She met Anton’s gaze directly. “I honestly can’t remember a time when that happened.”
Anton stood up and crossed the room to sit beside her on the sofa. “I’ve often thought that a marriage is like a covered wagon, full of the stuff of life. The man and the woman are the two workhorses who pull it. Eventually, it gets heavy. There are children in the wagon, a home that needs to be maintained, feelings that need to be protected and nurtured when life throws curveballs. It works when both partners pull together, but the journey can’t continue for long if one partner unbuckles the straps and decides to ride in the wagon, because it’s easier, and because he knows his partner will keep pulling no matter what. Sometimes it can’t be helped. If someone gets sick or is suffering in some other way . . . physically or emotionally or financially . . . when that happens, the other person needs to bear more of the load, but generally, when both partners are capable, husband and wife should be a team, pulling together, or at least taking equal turns.”
Lillian reclined on the sofa and closed her eyes. “That’s exactly what it’s been like. In five years, I’ve never once gotten out of the harness.”
“What about Freddie?”
“He’s been riding in the wagon the whole time, and quite frankly, I’m getting a little tired.” She glanced upward. “He’s always consumed by his book, or so he says, and promising he’ll do his part later. But later never comes. It’s always tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.”
Anton reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “Are you afraid to push for what you want?”
She stared down at their clasped hands. “Afraid? Of Freddie? Goodness, no. I was attracted to him because he was the opposite of my father, and I’d never been involved with someone who didn’t punch things when he got angry.”
“Not all men are like that,” Anton told her.
“I know. At least, I think I know. Do you ever punch things?”
He smiled to himself as he spoke. “I can’t pretend that I haven’t kicked a flat tire. Lord knows I curse. But I’ve never hit another person. Not even in the schoolyard when I was a kid.”
Her eyebrows rose in amazement. “That must be some kind of record.”
He chuckled. “Maybe. I was a math nerd.”
“I still find that so surprising,” she replied. “Math and art . . . it’s usually one or the other, or so I thought.”
A dog barked somewhere outside. The air was hot and humid, and they were still holding hands, perspiring in the heat.
“I enjoy talking to you,” Lillian said, her eyes downcast.
Anton sat back and stared at her with wonder. “I enjoy talking to you too. And that’s why . . . I should probably go.”
A part of her wanted to beg him to stay, but she knew what would happen if she did. The attraction she felt was palpable. If they sat there much longer, they would fall into each other’s arms. They would kiss, and desires would escalate.
He stood up, and she was glad. She followed to see him out.
“Thank you again for dinner,” she said.
He reached out and pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, and his touch upset her balance. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
As soon as she closed the door behind him, she pressed both her hands to her flushed cheeks. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the door.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispered with a rush of euphoria and a sense of excitement over what the future might hold. It was quickly followed by despair.
CHAPTER 16
FIONA
Tuscany, 2017
I opened my eyes, discovered that it was morning, and marveled at the fact that I had slept soundly the entire night. I often had trouble sleeping. I’d wake in the predawn darkness and fret about all sorts of things—my father’s health, issues at work, debts that couldn’t be repaid. Anton had been inexplicably generous in his will, but I wasn’t entirely confident that all my money troubles were over. For one thing, Connor was not going to surrender without a fight, and even if he did, I still didn’t feel right about keeping everything for myself. It was too much. That alone should have been enough to make me toss and turn for hours, but for some reason, it hadn’t disrupted a single dream the night before. It must have been the jet lag.
After rolling over to check the clock, I yawned, stretched, and sighed at the pleasant notion that it was only half past six. I had time for a leisurely shower and an extra cappuccino at breakfast before I met Vincent for my vineyard tour at nine.