needed to write himself a prescription for some R & R.
“He sent me a quick email from his satellite laptop that said he was going upriver and would be incommunicado for a few days. The news service says the flood casualties are even worse than originally reported.”
Giorgio shook his head. “He won’t be happy until he’s come down with some previously unknown dread tropical disease that medical science can name after him.” Jacques stupidii.
“Or being chased by pirates,” Frank agreed. “Talk about a man who needs to relax, huh?”
“If he makes it that long. Especially since we have a wedding to pull off.” Not that Jack knew anything about that sort of task, either.
“Right, George. Don’t worry about a thing. Stevie and I have it all well in hand, so you enjoy your vacation, okay?”
“And not a word to her about where I am, right?”
“Right. We’re just emailing and texting, so she can’t tell if I am lying or not.” Frank was a terrible liar.
“Good. I’ll let you know when I am back in Vinciguerra.”
“Take your time—and give that pretty signorina a kiss from ol’ Frank, okay?”
“Not okay, Frank. Find your own. You should settle down and make little dukes for your mother to spoil.”
“Right.” His voice was cool for the first time. “What’s the American phrase? ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’ Well, I am happy to be the wedding planner and never the groom.”
Giorgio winced. “Frank—”
“Tchau, Giorgio.”
“Ciao, Franco,” he replied, but to an empty line. Ah, he’d touched a nerve there with his offhand comment. As if Giorgio ever talked seriously about settling down. He’d apologize later when Frank had regained his normally sunny mood.
He stared at his phone. Frank was more of a home-body than any of them, preferring to work in the fields or build some new and elaborate project for his estate. Giorgio was the dutiful one, working in the palazzo like some CEO, and Jack had been bitten by the travel bug, probably the least harmful than the rest he’d encountered, and put more stamps in his passport saving the world than the Dalai Lama.
But none of them had had more than short-term relationships that fizzled instead of sizzled. He knew about Frank’s unhappy foray into first love only because of a late-night, wine-soaked confession of misery. Giorgio had poured Frank back into his bed that night right before the start of their second year at the university.
Jack had an aloof vibe that drove the girls crazy to learn what was behind the charming, but remote French facade. He’d preferred to go out with the cool, brainy types he met in his premed classes, and once he started medical school, dating fell by the wayside.
And Giorgio had had several girlfriends but had always put Stefania, his grandmother and his country before them—in that exact order. If he’d been his ruthless medieval ancestor, the original Giorgio Martelli di Leone, the Hammer of the Lion, who had carved out a principality from the rugged Italian hills, he would have put country first and women relatives a distant last. He would have sold Stefania off to a husband who offered the most advantage for him, chucked his grandmother in a nunnery if she gave him any grief and would have married the woman with the best dowry, regardless of looks or appeal. That original Giorgio had done pretty much the same thing, additionally fathering roughly a dozen children with nearly as many women. He’d often met other green-eyed Vinciguerran men who looked enough like him to be a cousin, if not a brother.
An odd thing, the fortuitous circumstances of his birth. He’d never thought much about it, traveling through his life like a swimmer in a river, constantly moving and dealing with rocks as they popped up. But if his great-something grandfather had been the son of the dairymaid instead of the son of the lady of the manor, Giorgio would be another tall, green-eyed Vinciguerran man reading the morning paper at his breakfast table and wondering aloud at great volume what that idiot prince of theirs was up to again.
He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. In that cozy Vinciguerran flat, his beautiful Italian wife, a redhead from the Cinque Terre, would shrug at the mysteries of foreigners as she poured him a caffe latte and kissed the nape of his neck.
He brought himself up short. That humble, sweet life that happened every day in his country was not his life. His flat was a gigantic palazzo and his life was not conducive to a normal marriage.
But while he and Renata were here in this lovely town along a lovely sea, he would make little memories like that imaginary breakfast and newspaper. And maybe when he was back at his immense desk arguing over traffic crossings and fishing rights, he would think back to how her hair curled over her breast as she slept on a sunny spring morning.
He set his cup down forcefully, awkwardly so the handle cracked off. Memories. Scraps of life. He was a man who had almost everything, could get almost anything with the snap of his fingers or the ring of his phone—and he was jealously hoarding mental snapshots to remember like an old widow staring at family photos.
Giorgio jumped to his feet, strangely disconcerted. Who was he to live like this? Had he not been living like this since his parents had died? Remembering how they had been happy and whole, Papa, Mamma, brother and sister. Making Stevie’s life happy and whole again seemed to have left a hole in his.
He stalked toward the bedroom. Well, if he was to be a man of memories, he was damn well going to make more.
Slipping off his robe, he slid into bed with Renata. She turned toward him in her sleep, wrapping her soft white arms around him. He swallowed hard and kissed the top of her head. Another memory for Prince Giorgio, rich in worldly goods but a pauper in the things that really mattered.
9
DESPITE HIS BEST EFFORTS to delegate work back to his assistants, Giorgio had to set aside a couple hours to attend to business. Renata did the same but since she was running a shop and not a country, finished sooner. Despite her decidedly antinuptial tendencies, Flick was a smart cookie and had no trouble managing the shop.
Renata closed the app on her phone and went looking for Giorgio. He was sitting on the couch, leaning over a tablet PC while talking to his assistant in rapid Italian. She waited until he paused for breath and then waved to him.
“Momento, Alessandro.” He pressed mute on the phone. “Renata, sweetheart, I am so sorry. An issue about the new seaport came up. Something about how deep the water must be. I’m in a conference call with our consultants—retired American Naval officers as a matter of fact.”
She saluted him and smiled.
“Are you bored? I can have Paolo take you somewhere.”
She gestured dismissively. Vernazza wasn’t exactly New York, and there she didn’t need a bodyguard, either. “I thought I’d take a walk and do some shopping. I need to buy Flick a gift and a little something for my parents and Aunt Barbara. Maybe a bottle or two of Scciachetrà for a special occasion.”
Giorgio peeled several large-denomination euro bills from his clip. “Buy one for us. I can think of several special occasions we can create.”
Renata
