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He reached for the bottle of wine, topping her glass up as he settled back in his chair.
‘And you?’
‘No, I didn’t read.’
‘Not at all?’ she murmured, finding that almost impossible to comprehend. ‘That’s so sad.’
He laughed. ‘I had other pastimes that I enjoyed very much.’
‘Such as?’
‘Exploring.’ His face flashed with an expression similar to what she imagined he might have worn as a young boy. ‘My mother and I would walk—at least we would when she was well enough.’
He stared out at the ocean, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he thought back to those brief windows of happiness in his childhood.
‘She didn’t have a lot of money, as I have said, so she would pack a bag with apples and water, and a little cioccolata for me. We lived above the marcato, and every now and again she would surprise me with a fresh-baked pastry or some deli meat. We would leave early in the morning and not return until nightfall. All day we would walk through the winding streets of Rome, studying the ancient buildings, learning about the city.’
He turned his attention back to Tilly.
‘I do not consider I missed any advantage because I wasn’t an avid fan of books.’
She dipped her head forward and a wisp of red hair brushed against her pale complexion. Tilly had read in order to have exactly the same adventures.
‘Those walks sound beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Was she sick often?’
His eyes met Tilly’s, and again she had the sense that he was waging an internal war. Perhaps it was easy for her to recognise because she was fighting a similar battle. What to show and what to hide.
‘Yes.’
It was impossible to flatten the sorrow in her expressive eyes. She reached across the table and curled her hand over his. He stared at their fingers, as did she. Was he noticing the way they fitted together so well? Even the contrast between his deep tan and her cream complexion created a striking image.
‘When I started school, I remember her telling me that things would be different. I didn’t realise at the time why—only that she seemed buoyed up by the prospect of something on the horizon. With hindsight, I understand. Finally I would be cared for during the week, which would allow her to work. She saw an opportunity to get her life back on track.’
‘Do you think her life wasn’t on track, Rio?’ Tilly asked thoughtfully.
He swirled his wine in the glass without drinking it. Having not spoken to a soul about his childhood, he found the combination of sunshine, wine and the beautiful woman opposite like a magical key to the doorway of his past.
‘She was twenty-four when I was born,’ he murmured, his eyes lifting to Tilly’s face. ‘Your age.’
She ran her thumb over his hand. ‘What did she do? For work, I mean?’
His smile was perfunctory. ‘She was an architect.’
Pieces of the jigsaw slipped into place, building a framework as to who he was.
‘She taught you to love old buildings,’ Tilly murmured thoughtfully.
‘Yes. Though it wasn’t so much teaching as opening my eyes. Whenever we walked past demolition sites we’d marvel at what might have been done if only someone had intervened. She loved history. The past. She wanted to preserve it.’
‘She sounds like a wonderful person.’ And a lot like her son, she added silently.
‘Si.’
He wondered at the way he was opening up to this woman he barely knew—a woman he had thought he would despise. But the more he got to know her, the more he understood Cressida’s differences from the Marinas of the world. Cressida didn’t have it in her to lie.
‘And when did she first get sick?’
His eyes were as hard as flint; they showed no emotion, but Tilly could feel it vibrating from him in waves.
