe if I had, things would have been different.”
He sat back. Rubbed a palm against his temple. “Where to start? Lucia and I were childhood sweethearts. We spent the summers together in Lake Como. Eventually our childhood crush developed into an adult romance. Our families were all for it, it seemed...predestined, in a way.”
Her stomach clenched. She had felt that way about him when they’d met, their connection had been so strong, so immediate. But Lorenzo’s heart had belonged to someone else.
“We didn’t marry right away,” he continued. “I needed to sow my wild oats. I wasn’t sure I could marry the first girl I fell in love with. But after a few years, I knew it was her. We married when I was twenty-six. I was in New York by then, she joined me here.” His dark lashes arced over his cheeks. “She was like a fish out of water, missing her family, missing Italy. I did the best I could to make her happy. She kept saying once she had a baby, once we started a family, everything would change. We were trying for that when she...”
Died. Her chest seized tight. She curled her fingers over his. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”
“No—you’re right. You need to know what happened. It’s...a part of me.” He palmed his jaw, dragging his fingers over dark stubble. “The incident at the town house happened when I was in Shanghai on business. We had an excellent security system there. Impenetrable—like the one we have now. But the men who broke in were professionals—violent professionals. They knew how to talk their way into someone’s home, knew the stories to tell. Lucia was so innocent—she never stood a chance.”
Her stomach curled in on itself. “She let them in.”
He nodded. “They put her in my den. Told her to stay there while they went and cleaned out the place. They left her alone for a few moments and she called for help on her cell. One of them came back, saw what she was doing and hit her with the blunt end of the gun.” His fingers flexed on his thigh, his knuckles gleaming white. “The blow to the head caused a severe bleed on her brain. She never regained consciousness.”
