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His son jumped up from where he’d been dangling his feet in the water beside Faith and came running full tilt at Valentino. “Papa, Papa…you are home!”
“Si, I am home and glad to be here.” He swung his son high into his arms and hugged the wiggling, eight-year-old body to his.
“I missed you, Papa. Zio Calogero should not call you to New York.”
“Sometimes it is necessary, cucciola. You know this.”
His son ducked his head. “Papa! Do not call me that. It is a name for little boys, but I am big. I am eight!”
“Ah, but a man’s son is always his little one,” Rocco Grisafi said as he came and hugged both Valentino and Giosue. “Welcome home, piccolo,” his father said, emphasizing his point with a humorous glint in eyes the same color as Valentino’s.
It had been decades since his father had last called him that and Valentino laughed.
Giosue giggled. “Papa is bigger than you Nonno, how can he be your little one?”
Valentino’s father, who was in fact a head shorter than he, winked at his grandson. “It is not about size, it is about age, and I will always be older, no?”
“That’s right,” Valentino agreed. “And I will always be older than you,” he said as he tickled his swimsuit-clad son.
Giosue screeched with laughter and squirmed down, running to the pool and jumping in, his head immediately coming up out of the water. “You can’t get me now, Papa.”
“You think I cannot?”
“I know it. Nonna would be mad if you got your business clothes wet.”
That made everyone laugh, including Faith, drawing Valentino’s attention like a bee to a rose. Damn, damn, damn. She was beautiful, wearing a bright green top and matching pair of Capri pants she had rolled up above her knees so she could dangle her feet in the water of the pool. Her gorgeous red hair fell loose around her shoulders and her sandals were nowhere to be seen.
Even his mother’s hug and greeting got only a portion of his attention as the rest of him strained toward the woman he wanted to take into his arms and kiss the daylights out of.
“So, I hear from my grandson that you and my dear friend are well acquainted already,” his mother said, finally garnering his whole focus.
Well versed in how his mother’s mind worked, he immediately went hyperalert to any nuance and ultracautious in his own reactions. She was on a kick to get him married and fathering more grandbabies for her. His argument that it was time for Calogero to do his duty by the family was met with deaf ears.
His mother wanted more grandchildren from Valentino. Full stop. Period.
And now she’d discovered he was friends with Faith.
He had to be very careful here. If his mother even got a hint of the intimate nature of his relationship with Faith, Agata Grisafi would have her oldest son married off before he could get a word in edgewise. “We’d met before, yes.”
“You’d met? I am sure your son said you were friends,” his mother chided with a gleam in her eyes, confirming Valentino’s worst fears.
He simply shrugged, confirming nothing. Denying nothing. Sometimes that was the only way to deal with his mother and her machinations. Deflection wasn’t a bad tactic, either, when he could get away with it.
He’d long ago acknowledged he never wanted to face his mother across a boardroom table. She made his toughest clients and strongest competition look like amateurs.
“More interesting to me is your friendship with her,” he said. “You rarely mention Faith.”
“You are joking me, my son. I talk about my dear friend TK all of the time.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with Faith?”
His mother’s eyes widened and she flicked a glance to the woman in question. Faith was not looking at them, but her shoulders were stiff with unmistakable tension. This grilling had to be causing her stress as well.
“You are not good friends, are you?” his mother asked, in a tone that said she no longer had any doubts about the superficial nature of their relationship.
Relieved, but unsure what had convinced her, he simply said, “We know each other.”
“Not very well.”
He shrugged again, but had a strong urge to deny what felt like an accusation. Though the words had been spoken in his mother’s normal voice, his own emotions convicted him.
Mama shrugged, looking smug, her expression that of a woman who knew what he did not. “Faith Williams is TK.”
“Your artist friend?” he asked in genuine shock. “I thought he was a man!”
“No, she is very much a female, as you can see.” The laughter lacing his mother’s voice did not faze him.
The memory of Faith saying maybe the woman in the statue on his dresser was letting go did. She was the artist of that particular piece of art. When she’d made the comment, she could have been hinting, but more likely she was exposing the true inspiration behind the figure.
Which meant what? That she had a son? “You did not tell me you had a child,” he said to her.
She stood up and faced him. “If you will recall, the father is holding the child,” she said, proving once again that their thoughts traveled similar paths.
“What is that supposed to signify?”
“Figure it out for yourself, Tino. Or better yet, ask your mother. Agata understands far more than you do and knows me much better.”
He couldn’t believe she was being so argumentative in front of his family. His mother was bound to realize there was more between them than a casual friendship if Faith kept this up. Hell, if he had to explain what they were talking about, things would get dicey. The statue was in his bedroom, after all. How could he explain Faith—his not
so good friend—seeing it?
“It’s not important,” he said, in an attempt to put sand on the fire of his mother’s curiosity.
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” Faith turned to his mother and gave her a strained smile. “It’s time for me to be going.”
“But I thought you would stay for dinner.”
“Yes, do not let my arrival change your plans.” He wanted to see Faith, even if it meant being judicious under the watchful eye of his family.
He knew it was not the smartest attitude to take. He was supposed to be cooling down their relationship, but seeing her brought into sharp relief just how hard that had been over the past weeks. How much he had missed her.
“I feel the need to create.” She hugged his mother. “You know how it is for me when I have a fit of inspiration. You are not offended, are you?”
“Will you let me see the results of this inspiration?” Agata asked. “I am still waiting to see the pieces you made while Rocco and I were in Naples.”
Faith’s hand dropped to her stomach, like she was nervous. “I’ll let you see them all eventually. You know that.”
“You promise? I know how you artists are. Especially you. If you think a piece is not up to standards, you will pound it back into clay.”
That strained smile crossed Faith’s beautiful features again. “I can’t promise to keep something I hate, but you should be used to that by now.”
His mother gave a long-suffering sigh, but she hugged Faith warmly. “I am. You cannot blame me for trying, though. You have spoiled me, allowing me access to your work before you do others.”
Faith’s laugh was even more strained than her smile. “You are my friend.” Even though he was wet from the pool, she hugged Giosue goodbye, as well. “I will see you next week in school.”
Her leave-taking of his father was the usual kisses on both cheeks. But she simply nodded at Tino before turning to go. Though it fit in with the facade of casual friendship he had tried to create, he felt the slight like a blow to his midsection.
