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‘She flew out as soon as she found out I was in labour. If you’d answered your phone, Lazzaro, you’d have known a few hours sooner too! Marco’s with her…’
‘Marco?’ Lazzaro frowned.
‘Her boyfriend.’
‘Hardly a boy…’ Lazzaro sneered, but Antonia wasn’t listening.
‘Come and say hi—you too,’ she offered Caitlyn. ‘There’s no need to sit in the waiting room. The more the merrier.’
Caitlyn was about to politely decline, positive her presence would be the last thing Lazzaro would want at this intimate family gathering, but just as she was about to shake her head, before the words could even form on her lips, Lazzaro gave a nod.
‘Come!’ he clipped, in his usual Spartan way, and then he did the strangest thing.
His hand took her elbow and guided her alongside Antonia. And though it was Lazzaro holding her, somehow Caitlyn was sure it was otherwise—sure for a moment that she was the one holding him up—and though common sense argued loudly, told her he was merely being polite, somehow she knew better.
Lazzaro didn’t do polite.
Entering Antonia’s room, he headed over to his mother, kissing her and ignoring Marco, and talking in rapid Italian as Caitlyn hovered uncomfortably.
‘Thank you for the flowers.’ Antonia smiled at Caitlyn as she opened the gift. ‘And thank you for these…’ She grinned at Caitlyn’s slightly non-plussed look. ‘Lazzaro would never say such thoughtful things…or choose something so heavenly.’ She held up the tiny outfits Caitlyn had so carefully chosen earlier that afternoon, and the silver rattle that she had hoped was expensive enough to be suitable!
‘I did put a lot of thought into them!’ Lazzaro countered with a half-smile. ‘I choose my staff very carefully.’
Although Antonia made an effort to include Caitlyn, Lazzaro’s mother ignored her, clearly more than used to having staff around. They spoke in Italian, with Marco bouncing little Marianna on his knee as the nona scooped up a sleeping Luca, and though her last week had been spent falling asleep with Speak Italian in Seven Days playing in her ears, Caitlyn still really didn’t understand a word of the colourful language.
No command of Italian was necessary, though, to comprehend what Lazzaro’s mother was saying when she held out the tiny infant and offered him to her son. ‘Desiderate tenere il bambino?’
‘Non posso.’ Lazzaro shook his head. ‘I can’t. We have to be at the airport…’
‘Surely you can give him a quick cuddle?’ Antonia pushed, and though she was smiling, Caitlyn could see tears brimming in her eyes as Lazzaro remained adamant.
‘We have to go—there is fog in Europe, and the planes are all off schedule. We really ought to make a move.’
‘Do you like my baby brother?’ Marianna’s eyes, as black as Lazzaro’s but a lot more trusting, caught Caitlyn’s.
‘He’s beautiful.’ Caitlyn smiled. ‘Like his big sister!’
‘He’s named after my dead uncle.’
And no icy European winter could match the sudden drop in temperature on the hot maternity ward.
‘Come.’ It was Lazzaro who broke the appalling silence, but his single word unleashed the dam. His mother sped after him, talking in rapid Italian, and as the baby started crying to be fed, unsettled by her new brother, and her uncle who was leaving, so too did Marianna.
So too did Antonia. And her throaty pleas for her brother to just give his mother what she wanted—five minutes of his time—were the ones that finally stalled Lazzaro. A terse nod and a surly shrug implied that there really wasn’t an issue, that of course he had no problem spending time with them. Then another brief nod as his mother spoke again.
‘We will go for a coffee.’ Lazzaro gave his sister a smile ‘You feed the baby, we’ll take Marianna, then I’ll come back and say goodbye.’ He glanced over to Caitlyn. ‘Meet me in the car in half an hour.’
Which was normal—in the little while she’d been working for him, waiting in reception areas or in the car, chatting to his driver, was a rather regular occurrence, while Lazzaro wined and dined his way through business lunches. Her peripheral presence was necessary in case he wanted her to pluck some figure from her laptop, or—and she still couldn’t quite get her head around it—to buy him some mints!
