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She had never seen such raw emotion and it made her flinch—this wall of pain that hit them with force. In the middle of them all was Mia, who sat dignified and silent. She stood as her son entered and accepted his embrace, and suddenly Emma experienced a stirring of memory within her. Tears and black and grief… She could remember holding her hands up to her father, who didn’t notice, could feel again the bemusement she had felt as a child, seeing her brothers weep, her aunts, everyone… Emma had been holding Luca’s hand for appearances’ sake but suddenly he was holding hers.
Mia led them both past the kitchen where the men stood in strained, respectful silence and into Rico’s study, where she spoke with her son about the arrangements. But despite what was expected of them, Luca put his foot down. For his mother he would do it, would stand in the kitchen with the men and drink whisky and play the dutiful son, would put himself through whatever was expected of him this one last time, but he would not do it to Emma.
‘Luca!’ She could hear his mother’s annoyance, and had no idea what they were saying, but Luca seemed adamant, his voice, firm and non-negotiable, then he led her away, up to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed.
‘What was all that about?’ Emma asked. ‘Surely now is not the time to argue with your mother?’
‘You are expected to sit and weep with the women while I stand with the men.’ He watched her eyes widen in horror. ‘So, perhaps now is a good time to state my opinion, hmm?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she conceded. ‘What did you say?’
‘That you are tired, upset…’ He gave a thin smile. ‘That you are English.’
Emma managed a watery smile back. ‘We English have emotions too, you know.’
‘Ah, but you hide them so well.’ She was quite sure he was talking about them, about these past hellish weeks. ‘When it hurts, when it really hurts…’ His hand reached out, pushed a few stray curls back from her strained face and he just stood there, his hand resting on the side of her cheek as her skin warmed to his slight touch. ‘You just keep it all in.’
‘Crying and screaming doesn’t change anything. I learnt that long ago.’
‘You just get on with it?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe living in England, some of your ways have rubbed off on me.’
She felt as if he was giving her a message, as if beneath his blandness, beneath the void of emotion there was a deeper meaning in his words—which was the edge of madness, Emma reasoned. There was no deeper meaning with Luca, he had told her that from the start, so she jerked her head, removed herself from his contact and wished him gone.
‘I must go back down, I will bring you some supper.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.
He didn’t listen, and returned a few minutes later with a plate of pastries and a large mug of hot chocolate and some liquor. ‘My mother said to give you this—it’s limoncello—made from the lemons from the family tree, it will help you rest.’ He poured her a small glass and Emma took it, but placed it on the bedside table.
‘I should join them,’ he said.
‘Go,’ Emma replied.
‘Thank you.’ He stood at the door, then turned and added, ‘For being here. It helps.’
‘Does it?’ Her eyes searched his. ‘Luca, if me being here helps…’ She watched his face immediately become shuttered, and knew now wasn’t the time to demand answers—to ask why he shut her out over and over again, only to occasionally let her in, why he was so closed off to emotion.
‘Rest,’ Luca said instead, and once he had gone back to join his family, Emma undressed, feeling exhausted. Even if she weren’t pregnant she wouldn’t have drunk the limoncello, so she tipped the brew down the sink, hating his father’s legacy. Then she undressed for bed, catching sight of herself in the mirror and noticing the slight changes in her body already. There was no bump, it was way too soon for that, but there was a softness to her belly and pressing her fingers to her pubic bone she could feel the firm wedge of muscle. Her breasts were rounder, the areolae darker—small, subtle changes that Luca would never notice. Not that he would see them because she pulled on her shapeless candy-striped flannelette pyjamas as if they were some sort of chastity belt—usually worn for a girls’ movie night and certainly not seduction material.
She slipped between the crisp cotton sheets and willed sleep to come, wished it was morning and that this long night was over.
He came to bed before midnight, undressed and climbed in beside her. Silence would have been welcome, but wails of tears still filled the house at times.
