Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton

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СКАЧАТЬ grew up in a house. A pretty big one, in the Village.”

      “But still, no dog?”

      He shrugged. “Mama was convinced dogs would give us germs.”

      “Mama,” Gabriella said, smiling.

      “We’re Sicilian.” Dante grinned. “Calling her anything else might have won me a smack.”

      “And your father is Papa?”

      His smile disappeared. “I never call him Papa, or Dad, or anything but Father.”

      “Hey. I’m sorry I—”

      “No.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “You have a right to ask. The thing is, he’s…he’s—”

      “Old-fashioned?”

      “Old-country.” A deep breath. She would surely know some of this from having read it in the papers; she’d even tossed that famiglia insult at him, but talking about it—that was something he never did. “Remember that Marlon Brando movie? My old man’s kind of like that. The head of what he likes to refer to as a big company but in reality—”

      “Dante.” Gabriella stepped in front of him, laid a hand on his chest. “I don’t care what he is,” she said softly. “I am simply grateful that he gave you life.”

      Could you really feel your heart lift? The answer seemed to be yes, and right there, under the arch in the Ramble, he took Gabriella in his arms and kissed her.

      Where else to take her for lunch on such a glorious day but The Boathouse?

      It was early autumn but the temperature was in the low 70s, the sun was bright. Perfect for dining on the outdoor terrace beside the Central Park boat lake.

      There were no tables available—but, yes, of course, there was a table for Mr. Orsini. Gabriella sat back, watching the turtles sunning themselves on a rocky outcropping. He ordered for both of them. Tuna Niçoise for her—he remembered she loved it—and a burger, well-done, for him.

      “And a bottle of Pinot Grigio,” he added, remembering she loved that, too, but she shook her head, glanced at the waiter, blushed and told Dante, in a low voice, that she couldn’t drink because alcohol wouldn’t be good for the baby.

      The waiter gave a discreet smile. “Sparkling water, perhaps,” he said, and Dante said yes, that would be fine.

      The bottle of water arrived, along with glasses filled with ice and slices of lemon. Dante reached for Gabriella’s hand.

      “I wish I’d been with you when you were pregnant,” he said softly. “And when you delivered. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

      Gabriella shook her head. “I told you, I wasn’t alone. Yara was there.” She paused. “And my brother.”

      Dante watched her face, the sudden play of emotion in her eyes. “You know,” he said carefully, “you never talk about him.”

      “There isn’t much to say.” Her voice trailed off; her eyes met his. There was a sudden fierce glow in them. “He is dead, but I suppose you know that.”

      “Sweetheart. I didn’t want to make you sad. If you don’t want to tell me—”

      “He died of AIDS.” The glow in her eyes grew even more fierce. “He was a good man, Dante. A wonderful brother.”

      “I’m sure he was,” Dante said gently.

      “Our father despised him.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But then, he despised me, too. My brother, because he was gay. Me, because I killed my mother.”

      “Gaby. Honey—”

      The waiter arrived with their lunch. They fell silent until he’d left. Neither of them reached for a fork. At last Gabriella picked up her story.

      “She died in childbirth, and our father said it was my fault.” Dante clasped her hand; she gave his a tight squeeze. “I know how wrong that is now, but when I was a little girl, I believed it. Anyway, just about the time you and I—about the time we stopped seeing each other—”

      “The time you found out you were carrying my baby,” Dante said gruffly.

      Another nod of her head. “Sim. My father wrote to me, a very conciliatory letter asking me to return home. He was getting old, he said, it was time to mend our relationship, he said…” She swallowed dryly. “So, considering that…that I wanted to leave New York, I went home. But he had lied to me. He was dying. He had no money—my father was a very heavy gambler. He needed someone to take care of him.” She shrugged. “So I did.”

      “Ah, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You needed someone to take care of you and instead—”

      “I did not mind. There are things one must do in life.” She lifted her head and smiled, though now there were tears in her eyes. “And a good thing came of it. I told my father I would only stay with him if he permitted my brother to move back in. Arturo was ill by then.” She swallowed hard. “So Arturo and I were together again. It was wonderful. We talked and laughed and shared memories—and then my father died.” Her voice broke. “And before very long, so did Arturo. And while I was still mourning him, Andre Ferrantes came to the door to tell me the bank was going to foreclose on Viera y Filho—my father had named the ranch at my brother’s birth, you see, long before he could have known Arturo would be gay. And Ferrantes said—He said—”

      Dante stood, pulled back her chair and kissed her. Then he drew her to her feet, dropped some bills on the table and led her from the terrace toward the door.

      “How romantic,” he heard a woman say.

      And he thought, Wrong.

      This, whatever was happening between them, was far more complicated than romance. It was…it was—

      He clasped Gabriella’s hand and hurried her from the park.

      At home again, they checked on the baby.

      He was sound asleep, his backside in the air.

      Mrs. Janiseck left. So did Stacia. Dante took Gabriella out on the terrace. They sat close together on a love seat, his arm curved around her in the warm sun, surrounded by Izzy’s flowers.

      He told her all about his life. Things he’d never told anyone. His confused feelings for Cesare. His love for his brothers. For his sisters. He told her how lost he’d been at eighteen, how filled with rage because he had a father whose idea of famiglia had little to do with the family sitting around a dinner table and everything to do with some alien family whose existence periodically brought reporters and photographers and cops to the door.

      He told her how directionless he’d been, how his brothers had said enlisting in one of the armed services would give his life structure—and how he’d known, instinctively, he needed the opportunity to find that structure in a different way.

      He picked up her hand, kissed her fingertips and explained that he’d found СКАЧАТЬ