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“I do care,” she said quickly, on a rush, her eyes round in her pretty face. “I loved your father very much. We weren’t right together, but that doesn’t mean… I cared for him,” she finished softly.
Alessio was filled with questions, questions he’d held onto for an awfully long time. If she cared, why had she left? In what ways weren’t they right? How could she leavebothof them. He understood marriages breaking down—hell, he didn’t believe in the idea of monogamy at all—but to leave a child?
His grip on the fork tightened. He lifted a piece of pasta to his mouth. If the aroma had reminded him of the past, then the taste had put him on a one-way train there. He closed his eyes and fought the memories, hard.
They ate, mostly, in silence. His mother attempted to make conversation and Alessio replied as necessary, but his conversational abilities and inclinations had deserted him. He was trapped in the past, and in the feelings that had consumed him almost his whole life.
Maybe this had been a mistake, after all.
He should never have made this promise to his father. There was no point in being here. Some things, once damaged, couldn’t be repaired.
“Thank you for lunch,” he said, afterwards, hardening his heart to his mother’s crestfallen expression.
“You’re not leaving already?”
Already?Surely lunch had felt like it took a lifetime for her as well?
“I have work to do.”
Her lips twisted. “I see.”
She had no right to make him feel guilty for that. He owed her nothing. And yet, he felt a strange emotion, something like guilt, as he pushed back his chair and reached for her plate, clearing both of their dishes into the kitchen.
He placed them on the edge of the sink, then turned to face her.
“You won’t even stay for coffee?”
She had no right making him feel bad, but hedidfeel bad. Her gentle features were awash with a mask that looked a lot like anguish and regardless of all that had happened between them, he felt a weakening in his resolve. He opened his mouth to accept at the exact moment the door banged closed.
“Mum?”
The colours of the room faded to black as Alessio processed the sudden arrival of Caleb.
“Oh!” Winona turned towards the door, then back at Alessio, her hands twisting in front of her. “Caleb’s home. He can join us for coffee. You two have barely had a chance to talk and I know he was looking forward to—,”
“I have to get back to work,” Alessio responded curtly, as Caleb walked into the room.
“I smell cannelloni,” Caleb said, wiggling his brows in an unconcerned manner, walking over to Winona and pressing a kiss to her forehead before turning to Alessio. “I didn’t realise you’d be here.”
“I was sure I’d mentioned it,” Winona said with a small frown.
“Maybe. I’ve been so busy, it must have slipped my memory. Mind if I help myself?”
“I’ll get it,” Winona said with a wave of her hand and Alessio’s gut twisted at the scene of domesticity he was now in the centre of. “How’s the pub?”
“The calm before the storm,” he said with a grimace.
“Everything on track?”
“Of course. Charlie’s got it covered.”
Alessio couldn’t help the feeling of irritation that stole through him at his half-brother’s mention of Charlotte. They’d known each other years, but in that moment, Alessio didn’t like the way Caleb invoked Charlotte’s name, with such casual possession and pride.
Winona’s smile was knowing. “Did you mention my invitation?”
“Yeah,” Caleb grinned back.
Winona turned to Alessio. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Charlotte—the chef from the pub—to spend Christmas lunch with us. Dash is going to his grandparents’, and I hate to think of her at a loose end. Or worse, going down to work because she can’t help herself.” Winona’s smile dropped slightly. “Of course, I should have checked with you first, given it’s your first Christmas with us in—years,” she finished unevenly, her face flushed. Years? Since she’d left Italy, in fact.
