Ache For You

14

I lift my head and blink, tears streaming down my face and dripping from my chin. “I’m happy for you, Papa.”

He nods, his eyes gaining that faraway look again. “I knew you would be. And I know you’ll love her as I do.” He draws a breath for strength, then focuses all his energy on his next words. “Just remember: nothing worthwhile is easy. That goes for everything. The easier it comes, the easier it goes. The truly valuable things and people will always test your mettle, but every bit of pain will be worth it in the end. Don’t give up when something is difficult. Dig in your heels.”

A delicate tremor runs through his chest. He closes his eyes, and he seems to sink down farther into the mattress, as if all his muscles have lost their fight against gravity. He gives my wrist one final, weak squeeze. A sigh slips past his lips. His mouth goes slack, as do his fingers on my arm.

Terror devours me. I whisper, “Papa?”

The heart monitor emits a long, flat electronic tone.

I scream, “Papa?”

Dominic and the doctor run into the room, but my father is already gone.

SIX

Hours later, after they’ve taken away my father’s body and I’ve completed all the necessary paperwork, Dominic helps me out to his car and drives me to my father’s house as I weep against the window, looking out into the starry night.

I’m an orphan now. No father, no mother, no other family except two stepsisters who are complete strangers and a stepmother who couldn’t be bothered to be there for Papa in his final moments.

When Dominic tells me she never came to the hospital at all, I want to curl my hands around her throat and choke the life right out of the uncaring witch. She should’ve married Brad. They’d have been a far better match than she and my loving, sweet-tempered father.

Il Sogno, our family’s ancestral villa, was built in the fifteenth century by an intrepid DiSanto who’d made a small fortune in textiles, then promptly lost it once construction was completed. Every other DiSanto who’s inherited the place has suffered from the same bad financial luck, my father included. If you knew nothing about my family, you’d assume we were wealthy based on the majesty of our property alone.

But, as with so many things, appearances can be deceiving.

Boasting classical Italian gardens, a reflecting pool, and spectacular views of Florence, Il Sogno lies on a hill above the city while going about the business of quietly crumbling into ruins. When we round the bend of the long gravel drive and I catch a glimpse of the stately old building, I’m breathless with the realization that my father won’t be running out from the front door to greet me like he always did when I arrived on my summer breaks from school.

For a moment the pain is so huge I can’t breathe.

Then Dominic parks the car, shuts off the engine, and turns to me with a somber face.

“I’ll come in with you,” he says darkly, as if he’s carrying a concealed firearm we might find ourselves in need of.

This stepmother of mine must be something else.

Gravel crunching underfoot, we trudge past the row of cypress trees that lines the driveway until we’re standing in front of the tall wooden doors of the main house. I apply my knuckles to the wood, then we wait in silence unbroken except for the singing of crickets and a breeze whispering through the trees.

Finally, footsteps echo from inside the house. Unhurried, they grow closer. Then the door swings open to reveal a man I’ve never seen before.

He’s tall, salt and pepper haired, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie. He appears wide awake, though it’s after midnight. We obviously didn’t wake him.

He bows slightly, says, “Buonasera, Signor Dominic,” then turns his gaze to me. His eyes are an unusual shade of gray, like an overcast sky. With one swift up-and-down look, he takes me in. Then, in perfect English, he says, “And you must be the beautiful daughter your father so loves.”

I burst into tears.

Sighing, Dominic settles his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Si, Lorenzo. This is Luca’s daughter, Kimber. We’ve just come from the hospital.”

Even through my tears I see the look that passes between the two men. When Lorenzo’s face turns ashen, I decide not to dislike him as much as I already dislike my stepmother.

He crosses himself, murmuring, “Mio Dio.” Then he waves us inside, stepping back quickly to open the door wider so we can pass. “Come in, come in. Let me help you with your luggage.”

As Lorenzo takes my handbag and coat, he and Dominic have a quick, quiet discussion in Italian that must have something to do with the sleeping arrangements because at the end of it, Lorenzo says, “I’ll make up the spare bedroom.”

“Spare bedroom” is a running joke in the family. Il Sogno has ten bedrooms originally made to house the founder’s large family, only three of which remain in use—a master suite and two smaller adjacent bedrooms on the main floor. All the other sleeping quarters are on the second floor, which was closed off years ago to save on cleaning and heating costs. Aside from overstuffed sofas and many uncomfortable, stiff-backed chairs, the only other place to sleep in the house is in the small, stuffy, windowless “spare bedroom,” on a cot.

In the attic.

“What?” I say, dazed with grief. “No—I’ll sleep in my old bedroom.”

When Dominic and Lorenzo both freeze, I know before anyone says a word what’s happened.

Lorenzo delicately clears his throat. “Ahem. Unfortunately, that’s not possible, signorina, as that room is now occupied by Cornelia.”

I’m stunned. My father gave my bedroom away.