Shadows Of The Past. Frances Housden
as if the Costellos were husband shopping for their little sister and his name was on the top of their list. All he wanted to do was find a big black pen and score it out.
Maria appeared to be going along with the charade that they’d known each other a lot longer than two days, when she deferred to his opinion. “What do you think, Franc?”
And she smiled a lot, touching him shyly, as if they were lovers in the first flush of discovery.
Lovers. The word took on more onerous connotations than ever before. He couldn’t deny making love to Maria had been on his mind, but he hadn’t planned on having her family around when it happened.
Franc took a quick step back from his thoughts. The aura of nuptial bliss had to be messing with his mind. Next thing he knew, he’d be breaking out in a cold sweat.
It was a relief to see Pietro come back into the room carrying bottles of wine—sparkling, from the shape of them.
Andrea, the eldest brother, commented, “Must be something special, Papa’s had that wine laid down in his personal cellar for almost ten years.”
The cold sweat arrived with a vision that played havoc with his imagination, of Pietro standing up and announcing his daughter’s betrothal. To him!
No. Even Maria wouldn’t go that far to please her family. As for him, was it fear of actually playing along with the charade that made his top lip damp?
As the wine fizzed in the background, Franc took stock of his reactions. There was no doubt about it, this was unfamiliar territory. And maybe he was actually shying away from discovering what he’d missed out on. He’d never experienced the close-knit structure that the Costellos projected as a family.
To make more space now that everyone was in the sitting room, Franc perched on the arm of Maria’s chair. Around them the atmosphere sparkled like the wine frothing from the bottles. Pietro poured, while Rosa passed around champagne flutes, and when they were done, stood together before the fireplace.
“We wish to make a toast,” Pietro announced, holding up his glass. “To our retirement.” He clinked glasses with Rosa and they both drank.
They were going to sell the house! Maria couldn’t believe it. A dull roar had settled inside the top of her head and it wasn’t caused by champagne. Her tongue felt stiff and thick, and the words she wanted to say, questions she needed to ask, wouldn’t come out. It was the shock. She’d never ever thought they would sell the house.
Andrea found his tongue first. “What about the vineyard? You can’t sell that!”
Pietro lifted his hand in a calming motion. “Of course not. The vineyard will belong to all of you, and the work needn’t change. I know three of you have your own vineyards, but maybe this is the time to expand and begin taking on the big vineyards. Of course, you will have to come to some agreement with Maria, she may want to sell her share.”
“I don’t want to sell.” If she knew one solitary thing, it was that she could never barter her rights to Falcon’s Rise Winery for money.
“We couldn’t afford to buy you out anyway,” her brother, Michel countered, frowning. She knew why. His vineyard was the least established, and he owed more money on it. He and Sarah had been in their house less than a year.
As questions buffeted her ears from every side, Maria piped up, “What about the house? Do you have to sell it?”
She wished it unsaid as soon as the words were out, but the others all had their own homes. All she had was a room for rent in the city. It wasn’t the same thing.
This house was her home.
“Enough!” One word from Rosa and silence replaced their anxious questions. “We thought you’d be happy for us. We won’t move far. We’re thinking of Warkworth. But first we want to take a vacation in Italy.” Rosa slid her arm round her husband’s waist. “Drink up now,” she ordered. “Be happy for us.”
Franc carried their bags as they followed her mother upstairs.
Just as well. She didn’t feel fit for anything as she trailed behind, her head ringing with the news. What was worse, she hadn’t known it would affect her this way. Thoughts of selling the vineyard hadn’t troubled her before because she’d been sure it would always be there. Always be her home.
“The rooms are at the far end of the hall,” said Mamma to Franc. “You’ll like the view, they look down over the patio.”
Gradually, her feet slowed. Connecting rooms. How could her mother do this to her? It had to be because they were retiring. Nothing else could explain their eagerness to be rid of her.
“Tell him how nice the view is, Maria.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” her mother chided as she opened the door on the right and flicked on the light. “You’re in here, Franc.”
He propped her bag against the door opposite his then shrugged through the narrow entrance to the room he’d been allotted.
She wished now that she’d said something and ended up with the whole family annoyed with her instead of Franc, who probably wanted to ring her neck right about now. She measured the space between the two doors. The distance could have been longer, say, about half a mile. While her mother showed Franc where everything went, Maria carried her bag next door.
The room was smaller than her one down the hall with its queen-size bed, but at least it was quite airy, and higher than the mosquito line, so the window could be left open at night. She smiled as she imagined her nieces and nephews sleeping top-and-tail in her bed. This she had to see.
Her good mood lasted until she heard her mother showing Franc the bathroom. “It’s small, but it will give you more privacy from the children.”
The door on Maria’s side of the bathroom was flung open and her mother entered. “Maria can show you where the towels are kept if you need more. Now,” she said, looking as if she’d just performed magic, “I’ll see you for supper in a few minutes. No need to unpack. Just wash up.”
Maria turned her back on Franc, who was framed in the doorway, and walked over to gaze out the window. Her brothers and Kris were on the patio, watching Papa wave his arms around, pointing things out to the others. It didn’t matter that it was dark; they all knew the vineyard like the backs of their hands. The way she did.
“No time for looking out the window,” Mamma told her. “Get ready for supper.”
Franc leaned against her bedroom door as if that would bar it against Rosa. Maria hadn’t moved from the window. She glanced over her shoulder at him as though she wondered what he was doing there, in her room. Well, he’d soon set her straight. He wouldn’t be here a minute longer than he could help.
He took a deep breath to center his thoughts and find some balance. Now he knew what they meant by culture shock. He was suffering from it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Maria shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“You should have told your mother we’d only just met. When I take a woman to bed, I prefer to do my own asking. I won’t be forced.”
“No force intended, we have separate rooms.”
“Connecting rooms.” He’d had enough. Maria was no help. “Look, I’ve no intention of stepping into Randy Searle’s shoes. So what do I have to do to get out of this place? Should I come down with a virus, or do I have to break a leg?”
He felt as if he was coming down with a case of happy-families, a disease that came with a ton of mouths to feed and could only spell disaster for his ambitions. The chances of his taking Maria to his bed no longer seemed like a cure for what ailed him.
Although he sensed he might just die a happy man, if he was going