carrying Tino’s child.
She pressed against her hard tummy with a reverent hand. All the symptoms of pregnancy now carried special significance for her. She, a woman who’d had every chance at family she’d ever had ripped from her by death, was expecting. It was almost impossible to believe she’d been so blind to the possibility. With her fertility problems, Faith had assumed there wasn’t even a remote chance she could or would ever get pregnant again.
Yet, according to the test her doctor had run, she was. She was.
Oh, man.
She hugged herself while looking down at the faceless pregnant figure she’d been working on. The incredible awe and joy she felt at the prospect of having a baby— Tino’s baby—could be seen in every line of the figure whose arms were raised above her head in an unmistakable gesture of celebration. Faith turned to look at the first woman she’d done after finding out she was pregnant.
That figure showed the fear that laced her joy. This woman had a face, and her expression was one of trepidation. Her hand rested protectively on her slightly protruding stomach. Faith had done the woman as a native African. Clinging to one side of her traditional dress was another small child, not so thin it was starving, but clearly at risk. The two figures were standing on a base that had been created to look like dry grass.
It was a moving statue, bringing tears to her own eyes. Which wasn’t exactly something new. The one place Faith allowed herself to express her inner pain, the feelings of aloneness that she accepted but had never quite learned to live with, was her art. While some pieces were filled with joy and peace, others evoked the kind of emotion few people liked to talk about.
Despite that—or maybe because of it—her art sold well, commanding a high price for each piece. Or at least each one she allowed to leave her workshop. The pregnant woman she’d done yesterday wasn’t going anywhere but back into a lump of clay. It was too jumbled a piece. No single emotional connotation strong enough to override the others.
Some work was like that. She accepted it as the cost of her process. She’d spent the entire day on that statue, but not late into the night like she had on the first one. Part of it was probably the fact that Tino had called her.
He rarely called her, except to set up assignations. Even when he traveled out of country and was gone for a week or more, she did not hear from him. But he had called yesterday. For no other reason she could discern other than to talk. Weird.
Really, really.
But good. Any loosening of his strictly sex relationship rule was a blessing. Especially now.
But still. Odd.
She wasn’t sure when she was going to tell him about the baby. She had no doubts she would do so, but wanted to time it right. There was always a chance of miscarriage in the first trimester, and with her track record she wasn’t going to dismiss that very real possibility. She’d lost every chance she’d had for a family up to now, it was hard to believe that this time would work out any differently.
She could still hope, though.
That didn’t mean she was going to share news of the baby before she was sure her pregnancy was viable. She had an appointment with the hospital later in the week. Further tests would determine whether the pregnancy was uteral rather than ectopic. Though her original fertility specialist had told her the chances of having another tubal pregnancy were so slim as to be almost nonexistent, Faith wasn’t taking any chances.
And she wasn’t telling Tino anything until she was sure.
CHAPTER TWO
THE day before her appointment at the hospital was Faith’s day to teach art to the primary schoolers. She’d fallen into the job by accident. Sort of. Faith had told Agata Grisafi how much she loved children and spending time with them, but of course her career did not lend itself to doing so. The older woman had spoken to the principal of her grandson’s school and discovered he would be thrilled to have a successful artist come in and teach classes one day a week to his students.
That’s how it had begun and how Faith had ended up knowing her lover’s mother and son longer than she’d known him. Some people might say Providence had lent a hand, and Faith thought maybe, just maybe they might be right.
Giosue, Tino’s darling eight-year-old son, was in the second group she taught for the day.
He was his normal sweet self, shyly asking her opinion of the drawing he had done of Marsala’s city hall. They were doing a project combining their writing skills and art to give a picture of their city as eight-and nine-year-olds saw it.
“That’s beautiful, Gio.”
“Thank you, signora.”
She moved on to the next child, helping the little girl pick a color for the fish she wanted to draw in the sea so close to Marsala.
It was at the end of class, after all the other children had left, that Giosue came to her desk. “Signora Guglielmo?”
The children called her by the Italian equivalent of William rather than Williams because it was easier for them and she didn’t mind a bit.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
He grinned at the endearment, his cheeks pinkening a little, but so obviously pleased that she made a note to use it again. Sparingly.
No matter how special the place in her heart Tino’s son had, she would not draw attention to it. To do so would embarrass Giosue, most likely infuriate Tino and compromise Faith’s position with the school.
“I would like to invite you to join my family for dinner tonight,” he said formally. It was clear he’d practiced the phrase, as well.
“Does your father know you are inviting me to dinner?” she asked, seriously concerned by this turn of events.
“Yes, signora. He would be very pleased if you came.”
Shock slammed through her. “Did he say that?”
“Oh, yes.” Giosue gave her another of his shy smiles. “He is very pleased I like you so well.”
Hope bubbled through her like an effervescent spring. Perhaps the black cloud over her life was finally dissipating. Was it possible she had a chance at a real family once again—one that would not be taken away from her? The hope scared her so much it hurt. “I would be honored to join you for dinner.”
“Thank you, signora.” Giosue handed her a folded sheet of paper. “My father made you directions for coming, in case you need them.”
She took the paper. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”
She’d been there a few times for lunch with Agata, though the older woman preferred to meet in Pizzolato because she loved visiting Faith’s studio. She said she basked in the privilege of seeing the artist’s work before it was finished.
“It was my idea to make the map. I helped Papa with it.”
That was her cue to open it and marvel over the drawing, which had obviously been done by a child’s hand. The detailed written instructions were in Tino’s distinctive slashing scrawl, however.
