The Sicilian's Bride. Carol Grace

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      “What does your family think of you?” she asked. Maybe she was the only one who saw him as a difficult person to deal with. She doubted it. Not with that iron jaw, ice-cold blue eyes and stubborn chin. Or did he suddenly turn into a devoted grandson and lovable sibling when he was home? That was hard to imagine.

      “Cold, ruthless and heartless. They say I’m different because I’m not relaxed and easygoing like a true Sicilian. I’m too determined, too driven, even obsessed. When things go wrong I don’t shrug and say tomorrow will be better. I make it better. That’s why…” He stopped in mid sentence, with his gaze fixed on her, as if he could make her see she had no chance against a formidable foe like him. She could imagine what he was going to say…that’s why I will take possession of this land and you won’t.

      “But they love you anyway,” she suggested. She hoped she didn’t sound as skeptical as she felt.

      He didn’t answer. After a moment she filled in the silence. “You’re very lucky. I never knew my parents. I never knew any family at all. No grandparents, no home, no family. I was an orphan.” She kept her voice light, as if being an orphan was no more important than being brown-eyed or left-handed. She hated being on the receiving end of pity. But how she’d envied the kids with a home and a family, especially those with grandmothers. The kind who baked in kitchens that smelled like fresh bread, wore aprons and had laps to curl up in. How did she even know they existed? From picture books and from other kids. Certainly not from experience.

      “I grew up in foster care,” she explained.

      He looked puzzled but he didn’t say anything. She began to feel foolish for going on about her background when who cared, really? Maybe it was that he had no idea what she was talking about.

      “Never mind, it’s not important. You say my uncle never made any wine while he was here?”

      “He wasn’t here that long. Breezed into town from America or God knows where, bought the vineyard, walked away from the vineyard and soon afterward he died. No one knew much about him. Where he really came from, why he was here at all. Some people said he was on the run from the law in California. Who knows? It was clear he had no idea what it took to run a demanding operation like this. All those wasted grapes. Whatever wine there is was made by my family and it would be in the cellar.”

      Dario led the way to the kitchen where stone steps led to the wine cellar. In the kitchen they passed an ancient cooktop tilted to one side. The place reeked of cold and loneliness. It would be a job making it livable, but she could do it. There was an old wooden icebox and an oven with its door hanging open. It wasn’t quite her dream kitchen, but it could be.

      It was as if someone had been in a big hurry to get out of here. If Dario hadn’t been right on her heels, Isabel might have allowed herself a moment of respect for the man who’d left her this place, but with Dario around, she pretended she wasn’t affected by the depressing sight.

      “Needs a little cleaning up,” she said matter-of-factly. After all, no house was exactly the way you wanted it. There were always improvements to be made.

      “It needs more than that,” he said. “You haven’t got running water or electricity or heat.”

      “I don’t need heat, not in this climate.”

      “You will. If you stay.”

      “I will stay,” she assured him.

      As if he’d orchestrated it, a huge rat ran out from under the sink. She screamed, slammed the ice box door shut and jumped up onto an old wobbly wooden kitchen chair.

      He shook his head, as if the skittish behavior of women was no surprise to him at all. To him she was just another woman over her head and unable to cope with hardship. Was it so strange she was frightened of rats? It didn’t mean she was a defective person.

      After a pause he said, “I thought you wanted to see the cellar.” He held out a hand to help her off the chair. He might despise her and dismiss her as unfit to live here, but she had to admit he had manners.

      Isabel took a deep breath. “Of course.” No rat would keep her from her goal. No single-minded Italian would either, no matter how gorgeous he was, how blue his eyes were or how irresistible his accent was. He had no idea how many people had told her she was crazy to quit her job and go to Italy. Everyone she knew advised her to sell the place sight unseen, buy a house in California with the money and keep her job.

      That was the sensible thing to do, but for once in her life Isabel didn’t do the sensible thing. She needed to make a move. Get away from everyone who knew what a fool she’d been. A big move that would force her to be more self-reliant, to face new challenges with a new strength of purpose. To turn her back on her past and friends who treated her with concern and the sympathy she didn’t want. She’d come five thousand miles and nothing would keep her from doing what she’d set out to do. And finally, she’d never give her heart away again, not when it was finally healed and whole.

      This man had no idea how humiliating it would be to give up, to go home and admit she’d made another mistake. If she had a home, which she didn’t. It would take more than a rat in the kitchen, more than a hole in the roof, more than a hostile neighbor. Much more.

      She took his hand and gingerly got down off the chair, then walked with all the dignity she could summon down the stairs to the damp, cool basement. Again he was right behind her, his warm breath on her neck, though she would have preferred to explore alone, to find some hidden treasure like an old bottle of some fabulous vintage on her own.

      The walls were lined with racks and racks of wine in dusty bottles. Some were empty, their corks lying on the floor, but others looked well-aged but possibly still good. How would she know? He pulled a bottle off the wall and held it up so she could see it from the light that filtered through the small dusty windows. “Nineteen ninety-two,” he said. “My grandfather’s Bianco Soave. Sealed with wax. That was a good year, a gold-medal year.” He pointed to the seal affixed to the label.

      “I guess some years are not so good?”

      “With grapes as well as life,” he said, as a cloud passed across his handsome features. “Some years are best forgotten.” He wasn’t looking at her. For all she knew he was talking to himself. Even in the dank semi-dark cellar she could tell from his expression he wasn’t just being philosophical. He meant something had happened to him, and whatever it was, he had not forgotten it. She wanted to ask him how someone like him, surrounded by a big supportive family and acres of productive grapes would have even one bad year? How bad could it be? Bad enough to sell the place to her uncle, but it couldn’t have been as bad as last year was for her.

      “Was it a drought or a fungus?” She’d read either could devastate a vineyard.

      “Yes,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.

      She could understand if they’d had losses due to a disaster out of his control. But maybe it was something more personal. If it was, she’d never find out any more. Not from him.

      She could understand his not wanting to talk about it. Last year had been a nightmare for her, the worst of her life, and she’d done her best to hide her shame and embarrassment from the world.

      Then she’d got the letter from the lawyer and her life had turned around. Coming to Sicily to claim her inheritance was the easiest decision she’d ever made. This would be her good year. She would make it happen. And one of these days she too would win СКАЧАТЬ