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‘They were just words. You know what he was like. Words came too easily and he never meant them—it was what he did which counted. And he was proud of you, Marco. He followed your every move. People would tell him of you, people you worked with in Venice, further afield, would seek him out to talk of you and he would drink in every word.’
The ache in Marco’s chest eased, just a little. ‘He never said, never showed that he even knew what I was doing...’
‘You didn’t give him the opportunity. Besides...’ she shrugged ‘...he was too proud to make the first move. He was proud, you are proud and here you are.’
‘He sat there and disowned me and when I disobeyed him he...’ But he couldn’t say the words.
‘He had a heart attack,’ she finished calmly. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Marco.’
Easy for her to say. He knew better; he’d always known. ‘Of course it was. If I had settled to be what he wanted...’
‘Then you wouldn’t be you. He knew that. But it hurt him that you barely returned. That from the moment you went to London you never again spent a night under our roof.’
Misunderstandings, pride, stubbornness. Family traits passed on from father to son. ‘I couldn’t. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t let his health blackmail me into compliance, nor could I let him work himself into one of his passions. It was better to stay away.’ He stopped, bleak. ‘He died anyway.’
‘Sì. But not because of anything you said or didn’t say but because he didn’t listen to his doctor, didn’t listen to me, didn’t exercise or take his pills or cut down on red meat. Stubborn. But it’s not your fault, Marco. That first heart attack would have happened anyway, you must know that. We’re lucky we had him for another ten years.’
But Marco hadn’t had him; he’d lost his father long before. ‘And now it’s too late, he’s gone and he didn’t even know I said goodbye.’
Her eyes were soft with understanding, with love. ‘He knew. You came straight away. He was conscious enough to know you were there. Forgive yourself, Marco. Nobody else blames you for any of it, nobody ever did. But I would like you to come home, at least to be here more often. To advise me even if you won’t take over. I just want to see my son more than a couple of hours once or twice a year.’
‘Yes.’ His mind was whirling. Why had his father never told him that he was proud of him, never said he hadn’t meant a word of the bitter denunciation that had left him in the hospital and Marco in exile? But his mother was right. Marco hadn’t stayed away just out of fear he would trigger another heart attack, he’d stayed away out of pride. Just as bad as his father. Maybe it was time to let some of that pride go.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I can be here more often. And I can’t promise you I’ll take over, but I can advise—and make sure you have the right people in place to help you. You need to delegate more, Mamma, and accept that people who aren’t Santoros can still care about the company.’
‘It’s a deal.’
Relief flooded through him. They had compromised and, for the first time, he didn’t feel that she had tried to manipulate him; she had respected his decision. He would, should spend more time in Venice. It was only right that he at least took a board role in his family company.
He bent, kissed his mother’s cheek and turned to leave but stopped as she called his name softly. ‘Marco?’
‘Yes?’
‘Ten years wasted, Marco, out of pride, out of anger...’ She paused. ‘Don’t make that mistake again. I know you say you aren’t ready to marry and I know you are angry with me, with your father, for what happened ten years ago. But don’t let that pride, that anger, push Sophie away. She’s a lovely girl, Marco. But I don’t think there will be second chances with that one. You need to get it right.’
‘Mamma, we’ve only just met.’
‘I know, and I am staying out of it.’ Despite his prickle of annoyance he couldn’t help an incredulous laugh at her words. ‘Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. Just take care with her.’
‘Okay.’ He could promise that with an easy mind. Taking care came easily to him; he knew how to tread for an easy relationship and an easier exit. ‘I’ll take care. Now I really have to get on.’ But as he walked away her words echoed in his mind. No more second chances. He didn’t need a second chance. He liked Sophie, he liked her a lot, enough to know that she deserved a lot better than anything a man like him could offer. He should thank her though, for all her help. He might not be able to offer her happy ever after—and she probably wouldn’t take it if he did—but he could offer her one perfect day. It was the least he could do. It had to be; it was all that he had.
