Roman Holiday Read online

  As she turned the key and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the huge space, she felt that now familiar “child in a sweet shop” giddiness come over her. Did anyone else in the family feel like this? This awe and wonder at the responsibility of what she had at her fingertips? Marianna had said Toni used to like rummaging through the space and had spent hours at a time up here in the few weeks before his death. Had he been connecting with his family history? Caro wondered. Looking for pieces that he could set aside especially for Mia, perhaps. Well, they’d never bloody know, would they? That bastard!

  Sometimes the violence of her feelings for her dead lover threatened to overwhelm her and Caro would blink back sudden angry tears, more determined than ever to push him aside. His memory was everywhere in this house, which made the pushing away part hard and, in truth, Toby deserved to hear the stories, pore over the family photos and videos with his grandparents. To date, she’d refused to join them on their memory-lane trips – just too busy, blah, blah, blah . . .

  That was fooling no one, but they could mind their own business. It wasn’t going to help her come to terms with the bald fact that he’d chosen Marianna, he’d chosen Mia and not her and not her son. There was no grey area. He. Had. Chosen.

  Several hours passed before Caro realised the sound that kept interrupting was her stomach growling in disbelief at its lack of sustenance. She straightened slowly, flipping down her laptop, and stepped backwards.

  “Ouch! Crap!”

  She turned to the offending large tea chest with the metal corner strip still stuck in the denim of her jeans just at the back of her thigh. Another rip to add to the collection wasn’t the issue, but the trickle of blood might be if that metal was rusty. Crap, crap. Could she remember her last tetanus jab? Of course not, who remembered that stuff – it would make way too much sense, wouldn’t it?

  She pulled off her cotton scarf from about her neck and swiftly tied it about her cut. Her own fault, really. This was a new area in the attic and she hadn’t really done a proper recce of the spot. She leaned over the old chest and slid open the flat wooden lid. It smelt musty and damp but hey, a tea chest in an attic wasn’t going to smell like roses.

  Oh goody, books, was her first thought. Like ones she would have had in school. Reaching in her arm, she grabbed a few at random and pulled them out. Her eyes blurred instantly at the familiar scrawl across the front cover of an old notebook. Christ, they even write like each other, her son and his dad. Blinking furiously, she set it aside to glance through later, considering Toby might like to see some of these parts of his father’s life. She took hold of an old leather-bound book that had the elastic snap ribbon about it.

  Huh.

  Now this also looked familiar.

  A blinding flash of memory assailed her. Toni, his scooter idling between his thighs as he waited for her to walk along the path towards their meeting place, this very notebook in his hands as he scribbled furiously, her own arrival going unnoticed. His yelp of surprise when she tapped him on the shoulder was testament to his concentration level. Though she angled to see what he’d written and then laughingly begged to read what surely must be his hidden love poems to her, it was to no avail. He’d snapped it shut and tucked it into his backpack. She’d seen him write in it many times but never asked to see it again. As a teenager from a busy family, she totally understood the need for privacy. And she’d happily respected it.

  Caro turned the book over and over in her hands. She stroked her trembling fingers back and forth across the surface, remembering. Dare she? He’s dead, Caro. Dead. He can’t complain if you read it now. Do it. She unsnapped the elastic and opened at page one. By page three she had a smile on her face as his voice leaped up to greet her – cheeky, irreverent, funny and kind. It began in the spring of their year and she knew immediately she would read every word.

  The shout from the bottom of the attic stairs was a rude interruption but not an unwelcome one. She was on page thirty-two and it was, in the diary, a week before they’d met for the first time. She closed the book, replaced it in the chest, covered it with the lid and stood up again. Shit, her leg ached. And her stomach. She’d totally forgotten both.

  “Coming,” she called back to Toby, who was repeating his holler. “I’ll be right there.”

  Tomorrow, she said, glancing back towards her hidden treasure, you and I have a date.

  “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  Nick answered his uncle’s questions as he pulled his tie loose at the neck. It had been a packed flight preceded by almost two crazy days putting out fires. Of the virtual kind, but still exhausting. He nodded his thanks to Toby, who handed him a glass of Scotch, and took a drink.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  He tried to appear nonchalant as he looked around for Caroline. Truth? He’d been dreaming of her. Imagining walking into the palazzo and seeing her standing waiting just for him. Yeah, he knew it was insane. Completely insane on so many levels but, as usual, Nick refused to lie to himself.

  He wanted that woman and he wanted her badly.

  His hours on the plane home had been filled with his own internal debate. Why their being together was so wrong. So, so wrong and Jesus, so fucking right.

  He drained his glass and stood up.

  “I need to have a chat with your mom, kid. Do you know where I might find her?”

  His hand rested lightly on Toby’s shoulder, a gesture that would have been impossible before the food-poisoning incident. Now, it seemed somehow natural, normal, even.

  Toby heaved a sigh. “Where she always is these days.” He jerked his head upwards. “In the attic.”

  Nick raised one eyebrow.

  “Okay, maybe not always. She did go Christmas shopping today. For hours. How can women do that?” he asked. “I did mine in like, under one hour, and yet Mum spent the whole day trailing from shop to shop. I know because I was supposed to meet for hot chocolate at this little café we go to, and she kept texting me a later and later meet time. Jeez. Hey!” he continued, excitement lacing his voice now that the subject of shopping was apparently over. “We fly home tomorrow, did you know?”

  Nick did know. It was why he’d doubled up on several meetings in Milan and left early. He absolutely had to see Caroline before she left for Dublin – otherwise it could be early January before they’d talk. That was unacceptable.

  He looked down at Toby’s eager face.

  “What did you buy your mom for Christmas?”

  “An antique-type pen-and-ink set. She’ll love it, as she likes to sketch a bit in some old notebooks and I know she likes how final ink is – she says there’s no room for error so a firm hand is needed.”

  “That sounds like her all right. Good choice, Tobias.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder as he turned to leave the room, destination attic. “I’ll see you before you leave in the morning, okay?”

  “Sure. Sounds good. I, em, I got you something, just something small, as a kinda mix between a thank you for minding Mum and a Christmas present. I hope that’s okay?”

  A wave of tenderness hit Nick hard as he turned back to catch Toby’s slightly flushed countenance. Not an emotion he was used to feeling where youngsters were concerned and he was a bit thrown.

  “Thanks, kid. I might have got you something small, too.”

  He flashed a smile and left the room before the schmaltz overcame him.

  Christ! he was getting soft. But damn if he hadn’t enjoyed finding the unusual gift in a tiny antique shop in a back street in Milan – it had been pure chance that he’d leaped from the taxi stopped in snarling traffic and decided to walk the rest of the way to the hotel. He rarely window-shopped even when not in a blinding hurry, but something caught his eye as he paused to let an elderly woman pass ahead of him.

  A silver-based nutcracker with bone handles, it wasn’t particularly ornate but had a simplicity and useful look about it. Nick assumed that Toby may never in fact use it, but something told him the young chef in th
e making would treasure it. While in the shop buying the nutcracker he’d spotted a stack of old books and glancing through them briefly as the shop owner made change, he fell upon Caroline’s gift. It was outrageously expensive but even at that, an unbelievable bargain.

  Nick grinned as he mounted the stairs two at a time, eager to see the woman who simply wouldn’t vacate his headspace. He wasn’t going to give her the gift just yet, as an idea was brewing in the back of his mind and he needed to see if it would play out.

  He headed straight for the attic stairs, bypassing his own room – he could shower and change later – his need to see Caroline increasing.

  They would talk. He knew that. They’d have to decide what this “thing” was between them and if it could actually go somewhere. But first, first he had to kiss her. He needed the taste and smell of her. The feel of her warm, soft body pressed closely to his. The sound of her, Jesus, the sounds she made as they kissed were knee-buckling, they were so erotic and breathy. And, God, when her tongue twisted sensually around his . . . Nick halted at the foot of the attic stairs. Get a grip. He definitely needed a minute. He’d bloody devour her at this rate and the reality was, she may not be craving this as much as he. That, right there, was a dose of much-needed cold water. He took a deep breath and climbed the steps slowly, deliberately calming his breathing, calming his racing hormonal heart.

  He didn’t see her at first. The room was normally sporadically lit, with hanging lights dotted around the large space, yet only two appeared to be switched on: one near the entrance, the other in the far left corner. Of Caroline there was no sign. Maybe Toby got it wrong.

  He paused, taking in the dim light, the old smell and the dust particles dancing near the warm down-beam of the bare bulb. Hands shoved in pockets, he moved slowly, quietly towards the other lighted area. If she was in fact here, maybe she hadn’t heard him. A muffled noise drew him closer. She was there.

  On closer inspection, he discovered a sort of pathway of separated boxes pushed aside leading directly to the spot where the noise seemed to be.

  “Caroline?” he called, keeping his voice low, not wanting to disturb her if she was engrossed in a book of some kind or . . . “Caroline!”

  This time he found her, hidden behind an old tea chest, but she wasn’t reading. She was sitting, her back to the box, knees pulled to her chest with her arms wrapped about them protectively. Her head was buried and Nick quickly realised the sounds he’d heard were sobbing. Caroline was crying and so heartbreakingly that she hadn’t heard him approach. Shit. Should he just leave her?Was this one of those times you walk away and pretend you never saw? Preserve their dignity by escaping undeterred? But whose dignity was he concerned with? His or hers?

  It was a no-brainer, really. He’d seen her in the throes of a nightmare, he’d cleaned up her vomit, for Christ’s sake, he could surely mop up some tears, too.

  Back to manning-up, it seemed.

  He crouched low and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. Nothing. She didn’t even feel him. He tried again.

  “Caroline?” He rubbed a hand across her shoulders, speaking in a low voice. “Hey, what’s the matter? Talk to me, shh, now. Take it easy.”

  Without jumping or jerking in fright, as if she were in a trance, Caroline turned her head towards him.

  Whoa. She was a mess. Her eyes were totally red-rimmed and her cheeks chalky pale with two scarlet dots right in the centre of each one. Huge tears slid silently down her face and he realised the noise he’d heard was her gulps as she’d tried to draw breath among all the liquid flowing from her. She tried again and her whole body shuddered with the effort, fresh tears spilling.

  “Hey now.” He slid to the dusty floor beside her and reached over, hauling her up onto his lap, her body still curled inwards on itself in an ancient protective manner. “Hey now,” he said again softly, “you’re okay. Everything’s okay now. Hush, now.”

  And then, for some reason he began speaking to her in Italian. He told her about Milan and all the problems with the hotel there. About the inefficiencies of the accounts department and how he intended to fire half of them. He talked about the new receptionist from Argentina who was excellent at her job, also called Caroline but not nearly as beautiful as his Caroline, this one curled in his arms.

  All the while he rubbed her back, stroked her damp hair back from her forehead and dropped light kisses on the top of her head. He was rocking her gently, discussing the new breakfast menus at that problem hotel, when he realised the shuddering and gulping had slowed. He continued to the lunch menus and how ridiculous it was to be serving toasted sandwiches in a top Italian hotel, when she spoke.

  “Ham and cheese toasties are good.”

  Her voice was hoarse. Broken. But it was her voice.

  “I know, right? But Italians just don’t like them and putting them on the menu for tourists seems idiotic and not remotely authentic.”

  “What’s your favourite lunch?” she asked.

  Seriously? That’s what they were going to discuss?

  She reached for a sodden tissue and blew her nose, scrunched it, reached for another but came up empty. He released his hold on her to fumble in his jacket pocket and handed her a large cotton square. Without batting an eyelid, she blew again – that woman had skills, that was for sure. She scrunched the handkerchief and shoved it up her sleeve. She looked at him expectantly.

  Right. Lunch choices. Got it.

  “It depends on where I am. I like to eat locally. You know, try the fare of the country or region I’m visiting. When I’m at home in New York I often grab a slice of pizza, but at home here, it’s usually a small bowl of pasta. What about you?”

  “Soup. Usually it’s soup. Or maybe a bar of chocolate and crisps.” At his quirked eyebrow, she smiled. Just a little. “Yeah, I’ve a dreadful diet unless Toby’s in charge.” She paused. “You said at home for both New York and Rome. Is that how you feel?”

  Nick took a moment, watching her watch him. He stroked his thumb gently across her reddened cheek, a knot in his stomach at the pain she must be in.

  “I guess I do now. I’m lucky that I feel at home wherever I feel comfortable. There’s a security in knowing you’re loved, by your family, no matter how far you go.”

  He could feel himself blush at the sentiment and wished he could recall the words, but she smiled straight into his eyes.

  “I know,” she said, “I really do.” Caroline drew a deep breath and scrubbed her hands over her face. “Toni loved me.”

  Nick was confused. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to believe already? That she and his cousin had fallen in love? Ergo, Toby? He waited till her eyes met his, saying nothing. What could he say, after all? She rarely talked about her relationship with Toni and he didn’t, really didn’t, want to know the details. He continued to look at her steadily. She reached down and picked up a leather-bound notebook from the floor next to her and held it towards him.

  “He says so.”

  Nick took the book, what looked like Toni’s old journal, but didn’t open it.

  “Explain.”

  Caroline wriggled off his knees and sat next to him, side by side, their backs to the old tea chest. She pulled her knees up close to her chest, like the way he found her, but this time she turned her face to him.

  “Ever since I got here, since I found out about Marianna and Mia, everything I believed about my relationship with Toni has seemed like a lie. Or like I made it up.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly. “I thought I must have imagined all the feelings, the being in love, the romance of it all. Because . . . ” She gestured widely with her hand. “How could it have been true? The evidence against it talks to me every day, plays with Toby and is growing into a lovely young woman. Mia is all the proof I needed that he never loved me.” She took the leather book back from Nick and flipped it open. “This journal is from the summer we spent together – he wrote in it constantly. I used tease him that the life of a hotel porter
wasn’t for him, he should be a writer.” She smiled.

  Nick remembered her saying she never knew about Toni’s family and he hadn’t really quite believed it till now.

  “You really didn’t know, did you?”

  “Not a clue. And I’m glad,” she said fiercely, “so glad. This diary is a vindication of my son. Yes, I know that sounds dramatic, but one day, when he’s old enough to read this, I’ll show him what his mum and dad shared. I’ll show him our story and maybe he won’t judge me like everyone else in this family does.”

  “We don’t—” Nick began but was interrupted by a very unladylike snort.

  “You do. Maybe not intentionally, now, but certainly at first – and I actually get it. I could have been anyone trying to muscle in on your cosy little enclave.” She shifted a bit on the floor, the book still open in her hands. “I thought the worst thing was finding out Toni was dead. And it was. It was awful and I’m so sorry that he’s gone and I’ll never forgive myself for not finding him sooner, for Toby’s sake. But, do you know what was worse? A death I could, in time, grieve for, that would be healthy, right? But do you know what makes me furious, what’s been eating at me, messing with my head, screwing with my own values and beliefs?”

  Her eyes were filling with tears again and Nick could feel his stomach knot. He reached over and placed his hands over her trembling ones. He spoke the words he didn’t want to believe himself.

  “His betrayal.”

  His heart cracked a little as two big, fat tears fell from her glorious blue eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, lifting one hand from hers to catch the drops with his thumb. “I can’t imagine how it must hurt.”

  A shaky breath slid out of her and her head tipped back, eyes closed.