Chapter 22Marco
Chapter 22
Marco
“Tell me about your parents,” Sofia says.
“Why do you want to know about my parents?” I ask lightly, masking the pain that lies so close to the surface.
“I know that you lost your father, and I’m so sorry about that.”
“How did you—?” I pull my lips into a line. “Is that from your spreadsheet?”
“No. Of course not. Enzo mentioned it.”
“I see,” I grind out, not only because it’s a sensitive subject, but because I wasn’t the one to share it with her. It was my brother.
I flex my jaw, tension seizing my shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I asked.”
“It’s okay. I suppose being back here in Ledonia reminds me that he’s not around anymore.”
“That must be so hard.”
“It’s no picnic.”
“What was he like?”
Warmth spreads through my chest as I think of my dad. “He was one of the good guys. A really decent person with a good heart. He wasn’t the kind of dad who expected great things of us. I barely remember him getting angry. He was easy going, open to whatever life had to offer him.”
“He sounds like you,” she observes, and I smile.
“We were like two peas in a pod. Everyone said so. Even the way we looked.”
“Handsome guy, huh?”
I flick my gaze to hers and see the teasing in her eyes. “Deadly handsome.”
“I bet.”
“I remember once going boating on that lake in Cashmere Park.”
“The one with the rowboats shaped like pheasants? Which always struck me as so odd because pheasants don’t swim.”
“They are our national bird.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. What happened on the rowboat?”
“One summer afternoon, Dad decided we needed to bond by renting one of those rowboats. He was convinced it would be like a scene from an old movie, smooth and peaceful, just dad and his twelve-year-old son out on the water. Reality had other plans.” I smile as I remember that day. “Dad insisted on rowing, claiming it was all about technique. But instead of gliding across the water, we zigzagged like a confused duck. Then, he accidentally dropped one of the oars into the lake. I remember his face was a mix of shock and panic as we spun in circles trying to retrieve it.”
“What did you do?”
“After a helpful stranger rescued our runaway oar, Dad grinned at me and said, ‘I’m just testing your reflexes.’ We laughed all the way back to the dock. Of course, I knew he’d messed up, but it didn’t matter. We were having fun together.”
“I can’t imagine having such a wonderfully playful father like that. You’re very lucky, you know.”
“He was a great dad,” I reply, my throat suddenly hot.
“I’m sorry you lost him so young. You were what? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty.”
She sucks in air. “So young. That must have been so hard.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“You left the country soon after, didn’t you?” she asks softly.
“After he passed away, I guess I found it too hard to stay here. Everything reminded me of him, of what I’d lost. Leaving the country seemed like the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”
“Did it help?”
“It did, at least for a while. It’s hard to feel down when you’re faced with amazing experiences and beautiful places. But, over time, as much as I relished my time traveling the world, experiencing new things, meeting incredible people, I knew I needed to come home. I needed to face what life was like without having my dad around.”
“How has it been since you’ve been back?”
“Do you know what? It’s been okay. Sure, I miss him, and I won’t be hiring one of those rowboats anytime soon. But I’m a man now, no longer a boy. I’ve matured and changed, and I found what I’ve want to do with my life.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says, her voice breathy and light, and I know she means it. That’s the unexpected thing about Sofia. She’s caring and compassionate. It’s something I admire so very deeply about her.
“What about your mum?” she asks.
“After my father’s passing, she moved back to Germany to be with her sisters. She still lives there now. I went to see her a few months ago on my way back here.”
“I didn’t know your mother was German?”
“Something your spreadsheet didn’t pick up on?” I ask, and she looks down, embarrassed.
“That spreadsheet was… well, I’m not sure it’s been quite as useful as I thought it would be.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“Really,” she echoes, and I wish I wasn’t driving us up a winding mountainous path, with no place safe to stop, so I could instead look into her eyes.
“I suppose I’ve been working out you can’t choose a life partner based on data.”
“Is it okay for me to agree wholeheartedly with you?”
Her face creases into a smile. “It’s okay.”
“Do you want to talk about that?” I ask tentatively.
“I think I’ll just sit with it for a while, if it’s all the same to you,” she replies, and I respect her privacy, although inside my heart is beating hard in the hope that her realization could mean something big. Maybe even something concerning… me .
In silence, I continue to wind the car around the narrow road as we climb higher and higher up into the mountains. As we curl around corner after corner, the sheer drop to the valley below gets steeper and steeper until I can’t imagine getting any higher.
“Here it is. Monteluce,” I say as I turn up an even narrower road, the wheels bouncing along the cobblestones.
I slow the car as we slowly drive through this ancient village. Cobblestone streets wind between centuries-old stone houses bathed in the glow of the midday sun. Locals and tourists are enjoying coffee at outdoor cafes, and flowers add bright pops of color to the earthy tones of the buildings. There’s a church spire that rises above the town, a testament to the history of this place, with lush trees and rolling hills in the distance.
At the end of the street, there’s a roadblock with people milling around, with string lights crisscrossing overhead from one side of the street to the other, and food trucks and stalls selling what look like knickknacks.
“We’ll have to turn off,” I say, taking the first road on the right, leading up the hill toward the church spire.
“It looks like it’s a festival,” Sofia says.
A group of elderly people watch us from their seats at a café, and I can see Sofia trying not to wave at them like she’s on a royal procession. She’s not Princess Sofia today—just plain Sofia, my friend. There’s something freeing in that, and I can tell she feels it too.
I find a parking spot between two cars on one of the winding streets, smoothly parallel parking in one go. “Shall we go find us a professor?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
We climb out of the car, and I hand her the keys. “Thanks for letting me drive your sexy car. ”
She laughs. “You did a great job.”
“Do I get a gold star to add to my sticker chart?”
“Of course you do. Top of the class.” She looks around for a street sign but finds none. “Do you know where we are?”
“A small village in the mountains called Monteluce, Your Royal Highness,” I reply, teasing.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what I meant. How do we find the professor’s street if there aren’t any street signs?”
“How about we ask some locals?” I gesture at the two elderly women deep in conversation. As we approach, I notice their intense expressions, likely discussing family or neighborhood gossip. They’re both dressed from head to toe in black, with bright white hair and crinkled skin, like carbon copies of my grandmother.
“Excuse me, ladies,” I say, taking the lead. Sofia’s trying to keep a low profile, after all. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Both women turn to look at us, and I hold my breath. Will they recognize Sofia as the princess?
“Aren’t you a lovely couple?” the taller one remarks. “Aren’t they lovely, Constance?”
“They are, Erma,” the other agrees, a shorter, plumper version with thick-rimmed glasses. “Such a lovely young couple. Are you here for the festival?”
“Of course they are, you silly old duck. Why else would they be here?” Constance retorts.
“Who are you calling a silly old duck, you silly old… goose,” Erma fires back, but they’re both smiling, like ribbing each other is a great game.
“Actually, we’re here to find someone,” I begin. “Professor Esposito.”
Both women give me a surprised look. “Do you mean Felix? What do you want with him?” asks Erma, her tan, weathered hands on her hips.
It’s a good start that they know him.
“We have something we need to get translated, and we understood that Professor Esposito might be able to help,” Sofia says.
Erma narrows her eyes at Sofia, then shares a look with Constance before turning on her heel and marching back up the hill as quickly as her eighty-something-year-old bowed legs will take her.
We watch her leave, surprised. “I’m sorry. Did we say something to upset your friend?” Sofia asks.
Erma stops and turns. “Well, are you two coming or not?” she asks gruffly.
Sofia and I exchange a look.
“We’re coming,” I reply.
We follow Erma, with Constance trailing behind us. We walk only five doors up the hill, directly opposite where we parked the car only moments ago. Erma gestures at a door with peeling orange paint. “If he’s not there, he’s down at the festival.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs…?” Sofia asks.
“Call me Erma. Everyone else does.”
She smiles at her. “Erma.”
Erma raps on the door, and we wait. And wait. Knowing the professor is elderly, it could be that he’s slowly making his way to the door?
“He must be at the festival,” Erma says after a few minutes. “Come with me. You’ll find my brother there.”
Sofia raises her brows. “Brother?”
Erma shoots us a smile. “That’s right. Come along.”
“It’s a good job you’re not in your high heels today,” I observe as we make our way down the hill with the two elderly ladies, aka the silly old duck and goose .
“Sneakers are surprisingly comfortable. I might start wearing them to all my official events,” she quips.
We turn onto the street we just drove up, and Constance and Erma pepper us with questions as we head toward the festival.
“What are your names?” Erma asks.
“I’m Marco, and this is?—”
“Hadley,” Sofia quickly says.
I raise my brows at her.
“Marco and Hadley. Both lovely names. Aren’t they, Constance?” Erma says.
“Oh, lovely,” Constance agrees. “Where have you come from today?”
“Villadorata,” Sofia says.
“That’s a long way to come to see our Felix,” Erma says.
“I suppose it is,” Sofia replies.
“But the roads were good, and we got here in no time, didn’t we, Hadley?” I add with a small smirk.
Erma takes Sofia’s left hand in hers and lifts it up to inspect it. “You’re not married! Oh, are you new lovers?” she exclaims with glee.
I can see Sofia struggling with what to say, but Constance jumps in quickly, “When are you going to throw a ring at it, eh, young man?”
Sofia suppresses a giggle. “I think you mean put a ring on it.”
Constance shakes her head. “I’m sure it’s throw a ring. More dramatic that way, you see, and you young people are all about the drama.”
“Throw a ring at what?” Erma asks, confused.
“This.” Constance brandishes Sofia’s left hand, causing her to lurch into my side. I steady her, my arm around her waist. She shoots me a grateful look, and I enjoy the sensation of having her so close, of feeling her warmth against me.
“For someone so small, she’s certainly strong,” I whisper in her ear.
“Do you think I could have my hand back now, please?” Sofia asks Constance, who’s still gripping her wrist.
“All right, dearie,” Constance says, finally letting go. “But there needs to be a ring on that finger. Too many young people put off getting married for far too long. What’s wrong with being married when you’re young?”
“It’s romantic and wonderful,” Erma replies with authority.
She stabs her finger in my direction. “You do the right thing by this one,” she instructs me. “She’s a beauty, and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone half as lovely.”
She’s preaching to the choir.
“Thanks, I’ll take your advice on board,” I reply.
“A young bride is a very beautiful bride,” Constance agrees.
Erma nods, peering at Sofia. “Well, this one will be, anyway. That’s for sure.”
“Lovely hair,” Constance adds.
“Lovely eyes,” Erma agrees.
Both women look Sofia over, nodding their approval.
“Dearie, has anyone ever told you that you look like one of the princesses?” Erma asks.
Uh-oh.
“Ooooh, Erma, I think you’re right,” Constance declares, scrutinizing Sofia closely. “The boring one who never smiles much. What’s her name? Cindy? Sophie?”
“Sofia,” I say, taking her by surprise.
She gawks at me.
“But I assure you, my Hadley is infinitely more beautiful and infinitely more wonderful than Princess Sofia,” I say, smiling down at her, and the two women clap their hands in glee.
“Lovely!”
“Lovely!”
Sofia clears her throat, clearly relieved. “Shall we keep walking? We need to get a move on if we want to get back to the city tonight.”
Thankfully, both women drop their microscopic inspection of Sofia, and we continue down the cobbled street to the festival. There we find a band playing old-fashioned dance music. Couples are dancing while others are watching, snacking on delicious-smelling food. The atmosphere is full of fun and laughter, and with the cobblestone streets aglow with string lights and the scent of fresh food in the air, the warmth of the small community fills every corner.
I catch Sofia’s gaze, noticing how she too is swept up in the atmosphere. And I want nothing more than for us to be Marco and Hadley, the young lovers come to town, on the precipice of taking a leap of faith into marriage, carefree and in love.