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She watched him in silence as she wondered if he would turn her down. He judged her family for not continuing in her grandfather’s footsteps. But he didn’t understand how difficult the choice had been.
Isabel straightened her spine fractionally. “Listen. I can’t answer for my father. But I’m immensely interested in the marble trade. I realize I didn’t grow up with it, but the connection is there through my grandfather.”
Marc lifted his hand to stop her. “The quarry is a dangerous place for someone with no experience. Shearing off massive slabs of marble has inherent risks.”
Isabel met his gaze. “I know that I would need to stay in the background and I can assure you I have a very quiet presence. I’m drawn to creating documentaries mostly through film but also using still photography.”
Marc watched her beautiful, feminine body and thought if he allowed her to start asking questions then there was no telling what secrets would be revealed.
“The marble business can be tough. The economic pressures from global over-production have forced many quarries to go out of business and changes in technology have changed the need for manual labor, leaving most of the next generation without work. You will find stories of personal hardship and difficult choices.”
Wariness hardened Marc’s resolve, and he ran his hand through his hair. His gut told him Alberto wanted his granddaughter to be protected at all costs, yet he wouldn’t mind if she married into an Italian family with a connection to the marble trade. In their conversation last week, he had asked Marc when he was going to settle down and have a family. Marc had been very blunt and told the old man that he was only interested in seeking out wild affairs and when the passion burned out, he moved on. After that point, Alberto reminded him on several occasions that Isabel was off limits.
Isabel nodded. “My grandfather told me that you have built a diversified empire. But what would your business empire be without the quarry and the connection to the past?”
“More profitable.” Marc countered with ruthless bite, but a faint shadow of guilt stained his angular cheekbones as he stood up and turned away, trying yet failing to block out images of the quarry. He could easily recall images of his grandfather speaking with the foreman about how to safely extract the next slab of pure white marble as he waited in the background.
He could tell she was trying to figure out his thinking when she said, “Yes, but profits are not the only reason for keeping a business. Don’t you think a connection to the past is of equal importance?”
Marc turned back toward her. “It’s not responsible in the long run to keep a business that is failing. It would be better to make a quick, decisive move than to continue to put off the inevitable. That was the mistake Alberto made.” Marc kept the emotion out of his voice, as he didn’t want to acknowledge how painful this was for Alberto. For a man such as Alberto Neri to allow bankruptcy was to acknowledge his own failure.
“I know I can create a compelling film.”
His hard jawline tightened slightly. “You’re too young and inexperienced for this project.”
Isabel stared at him. “You can’t be serious. I’m not inexperienced. I have overcome enormous obstacles to even be here.”
“What type of obstacles?” Marc asked as he held her gaze.
He had her. Why would she reveal such a personal part of herself to this stranger? But what did it matter? He clearly wasn’t going to allow her to film in his quarry or interview his employees.
After a moment of hesitation, she met his gaze and told him, “I was in a serious accident. It was hard to survive physically when my family wanted to push me back into the neat little role they had devised for me. I did survive and I launched my own film company, documenting the choices people make and the reality of their lives.”
“Surviving an accident isn’t enough to guarantee success with a film.”
Cringing at his coldness, Isabel stood and raised her voice. “I don’t even know why I bothered to come here and see you. Alberto was wrong. You are clearly not interested in allowing a glimpse of the life of the men who have worked for your family for generations.”
He remained completely still, his eyes were like cold steel and there was a hard, set look to his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to stop her. He merely watched her as she continued to lecture him, her anger refueled.
“You have a reputation for being a recluse and not allowing anyone in. I’m not surprised that you wouldn’t allow filming at the Santoro Quarry.”
The silence after she had finished seemed to fill the room as much as her voice had done. She fully expected him to escort her to the front door and wish her goodbye, but he stood motionless. Then he seemed to relax a little and surprised her by saying slowly, “You’re very passionate, Miss Neri.”
Suddenly her anger was spent and weariness swept over her. “I should go.”
“Please, sit down. There is still much to discuss.”
“I think I have said too much already.” Isabel glared at him. The cold, harsh look had left his eyes; they were still intense, but they weren’t completely distant. She gave up trying to interpret his moods and looked away.
Marc moved closer to her and took a seat at the end of the sofa and motioned with his hand for her to sit down again.
The worry over the last few days had taken its toll on her. Without this project, she would have to start from scratch and it could take months if not longer to secure another grant. She would disappoint her grandfather and be stuck waiting tables at the deli. “I have put all of my resources into this project and if I can’t gain access to your quarry then I’ll lose the funding,” she said, and lifted a hand to her forehead that had begun to throb unmercifully.
She sat down on the sofa.
Marc leaned forward. “Why is it so important to you personally?”
“Changing careers from nursing to filmmaking has been difficult. My family hasn’t supported the shift and they are waiting for me to change my mind. Having this solo project that ties into my heritage would give me the opportunity to show them that I’m serious.”
