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‘Did he suffer?’
‘No.’
At one time he had wanted him to suffer—had wanted the agony he had inflicted to catch up with his father in death—but wishes were but flights of the imagination, Luca realised, reality entirely different.
‘Your mother said it was very quick and peaceful at the end.’
That did give comfort, why he didn’t know. And then he felt it, her hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to brush it off, ashamed at being seen like this, embarrassed that she should witness such private pain. Yet her touch helped, the bliss of human contact was like a rope to cling to in the dark, ferocious waters of grief. Luca turned and for the first time in his life and only for a moment so fleeting it was barely there he leant on another, felt her warmth, her kindness, felt her tears on his cheeks and accepted the bewildering fact that for a moment she shared his pain, divided it, lessened it even, just by being there.
And then he let her go.
Had to let her go.
‘Organise the plane—I need to be there for my mother. When did you say she gets back?’
‘Tomorrow, late morning.’
Which gave him space. He thought of the billion and one things he had to do—of the people relying on him, of things he had to do.
‘Arrange that I leave at eight a.m. tomorrow. Now, if you will excuse me, I should ring my mother.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Cancel my diary for the week—I have warned most people that this might happen soon.’ He was back in business mode, standing tall and proud but unable to meet her eyes.
‘Luca…’
He glanced at the envelope he was still holding. ‘If you were thinking of leaving, I would appreciate it if you could stay on at least till I return.’
‘Of course, but…’ How to say it, how to just come out and say it? Finally, the words just flurried out. ‘Your mother thinks that I will be coming with you—she is expecting me to be there for the funeral.’
‘No.’ His response was immediate. He could not do this again, could not let her any closer, because it had already been hard enough losing her once—he couldn’t do it again. ‘I will explain you are needed here.’
‘She thinks I am more needed there.’ Emma was crying. It wasn’t her place to cry, it was his father that was dead, but to see him so lost for that moment, to feel the weight of his pain momentarily rest in her arms, even if it would be agony, even if it was just another charade, she wanted to be there for him. She wanted this time with the man she loved, with the father of her child and maybe, just maybe, being with him, sharing in his grief, might bring them close enough for Emma to reveal her news. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’
‘No.’ His response was final. He had done everything alone—always he had been alone. Oh, there had been women, so-called partners even, and they had shared in important milestones, family occasions even—yet in his mind he had always been alone. Now she offered a different path and Luca gazed into her eyes and down that unfamiliar route.
To have her with him, to get through this and have her beside him at night, to have that hand hold his as he tried to make it through…
Never had he been more sorely tempted.
‘No.’
He dismissed her, picked up the phone and turned his back.
She quietly closed the door on her way out, and she held it together.
Evelyn was still in tears for her own reasons, so with just a little guidance from her senior, Emma put the plans for Rico D’Amato in place, and for Luca D’Amato too. She struggled through the wretched day and then headed not to home but to visit her father.
‘I loved her, Emma.’ He was holding a photo of her mother and weeping when she arrived. ‘I loved her.’
‘I know, Dad.’
‘I always knew she’d leave me. I knew that one day she’d go….’
Instead of taking the photo away, instead of filling up his little dish with chocolate, or replacing his laundry, Emma sat in the stiff leather chair by his bed—weary with new understanding.
Love hurt.
Love sucked.
Love made you do the unfathomable.
‘I should have supported her with her art,’ Frank wept, as Emma held his hand and closed her eyes. ‘I should have been there for her. I should have been a better father for you…’
Round and round he went, trapped in a circle of dementia and bitter, bitter regret.
It was exhausting to listen to.
And exhausting to leave.
Bone weary, she stepped out of the nursing home and into the dark night, almost knowing Luca would be waiting for her, almost sensing what was to come.
‘I went to your home.’
