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Everything was changing. She could feel it. Once again her life was being upended.
But before she could sort out why she felt so uneasy, Anna arrived with Rachel’s luggage. The maid wheeled in the large suitcase, and then removed the lunch tray.
Suddenly everything felt different—not just precarious, but overwhelming, and she didn’t even understand what was changing.
While Anna insisted on unpacking the suitcase, Rachel placed Michael in the crib, and then she didn’t know what to do with herself.
Jet lag didn’t help anxiety, and right now her anxiety was at an all-time high. Sleep would help. Sleep always helped, but instead she paced the luxurious suite on the fourth floor of the palazzo, a fist pressed to her mouth as she chewed mindlessly on a knuckle, trying to ease the sick, heavy panicked sensation filling her middle.
She understood why Giovanni wanted her in his family palace. Notoriously private, he was trying to limit the media’s access to Rachel and the baby. He was trying to protect his family name, and he wanted security and safeguards in place, but for her, it was suffocating. It was hard giving up her personal space, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d lost her independence and control. Control was important in this instance because she needed room to move and think.
Before lunch she would have said that she didn’t think Gio knew the first thing about babies, and she’d thought his coldness had been due to inexperience with small children, but when he’d taken Michael from her, he’d handled his nephew with an easy confidence and almost affection.
What if Giovanni wanted to do more than provide financial assistance? What if Gio wanted Michael to stay in Venice?
The thought turned her insides into ice. She wasn’t just accustomed to caring for Michael now, he was part of her. She loved him. She never used the words out loud, but she was his mother now. He was her son. If Giovanni challenged her for custody, Rachel would be in trouble. Juliet didn’t have a living will. There had been no instructions for Michael, nothing to indicate her preference for guardianship.
Gio had a legitimate claim if he wanted to sue for custody.
She prayed he didn’t want to be guardian. She prayed he didn’t want to be responsible for a baby, because truthfully, she didn’t want him making decisions about Michael’s life or physical care. She just needed Giovanni’s financial support so that once she and Michael were back in Seattle, she could hire a good sitter or nanny, buy the basic things a small person needed and move on with her life, a life as a single mother.
Mrs. Fabbro arrived at Rachel’s door promptly at six-forty-five, announcing herself with a firm, loud knock.
Small and sturdy-looking, Mrs. Fabbro had steel-colored hair, shrewd dark eyes and a firm mouth that didn’t seem likely to smile as she marched into the room. Introductions were awkward as her English was worse than Anna’s and Rachel struggled in her limited Italian, but conversation was no longer an issue once Mrs. Fabbro spotted Michael in his fleecy pajamas on his blanket on the floor.
Rachel had placed him there so he wouldn’t fall or get hurt while she dressed for dinner, and he seemed perfectly happy playing with his hands and kicking his legs in the air and just enjoying his freedom. But from Mrs. Fabbro’s rapid Italian, the older woman didn’t seem pleased to find her charge on the floor. She walked across the room and scooped him up from his blanket, crooning to him in Italian as if they were long-lost friends.
For a long moment Michael stared at Mrs. Fabbro, not sure whether she was friend or foe, but then his eyes crinkled and he grinned and put a wet fist on her chin.
“Bello raggazo,” she said approvingly.
Michael chortled, and Mrs. Fabbro put him on her hip for the tour of the rooms. “His bed is in here,” Rachel said, walking into the adjoining room that had obviously been a sitting room before someone added the crib.
“His bottle is here,” she added, pointing to the sideboard, where she’d laid out his bottles and formula. “One bottle before bed, and then I burp him and put him down. He sleeps on his back, no covers, or toys with him.”
She’d already made a bottle so it would be ready, but she made a second one up, just so the woman could see how they were made. “Do you have any questions?” Rachel asked.
Mrs. Fabbro shook her head and took Michael’s hand and helped him wave bye-bye before taking him on a walk around his room.
Rachel was now free to finish preparing for dinner but she stood a moment in the doorway watching the older woman talk to Michael and point things out, giving him his first lessons in Italian.
Rachel’s eyes stung, and she blinked back the prickle of tears. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt so emotional. She ought to be happy that Mrs. Fabbro was efficient and quick to take charge of Michael, but Michael had been her responsibility long enough that without him, she felt painfully empty.
Things had been chaotic and stressful for months, and it was only recently that she’d begun to feel more settled and comfortable as Michael’s mom. They’d begun to find a rhythm, and they’d created a schedule that helped them both, and she understood that it was her and Michael together now. She understood that it would probably always be just the two of them, at least in terms of them as a nuclear family.
If only she could take Michael with her to drinks and dinner. She’d feel better. Safer. Michael was a good distraction. Whenever she’d felt too much earlier, she’d patted Michael’s back and kissed his sweet soft cheek, and he’d helped calm her. But tonight she wouldn’t have Michael as a buffer. It would just be Giovanni and her. Alone.
Rachel returned to the tall painted wardrobe where she’d hung up the two dresses she’d brought. The rest were trousers and sweaters and coats, winter wear appropriate for Venice’s chilly wet weather. The dresses were ones she might have worn to a business dinner, a long-sleeved black velvet sheath dress with a V-neckline, or a chocolate-colored lace dress with cap sleeves and a tiered skirt that went from high to l
ow, with the shortest ruffle at her knees and then the longest touching the ground.
She’d brought the dresses thinking that maybe there would be a dinner with Giovanni Marcello, imagining he might invite her and Michael to his home one evening, or maybe to meet at a local restaurant, but being here was nothing like she’d imagined. She felt so unsettled, so nervous.
Aware that she’d soon be late, she quickly slipped into her black velvet dress and pulled her hair back into a loose chignon before slipping into heels and reaching for a dark gray velvet wrap with a pretty black and silver beaded fringe. It had been her great-grandmother’s, and even though it was a vintage nineteen-twenties shawl, it still looked exquisite and just a little bit well-loved, but perfect for a night like tonight when Rachel needed confidence.
The elderly butler from the morning was waiting on the third landing for Rachel and he walked her slowly down the hall. The butler gravely opened the door and stepped back, and Rachel entered the Marcello library, a windowless room where the walls were covered in antique ruby brocade paper and narrow gilded bookshelves rivaled massive oil paintings. The center of the room was filled with oversize crimson sofas and thickly padded upholstered armchairs, pieces promising comfort and not just style.
Rachel spotted Gio across the room, dressed in a dark suit and white dress shirt. He looked immaculate and handsome—far, far too handsome—and it suddenly struck her as odd that he hadn’t ever married. He was a man who had everything. Why was he still a bachelor in his late thirties?
