me Lucia,” his grandmother said.
“Lucia,” Natalie repeated dutifully. “Thank you for inviting me. And thank you, Senhor Azevedo,” she said to the man who stood fidgeting in the background.
He had stayed back until his mother had finished greeting Christo and Natalie, as if he knew who really mattered to Christo. But now he embraced his son and clapped him on the back, then kissed Natalie on both cheeks.
“Xanti,” he corrected her. “Senhor Azevedo makes me sound like my father. Dead.”
“Beloved,” his mother corrected firmly, slapping his arm lightly. “And deeply missed.”
“Sim. And not replaceable. So I am Xanti,” her son said just as firmly, taking her hand in his.
Xantiago Azevedo was in his mid fifties now, but unlike many men his age he had retained the lithe, lean, soccer player’s build he must have had in his prime. He wasn’t as broad-shouldered as Christo, nor as handsome in Natalie’s estimation, but she could see instantly that Xanti’s quicksilver grin would always have appealed to the ladies. And there was a twinkle in his green eyes, which were much more devilish than his serious son’s.
“Where’s Katia?” Christo asked his father now.
Katia was the bride. But more than that Natalie hadn’t discovered.
“I’ve met her once or twice,” Christo had said. “She’s young. Beautiful. The sort Xanti always goes for. Not much older than me.” There was a mixture of doubt and censure in his tone. He looked around now, but apparently didn’t see her. He looked quizzically at his father.
Xanti laughed and shrugged. “Running around like a chicken,” he said, shaking his head as he hoisted one of the suitcases Christo had taken off the luggage turntable and led the way out the door. “She has so much to do before the wedding. Me, I don’t know what is so important.”
“I know,” his mother said imperiously. “The wedding is important. She wants it to be perfect.”
Christo rolled his eyes at that comment, but fortunately his grandmother didn’t see him. She was focused on walking as they went out of the terminal. Her gait was slow and not terribly steady. Natalie slowed her pace to match and offered Christo’s grandmother her arm for support.
“Maybe your father could bring the car and meet your grandmother and me here?” she called to Christo who, laden with two more suitcases, had been going after his father.
He glanced back, realized at once what she meant, and called something to his father in Portuguese. Then he immediately turned back and helped Natalie usher his grandmother to a bench.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he scolded her. “You should have stayed home to rest.”
She looked indignant as she sank onto the seat. “For what do I rest? For you. You are here at last. Who knows how many days I have to see you?”
“Don’t say things like that,” Christo chastised her roughly.
His grandmother shrugged. “It is true.” And she looked up at him with such love that it was almost painful to watch—especially since Natalie had a very good idea how she felt.
It took over an hour to get to the house that Xanti had built for his mother after he’d become an international soccer star. It was in the same rural area he had grown up in, with a mixture of working farms and large estates. And when they arrived, Natalie realized that it wasn’t simply a house, but a small compound of two good-sized houses and several smaller cottages.
“Because Xanti wanted home-cooked meals, but he didn’t want Avó telling him not to bring his women home,” Christo explained wryly after they’d taken his grandmother to her house and she’d been persuaded to take a short rest. “She has her place here and he has his over there—” a wave of the hand toward a sprawling modern place near a free-form landscaped swimming pool. “And there are others for family and visitors,” he added as he walked her through the beautiful grounds along a winding flagstone path that ended at the door of a small cottage. “This one is for you.”
The one he’d brought her to was older than the others, a rough ivory-colored stucco house with deep-set windows and a broad flagstone veranda all across the front. It was quite the most lovely welcoming little house Natalie had ever seen.
On a trellis on one side of the porch a deep burgundy bougainvillea grew all the way up to the roof and draped along it, providing privacy and welcome shade from the sun.
Though it was winter in Brazil, the day was still warm, and Natalie was glad to step into the shade while Christo took out a key and opened the door, then held it for her to precede him.
The inside of the house was cool and as welcoming at the exterior. A rattan sofa and chairs with colorful jungle print cushions were grouped at one end of the main room, and there was a small kitchen and dining area at the other. French doors opened onto another veranda beyond the dining table.
There was a small hallway with a bath and a bedroom where Christo carried her suitcase. Natalie followed him in and stopped as she stared at the one wide bed.
Instantly her gaze flew to Christo at the same moment he turned and looked at her.
“I’m staying at Avó’s,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can, too, of course. I just thought, under the circumstances, you might prefer it here where you could have a little privacy and some space. Where you won’t be under the microscope all the time.”
“I would,” Natalie said quickly. “Thank you.”
She smiled at him then, and for the first time since she’d agreed to come, it felt almost right. Almost as if she might not have made the biggest mistake of her life.
Walking back out into the main room, she turned in a circle, trying to absorb the peace and the beauty of the place. “It’s gorgeous here, all of it,” she told Christo. “Your dad’s place looks amazing and your grandmother’s is really lovely. But I really like it here best. It’s homey.”
She wondered, when she said it, if it sounded rude. But for the first time Christo actually smiled, too.
“It was Avó’s,” he told her. “This is her old house. Renovated a bit now—” he nodded toward the updated kitchen “—but it was where she and my grandfather lived, where Xanti was raised. It was where she was still living when I first came here as a boy. Xanti was living in Europe then. Making lots of money, but he hadn’t come back yet to build his palace.” He dipped his head in the direction of Xanti’s house, then looked around here and ran his hand down the doorjamb proprietarily. “I like it here, too.”
It was one of those moments of perfect communion that they shared. One that made Natalie ache with longing for what could be but never would. What it made Christo feel, she didn’t know.
Abruptly he said, “I should go back and see Avó. Do you want to come or will you rest a while?”
“I’ll rest,” Natalie said.
He opened his mouth, started to say something, then shut it again. Another long look arced between them, and Natalie found herself almost leaning into it before she recollected herself and straightened up.
Christo
