âI came to take you back.â
âIâm sorry you had a wasted journey, Franco,â she said firmly, âbut Iâm very busy for the next few daysââ
âI told you Iâd cleared it with your employersââ
âBut you neglected to clear it with me. I do have some feelings.â
Franco gave Joanne a strange look, and she guessed he was remembering how sheâd betrayed herself in his arms.
âI donât ask for myself,â he said at last, âbut for my son. You won Nicoâs heart. Do I have to tell you how precious that is? Did you delight him only to amuse yourself, and to throw him aside when it suits you?â
âOf course not. Thatâs a wicked thing to say.â
âThen come back with me now. It will mean the world to himâand to me.â
PROLOGUE
THE headstone stood in the shadow of trees. A small stream rippled softly past, and flowers crept up to the foot of the white marble. The engraving said simply that here lay Rosemary Farelli, beloved wife of Franco Farelli, and mother of Nico. The inscription showed that she had died exactly a year ago, aged thirty-two, and with her, her unborn child.
There were other headstones in the Farelli burial plot, but only this one had a path worn right up to it, as though someone was drawn back here time and again, someone who had yet to come to, terms with the heartbreaking finality of that stone.
Three figures appeared through the little wood that surrounded the plot. The first was a middle-aged woman with a grim expression and upright carriage. Behind her came a man in his thirties, whose dark eyes held a terrible bleakness. One hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the little boy walking beside him, his hands full of wild flowers.
The woman approached the grave and stood regarding it for a moment. Her face was hard and expressionless. A stranger, coming upon the group, might have wondered if sheâd felt any affection for the dead woman. At last she stood aside and the man stepped forward.
âLet me take Nico home,â she said. âThis is no place for a child.â
The manâs face was dark. âHe is Rosemaryâs son. This is his rightâand his motherâs.â
âFranco, sheâs dead.â
âNot here.â He touched his breast and spoke softly. âNot ever.â He looked down at the child. âAre you ready, piccino?â
The little boy, as fair as his father was dark, looked up and nodded. He laid the flowers at the foot of the grave. âThese are for you, Mama,â he said.
When he stepped back his fatherâs hand rested again on his shoulder.
âWell done,â he said quietly to his son. âIâm proud of you. Now go home with your grandmama.â
âCanât I stay with you, Papa?â
Franco Farelliâs face was gentle. âNot now. I must be alone with your mother.â
He stood quite still until they had gone. Not until their footsteps faded into silence did he move towards the gravestone and kneel before it, whispering.
âI brought our son to you, mi amore. See how he has grown, how strong and beautiful he is. Soon he will be seven years old. He hasnât forgotten you. Every day we talk together about âMamaâ. Iâm raising him as you wished, to remember that he is English as well as Italian. He speaks his motherâs tongue as well as his fatherâs.â
His eyes darkened with pain. âHe looks more like you every day. How can I bear that? This morning he turned to me with the smile that was yours, and it was as though you were there. But the next moment you died again, and my heart broke.
âIt is one year to the day since you died, and still the world is dark for me. When you left you took joy with you. I try to be a good father to our child, but my heart is with you, and my life is a desert.â
He reached out a hand to touch the unyielding marble. âAre you there, my beloved? Where have you gone? Why can I not find you?â
Suddenly his control broke. His fingers grasped the marble convulsively, his eyes closed and a cry of terrible anguish broke from him.
âCome back to me! I can bear it no longer. For Godâs sake, come back to me!â