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“Enjoy yourself, Cecelia, we’ll be having lots of fun ourselves!” shouts Papa.
“Yay!” cheers Micah, smiling up at his papi.
I continue waving as I start the engine and drive away, through the gates. I smile as I wonder how long it’ll be before Micah asks Papa to play superheroes. I’m guessing five minutes.
Considering how Papa reacted when I told him I was pregnant five years ago, I delight in their close relationship now. I was worried about Micah not having a proper father figure, but thanks to Papa and to a lesser extent Raphael, he’s got two great male role models in his life, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’ll never meet or know his own papa.
The thought of Michael is still a sucker punch to my stomach, especially as Micah resembles him so much, and has done since the day he was born. Some days I feel like I’m looking at a carbon copy of the man who broke my heart, and that can be tough. Not knowing what happened to him, the endless wondering, is torturous some days. I haven’t yet figured out what I’ll say when Micah starts asking questions about him, but I know what Papa would prefer me to do. He made his stance on the subject quite clear, and I’ve been so grateful for his unwavering support since Micah was born that I haven’t dared challenge him on it. Besides, I have no idea whether Michael is alive or dead so it’s a moot point. In a way I hope he is dead because the thought of him out there with another woman, or even another family, is too much to bear.
I arrive at the restaurant Connie’s chosen and I spy her sitting in a booth next to the window, fresh from a charity fundraising coffee morning. She pours so much time and energy into helping others, including me, often neglecting herself. I knock on the glass, making her jump, and I’m still laughing at her reaction as I make my way inside and join her. We always meet for lunch on what would have been our mother’s birthday, as a way to remember her, to bring her back to life through our memories if only for an hour. It’s a bittersweet tradition for us.
After we’ve greeted each other warmly, Connie passes me the cocktail menu and points to the one she’ll think I’ll like best. Of course she’s right.
“But I can’t, I’m driving, remember?” I say.
“No, you’re not. Raphy’s offered to collect us and take us home.”
“Oh, that’s kind of him. He’s such a sweetie.”
She gives me one of her looks. “You know he’d do anything for you.”
We’ve been having variations of this conversation for years. “He’d do anything for us,” I respond, as I usually do. “You know I have no interest in starting a relationship with anyone, Connie, and especially not Raphy. He’s like our brother, it’d be…weird!”
“Don’t you think it might be time to start considering maybe going on a date with someone at least? There’s a guy I know through the charity—”
I hold my palm up in front of her face. “Stop!” I say, laughing. “Do not finish that sentence!”
She swipes my hand away, laughing too.
“Anyway, we both know I’m ruined because of he who shall not be named, but what’s your excuse? You haven’t been on a date since…” I pout, trying to remember.
“Last year,” she supplies, with a sigh. “Dario.” She grimaces.
“The DeMarco sisters, both unlucky in love,” I summarize and then signal for the waiter.
Our drinks arrive and we toast to our beloved mama. As has become routine in these lunches, the conversation immediately turns to what she would have made of Micah.
“She would be obsessed with him. Obsessed!” says Connie.
“Well, we all are,” I reply, smiling as I think of my four-year-old little guy, the light of my life. Micah Dante DeMarco. Or rightly Micah Dante Luciano, but there was no way Papa was going to agree to that. I often feel a sharp pang of regret that I didn’t fight to give my son his father’s name, but it is a name I will never forget.
Connie and I order our food and already one drink down, I excuse myself to go to the little girl’s room at the back of the newly opened restaurant. As I walk, I admire the surroundings. It’s an upmarket place yet not pretentious, decorated in shades of corals and creams with gold accents. I round the corner of the long bar and the barman flashes me a smile while he polishes a glass. I look away quickly so as not to give him any encouragement. For one: all my time, energy and attention is focused on Micah. And two: no other man can compare to Michael. I sigh, both with frustration and exasperation. Why can’t I go even one day without thinking about him?
As I exit the bathroom and head back down the small corridor to the seating area and my sister, looking forward to my meal, a door marked Staff Only opens a fraction from the inside and voices escape through the gap. My ears prick up and suddenly it feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked from the atmosphere and I’m struggling to breathe. I reach out to the wall for support as the door closes again abruptly. I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of it, trying to see through the fog in my brain. Because I’m certain of it: one of the voices I heard belongs to Michael Luciano.
A thousand thoughts run through my head as I try to steady my shaky legs and think about what to do next. Should I bang on the door, shouting his name, demanding he show his face? Should I wait here for the door to open again and barge in, confront him? Should I return to Connie and tell her what just happened—if it really did just happen?—and devise another plan of action? I feel like I’m going crazy. Catapulted back in time to that old version of myself: battered, besotted, bewildered Cecelia.
I opt for the third option and make my way back to the booth where Connie is already tucking into her food.
“I’m sorry, little sister,” she says. “I couldn’t wait. It looked too good!” She looks up at me as I slide in next to her and immediately notices my obvious change in mood. She puts down her knife and fork and frowns at me. “Cece? What’s wrong?”
I stare at her, not sure what to say. Sitting here now, I’m already doubting what I heard. And the chances of Michael being here, in Sicily, out of the blue and nearly five years to the day since I last laid eyes on him are slim, if not virtually impossible, surely? It doesn’t make any sense. Still, I have to tell Connie what just happened because she’s the only person in the whole world who will understand how I’m feeling right now. I take a big glug of the second cocktail she has ordered for me, grimacing as I swallow.
“I think Michael is here,” I say after putting the glass down with a trembling hand.
She shakes her head, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Michael Luciano?”
“I just heard his voice. I’m sure of it, Connie. Back there.”
