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Matthew swept Nina up from her chair, abandoning their food to start waltzing in the middle of the square. My brother was old-school in ways that included a penchant for vintage suits and our grandparents’ dance moves, but he never cared for propriety. Not when it came to his Nina. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he was abandoning tradition to dance with his new wife just as soon as he damn well pleased. And if Nina’s glowing smile was any indication, she liked that impulse just fine.
I couldn’t help staring as the nausea in my belly was temporarily replaced by envy. They were elegant together, yes. Nina was possibly an even better dancer than Matthew, an impressive feat given the fact that all of us had been subject to Nonna’s “lessons” when we were growing up. The two of them moved so naturally to a jazz version of “Someday My Prince Will Come” that they could have been doubles for Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, especially when his dark head touched her bright blond hair.
But mostly, it was their closeness that made jealousy gnaw at my empty stomach. Nina had changed from her couture wedding gown into a simpler off-white dress that fluttered around her calves, and Matthew had long since eschewed his tie and jacket, making do in shirtsleeves while he wrapped one arm around Nina’s waist and used the other to tuck her hand against his chest so that they were truly dancing cheek to cheek.
His lips moved, whispering some silent, sweet nothing into her ear. Nina only nuzzled him further, then allowed him to engage her with yet another kiss in which they were obviously the only two in the entire town, guests and villagers be damned.
It made me want to retch.
Or sob.
Maybe both.
“Hey, you two, the first dance is supposed to beafterdinner,” Marie, one of my younger sisters, called from the other side of the table.
“Let them be,” I chided, even though watching them was so painful, I wanted to shriek.
That was supposed to be me.
Or maybe it could have been.
For one short summer, I had been so,soclose. Eight weeks ago, I’d been in love too. I had a man to dance with, and my daughter, Sofia, had a father at last. When Xavier Parker, dashing London restauranteur and prodigal duke, had strode back into my life with the force of a gale, I certainly hadn’t intended to fall in love with him all over again. Honestly, I’d barely expected him to like me after what I did. Hiding the fact that you had a man’s baby and not telling him for five years isn’t exactly a direct path to his good side.
But somehow, the love and attraction and, well, the outright passion we’d shared all those years before had prevailed. Which was how Sofia and I had come to spend the summer in England with Xavier—both so she could continue building her new relationship with her daddy and so he and I could determine whether what we thought we had between us was real.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
They say love conquers all.
“They” would be dirty rotten liars.
It took all of two months for the pressures of Xavier’s job, title, and uptight conniving family to rip our tenuous bonds to shreds and decorate them with tinsel. I had left almost as suddenly as I’d arrived, chased back to Brooklyn with every intent of returning to my simple life as a third-grade teacher and single mom.
Life, however, had other plans.
Specifically in the form of a positive pregnancy test.
Again.
“God, this is so good.” Kate inhaled from her bowl oftrofie al pestoand couldn’t help but moan. “Nonna, don’t kill me, but I think this might be better than yours.”
Our grandmother just turned from the next table where she was enjoying a fifty-years-in-the-making cigarette with her sister and several cousins. She held her fingertips together as she gave a little shake of her hand, then went right back to gossiping with her family.
“That’s how you know she’s had one too many,” Kate joked in my ear. “Won’t even argue with critiques of her cooking.”
I offered a weak smile. The twists of pasta were famous in this town, but to me, they looked like someone had lost their lunch on my plate.
“Look at her,” Kate continued. “The cigarette, the wine, the big, big hair. She’s so Italian right now it hurts. It’s like watching a salmon return to its spawning grounds after the long migration.”
I was supposed to laugh, but suddenly all I could sense was the flavor of Kate’s breath, tinged with red wine, basil, and garlic.
“Jesus, Katie,” I gasped, trying and failing to breathe only through my mouth.
“What?”
I pushed back from the table and made a beeline for the restaurant, weaving in and out of the crowd, flapping my hands at stray relatives who wanted yet another kiss to the cheek, and barely finding my way to the tiny bathroom in time to lose every bite I had just taken into the toilet.
I retched again.
