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l to be happy. With commitment on both sides surely we can make it work? We have to make it work,’ he finished, more urgently.
‘I know we do, Rico,’ Catherine agreed. ‘Which is why I want to go back to work.’ She watched his shoulders stiffen, but chose to ignore it. ‘I’m struggling, Rico. Struggling to find my place in a world that’s so unfamiliar. I need something more, need my friends around me now more than ever—and, yes, I admit that maybe I do somehow want to prove that I’m not totally dependent on you, but it isn’t just about that. My work is important to me,’ Catherine insisted softly.
‘My mother hated working.’ His admission startled her—not his words so much, but the fact he was for the first time volunteering information, and about his mother, no less. ‘No one knew that. Even my father assumed she adored it, and I guess for a while she did. She started the family business,’ Rico added proudly. ‘One of only a handful of women who made it in the property business, at least in those days. She barely spoke English when she first came here.’
‘She must have been very clever.’
‘She had an amazing eye.’ Rico shrugged. ‘I have inherited it. I see an old property and it is as if I know how it should be. I don’t have to consult books. It is as if my mind’s eye can see it in its former glory. When we first arrived in Australia my parents scraped together enough money to buy an old townhouse in Carlton. My father was a labourer and under my mother’s guidance they rebuilt it, and then they sold it. That was just the start. Soon my mother was hiring people, buying pockets of land for next to nothing. They are now worth millions. I think my first words were “bayside views”. He gave a low laugh. ‘That is a lie. I spoke only Italian till I was five.’
Catherine found herself smiling. ‘What about Marco?’
‘He was born here.’ Rico shrugged. ‘He was always an Aussie. I spoke to him in English, so by the time he went to school he could speak both.’
‘So things were easier for him?’
Rico shook his head. ‘I love my first language, Catherine; hell at school was a small price to pay. I can still remember being picked up from kindergarten and driving along the beach road looking for properties. They were good times.’
‘She took you with her?’ He heard the question in her voice.
‘Antonia no doubt tells a different story,’ he responded, ignoring her furious blush. ‘But, yes, she took me with her—and later, when the business was bigger, when I was at school and my mother was working the same ridiculous hours I do now, she still came home every night; she still kissed us goodbye each morning.’
‘So what went wrong?’ Catherine pushed gently, seeing the wistful look in his eyes, and slamming her fingers between the shutters she just knew were about to come down.
‘One day it became a job—not a labour of love, not a passion. Just a job. She had obligations—houses, cars, boats—and as you can imagine Antonia didn’t come cheap.’
‘Antonia?’
‘My father was having an affair. He had barely worked a day in his life. It was my mother who provided for us and he got bored. That was my father’s excuse anyway. The night before my mother died she had a headache. She was more tired than I’ve ever seen a person, and yet she still had to make calls, had to go and check out a property. I found her crying in the study. That was when I discovered she knew about my father’s affair. She said she was tired, that she just wanted to lie down and sleep, that after the Christmas break she would sort things out…She died the next day. A stroke, the doctors said. It could have happened at any time. But I know different. If she hadn’t been working—hadn’t been pushing herself—’
‘You don’t know that, Rico,’ Catherine broke in, but she knew her words fell on deaf ears—knew there was no room for manoeuvre. But just when she thought it was over, just when she thought the conversation was closed, again Rico surprised her.
‘Part-time, Catherine. You can work part-time if that’s what you want.’ His eyes implored her to listen. ‘And the day it gets too much—the day you feel you shouldn’t be there…’
‘I’ll stop.’
‘You have nothing to prove to me, Catherine, but if this is something you feel you have to do…’
‘It is.’
And now that he had given a little—now that he had allowed her to glimpse a tiny piece of him—perhaps for the first time since the police had arrived at her door Catherine allowed herself to relax, allowed herself to just sit back and take in the world around her.
Rico was amazingly good company. When he wasn’t being superior, when he actually let up, he had a wicked sense of humour, and as the dessert plates were cleared away Catherine was amazed to hear that the laughter filling the tiny restaurant was coming from her.
‘You should laugh more often,’ Rico said, taking her hand. ‘It suits you.’
‘It feels good,’ Catherine admitted.
‘I want you to be happy, Catherine; I want us to be happy. You, me and Lily.’
‘I want that too.’
On Rico’s instructions the driver had long since gone, and they walked hand in hand along the Yarra River, following its majestic curves. The warm, still night air was filled with hope, and for a while they blended in—and Catherine had never been more happy to do so, never been more happy to seem two young lovers on the threshold of their future.
‘Thank you.’ She turned her gaze to his. ‘For understanding.’
‘Marriage is supposed to be about give and take,’ Rico said lightly, but there was an edge to his voice. ‘Hopefully I do a better job than my father.’
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Rico.’ In the moonlight they stood, her eyes searching his, imploring him to listen. ‘It must have been hard on him too. He was an immigrant, a labourer; I bet he was a proud, hard-working man.’
