Chapter Eleven
Enrique walked over to the little red table, to Marcello and Henri. Both boys were soaked, and bubbles danced in the air around them.
He drew in a deep breath, uneasy with the task he’d been given, like a warrior asked to serve tea.
He started with the easy one. “Henri, I’m pleased to have met you.”
“You as well, sir,” Henri said, leaping up from his chair.
He waved him back down. “Marcello, I’m leaving now.”
“Bye,” Marcello said, without taking his eyes off the rather gigantic bubble he was busy blowing.
You didn’t interrupt a bubble like that!
Unless you could feel a gaze was burning a hole in your back.
He bent awkwardly and gave Marcello a stiff hug. He added a kiss to the top of his head, and said, gruffly, “I love you.”
Marcello pulled out of his grasp, gave him a look that was clearly confused, and then a shield went up in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, and then, “Henri! It’s your turn.”
Enrique turned and looked at Gabriela, expecting her to appear exasperated at his attempt at affection.
If she was grading it, he had earned a D-minus at best. But instead, she was beaming at him, and it was, unfortunately, a look that a man could carry within himself, like a talisman, against all that was wrong in his world.
He veered away from her and the boys, and knocked softly on the cottage door.
“Come,” Maria called.
He entered. Maria, at the stove, of course, was stirring a pot that wafted fragrant aromas. She turned and gave him a tired smile.
“He hoped you would come in. He can hear the boys laughing. A good sound.”
He tilted his head and listened. It was such a good sound. His visit with Guido was brief, but his old friend seemed to be in good spirits. He had more color in his cheeks than Enrique had seen in a long time. It made him feel warily hopeful.
But sometimes it felt, especially to a man who had just stood at the lip of an abyss, as if hope was the most dangerous thing of all.
Still, even if he was afraid of it himself, he wanted to hold it out like a gift to Gabriela.
“Your father seems better this morning,” Enrique told her when he went back to the garden.
She was deeply engrossed in the papers he had brought, but she looked up at him.
He saw that she, too, was suspicious of hope, because she just lifted a shoulder and gave him a smile that was very much like her mother’s had been.
Enrique suddenly felt unbelievably selfish. This family was going through enough challenges. What had he been thinking asking her to take on responsibility for his son at this point in her life?
Himself, was the obvious answer.
“Look,” he said uncomfortably, “If you don’t want to do this right now—”
She cocked her head at him.
“I don’t want you to feel like I ordered you. Or pressured you.”
“It’s a little late for that,” she said dryly. “I made the decision freely, Enrique.”
“Okay.” He was aware of a wash of pure relief.
“Come back at three,” she said. “Don’t be late. For his sake, not mine. And don’t even think of sending someone else to get him.”
He had been nice to her! And she was being snippy in return. He gave her a look that clearly told her he was not used to being addressed like that!
Not the least intimidated, she added, “Your Royal Highness,” not even trying to take the cheeky note out of it!
Enrique’s entire day was off-kilter. Whether it was because of a schedule hastily rearranged or because of the unexpected emotional intensity of his time in the garden this morning, he couldn’t say.
It was probably a combination of both, a carefully controlled life roiling dangerously, like a ship encountering an unexpected storm at sea.
Still, he made it back just before three. Henri was gone. Gabriela was back at the little table, and Marcello lay on the grass, on his tummy, legs up and crossed behind him, piling up sticks. Both gave him the merest of glances.
His son was filthy and sunburned. His hair had grass in it, and his jumper was torn.
But he was not sure he had ever seen a little boy look so tired. And so happy.
“What are you building?” he asked.
“A house for Geraldo.”
All day, he had debated the wisdom of his decision to ask Gabriela to be the nanny. Because after this morning, it had been clear she would require more of Enrique.
And she would set his well-ordered life on edge, rewrite every single rule he had followed his entire life.
On the other hand, where had adherence to all those rules gotten him? Had they brought him happiness? Had they been able to save the life of his wife and his child?
Gabriela gestured to one of the other chairs at the table. Enrique actually looked over his shoulder. Surely, she did not expect him to try and fold himself into that child’s chair?
Apparently she did.
With a sigh, he went and sat—uncomfortably—at the small table. She smiled at him as if his discomfort was of no consequence to her at all.
She passed him a piece of paper. “I’ve narrowed down the nanny candidates to these three young women.”
It occurred to him his discomfort was of no consequence to her because she was laser-focused on the well-being of his son.
“How did you get these names so quickly?” he asked. “Were you given access to the applications on file?”
“I didn’t even know there were applications on file. No, I just asked around.”
He looked down at the three names. Beside each, in brackets, was a brief explanation. Angelo’s daughter’s sister-in-law, first cousin on Maria’s side, Leon’s next-door neighbor.
Did that mean she had spoken to Leon, again? He contemplated the fact that that surely wasn’t the most important thing about this list.
“As I put together possibilities,” Gabriela said, “I was reminded of the lovely small-town feel of this island, the sense of community here.”
Her tone took him aback. Wistful. Homesick.
He felt a bit wistful himself: that always and forever he was set apart from the warmth offered by that close-knit sense of neighbors who had each other’s backs.
“My plan,” she said, “is to have each one of these young women come spend a few days with Cello. I think here is best. It’s informal. We won’t spoil any of their chances by mentioning the word nanny.”
“It would be good if you could set aside an hour here and there, as well, just kind of casually. To see what you think of the interactions.”
Casual wasn’t really part of his life.
“If you could make a point of being the one to drop off Cello, and pick him up, I think it would really help him to see that he is your number-one priority.”
He thought of trying to rearrange his schedule over the next few weeks to accommodate these suggestions and could feel his head starting to ache.
But he could also feel Gabriela looking at him, gauging his reaction, and he knew she was right. His son needed to be his number-one priority and Marcello needed to know that. Isn’t this exactly why Enrique had been compelled to ask for her help? Because she knew things?
Because he had known Gabriela would find her way, instinctively, to what his son needed?
“Thank you, for all this,” he said, and got to his feet. “Marcello, it’s time to go home.”
“I want Geraldo to try his house first.”
There it was, always, that little edge of defiance.
Gabriela also got to her feet. “Marcello,” she said firmly, but gently, “your father has said it is time to go home. You can show Geraldo his house tomorrow.”
“I’m coming back tomorrow?” Marcello breathed. Here he was, a little prince, with an entire kingdom at his disposal, and ironically, it was this that made him happy.
Marcello went and threw his arms around her knees, and when Gabriela bent to him, he captured her neck, and covered her face with kisses until they were both breathless with laughter.
Enrique, surrounded by some of the most priceless pieces of art in the world, was sure he had never seen anything quite so beautiful.
Ah. Not so much this—the cottage, the garden, the bubbles, the cat—as her.
Gabriela watched as the two princes moved toward the gate.
Marcello tugged on his father’s pant leg, and Enrique looked down.
Marcello stretched out his arms. Enrique looked momentarily stunned.
And then, with easy strength, he scooped up his exhausted son.
Marcello wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and his legs around his waist.
Enrique turned slightly, and gave her a look.
Luminous.
It was the kind of image—the strength of the father, the vulnerability of the child—that could burn itself right into someone’s mind.
Still, from that glance back, these moments were rare. Given what Enrique had said this morning, was that so surprising? His words, that he had never heard I love you, had haunted Gabriela most of the day.
Her mother came out to snip herbs from the bed beside the door, and she looked at the departing princes, and smiled indulgently.
“Enrique said this morning no one has ever told him they loved him,” she confided in her mother. “Can that possibly be true? It seems as if pretty much the whole world loves him.”
“The whole world bandies that word about much too lightly,” her mother said. “They think they love him, based on his status and his looks—he’s handsome, eh? Even an old heart like mine beats a bit faster when I see him.”
“Mom!”
Maria laughed. “But he knows they don’t know the first thing about who he really is. He walks a lonely road.”
“You don’t think his mother ever told him she loved him? Ever?”
Her mother snorted. “Queen Katalina? Can you even imagine that?”
The truth was, she could not.
“He was here a lot, growing up,” Gabriela said pensively. “Didn’t you ever say to him you loved him?”
“Gabriela!” Her mother slid her a look. “Your time away has made you forget some of the differences between Hermosa Mariposa and the rest of the world. Maybe in America, everyone is the same, everyone is equal, but not here. He’s a prince. I’m a cook. Of course I did not overstep the boundaries.”
Of course, that was understandable, but still—
“I think,” Maria said, “we told him how we felt about him without words. Sometimes, it’s even better that way. I believe he knew he was loved here.”
She used past tense, a reminder whatever had been was gone now. Little princes grew up. Someday they became kings. And every decision that shaped their lives was made with that in mind.
“Enough of this,” her mother said.
“Can I help you with dinner?”
“You have no gift in the kitchen, Gabriela.”
“I can set the table!”
“Go spend time with your father. He’s driving me crazy with his demands. Does he think I have nothing better to do than play cribbage with him all day?”
In her voice, despite the fact she was trying to hide it, Gabriela heard a note of what her mother was most afraid of.
Hope.
And when she saw Guido, she felt that same hope and the same fear that accompanied it. He looked so well. Was it possible he could get better?
He looked at her brightly, almost like his old self. “Do you want to walk in the olive grove with me?”
“Are you sure you feel up to it?”
“Don’t treat me like an invalid,” he warned her.
“All right,” she said, and looped her arm through his. Since walking through the groves with Guido was something she had resigned herself to never experiencing again, it felt as if every slow step they took through the blossoming olives was lit from within, a gift from heaven.
“It was a good day, eh?” her father asked her.
Gabriela thought of the boys playing and the laughter. But what she thought most about was Enrique and the light-filled moments with him and how, even when she was trying desperately not to show it, those moments had turned her life from drab to dazzling in the blink of an eye.