An Inheritance of Shame(42)

She glanced down, felt her face warm. ‘Mi cucciola, remember? I was like an annoying little puppy to you, always frisking at your heels. Sometimes you’d pat me on the head and sometimes you’d kick me away.’

He sat back, silent, and she risked a glance upwards. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

It was absurd to feel hurt by his admission, but she did. She’d always known he hadn’t really cared about her, had tolerated her and sometimes enjoyed her company, but that was all. She’d known that absolutely, and yet…it hurt for him to admit it now.

‘That was my problem though,’ he added quietly, ‘not yours.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged one powerful shoulder. ‘I didn’t appreciate you. I didn’t realise what I’d had with you until I’d left.’

She swallowed past the ache in her throat. ‘You’re still rewriting history, Angelo. You can’t expect me to believe you even thought of me once while you were buying and selling your businesses.’

He didn’t answer, and that ache in her throat spread, strengthened. She swallowed again, trying to ease its pervasive pain. This really shouldn’t have hurt. It was no more than she’d always known, even said to him, yet that had been when she’d been trying to convince herself she didn’t care. Now that she’d admitted she did, it hurt more.

‘You’re right,’ he finally said. ‘I didn’t think of you. But that was a choice, and it took more energy and determination than I ever realised to do it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I missed you,’ Angelo said simply. ‘I may not have realised it at the time, but I missed you, Lucia. I’ve always missed you.’

And just like that the ache dissolved into a tentative, hopeful warmth. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said quietly.

‘So tell me what else you’ve been doing these past years,’ Angelo said after a moment. He had to clear his throat, and Lucia took a sip of wine. Admitting you missed someone might not seem like much, but she knew to Angelo it was a big deal. He didn’t do emotion, and certainly not vulnerability.

‘Not much else, really.’

‘You were helping that other maid. Maria.’

‘Yes—’

‘How?’

She shrugged. ‘She has trouble with reading and writing, and so I help her with her letters. I know I didn’t get much schooling—’

‘No less than me.’

She nodded, accepting. They’d both quit school at sixteen; they’d both needed to work. ‘I enjoy it, and it helps her.’

‘Have you helped others?’

Another shrug. ‘A few. A lot of women in my position can barely read or write. I’m fortunate that I can.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you ever railed against fate, Lucia? Destiny or God, whatever power that left us both poor and struggling, grateful simply for a job that put food on the table?’

She shook her head. ‘What would be the point?’

‘Perhaps there’s no point in railing,’ Angelo answered, ‘but in wanting. In doing and having—and being more.’

She shook her head again. Here was yet another difference between them. Angelo had always been ambitious, determined to rise above their childhood of the struggling working class in a small Sicilian village; she had never even considered such a thing.

Liar. She’d dreamt of Angelo taking her with him when he’d left, or returning for her. Yet she’d always known they were just that: dreams. Nothing more, nothing real. She hadn’t really believed in them.

And even now when they were both trying to make those dreams a reality, she wondered if it were possible. Angelo would never fit into her world, and how could she possibly enter his?

He leaned forward. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Just how different we are.’

‘That’s not a bad thing.’

‘No…’ she said slowly, because she couldn’t classify it that way, good or bad. Difficult, perhaps. Impossible, maybe.

Angelo reached across the table and laced his fingers with hers. ‘Deep down, Lucia, we’re not as different as you think.’

She met his gaze, felt his fingers squeeze hers. ‘Maybe not,’ she answered, but she knew she sounded doubtful.