The Sicilian's Bride (8 page)

She was hot and tired and hungry. She longed to take a dip in her pond to cool off but she had no swimsuit and there were all these strangers there. When she saw Dario pull up in front of her house she sighed. She didn’t want him telling her what to do and how to do it, so she kept picking and pretended she hadn’t seen him.

“Hungry?” he asked when he met her head-on in the dusty row of vines.

She glanced up as coolly as possible. “Not really,” she lied while her stomach protested. She’d never admit she couldn’t manage her life without him, though she was dying to show off her newly working stove. “I have too much work to do to stop and eat.”
And I have nothing to eat.

“You need to drink something at least. And you need to pace yourself in this heat. You’re not used to it. You look tired.”

There’s nothing like being told you look tired to make you
feel
tired, which is what happened—she was suddenly exhausted.

“I stopped at a farm stand and picked up some food. Stop
and take a break.” It was more an order than a suggestion and she didn’t take orders well, she never had. If her back weren’t aching and her forehead weren’t pounding, she might have told him to take his food and leave her to pick grapes. But she didn’t. Not with her stomach in knots and her throat parched. She wiped her hands on her pants and followed him to his car where he took a large box out of the front seat and walked with her around the back of the house to the overgrown patio with the ancient outdoor fire pit.

Setting the box on the weather-beaten picnic table in the shade of an old tree, he poured ice-cold sparkling water into real glasses. No paper cups for this Sicilian aristocrat.

Isabel sat down, took a long drink of water. “That’s delicious,” she murmured. Then she looked up at the spreading branches of the old tree for the first time. “Could that be a sycamore?”

“Here we call it a
platania
or plane tree. In the old days the bark and leaves were used for herbal medicine,” he said as he uncorked a half bottle of chilled Montessori dry white wine. “Very useful. They even made fabric dye from the roots.”

Isabel appreciated the information about the shady old tree,
her
shady old tree. It seemed Dario knew everything about everything. But it was the food that caught her attention. There was grilled lemon chicken fragrant with olive oil and rosemary and cubed provolone and marinated fresh mozzarella cheese. There were small tomatoes still warm from the vine. He set a small container of sweet roasted peppers and another of pesto sauce on the table. It seemed like an endless supply of gourmet items, each one better than the last. Finally there was a loaf of crusty ciabatta bread still warm from the oven.

“Where did you get all this?” she asked, tearing off a hunk of bread to eat with cheese.

“Here and there,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Besides the farm stand, the bakery and the
deposito
in town. It was on my way.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she said. “But I’m glad you did. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you.”

He sat across the narrow table from her with a look on his handsome face she couldn’t decipher. It was partly curiosity, partly just landowner whose obligation was to feed the needy. Or maybe what he was doing was force-feeding the goose before it went to slaughter. After all, he surely hadn’t changed his mind about wanting her gone.

“I owe you after you shared your dinner with me last night,” he said.

“Oh, that,” she said, as if she’d forgotten. There was no way she could have forgotten him after he’d left last night. She’d lain in bed picturing him standing there in the doorway, wondering what had gone through his mind. She knew what had gone through hers. She’d wanted him to kiss her. Just to find out what it was like to be kissed by a macho Sicilian. That’s all. Today her mind was clear and she was glad he hadn’t. She didn’t need any more complications to this already awkward situation.

“Yes, that. Sorry I barged in on you.”

She shrugged. What was she going to say?
I liked having someone to eat with, even if it was you. There’s a side to you I didn’t suspect—I’m surprised. That you fell so hard for a woman you neglected your duties. She must have been quite a woman. Why do I think of her in the past tense? For all I knew she’s back in the gatehouse waiting for you with open arms.

“Where do you usually have lunch?” she asked innocently, sipping the cold dry white wine he’d poured for her.

“Sometimes with the workers in the fields,” he said. “Or I go home.”

Aha, so she was there. “To eat with your family?” Isabel held her breath waiting for the answer.

“No.”

That was it? Just no?

“They make a big deal of lunch. And dinner goes on for hours. No matter how busy they are. They want to talk. My sisters want to pry into my personal life. Make suggestions. In Sicily there is no concept of a personal space. I haven’t got time for it.”

Yet he had time to eat with her? The one person he’d like to see on the first plane out of here? Isabel dipped her bread in the fruity olive oil. Talking seemed to be a Sicilian pastime. And a nice one. Talking and eating fresh local food. She reminded herself not to pry any further into his personal life the way his family did, though of course that was exactly what she wanted to do.

“What’s funny?” he asked with a frown on his face. It seemed she hadn’t smothered her smile quite enough.

“Nothing. I’m very grateful you made time for me. I confess, I was hungry and envious of the workers with their lunches. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself when you showed up. Everything is wonderful. Delicious.” She speared a chunk of ripe juicy melon with a fork he’d provided.

“What about tonight?” she asked. “Won’t you have to spend time talking to your family at dinner?”

“My grandmother requested my presence tonight because of you, and no one says no to Nonna.”

So he didn’t want to be there. He was only going because he had to.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have picked up the peaches and the honey for her if I’ve made things awkward for you.”

“Dinner with my family will be a cultural event you should experience. I guarantee they’ll be pleasant to you, more than
I’ve been, in any case. And you’ll see what Sicilian hospitality is like. Now I should be going. Grapes and more grapes. We only have a short time to get them off the vine.”

Isabel got up, feeling guilty for sitting in the shade eating and talking and drinking wine and almost forgetting her problems—one of which was now standing across from her. Another was her house, literally falling down around her and then there were the vines and her workers.

She should never have spent all this time having lunch with Dario. He had work to do and so did she. But it felt so good to relax for a short time with the best-looking man in Sicily, maybe in all Italy and have him feed her with wonderful food and feed her mind with miscellaneous facts and opinions. A guidebook to Sicily can only teach a person so much. A Sicilian with impossibly blue flashing eyes, broad shoulders and a jaw of steel made every word he said about her adopted country seem fascinating and important.

He left the rest of the food, wine and water with her.

“Still no electricity?” he inquired.

“Not yet. I was concentrating on the propane and hooking up the stove.”

“Who did that for you?”

“I did.” A proud smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She
was
proud of herself. “One of the workers carried the tank in for me, but I hooked it up. You’re right, I do need electricity, but…I can only do so much in a day.”

“You’ve done quite a lot,” he said thoughtfully.

It was a good thing she was still sitting down because this too sounded suspiciously like yet another compliment and there were just so many a girl could take all at once.

“You still need to keep your food cold. I’ll have some ice delivered,” he said. “I’m sure the icebox hasn’t been used in years, but it ought to keep things cool for a few days at least.”

“Thank you,” she said. Why was he being so nice? Must be the Sicilian hospitality kicking in whether he wanted it to or not. He couldn’t help it. It was genetic.

Dario spoke to her workers picking grapes on his way to his car, asking them how the work was going. He wanted to be sure they were not taking advantage of Isabel just because she was a foreigner. Or because she didn’t know what to expect from them. He was reassured when they indicated respect for her—her ability to try to communicate with them, and her willingness to work along with them.

He couldn’t help being impressed too. No woman he knew would pick grapes herself, hook up the propane tank, change a tire or take on a dilapidated house. She’d managed to do it all so far. Maybe, just maybe she’d succeed here where her uncle had failed so badly. There was a look in her eyes that told him she wasn’t an ordinary woman. Maybe the best thing for him to do now was to help her when he could with workers, ice, advice and food and back off about pressuring her to leave.

He had no idea what had made him talk about Magdalena last night when he hadn’t so much as spoken her name in months. That was one reason he didn’t join the family for dinners or just drop in at the house the way he used to. Somebody would always bring up his ex-fiancée. They wanted to know if he was over her. They knew what had happened. The whole town knew what she’d done. Of course he was over her. Did he really have to spell it out? Wasn’t it obvious he’d moved on with his life?

The family tried to be tactful, but they wanted a sign that he was no longer carrying a torch for the beauty queen. A sign like taking up with a new woman. No question of that. Instead of stalling or changing the subject or out-and-out telling them
it wasn’t going to happen or it was none of their business, he chose to avoid the family and their questions. It was easier for him that way, easier to forget.

With Isabel there at dinner, they’d all be on their best behavior and the subject of Magdalena would not come up at all, God willing. Actually it would be good to see the family again. He’d missed his nieces and nephews. He’d always enjoyed their high spirits and their energy whether in a soccer game or a ride on the tractor at the vineyards. But work had been a good excuse for dropping out of sight as much as possible, even if the kids didn’t completely understand it, the adults did, or should.

The family liked entertaining. They’d probably like meeting Isabel and would welcome her to the community. After all, they had no regrets about losing the Azienda, they all just accepted it as part of the ups and downs of the wine business. And they didn’t understand why he felt so strongly about it. What was the use of trying to explain? So he didn’t.

He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t brought the lunch today. Would Isabel have kept working until she collapsed?

If he knew her, that’s exactly what might have happened. She was that determined to prove she could do it on her own. He couldn’t just stand by and watch her faint from hunger or get dehydrated. He drove slowly back to his crushing station, thinking about her while he passed acres of ripe grapes, golden wheat waving under a hot cloudless sky and gnarled olive trees. It was possible that she actually deserved this property after all. That was a revolutionary thought, but one he couldn’t shake off.

By the end of the day, despite the break she’d taken for lunch, Isabel’s back was stiff, her fingers were numb, her neck and
arms were sunburned and she’d barely filled one basket. When the men looked into her basket they shook their heads. Of course she couldn’t compete with them. But she had to try. She had to show them she wasn’t a spoiled American heiress. They quit promptly at five o’clock and asked for their money. As soon as she’d paid them they piled into the back of a truck and they were off to spend their earnings. She envied them.

She realized just how much she was looking forward to a long soak in a bathtub and a change of clothes. And how when she moved up here she’d be roughing it. No hot baths, no clean clothes. She’d give herself one more day. She’d wallow in luxury a little longer, then she’d move up here. She could do it. She could make her little house comfortable. As soon as the grapes were picked and crushed, she’d get busy on the house. She’d make it look like home. Put it back in shape—the shape it must have been in long ago. She could picture it being a blend of old-fashioned charm and modern improvements.

When the ice was delivered all the way to her ancient icebox, she felt a wave of gratitude toward Dario. He didn’t have to do that for her. Now she was that much closer to moving in. She opened another bottle of sparkling water, then she went back to the hotel.

She had no idea when and where she was expected for dinner at his family’s home or who would be there besides Dario and his grandmother. She hoped it would be a big group, because with a large family his presence would be diluted. Sitting across the table from him, eating bread and cheese and drinking wine at lunch while bumping knees from time to time was enough for one day. He made her uneasy. She wasn’t sure why he was being so helpful when it went directly against what he wanted.

He was too big, too strong, too Sicilian, too confident, too sure of himself and of course too good-looking. How could
any woman resist him? He and Miss Sicily must have made a striking couple. She’d been part of a couple once, but no one had said they were striking. But that was because no one knew they were together.

Isabel wanted to make a good impression tonight. Not just because these were Dario’s relatives, but because they were big landowners, they’d been here for generations and they were her neighbors. She pulled out of her suitcase the one and only dress she’d brought with her, a blue-green cotton sundress with tiny straps and a slim skirt. Was it appropriate? Her nerves were getting to her. Her imagination was running wild tonight. It was fatigue, it was worry and it was him. She was seeing entirely too much of someone she wanted to avoid and who wanted to avoid her. She could only hope his family would show her the famed Sicilian hospitality he’d promised.