A Mother for His Daughter. Ally Blake
version of an American reality TV show. It only reminded her how disjointed she felt so far from home; everything was at once familiar but just out of reach.
‘Your family owns this place?’ Gracie asked as Luca helped her remove her utilitarian jacket then hung it over a hook on the wall.
‘My late wife’s uncle, actually.’
Gracie remembered Mila saying her mother was in heaven and it felt cosmically unfair that the perfect man had lost his perfect wife.
She didn’t quite know what to say. She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of constant sympathy and thus had no intention of bestowing the same. It was half the reason she had come to Italy, to distance herself from the burden relentless pity had brought into her life.
Before Gracie gave in to the overwhelming urge to regurgitate the fairly useless ‘there, there’, a large man in a tomato-splattered apron hastened to their table carrying a bottle of Chianti and two wine glasses. He placed them on the table before gathering Luca in a bear hug and bubbling away in effusive Italian. Gracie had the feeling they had not seen each other in some time; Luca’s cheeks even reddened under the obvious chastisement from the older man.
When he had finished berating Luca, he descended upon Mila, lifting her from the ground and hugging the life out of her. She finally wriggled free of his grasp and tumbled over Luca’s knees until she was safely ensconced between her father and the wall.
‘Gracie,’ Luca said, ‘this is Giovanni. Mila’s great-uncle. Giovanni, this is Gracie. She is from Australia, though she is half-Italian.’ He offered her a wink with his last comment and she could not help but smile.
The elder man blew Gracie an air-kiss and gabbled in Italian. She picked out enough words she recognised to know she was being favourably compared with Venus, the Roman goddess of love.
She tried to hide her snort of laughter behind a measured sip of the undemanding red wine, but Luca was too quick for her.
‘You understood that, I see. It seems your Italian is selective.’
‘Hmm,’ Gracie said as Giovanni left with their orders. ‘I did the Spanish Steps in my first week here, and I tell you, there I heard some things. The boys who trawl that place could make a packet writing Valentine’s Day cards. But, as compliments went, Giovanni’s was lovely.’
‘And yet not far off the mark,’ Luca insisted.
Gracie felt the same unusual warmth envelop her again.
‘Please,’ Gracie scoffed. She leant her chin on her palm. ‘You know what I think it is? Italian men are born with a flattering gene that missed Australian men altogether. Think Romeo. Think Rudy Valentino. Since landing in Rome, I have been approached and asked on a date at least once a day. It’s ridiculous. In my tatty old jacket and beanie hat, I am surprised they could even tell I was female!’
Luca’s eminently male mouth kicked up at one corner. ‘Ah, but that is the thing about we Italians—we have always been able to appreciate a work of art.’
Gracie knew from the twinkle in Luca’s eyes that he was baiting her, but her blush insisted on sticking around. ‘Please, stop it!’ she insisted. Then said, ‘But who am I kidding? I don’t think you could stop it if you tried. You are flirting machines.’
‘You are very pretty,’ Mila said to Gracie from out of the blue.
Luca laughed aloud, the sound deep and resonant and utterly infectious. ‘See!’ he said. ‘It’s an empirical reality.’
‘It’s a sickness,’ Gracie insisted.
Mila crawled over Luca’s lap, rounded the table and plopped herself onto Gracie’s lap, making sure the attention of the group was focused back where it belonged. Gracie was thankful; the constant compliments made the snug room feel airless.
Mila’s chubby fingers ran down the contours of Gracie’s face, the soft pads leaving a tickling trail across her forehead, her nose, her lips and her chin.
‘You look like me,’ Mila said.
‘Do you think so?’ Gracie asked, grinning over the young one’s head at her father. ‘But I have freckles on my nose and you do not.’
‘That is true,’ Mila said, her face serious as she studied the tiny dots scattered over Gracie’s nose. ‘I think that means I am prettier than you.’
Luca reached out to scold Mila, but Gracie shushed him with a blink and a small shake of her head. ‘You know what? I think you might be right.’
‘Will I look like Gracie when I am as big as her?’ Mila asked, bending over backwards to look at Luca. ‘Will I too have…freckles? Or will I look like my mother?’
Luca’s smile faltered, but only for a second, then it was back in place, extra-bright. He held out his arms and Mila readily scampered back into them, settling on his lap quite happily. ‘You will look just like your mother, I think.’
Mila looked Gracie over once more then nodded, seeming to find that answer satisfactory. ‘OK.’
‘She speaks English so well,’ Gracie said, aiming to swing the conversation to a less loaded subject.
‘We spent several months in England a couple of years ago and she learned to speak both languages at the same time. She spoke a strange hybrid language of her own for some time but it soon sorted itself out. In recent months I fear she has begun to lose the skill, since we have not encouraged it nearly enough at home.’
Luca seemed a million miles away as he ran a hand over his daughter’s curls. ‘So why have you come to our fair city?’ he asked, changing the subject again.
Gracie waited for the usual intense regret to stab through her at the question. But instead she felt a calmness come over her at the thought of confiding in him. Maybe because of the empty glass of wine on the table before her. Maybe because of the remembrance of the impossible smile on Neptune’s stone face. Or maybe because of the infinite kindness residing in Luca’s deep, dark eyes.
Whatever it was that gave her the courage, she sucked up her apprehension and said, ‘I have come to Rome to find my father.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOUR father is missing?’ Luca asked, leaning forward, his voice full of concern.
‘Not exactly,’ Gracie said. ‘I just decided it was time that he was found. He is the Italian part of my half-Italian heritage.’
‘And I take it you have not seen him in a long time.’
‘Actually never.’
‘No!’ he cried with that so very Italian fervour that always caught at her. ‘A daughter who has never known her father is a sad thing indeed.’
Something akin to wrenching pain slid across the man’s expressive eyes, a pain so sharp, so concerned, Gracie felt her own chest constrict in empathy.
Italians and their families were a total astonishment to her. Enzo, the thirty-year-old single guy who ran the hostel she was staying in, still lived with his parents. And his brother, who was long since married, lived in the house next door. Back home, in Melbourne, she went months without catching up with her closest family members but these people couldn’t bear to move further than next door. It was so far out of the realm of her experience that she found it hard to grasp. But she was in Italy to try. She had worn herself ragged, grasping with everything she had to discover that which these people took for granted.
‘Please, is there any way I can help?’ Luca asked.
Gracie was ready to say no. She had been independent for so long, and she had never been one to ask for help. But everything had felt hopeless only minutes before. Maybe, if there was a time to ask for help, this was it.
‘I am sure you are a busy man,’