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He hadn’t taken even a moment to look at his own actions to see his errors. He had been so damned arrogant. So sure everything was Alessia’s fault when in truth, none of the blame laid with her.
He closed his eyes as he opened the box, almost as though he were afraid to see what was inside.
And with good reason.
Here was the visual proof of how much their first marriage had meant to her. She hadn’t come to Rome expecting it to be temporary or fake. She’d brought the most important things with her when she’d arrived – the sorts of things one might grab from the house if a fire threatened.
But it was more than what she’d brought. It was the things she’d accumulated and kept. The candlesticks were the kind that should sit at the centre of the dining table to mark special family events. They were a talisman to the future she’d envisaged, that he’d never intended to give her.
Guilt speared him.
Guilt, anger, all directed at himself.
He’d been so thoughtless. So unknowingly cruel. And this time?
He lifted the candlesticks from the box, placing them on the floor at his feet. A photo sat beneath them. The glass had cracked due to his careless packing away. He lifted it out, his heart turning over at the image. It was from their wedding day. She’d had a photo of them framed – the gold bore the inscription of a famous jeweller, but that didn’t grab his attention. It was the photo. Alessia. God, but she was beautiful, and so young.
Her sweetness and innocence, her naivety, the feeling he’d been entrusted with something beautiful and fragile. He’d been wrong to not realise that she was a grown woman, but it was understandable that he’d felt that way. He’d neglected her out of a desire to protect her. Or perhaps out of a need to know he was a good enough man to resist his own impulses for the sake of protecting her.
And yet, looking at the photo, he could see now what he didn’t then. Her happiness. The smile was radiant, her eyes intelligent and bright. She’d known what she was doing and she’d done it willingly.
She’d loved him. It was in every line of her features, every part of her expression showed it. And him?
His eyes shifted towards the photographic representation of how he’d been on that day and he tried to remember how he’d felt. The photo gave little away. He had an arm around her waist and he was holding her tight; he remembered that – how perfectly she fit against his side, how utterly right it had felt to have her tucked there with him. Frustration gnawed at him; he placed the photo on the floor – he’d have the glass replaced.
Next, he pulled out a blanket. Beautiful and soft, made from pure wool, she used to lay it at the foot of one of the sofas – where she’d sat and studied. He remembered coming home and finding her asleep like that one night, her legs curled up, the book open on her lap. He’d removed the book and covered her with the blanket, and he’d felt it then – the stirrings of desire, the shock at finding himself married to someone so much younger than him, uncertainty, doubt, guilt. He’d gone to bed.
He moved the blanket aside and his hands brushed something hard and metallic. He lifted it with curiosity and then felt a shift right in under his ribs. Alessia and Imogen. It was well into Imogen’s treatment. She was thin and pale, a vibrant blonde wig in place of her natural hair. She was holding Alessia to her side, and their smiles were so happy. Despite her sickness, Imogen’s love and contentment couldn’t be doubted.
She would have told me that I deserved better.
His stomach rolled. He lifted a finger to teenager Alessia’s face, brushing the tip over her nose, his heart thumping hard. He’d been right to let her go – he’d had no choice. Alessia unequivocally deserved better than he could ever give her. Why hadn’t he realised that sooner?
Why?
He turned the photo over on autopilot and then stilled. There was an inscription on the back.
He read the cursive script with a blinding sense of clarity – it was as though Imogen was reaching through time and speaking directly to Max, telling him what he needed to know to understand everything. How strange that a photograph from so many years ago, forgotten in a box in his attic, should hold the key to his past, his present and his future.
* * *
“I’m fine, dad.” She stared out at Rome from her beautiful hotel room, feeling anything but fine. But Carlo didn’t need to know the truth just yet. She could wait to tell him her marriage had failed – again. After the baby was born, when he’d have more to focus on than this.
“I thought I’d come to Rome,” she could hear Carlo’s smile down the phone line.
Alessia’s stomach tightened. “Oh. Why not wait until next month, when the baby’s born?”
“Why?” Suspicion was obvious. Then, a laugh. “I forget, you’re newlyweds again. You probably don’t want to be bothered now,” he said on a laugh that made Alessia feel like the worst kind of liar. Her grip tightened on the phone.
“I have to go, dad.”
“Maybe I’ll just come for lunch,” he said, still laughing.
“Maybe. I’ll talk to you later. Ciao.”
She hung up and cradled the phone in her lap, still staring out at Rome, the same frown on her face that she’d felt in the week since checking into the hotel.
Her phone buzzed. She flicked it open without thinking, and saw the text message from Max.
