Chapter 10 #3
‘You too can make memories in Capri, cara,’ she told me, tucking her device away.
‘You can walk safely by yourself or ask Carlo to come with you. You don’t even have to go far; the views of the Faraglioni rocks are impressive.
Along the way, you catch glimpses of lavish hidden villas, the ocean, and the private beaches.
Perhaps even a Hollywood celebrity or two. ’
Her maternal warmth was endearing, but imagining the walks by myself made me sigh.
She caught on to my mood change.
‘Tell me why you’re so sad and why that handsome man of yours plays soulful songs on his guitar?’
I jolted at her words, emotion arcing through me at the thought of Angel’s despair.
He had to be suffering so much, I thought as my heart squeezed in empathy.
‘It’s a lost cause,’ I murmured.
‘Tell me anyway, sharing the burden halves it.’
Comforted by the lack of judgment in Mrs. Campanelli’s gaze, my dam broke.
With a sigh, I spilled everything, letting every sordid detail rush out about how Angel was a jilted groom, and how I ended up as his surrogate wife.
When I mentioned my sister was the bride who got away, our hostess gasped, her hand flying up to her face.
‘Your sorella?’
I nodded.
‘Che tragedia!’
She listened to the whole chaotic mess, making soft, cooing sounds and soothing me whenever my voice cracked, and I wiped a stray tear from my cheek.
‘Oh, piccolina,’ she murmured when I was done. ‘The heart wants what the heart wants, but you’re not the villain in this story.’
I appreciated the fact that she never hit me with a lecture or tried to fix my life with cheesy solutions.
Instead, she refused to let me drown in my own self-pity.
‘Come,’ she said, giving my arm a firm tug. ‘No more crying over men who lock themselves away. We make bread.’
‘Right now?’ I sniffled, wiping my nose.
‘Si, idle hands make for a suffering soul.’
Before I knew it, she had me in the kitchen alongside her.
She dumped flour onto the marble island, showing me how to stretch and fold a live sourdough starter into the dough for our breakfast the following morning.
By the time the bread mix was resting under a damp cloth, the sorrow in my chest felt lighter.
The next morning at breakfast, the villa smelled like heaven.
I sliced into the warm, crusty loaf, smothering a piece in thick butter and a massive spoonful of wild berry preserves.
I took a bite and exhaled, a spark of genuine, delicious happiness waking up somewhere deep inside me.
‘Food always makes life better,’ Mrs Campanelli intoned with a triumphant grin on her face.
Her magic was already working.
That afternoon, she discovered me back at my easel, and I seized the opportunity to distract us both.
‘Sit for me,’ I urged, pointing my paintbrush at the empty wicker seat. ‘Let me paint your portrait.’
She flushed as she smoothed down her clean apron. ‘Oh, no, signora. I’m just the cook.’
‘Please,’ I pleaded. ‘You have incredible bone structure.’
She agreed to the session, hoisting her chin with immense pride and a smile.
‘No one has ever painted me before, not even my boy, he only does landscapes.’
Our bond deepened as we chatted and I filled in her beautiful features with small strokes and hues.
Later, she invited me into her fragrant kitchen to help prepare the evening meal, handing me a wooden board and a bowl of mashed potatoes.
We rolled out fresh potato gnocchi, tossing the fluffy dough pillows into salted boiling water while she taught me rude words in Italian slang.
We had a whale of a time, laughing so hard our ribs ached until a shadow shifted over the terracotta floor tiles.
I jumped, whirling around as my breath hitched.
Angel.
He stood framed in the kitchen doorway, a haggard, forlorn sight, in bare feet, staring at us, his muscled, inked hands crossed over his broad torso,
He wore faded gym shorts and a wrinkled sable vest.
His untamed hair fell unkempt on his brow, and his black stubble was thicker on his jaw.
Still so freakin’ handsome, yet his face was hard, and his eyes held a profound sadness.
‘Holy crap, Angel, you scared the daylights out of me,’ I breathed. ‘How are you?’
He shrugged, giving me nothing to work with.
I plowed on.
‘You hungry? I’m making fresh gnocchi. Eat with us.’
‘I’ve no appetite,’ he grunted, his jaw clenching harder. ‘All I need is a Red Bull.’
He crossed to the fridge, pulled out a few cans before he turned on his heel and prowled away.
The rejection cut through my brief happiness, and I sighed, the sound echoing through the room.
Mrs. Campanelli eyed me as my expression fell.
‘You love him very much.’
‘It seems obvious to everyone but him,’ I whispered.
‘He’s not ready for your light yet, but he will be,’ Mrs. Campanelli stated with a fierce, unyielding conviction. ‘We just have to get him out of that cave of his.’
I blinked at her, tilting my head as a mischievous twinkle sparked in her espresso-colored eyes.
Hell, she was a force of nature.
When she winked at me in glee, I wondered what wild scheme she had up her sleeve.