‘As long as I’m with you, I could be happy anywhere,’ she replied.
Luciana’s voyage into her past was relatively smooth. Signor Marcanio had left no will before his fatal stroke, so his estate and businesses were automatically awarded to a wife he’d not divorced. But Madame Lola had no desire to return permanently, and remained in Mexico, visiting us every few months for two weeks at a time. It was Luciana who needed to be there and had something to prove.
She threw herself into her father’s business interests, but it took years to wipe away his presence. His investments were wide and many, and their value far exceeded what she’d first predicted. Her own accountants unearthed an Aladdin’s cave of below-the-radar dealings masquerading as reputable, so she culled each black sheep from the company portfolio until only legitimate enterprises remained.
Luciana saw to it that removal men cleansed the house of the few remaining traces of Signor Marcanio. His clothes were given away to charity and his jewellery sent to auction, and the proceeds were donated to a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. I briefly wondered what Catherine had done with my things when I’d left.
Next, she reassured the small army of browbeaten maids, cleaners, cooks and gardeners who’d scuttle past us, heads bowed, that this new regime would not mirror the last.
And while she was kept busy untangling her father’s affairs, I focused on Signor Marcanio’s sprawling, largely ignored vineyards. He’d treated the production of wine as a hobby, and because it was the place of Caterina’s suicide, it wasn’t an area Luciana was ready to be reminded of just yet.
I, however, wondered about its potential, as my desire to create and construct reared its head once again. I knew nothing about the workings of a winery, but I was a fast learner and a willing student. While the manager patiently taught me all its aspects from land irrigation to pressing harvested grapes and sourcing bottling plants, I knew it would take many years of hard work and determination before I might turn her father’s pastime into a profitable product.
Never had I imagined I could live a life so perfect, but that is what Luciana and I came close to. But perfection comes at a price, and I was scared of how much I’d pay in telling her my truths. As our years together progressed, it became an increasing burden to hide the man I’d been from the woman who’d rebuilt me.
1 September
I’d held Luciana’s hand while she bravely walked me through the complicated chapters of her past. But what had she known of mine?
In truth, I had given away mere morsels – snapshots of a life lived through the destruction of others. She had guessed children had once played a part in my life, by observing my paternal instinct when our daughter Sofia was born.
The first time I held her body in the crook of my arm, I whispered into her ear words I never thought I’d use again: ‘I will never let you down.’ And when our son Luca followed a little over a year later, I vowed never to have reason to go back on my promise, no matter how precarious my journey became.
Most people are fortunate even to be given a second chance. My family was my third chance and I no longer wanted to hide my flaws, mis-sell my adventures or conceal my truths from her. I had shown Luciana unconditional love and loyalty, but by keeping many past actions, reactions and repercussions buried deep beneath my skin, I had little integrity.
We were sitting on the lowest tier of the garden terraces watching the sun melt like ice cream over the vineyards, when she commented on my silence.
‘You have the face of a troubled man,’ she began.
I considered denying it, but she could see through my every mask.
‘There are things I think you should know about me,’ I replied, afraid to disfigure the beauty around us with my ugly words.
‘Tell me because you’re ready and not because you feel you should.’
‘I am, really, but I’m scared of how you’ll react.’
‘There is nothing you can tell me that will ever make me think any less of you, Simon.’
Neither my head nor the pounding heart rattling against my ribcage was convinced. But I couldn’t stop my ribbons from unspooling as I explained how I’d met Catherine, and the children we’d had together. Then I recalled in detail how it had gone so very, very wrong; about Billy; why I’d had no option but to leave her; where I’d gone; about my mother, both my fathers and then my travels.
I described how I’d relieved a dead man of his identity, why I’d muted an old friend in Key West and how my guilt had manifested in my near self-destruction. And I admitted that given the same circumstances, I’d probably do exactly the same all over again because in its own twisted way, it had been worth it. It had led me to Luciana.
I was prepared to accept any punishment or consequence she felt necessary. For the first time, I was in the presence of someone who knew almost as much about me as I did. And only when my history was complete did my fists unclench as I waited for her to break the silence.
‘You did what you had to do,’ she said, finally. ‘Nobody can judge you but God, Simon. I won’t. While I cannot lie and say the things you’ve done haven’t been cruel and selfish, or that you haven’t hurt people who might not have deserved it, you know that for yourself. And if you had to suffer all of that to become the man and the father I love now, then so be it.’
She left her seat, sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around my shoulders while the dam I’d spent fifteen years building crumbled under the weight of my tears.
‘But you cannot hide from your family forever,’ she whispered. ‘Catherine deserves to know what happened to her husband, and your children deserve to know why their father left. You, them . . . everyone needs the chance to put the pieces together.’
My head pressed against a heart I knew would always be open to mine. But hers wasn’t destined to beat for long.
Northampton, today
6.15 p.m.
The picture he painted of his life in Italy was all too vivid and left her feeling bitterly cheated.
‘Those were our dreams,’ she said sorely. ‘We were going to retire to Italy – you and I. They weren’t yours to take away and live with somebody else.’
She moved across the kitchen, avoiding his eye, and removed a bottle of wine from the cupboard. She kept alcohol in the house only for guests, and it had been two decades since a drop had passed her lips. But if ever she’d needed a glass, it was today.
‘It’s a good year,’ he offered inappropriately as she uncorked it.
‘What is?’
‘The wine. It’s one of ours – 2008, if I’m not mistaken.’