Page 32 of Return to the Waratah Inn

Luca switched off the latest record, then sat on the couch beside the drummer from his band with a cigar protruding from his mouth. There was a banjo in his arms, and he picked out a tune while the drummer beat his hands on top of a biscuit tin in time to the music. When they finished, the crowd around them burst into cheers and patted both men on the backs. Mima clapped her hands quietly, watching it all from her place in the corner.

She had something on her mind. It’d been weeks since her period was due. The day had come and gone with no sign of Aunt Flo visiting, and she was worried. If she fell pregnant, would Luca marry her? They hadn’t spoken about marriage—she wasn’t sure he wanted to get married. He was a free spirit, a musician in search of a song. Would the family life suit him? She wasn’t sure.

But if she was pregnant, they’d have to marry. She couldn’t raise the child alone. After everything Edie had experienced, how could Mima have let this happen? She’d witnessed firsthand how difficult things had been for Edie, even with the help of her parents. But Mima’s parents wouldn’t be likely to help her. Her mother barely spoke to her as it was and her father had avoided her for years. Regret washed over her like a cold splash of water in frigid weather.

She should’ve been more careful. But maybe it wasn’t pregnancy. She’d been stressed lately—working long shifts back-to-back, on her feet most of the time. She was thin and ridden with anxiety. Maybe she’d simply stopped having a period. Her stomach hadn’t grown, although she’d felt a little nauseated some days. That could be anything, though.

“What’s going on with you?” Luca came up beside her, a broad grin circling his cigar. He flung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a squeeze. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the room, and I can’t stop staring at you. What you do to me…argh!” He growled the last and lifted her off her feet, raising her into the air above his head, then lowering her down again to kiss her lips. “You’re my inspiration, baby. I can’t live without you. You know that, right?”

She giggled and let herself fall against him. “I know. You’re mine, too.”

She loved this man. He was good to her, even if there was so much about him that was still a mystery. He was handsome, romantic and impulsive. He loved to drink and gamble, but he did it with such flair that no one held it against him. And he’d been drinking heavily for several hours by that point. She could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t himself.

“I’ve got a few things on my mind.”

He nuzzled her neck, and she stepped back with a half-hearted objection. “Luca, not here. Everyone’s watching.”

He waved a hand drunkenly above his head. “No one cares. They’re my friends. They know what we are, what we have.”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “What are we? What do we have?”

He stopped and inhaled a breath so that his nostrils flared. “Not now, amore mio. This is a party. We’re having fun.”

He spun on his heel and staggered away from her. But she wanted to have the conversation. Anxiety buzzed and hummed in her head—it was never a good time with him. He always put off the difficult conversations. She stamped after him, following him down the hallway.

He stopped and faced her at the bedroom. “I’m getting another cigar.”

“Fine, I’ll wait. But we’re going to talk about this.”

He wobbled. “About what?”

“Let’s go into the bedroom.”

He beamed. “So, now you don’t care what anyone thinks? Okay, then. Let’s go, honey.”

“I hate it when you drink,” Mima retorted. “This isn’t you. You’re sweet, warm and loving. Not like this. You’re scaring me.”

He shrugged as he searched through the drawers of his dresser. “Do you know where the rest of my cigars are?”

“I have no idea, Luca. But can you please look at me for a moment? I need to talk to you about something important.”

As he turned to face her, a strand of dark, slicked back hair fell onto his forehead between his eyes. He looked so cute, innocent and happy. When he drank, it changed him, and she didn’t know how to talk to him about it since she usually joined him. But not tonight. Tonight she was stone-cold sober.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widened. “What? No. Really?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so. I’m late.”

He stared at her a moment, the light fading from his eyes. “Mannaggia! So, what now?”

That wasn’t the response she’d hoped for. She’d imagined him falling on one knee to propose, vowing his undying love for her. But in her imagination, he hadn’t been drunk, and they weren’t in the middle of a wild party at his apartment. She should’ve chosen better timing, but there hadn’t been many of those moments lately. He was always partying or playing in his band. Their alone time together was brief and passionate, then he fell right to sleep. He was an artist, tortured by a painful past. She understood him in a way no one else could, but it didn’t make things any easier. When he slept, he looked so young and carefree. But when he drank, he seemed older, more worldly. Someone she barely recognised.

“What do you mean? Do you have anything else to say?”

He hesitated, then stared at the floor. “I need a drink.”

He pushed past her into the hallway, headed for the kitchen. She followed after him, exasperated. “You’ve had plenty to drink. We need to talk about this.”