Page 88 of Angel

Later, after we got packed, we sat down for a final lunch of lemon risotto and grilled shrimp, though neither of us managed to swallow more than three bites.

The silence at the table was dense enough to cut with a steak knife.

After the agonizing meal, we gathered our luggage and said goodbye to Mrs. Campanelli and Carlo.

Angel handed Carlo a fat envelope of Euros, a generous tip that made the driver’s eyes widen as he muttered his thanks.

He did the same for Mrs C., who almost teared up at the unexpected boon.

‘I have a parting gift for you,’ I said, sliding a canvas portrait of the housekeeper toward her.

She studied it and let out a gasp, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

Setting it aside, she pulled me into a fierce embrace and planted a kiss on my cheek.

‘I see the sadness is back, bella,’ she murmured into my hair, in a whisper meant just for me. ‘Non preoccuparti, there are always highs and lows on the journey to true love.’

‘Grazie,’ I whispered back, my throat tightening with a sudden swell of emotion. ‘For everything. For being an amazing hostess with the mostess, for the food, for the care, and for the blatant matchmaking scheming.’

Mrs. Campanelli widened her eyes in magnificent, faux innocence. ‘Me? Plotting? Never!’

I let out a genuine laugh, the first one in hours, and, forgetting our tension for a second, I glanced at my husband.

‘If this place were mine, it’d be a dream come true. We’ll return, won’t we, Angel?’

He managed a wry, tight smile from the doorway.

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s a yes, a good enough answer for me!’ Mrs. Campanelli said.

She marched over and boldly kissed his sculpted cheek, which lifted some of the gruffness from his expression.

We departed the estate, Carlo driving us down to the bustling marina where our private boat waited to ferry us back to the Italian mainland.

I stared out at the receding cliffs, wistful as my brain replayed our honeymoon.

It had been, as Charles Dickens said, the best of times and the worst of times.

We boarded our flight back home a few hours later.

Angel remained distant the entire trip, staring out the airplane window.

I chose to ignore his brooding and pulled out my tablet to scroll through my treasure trove of photos and charcoal sketches.

I started planning my next art series, one I intended to base on our sacred time at Isola Dell’Amore.

A collection that would capture the agony, the bliss, the torture, and the beauty of our time together.

Chapter 17

ROXY

The transition back to the States hit us with a cold dose of reality as we navigated an awkward conversation about our living arrangements.

We stood in the airport terminal in Nashville, after we cleared customs, staring at our luggage while the domestic traffic swarmed around our heels.

‘We’re moving into my place,’ Angel stated, his tone leaving zero room for debate as he loaded the bags onto a steel cart.