Chapter 29 Christina
CHRISTINA
Christina stood near the fireplace, Violet warm against her chest in the cream-colored christening gown that had been Tara’s, then Ally’s, then Christina’s own almost twenty-four years ago.
The lace had yellowed slightly at the edges, soft from decades of careful storage, and it smelled faintly of lavender sachets and something older—history, maybe. Family.
The minister had finished the blessing an hour ago, but no one seemed ready to leave.
Guests drifted between the great room and the garden, carrying plates of Tara’s appetizers and cups of warm cider.
Through the windows, Christina could see Patty’s Garden in full autumn display—the rosemary tall and fragrant, the chrysanthemums blazing bronze and gold, the little bronze plaque catching the afternoon sun.
“She didn’t cry once.”
Marco appeared at her shoulder, two glasses of cider in his hands.
He’d worn a suit for the ceremony—Italian-cut, probably cost a fortune—but he’d shed the jacket somewhere, rolled his sleeves to his elbows.
He looked less like a fashion heir and more like a man who’d been helping Will carry folding chairs all morning.
“She never cries during important things,” Christina said, accepting the cider. “Only at three in the morning when there’s no apparent reason.”
“She’s dramatic. She gets it from my side of the family.”
Christina almost smiled. Almost. But the weight of what they still hadn’t said pressed against her chest, heavy as the baby in her arms.
“Can we talk?” Marco’s voice dropped. “Somewhere quieter?”
She nodded and let him guide her through the French doors onto the side porch. The October air bit at her bare arms. Below them, the lake glittered silver through the trees.
“I spoke with my father yesterday,” Marco said.
Christina’s stomach tightened. Alessandro Castellano—the patriarch, the CEO, the man whose approval Marco had spent his entire life chasing. “How did that go?”
“Better than expected. Worse than hoped.” Marco leaned against the porch railing, his eyes on the lake.
“He’s not happy about how this happened.
The secrecy, the scandal potential, the fact that I’m standing in North Carolina instead of Milan.
” A pause. “But he wants to meet her. He wants to meet you.”
“Marco—”
“I told him it would be on your terms. When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
Christina looked down at Violet, who was gnawing contentedly on her own fist, her green-gold eyes—Marco’s eyes, his grandmother’s eyes—tracking a bird that had landed on the porch railing.
“I love you.” The words came out before she could stop them, quiet and certain and terrifying. She’d known it for weeks now, maybe longer, but saying it out loud made it real in a way she couldn’t take back.
Marco went still. “Christina—”
“I love you, and it scares me.” She made herself look at him, made herself be honest. “Your world—the money, the expectations, the people who photograph everything and judge everything—I don’t know how to exist in that.
I don’t want to. And I’m terrified that if I try, I’ll lose myself. Or worse, I’ll lose her.”
“I would never let that happen.”
“You can’t promise that. You can’t control what your world does to people.”
Marco was quiet for a long moment. The bird on the railing flew away. Inside, someone laughed—Ryan, probably, or one of his friends.
“You’re right,” Marco said finally. “I can’t promise my world won’t be difficult.
I can’t promise the press won’t be intrusive, or my father won’t be demanding, or that there won’t be galas and obligations.
But I can promise that I’m not asking you to become someone else.
I’m not asking you to give up Blueberry Hill or your family or anything that matters to you. ”
“Then what are you asking?”
“A compromise.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne.
“Six months here, six months there. More here while Violet’s young—I fly wherever I need to be.
Summers at the lake, holidays with your family.
And when we’re in Milan or New York, you’d have your own space, your own life. Not a gilded cage. A partnership.”
Christina’s throat tightened. “And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we figure something else out. Together.” Marco reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not trying to own you, Christina. I’m trying to be with you.”
Violet chose that moment to spit up on the christening gown. Christina grabbed for the burp cloth she’d tucked into her pocket—always prepared now, always ready—and Marco was already there with a napkin, dabbing at the lace with careful hands that made her chest ache.
“This gown survived three generations,” she said. “It can survive a little spit-up.”
“She’s marking her territory. Very Castellano of her.”
Christina laughed despite herself, the sound catching in her throat. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.” Marco’s hand covered hers, warm and steady. “I love you too. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“It wasn’t entirely unclear.”
“I love you, and I love her, and I want to figure this out. Not perfectly. Not all at once. Just—day by day.”
Day by day. The same words that had gotten them through the past month. Christina looked at the man in front of her—rumpled now, genuine now, so different from the glossy playboy she’d read about in magazines—and made a decision.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“Okay, we’ll try your compromise. Six months here and six months in Milan or New York, adjusted as needed.” She squared her shoulders. “But I want it in writing. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I need to know that if something goes wrong, Violet stays with me.”
“I’ll have my lawyers draw something up. Full custody to you, with generous visitation for me. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
“That easy?”
“She’s your daughter first.” Marco’s voice was quiet. “I’m just grateful you’re letting me be a part of her life at all.”
The French doors opened behind them, and Tara’s head poked out. “There you are. Sophia’s about to do the toast, and Evan’s asking if Marco wants to hold Grace for the family photo.”
“We’re coming,” Christina said.
Tara’s gaze moved between them, reading something in their faces. Her expression softened. “Take your time. The cider’s still warm.”
She disappeared back inside, and Christina turned to Marco one last time. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Nothing worth having ever is.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“It’s also true.” He offered his arm, old-world formal, slightly absurd given the spit-up on both of them. “Ready to face the family?”
Christina tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
* * *
The toast went well, all things considered.
Sophia set down her champagne glass and surveyed the room, cataloging details the way she cataloged fabric swatches and color palettes.
The inn’s great room was warm and crowded and nothing like the spaces she usually inhabited.
Mismatched furniture that somehow worked together.
Hand-sewn curtains. A fire crackling in the stone hearth, throwing dancing shadows across walls hung with local artwork.
It should have felt provincial. Instead, it felt like something she’d been missing without knowing it.
“Impressive speech.”
James Roberts appeared beside her, coffee cup in hand—always coffee with him, never champagne. He wore what passed for formal in his world. A clean flannel shirt, dark jeans, boots that had been polished sometime this decade.
“I kept it short,” Sophia said. “Americans have limited attention spans.”
“We’re efficient. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but she was learning to read the gradations.
Over the past month, she’d spent more time in James Roberts’s orbit than she’d intended—coffee at the inn, accidental encounters on the lake path, one memorable afternoon when she’d helped him repair a fence post and ruined yet another pair of shoes.
Her assistant in Milan thought she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had.
“Come with me,” James said. “I want to show you something.”
She followed him through the great room, past the cluster of teenagers who’d taken over the parlor with cards and dice, past the elderly woman telling stories near the fireplace, past Tara orchestrating the food service.
They stepped onto the back porch and down the steps to the edge of Patty’s Garden.
The afternoon light had gone golden and slanted, catching the bronze chrysanthemums, the silver-green rosemary, the little bench where a guest sat reading. The bronze plaque gleamed. In memory of Patty—who taught us that friendship is chosen family.
“It’s beautiful,” Sophia said. “I’ve seen it before.”
“But have you really looked at it?”
She frowned, trying to understand what he was asking. The garden was lovely—well-designed, thoughtfully planted. But James was watching her as if he expected some revelation.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, at first.” He moved to the bench, sat down, and after a moment, Sophia sat beside him.
The wood was warm from the sun. “Tara built this for her best friend. A woman who, after finding out she had early dementia, took her own life. Tara dug the beds herself, chose every plant for meaning, and comes out here to talk to her sometimes.”
“That’s... sad and sweet.”
“It’s vulnerable.” James’s gray eyes met hers. “She built something beautiful out of grief, and she lets strangers see it. Lets them sit here and feel whatever they need to feel. There’s no armor in this garden. Just love and loss and the willingness to be seen.”
Sophia’s throat tightened. She thought about her own armor—the designer clothes, the sharp tongue, the walls she’d built after Luca’s betrayal.
“I’m tired,” she said quietly.
“Of what?”