a holiday. I imagine even the drystone-wall builders are allowed time out to look at the view.’
‘Only when they stand up to straighten their backs,’ she said. Then grinned. ‘Is the pasta done?’
He let go of her and turned to check. ‘Just right.’ He drained it, mixed it with the sauce, stirred in some olives and then shared it between the two bowls. ‘A few olives on the top, a leaf or two of basil and we’re done.’ He checked to make sure he’d turned the oven off then said, ‘Shall we take it outside?’
They ate their supper sitting side by side, not quite touching, with the lights of Baia di Rose below them.
‘Mark Twain said that nothing improves the view like ham and eggs,’ Andie said after a while. ‘I think I’d add a bowl of pasta to that quote.’
‘What this view, this food needs, is some Neapolitan love song playing in the background.’
She laughed, shook her head. ‘I didn’t take you for a sentimental old romantic.’
‘Didn’t you? What would you choose?’
‘Sofia used to love Sinatra. When we sat out here in the evening she’d put on one of his mellow late night song albums. “In the Wee Small Hours...”’
Cleve reached for her hand and began to sing very softly.
‘I’ve never heard you sing,’ she said, when he’d finished.
‘I’ve never had anything to sing about before.’
‘Cleve...’
He lifted the hand he was holding to his lips. ‘Is it too soon to be talking names?’
‘Names?’ Andie, her hand in Cleve’s, enchanted by the sound of his voice, was jolted back to earth.
The baby... She had to remember that this wasn’t about her. It was all about the baby.
‘Far too soon,’ she said, making an effort to keep up the smile. ‘Whatever we choose we’re bound to think of something completely different when we see him or her.’
‘Where does Miranda come from? Are you named after an aunt, grandmother?’
‘Shakespeare’s heroine in The Tempest.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Portia, Miranda, Imogen and Rosalind?’ she prompted. ‘Mum and Dad met at Stratford. They were sitting next to each other at a performance of The Merchant of Venice. The rest, as they say, is history.’
‘I’d never made the connection but, just so you know, if it’s a girl I’m putting in a bid for Daisy.’
‘Daisy Finch? It’s a deal,’ she said, doing her best not to read too much into the fact that he’d chosen her favourite flower. ‘Unless she looks like a Violet, or an Iris, or a Lily.’
‘Or a Poppy. Or a Primrose. Or a Pansy.’ He grinned. ‘I think we’ve found our theme.’
Theme? ‘It might be a boy.’
‘Let’s worry about that when you’ve had a scan. That’s if you want to know?’
Did she? Suddenly everything was moving too fast. This was supposed to be thinking time but all she’d done so far was react to situations as they’d arisen.
‘I’ll need notice of that question. Ask me something simple.’
‘Okay. What’s your favourite movie?’
‘While You Were Sleeping.’
‘Why? Tell me about it.’
‘It’s a chick flick,’ she warned.
‘I can handle that.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘And what have you done with Cleve Finch?’
‘If I’m going to have a little girl I need to get in touch with my feminine side.’
Unable to help herself, she laughed and they spent the evening sharing the things they loved: food, music, films and then, when it was too cold to sit out, they went to bed and shared each other.
Afterwards, Andie lay awake in the dark, the only sounds the quiet breathing of the man beside her, the soft susurration of the sea lapping the beach below them.
She’d grabbed at marriage to stop Cleve from slipping back into the darkness. To ensure her child had a place at the centre of his world. But what about her?
She had wondered if Cleve would want to sleep with her. Question asked and answered. He was a passionate man and clearly he was taking their marriage seriously, anticipating more children. A posy of little girls...
But where was love in all this?
He had freely admitted to having sleepwalked into marriage with Rachel, to having failed her.
A divorce would have been financially painful but once there were children...
His arm looped around her, drew her against his chest and he kissed her neck, murmured, ‘You’re overthinking it. Go to sleep.’
* * *
The following morning, while Cleve worked on the roof, Andie went down to the village to pick up her bag and visit Alberto and Elena, where she spent a happy hour reminiscing and catching up.
She told them about the wedding, explaining that it would be a simple affair, but she would love to have them join her and Cleve and the Starks for a small celebration meal afterwards. She left, promising to let them know when, and went back to the villa to hunt down the dress she was hoping to wear.
The gowns had been laid in acid-free tissue and layered with silk lavender bags and she found the dress she was looking for in the second trunk. Inside the lid was an album of photographs of Sofia modelling the gowns and the colours of the kimono dress were as fresh and vibrant as the day she’d been photographed for Vogue Italia.
She swallowed down a lump in her throat, knowing that she didn’t have that kind of style. That it would never look like that on her. And when she held it up against her there was another problem. She was not model height. Even with high heels the dress was going to be too long.
‘Miranda...’
It didn’t matter. She could take up the hem or there were plenty of dresses and not all of them were floor length.
‘I’m ready whenever you are.’
Cleve appeared in the doorway looking good enough to eat in a dark blue shirt and a pair of lightweight grey trousers he’d bought the day before.
‘Stay there,’ she warned, holding the dress behind her.
He held up his hands and backed away, grinning. ‘I’m doing nothing to anger the superstition gods.’
They
