all. Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s gone to the races. Not the horse races. The dog races. Down at Appin. Uncle Guiseppe has a couple of runners today.’
‘Dad should buy himself a greyhound or two. The walking would do him good. Get rid of that spare tyre he’s carrying around his middle. I think he’s been eating too much of your pasta.’
Teresa bridled. ‘Are you saying your papa is fat?’
‘Not fat, exactly. Just well fed.’
Teresa suspected Enrico was deliberately diverting the subject away from himself. She knew all her children well, but she knew Enrico even better than the others. He’d come along when she’d thought there would be no more bambinos. She’d already had eight children, one each year or so, three boys followed by five girls. After giving birth to Katrina, the doctor had told her she should not have any more babies. Her body was exhausted. So she’d gone on the Pill with her sensible priest’s permission, and for the next nine years, had not had the worry of being pregnant.
But the Pill was not perfect, it seemed, and another child had eventually been conceived. Although she was worried, a termination had not even been considered, and fortunately Teresa had been blessed with a trouble-free pregnancy that time and an amazingly easy birth. Enrico being a boy was an added bonus after having had five girls in a row.
Of course, he’d been very spoiled, by all of them, but especially his sisters. Still, despite the temper tantrums he threw when he didn’t get what he wanted, Enrico had been a loving child who had grown into a loving man. Everyone in the family adored him, not the least being herself. Teresa would never have admitted it openly, but Enrico held a special place in her heart, possibly because he was her youngest. With the ten-year age gap between Enrico and his closest sister, Teresa had been able to devote a lot of time to raising her last baby. Enrico had followed her around like a little puppy, and mother and son were very close.
Enrico could never fool her. Aside from his suspicious lack of hunger today, she knew something had to be up to take him away from the races on a Saturday afternoon. With a mother’s intuition, she sensed it had something to do with a woman. Possibly with that Renée lady he often spoke about but whom she’d never met, the one he played poker with every Friday night and who was part of his racing syndicate. Teresa had sensed an odd note in his voice whenever he mentioned her.
And he mentioned her quite a bit.
Teresa would have liked to ask him about her but suspected that the direct approach would be a waste of time. At thirty-four, her youngest son was long past the age that he confided matters concerning his personal and private life to his mother. Which was a pity. If he’d consulted her before he’d become tangled up with that Jasmine creature, she could have saved her son a lot of heartache.
Now, there was a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. Clever, though. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth around the Mandrettis till the wedding, after which she’d gradually stopped coming to family functions, making poorer and poorer excuses till there weren’t any left to be made.
Fortunately, she was now past history. Though not generally believing in divorce, Teresa was a realist. Some divorces were like taking the Pill. A necessity. Still, Teresa didn’t want Enrico repeating his mistake by getting tangled up with another unsuitable woman.
‘Did you play cards last night?’ she asked as she bent to pull a few sprigs of mint.
‘Of course,’ came her son’s less than enlightening reply.
‘Charles well, is he?’ Charles was the only one of Enrico’s three poker-playing friends whom Teresa had actually met, despite her having invited the trio to several parties over the years. That Renée woman was a bit like Jasmine, always having some excuse not to come. The other man, the Arab sheikh, had also always declined, though his refusals Teresa understood.
Enrico had explained that Prince Ali kept very much to himself, because of his huge wealth and family connections. Apparently, the poor man could never go anywhere in public without having a bodyguard accompany him. Sometimes two.
What a terrible way to live!
Enrico had to cope with a degree of harassment from the Press and photographers himself, but he could still come and go as he pleased without feeling he was in any physical danger.
‘Charles is very well,’ her son answered. ‘He and his wife are going to have a baby. In about six months time, I gather.’
‘How lovely for them,’ Teresa enthused as she straightened, all the while wondering if that was what had upset Enrico. He’d always wanted children of his own. Most Italian men did. It was part of their culture, to father sons to proudly carry on their name, and daughters to dote upon.
Teresa had no doubt Enrico would make a wonderful father. He was marvellous with all his nephews and nieces. It pained Teresa sometimes to see how they always gravitated towards their uncle Rico, who was never too busy to play with them. He should be playing with children of his own.
If only she could say so.
Teresa suddenly decided that she was too old and too Italian for the tactful, indirect approach.
‘When are you going to stop being silly and get married again, Enrico?’
He laughed. ‘Please don’t hold back, Mum. Say it like you see it.’
‘I do not mean any disrespect, Enrico, but someone has to say something. You’re thirty-four years old and not getting any younger. You need a wife, one who will be more than happy to stay home and have your children. A man of your looks and success should have no trouble finding a suitable young lady. If you like, we could ask the family at home to look around for a nice Italian girl.’
That should spur him on to do the looking around for himself! Enrico might have Italian blood flowing in his veins but he was very Australian in many ways. Look at the way he always called her Mum and his father Dad, whereas his older brothers and sisters always called them Mama and Papa.
Naturally, arranged marriages were anathema to her youngest son. He believed in marrying for love, and, up to a point, so did Teresa.
But best not to tell him that.
Her son’s look of horror was very satisfying.
‘Don’t start that old-fashioned nonsense, Mum. When and if I marry again, it will be to a lady of my choosing. And it will be for love.’
‘That’s what you said the first time, and look where it got you!’
‘Hopefully, not every woman is like Jasmine.’
‘I still can’t understand what you saw in that girl.’
He laughed. ‘That’s because you’re not a man.’
Teresa shook her head at her son. Did he think she was so old that she had no memory of sex? She was only seventy-three, not a hundred and three.
‘She might have had a pretty face and a good body but she was vain and selfish,’ Teresa pronounced firmly. ‘You’d have to be a fool not to see that.’
‘Men in love are fools, Mum,’ he retorted with a self-mocking edge which Teresa immediately picked up on.
