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“Yours too?”
“Mine too,” he said, but he sure as hell wasn’t going there. He swallowed the last bite of steak and reached for his coffee. “And you and Alessandra were born in Italy?”
“In Sicily, yes. Alessandra and our two brothers.”
“Didn’t the general want to raise you in Texas with the rest of his children?”
Bianca stared at him. “Tanner did not tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
She sighed. “It is a complicated story.”
There it was. That little touch of English formality in her speech. Chay reached across the table for her hand.
“Honey. If it upsets you—”
“My father—our father—never told his American children about us and he never told us about them.” She took a breath. “He married the mother of my half-sisters while he was still married to our mother. ”
It took a few seconds for it to sink in. When it did, Chay could hardly believe what he’d just heard.
“You mean—you mean he’s a bigamist?”
“I mean,” Bianca said, each syllable encased in ice, “he is a disreputable, lying, cheating pezzo di merda.”
Whatever that was, Chay knew it was not good.
A couple of seconds went by. Then he snorted.
“Excuse me,” she said, even more coldly, “but what is so amusing?”
Chay snorted again, and then, despite his best efforts, laughter burst from his throat.
“The four-star general who wears starched shirts and, I’m fucking certain, starched shorts is a bigamist?”
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “It is not funny.”
“We were on a base one time,” Chay said, “and he was inspecting the troops. And he pulled a guy out of line because his shirt was wrinkled. ‘Have you no respect for your image as an American soldier?’ he said. Something like that, anyway. And all the time—all the time… Honey. I’m sorry. I know the fact that he’s such a whatever-you-called-him isn’t funny to you, but—”
“I called him uno pezzo di merda. A piece of shit. And, no, nothing about him is funny to—to—”
Bianca bit her lip. Then she burst into laughter, but it didn’t last long enough for him not to see tears forming in her eyes.
Chay got up, went around the table, knelt beside her and drew her into his arms.
She sighed, looped her arms around his neck and slid from her chair to the floor so he could hold her.
“He was the world’s worst father,” she said, “and I’m still coming to terms with that.”
“Sorry, baby. If we’re giving out medals for the world’s worst, my old man wins.”
She leaned back in his arms. “Impossible.”
“Okay. My old man is a close second. How’s that?” He kissed her. Lightly. Gently. “And, trust me, I’m still coming to terms with that myself.”
“What was he like? Your father?”
“You don’t want to know.”
