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It was a relief when they were dismissed for bed but then Marcu stopped her as she rose, saying he expected to see her after she’d finished putting the children to bed.
She nodded that she’d heard and then continued ushering the children out, even as she processed the fact that he never hugged them or kissed them, or said anything loving and tender when saying good-night. You’d almost think he was running some form of military school. It hurt her heart, not just for the children’s sake, but for his as well.
A half hour later she came back downstairs and joined Marcu in the smaller living room, having already learned that this was the room he favored in the evenings because the wooden shutters could be closed against the cold glass, keeping out the chill, and a fire could be laid in the stone hearth, making the room warm and cozy.
The ceiling was vaulted and lined with dark beams, and the fabric on the chairs and sofa was a lovely burnt pumpkin brocade, with vivid blue tiled end tables with a matching cobalt-blue wash on the inside of the huge hearth. One wall was lined with glass book cabinets, while another wall featured vivid modern art in pinks, oranges and blues. The room, centuries old, exuded elegance and money and style. No one knew how to layer fabrics and use color like the Italians.
“I’m concerned about the children,” she said abruptly, taking the same chair she’d sat in last night.
“What was that?” he asked, glancing up from the book he was reading. It was the same book that had been on the table last night, and she’d glimpsed the title, something to do with politics, economics and world currencies. She couldn’t imagine reading a huge book on such a subject matter but then, she wasn’t an investment banker or venture capitalist, either.
“Your children shocked me today.”
He closed the book. “How so?”
“They told me they don’t celebrate Christmas, and I didn’t believe them, telling them Christmas was always a special time at the palazzo in Palermo—”
“That was before,” he interrupted, placing his book on the table at his elbow. “We don’t make a fuss about Christmas anymore. It’s not appropriate in light of things.”
Monet decided to feign ignorance. “What things? Has the church stopped celebrating the birth of Christ?”
“No, of course not.”
“They why would you not celebrate Christmas with your children?”
“We go to Mass.”
“And?”
“And what?” he retorted impatiently.
“Where is the Nativity scene? Rocca and Antonio are the perfect age to enjoy the presepi, and you always had such a beautiful one in Palermo. In fact, there were three at one time, each set up in a different room of the palazzo.”
“But we’re not in Palermo,” he said.
“You couldn’t bring one with you? Or buy one for your children to enjoy here?”
“We’re here for just three or four weeks, it seems silly to drag something like that all the way here.”
She studied him a long moment. “Is that also why there are no Christmas decorations? No tree? No pretty lights or greenery around the doors, or windows? I understand you dragged skis and skates here, but nothing to celebrate the season?”
He stirred uncomfortably. “We don’t make a fuss over Christmas.”
“Why? Christmas was a gorgeous, special time in your family.”
“That was before,” he retorted curtly, rising from his chair to go stoke the fire. “Things have changed. We have different traditions now.”
“But to eliminate the wonder of Christmas for your children? There are so many lovely, festive things you could do and enjoy as a family—”
“I’ve chosen not to.”
“They miss it, though.”
He added a log to the fire before turning to face her. “How can they miss what they don’t know?” he demanded. “They can’t.”
“Matteo remembers. He was telling me about how Christmas used to be. The younger ones were all ears. They’d love to experience some of the fun and traditions that other children their age enjoy.”
“No.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall and resolute. “It’s not something we do in our family. Not anymore.”
She looked at him steadily, her gaze meeting his and holding. “Well, I do. Christmas is important to me and I’m not going to give it up for you. That’s not part of our deal, so I’m going to make the most of the next few weeks and have my tree, and decorate it, and go listen to carols, and do my holiday baking and anything else that makes this season so special to me.”
“You can do what you want in your time, but you’re not to include the children.”
She couldn’t help her gurgle of laughter. Was he serious? And just what time was her time?
Her laughter made his expression darker, grimmer. His jaw jutted and his mouth tightened and he truly seemed to believe he could give her orders and have them obeyed.
Not happening.
“Marcu, you’re not thinking this through,” she said more gently. “You’ve brought me here to take care of the children. There is no backup nanny. I don’t have time ‘off.’ I don’t have areas that are only mine—”
“You have your own suite of rooms. You can do what you want in there, but not in the nursery, or their individual bedrooms.”
“So I can decorate my suite?”
“It’s your own room.” He hesitated. “But you can’t bring the children into your room, and they can’t know about your decorations—”
“Stop. Listen to yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you are. When did you become such an ogre, Marcu?”
“I don’t like Christmas,” he said sharply, “and I’m not going to have you confusing the children. We enjoy this month, we do, but we enjoy it the way I think is best, which is with little fanfare and drama.”
“So there is no Christmas miracle for you?”
He gave her an almost savage look, blue eyes glittering beneath black brows. “There is certainly no miracle.”
“You’ve lost your faith.”
He picked up the poker and jabbed the logs furiously, sending sparks shooting up into the chimney. “You know nothing about it, and you’d be wise to drop the whole subject now.”
The words were as sharp and hot as the sparks, and Monet let them swirl around her a moment before she answered. “I think I understand a little bit,” she said quietly before drawing a quick breath for courage. “This is about Galeta. You lost her before Christmas.”
“I didn’t lose her. We were not careless with her. She wasn’t misplaced, or lost. She was at home, with her family, with her newborn. She was where she belonged.” His hard voice cracked. “And then God took her.”
Monet drew another breath. “God didn’t take her. Galeta was mortal. Her body failed her—”
“Che palle!”
The oath was mild but his expression was pained.
“To take a young mother from her three children,” he gritted, tossing aside the poker. “Children who were just babies. A newborn just days old. My wife had a family that needed her, and loved her, and I don’t know how to do this without her. I can’t do this without her. So don’t talk to me about faith, because you’d question yours, too, should you lose someone so fundamental to your life.”
And then he walked out.
* * *
Marcu was gone in the morning when Monet woke up, leaving a note for her that he expected her to follow his instructions and if she wasn’t clear on his expectations, all she had to do was call, and he’d scribbled his phone number.
