CHAPTER FIVE
Tommaso
I barely heard their car tires crunch across the gravel as they left, but knowing that they were leaving eased a lot of the pressure in my chest.
It was like Portia herself was sitting on my sternum, crushing me and making it near impossible to breathe.
I hadn’t had an anxiety attack like this—or as severe as this—in a long time.
Probably close to two years. But I knew them when I felt them, and when the sudden dizziness hit me, coupled with the racing heartbeat and tingling in my fingers, I knew I needed to get to a quiet, dark place.
So there I sat. In my bathroom with the lights off, the door closed, and Portia plastered right beside me as I focused on my breathing, trying to get my inhales deeper, and prolonging my exhales.
My palms were sweaty, or maybe that was just pond water, but when I went to shove my hair out of my face with my hand, my entire arm trembled.
Why now? Why was I having an anxiety attack now?
Portia had been with me the last few times I had an attack, and almost seemed to know that I needed her.
So she quietly sat there, leaning against me with all her weight.
Her presence, and steady heartbeat eased that vice-like feeling around my ribs, and I rested my trembling hand on her back.
She snorted softly and leaned back even more, almost like applying deep pressure to help regulate my parasympathetic nervous system.
She certainly wasn’t a trained emotional support animal or anything like that. She was just an intuitive little pig and my very best friend.
I’m not sure how long I sat in the dark, quiet bathroom, in soaking wet clothes, but time didn’t matter right now. What mattered was not feeling lightheaded, or the pain in my chest. What mattered was not having any numbness or trembling in my hands.
Portia shifted her position and lay down, resting her head on my thigh. After a while, she started to snore.
I placed my hand on her head, but she didn’t rouse enough and continued to gently snore.
I timed my breathing with her inhales and exhales, my head against the vanity cabinet as I slowly ran through the events of today, and the last hour, and what could possibly have triggered me to have an anxiety attack.
I knew they were coming, and I’d been nervous about it all morning and early afternoon. Danica St. Claire was a striking woman, and I found myself thinking about her a lot over the weekend.
What was her story?
Was Sam her only child?
How old was she?
What kind of food did she like to eat?
What kind of wine did she drink? She owned a winery, but did that mean she only drank the wine they made? Or did she have a welcoming and variable palate?
I certainly didn’t. I drank only Italian wine, and only from a very specific region in Siena.
Call me a snob, but I liked what I liked.
Maybe it was guilt that caused me to have an attack. Guilt that I found another woman attractive when I promised my heart for eternity to Erin.
With my eyes still closed, I tilted my head against the cabinet door and faced the ceiling—or the heavens, if I were a religious man.
“Amore mio,” I said softly. “You are the only one. I swear to you. Forever and always.” Spinning my wedding band around on my ring finger, I continued to focus on my breathing.
Images of my late wife, Erin, flitted through my mind, only, they weren’t nearly as clear as they normally were.
In fact, they started to get fuzzier the harder I tried to bring them into focus.
Soon, her chestnut locks grew lighter—blonder.
Her brown eyes became green, and she sprouted a couple of inches.
Before I knew it, Danica stood in front of me, smiling and holding out her hand, just like Erin had been.
“No!” I barked out into the darkness, startling Portia and making her grunt in surprise.
My hand fell to her head instantly. “Scusami, piccolina,” I murmured, giving her ears a scratch.
She settled again, but I knew I couldn’t close my eyes because I’d just see Danica once more.
My hands no longer trembled, and my breathing was deeper, but I still felt dizzy. I still felt … not myself.
It had to be the guilt. I couldn’t think of anything else that would have triggered it.
No, I wasn’t a fan of company or guests, but this was different. As someone who suffered from anxiety myself, I couldn’t deny a child the same healing treatment that I used—being with animals.
I wasn’t going to turn this place into a busy therapy clinic, or a petting farm, but if a little girl who struggled with self-esteem and anxiety could benefit from being around animals, the way I did, then I would help her. My own preferences be damned.
Cameron and I saw firsthand how much being around the animals helped his daughter Cesca, and as long as he and Danica didn’t go advertising my place to the whole island, then I could handle having two little girls brushing horses and cuddling goats a few times a week.
After another few minutes, I pried myself off the floor, groaning only a little when my knees clicked and a twinge in my back made me reach out for the counter to help myself stand up. Portia stood as well, waiting for me in the dark to open the door and turn on the light.
I did that and she booked it to the dog door. Apparently, she needed to use the bathroom, but was patiently waiting until I was okay.
I fucking loved that pig.
She joined me in the kitchen after she did her business and stood waiting at the kitchen island, her eyes drifting to the fruit bowl and the bananas.
Sighing, I grabbed one off the bunch, tore it in half, and gave her one.
She munched it down with glee, then grunted for the second half.
As I gave it to her, my eyes fell on the unopened manila envelope still sitting on my island where I had tossed it on Friday.
I probably shouldn’t have grabbed it and opened it, not given the anxiety attack I just had, but I’d never listened to my own advice very well.
I tore it open and pulled out the letter from the lawyer.
Then, I grabbed my phone off the counter—grateful that it wasn’t in my pocket when I went into the pond—and snapped a picture of it to send to Guiseppe.
I really didn’t want to bother him right now.
It was almost wedding season, and he was probably pulling eighteen-hour days working on bridal gowns.
I didn’t expect to hear back from him since it was nighttime in Milan anyway, but since he was the person the land title was transferred to after Erin’s parents died, he had a right to know what was going on.
A nauseating sensation swirled in my stomach at the thought of having to move the animals, or relocate them at all.
This was Erin’s dream. An animal sanctuary for those without a home, to live out their end of days in peace and being loved.
I hadn’t been a vegetarian when I met my late wife, but by our fourth date, she’d converted me, and I hadn’t had a bite of meat since.
Her love for animals was what made me fall in love with her.
All animals, big and small. She never even slapped mosquitos when they bit her.
That was why I wanted Bonn Remmen’s land. It was next to mine, and if for some reason Vinny did get this land, I could simply move the animals next door.
So much for that idea.
The island was quirky and had strange land laws that seemed to scare lawyers—at least those I spoke to. Nothing was really legal.
Founded by draft dodgers and hippies, San Camanez Island just off Seattle in the Puget Sound was almost a sovereign nation—but not quite.
Land was acquired by squatter’s rights, and through the years, those OG squatters managed to draw up their own “contracts” when it came to who got the land after they died.
It had to be passed down through family.
Blood was thick when it came to these people.
Only once all available family refused to accept the land could it be sold.
Some family who inherited the land could sell it, but they had to offer it up to all other family members related to the deceased before that happened.
And no Realtors were allowed on the island. All sales had to be private.
Erin’s father, Arthur, inherited the land from his parents, and he and his wife, Libby, moved to San Camanez and raised Erin there.
Erin and I met in Italy while I was playing football, and she was “seeing the world” as a stewardess on a superyacht.
We fell in love, and she moved to Italy permanently while I continued to play soccer.
Guiseppe was born a couple of years later, and life was good. Better than I ever could have dreamed, in fact.
Until it wasn’t.
Her parents never recovered when she passed. “Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children,” they would often say when they came to Rome to visit their only grandchild.
When Arthur finally passed away, five years after Libby, he made sure that Guiseppe inherited the land. But, of course, my son was busy at fashion school, loving life in Milan. He had no time to come to the island, and I never begrudged him for it.
He encouraged me to come over and fulfill his mother’s dream.
It was never a question. Never any hesitation.
Erin’s dream became my dream. We always knew when I retired from football that we would rescue animals and bring them to her island sanctuary. Only, now it was just my island animal sanctuary.
I left the letter from the lawyers on the island and went to my bedroom to change out of my wet clothes.
That fucking donkey was going to be the end of me.
While I never wanted to hurt an animal, if ever there were a creature to make me break my vow of “do no harm to creatures” it was that fucking asino.
I was just buttoning up a new pair of dry jeans when Portia’s trotters on the wood floor, frantically running for the door, pulled my attention.
Who was it now?