An Inheritance of Shame(37)

God help her, what was she doing? How could she risk this—her heart, her life—with a man who had so little consideration or concern for her?

‘I didn’t realise,’ he said quietly. He pressed his lips together, his gaze averted. ‘I think there are most likely a lot of things I haven’t realised.’

Surprise silenced her. Already he was changing, just a little, but for now she would let it be enough. ‘The market?’ she prompted, and he nodded.

‘I’ll meet you at the Borgo Vecchio, a little after six.’

Lucia nodded back, her heart pounding with both dread and anticipation. Yet in the midst of those turbulent emotions she felt a fragile seed sprout to tremulous, trembling life: hope. She hadn’t felt it in a long time, perhaps ever. And yet with one quiet word from Angelo she began to believe…and finally hope that things might change between them.

Angelo paced the narrow street of the Borgo Vecchio where he’d agreed to meet Lucia. Stalls heaped with lemons and oranges as well as cheap clothing and electronics jostled for space with the many pedestrians thronging the side street. The smell of fried fruit wafted on the hot air, competing with the stink of unwashed humanity and the diesel fumes from the cars and mopeds speeding by.

Why the hell had he agreed to meet Lucia here? He could have had a reservation at one of the city’s best restaurants, champagne chilling in a bucket, caviar and pâté and whatever else they desired immediately on hand. Seated amidst such luxury would have been a much better setting for a seduction.

Yet was that what he intended on doing? Seducing Lucia? No. He was just convincing her of the truth. Making her see the benefits of a loveless affair.

Still he felt uneasy. Unsure. And he didn’t like it. He’d lived his life on clear certainties, hard truths, yet Lucia made him doubt. Wonder. Want.

‘Hello, Angelo.’

He turned and saw her standing before him, her dark hair pulled back in a neat plait, her eyes clear and somehow sad. She’d exchanged her grey maid’s uniform for a cheap cotton sundress in pale pink, and Angelo found his gaze helplessly drawn to the smooth olive skin of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts underneath the snug cotton. He yanked his gaze upwards.

‘Thank you for meeting me.’

She nodded, hitched her canvas bag higher up on her shoulder. ‘Shall we eat?’

‘Eat?’ He couldn’t keep from sounding rather revolted. ‘Here?’

She laughed softly. ‘You used to like the pizza here.’

And then a memory flashed through his mind, slotted into place. They’d once taken the bus into Palermo, wandered through this market. They must have been fourteen or so; all Angelo had remembered about that day was the burning anger he’d felt at seeing his half-brothers, Alessandro and Santo, out with their father. A happy family, father and sons, strolling through the narrow streets of Caltarione. They hadn’t looked his way once.

Lucia, he remembered now, had suggested the trip into the city, probably as a way to distract him from the Correttis. They’d eaten pizza and gelato, and she’d made silly jokes all the while, betting him she could eat more pizza than he could, and he, of course, had proved her wrong. But she’d succeeded in making him laugh, which had surely been her object all along.

Dio, he missed that. Laughing with someone, being stupid and silly and real. Lucia, he acknowledged with sudden, flashing insight, was the only person in the entire world with whom he’d ever been remotely real.

‘I remember,’ he said now, quietly, and he saw her mouth curve in the slightest of smiles.

She turned away, and the end of her plait brushed his shoulder. ‘So, pizza?’ she asked, and he fell in step beside her.

‘Pizza, it is.’

They settled for squares of sfincione, the doughy Sicilian pizza scattered with bread crumbs, cheese and anchovies. Angelo eyed his sauce-covered square somewhat dubiously. ‘We could be eating fresh flounder at one of the city’s best restaurants,’ he told her, not even half joking, and she shook her head.

‘I wouldn’t even know what fork to use.’

It wasn’t the first time she’d made a remark alluding to the difference in their stations now, and he wondered at it. ‘I’m sure you’d figure it out pretty quickly. And in any case, when you’re eating in a restaurant, use whatever the hell fork you want.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘That would be your attitude.’

‘It would.’