Page 49 of Broken Trust

Rosa's eyes go huge. “Yes.”

Gia opens the paper bag and holds it out, and Rosa plunges her whole arm in and comes out with a pastry nearly as big as her head. She takes an enormous bite, smears chocolate all over her chin, and beams through the crumbs like she's just made a friend for life.

“Rosa,” I say as I reach them. “What do we say?”

“Grazie, Zia,” she mumbles with her mouth full.

Gia's face crumples, just for a moment, and then she pulls herself together, smiles, and wipes Rosa's chin with a napkin from the bag, gently, the way she used to brush flour off my cheek in our kitchen a lifetime ago.

“You're welcome,” she says, her voice catching.

Rosa has already spotted a duck. She shoves the rest of the cornetto into my hand, sticky and warm, and races off toward the water, yelling at it to wait for her.

Gia gets up slowly and brushes the grass off her knees. Then she faces me, and for a while neither of us says anything at all.

Her skin is golden from the sun, there's a small silver locket at her throat I've never seen before, and tiny lines have appeared at the corners of her eyes from laughing. She seems strong and at peace, like a woman who has finally made a home inside her own life.

“Nella told me you'd be here,” she says at last. “I hope that's all right.”

“Of course it is.”

“She claims Rosa needs another aunt to fix her swinging.”

“Nella's been teaching her to do it with her legs out straight. It's a disaster.”

That gets a small laugh out of her, but it fades quickly, and she turns toward the pond, where Rosa is crouched by the water having a very serious conversation with a mallard.

“I keep going over what I said in your car,” she says quietly. “When you asked if we could be friends, I told you never.”

“You had every right.”

“Maybe. But it was too hasty.” She twists the strap of her bag around her fingers. “I was so angry, Dante, and so scared of what I still felt, that I slammed every door I could find, and one of them shut her out.” She nods toward Rosa, and her voice wobbles. “She's my niece. She's my sister's child and yours, and I've spent two years pretending she doesn't exist because it hurts too much to look at her. That isn't fair to her. She never did anything wrong.”

I don't trust myself to speak, so I just wait.

“So I was hoping,” Gia says, finally meeting my eyes, “you'd let me be part of her life. Not all the time. Just Sundays, maybe, or the odd afternoon. I could teach her to cook. Let her pick out the ugliest tomatoes, the way Nonna used to with me.” She swallows. “I'd like her to grow up knowing she has an aunt who loves her. If that's okay with you.”

I can't get a word out. All I can do is stand there holding a squashed pastry, staring at Gia, whom I hurt so badly, who's out here in the sun offering to love my daughter, and wonder how on earth I was ever lucky enough to marry her.

“Okay?” I finally manage. “Gia, she'd be the luckiest kid in Italy.”

Her face breaks open into the old smile, the real one, the one that hasn't been aimed at me in years, and I have to look down at the grass for a second.

“Thank you,” she says, and her voice wobbles.

“You look good,” I blurt out. “Really. Happy.”

“I am.” She hesitates, and I watch something shift in her face, a small, careful decision. “I'm seeing someone, Dante. I wanted you to hear it from me first, not from Nella or the whole valley.”

I knew it was coming. It still knocks the air out of me.

“Matteo,” I say.

She nods. “A couple of weeks now. He's charming, and he makes me laugh, and he takes care of everything. Saturdays are our busiest nights, but last week he had us close for the evening so we could spend some time together.” Her fingers tighten on her bag. “Being with someone who thinks of me like that makes me feel special.”

She's smiling, but there's sadness in her eyes. And since when did her restaurant become ours? Is this what I did to her? Made her feel wanted, while I put my own needs first every single time?

She's twisting the strap of her bag around her fingers, and her eyes slide away from mine toward the pond. “He's good to me.”