Heaven and Hell (Heaven and Hell #1)(175)

Then, still whispering, eyes intense, he said, “Love you, baby.”

He loved me. Me. All that was him loved all that was me.

“Love you, too, honey.”

I watched my husband smile.

Then I closed my eyes because he kissed me.

Then he made love to me.

And after, I fell asleep in the arms of a powerful man, content in the knowledge that I did very well…

And he did too.

* * * * *

Two and a half years later…

Coming home from his work managing the dining room in an exclusive hotel on Lago di Como, Paolo Garibaldi opened his postbox and saw the padded envelope inside.

He smiled. Then he grabbed it, hurried into his apartment building, up the stairs and through his door. He didn’t take his shoes off his aching feet. He didn’t pour himself a much needed glass of full-bodied, red Italian wine. He didn’t do anything he normally did.

He tore into the envelope.

He pulled out the piece of paper, unfolded it and saw, like always, she’d had her message translated.

He set that aside for later.

He was eager to see.

So he pulled out the item wrapped in bubble wrap deciding, as he always did, he would save the wrap. When they came to visit, his grandchildren loved popping those bubbles.

Carefully (so as not to pop too many of the bubbles), he tore the tape away. When he was done, he had the back facing him so he turned it to its front.

Then he smiled.

“Bellissimo. Sempre,” he whispered.

He allowed himself a moment to study it and he did this closely. Then he moved through his apartment to the shelf. Adjusting the items already on it to make room, he pulled out the arm and set his new piece at the end.

Then he stepped back and looked.

The first item was larger than the others. The frame silver and heavy. Sampson Cooper in his well-cut tuxedo, standing tall, strong and handsome on a beach, the waves of the ocean crashing in behind him as he held his brand new wife who was wearing a stunning (Italian designed and made, so of course it would be stunning), wedding gown. He was facing the camera full on and holding his new wife in both arms, her front tucked close to the side of his. The new Mrs. Cooper had her arms wrapped around her new husband’s middle and she was looking over her shoulder, the wind catching her magnificent hair, the skirt of her angelic gown, and she was beaming.

The next was a smaller frame, wooden but lovely, Sampson Cooper sitting upright in a hospital bed, his beautiful Kia in a hospital gown resting back against his chest, a tiny bundle held in her arms. Sampson looked happy and proud. Kia looked happy and tired. The baby just looked tiny.

Then next in another silver frame, a beautifully decorated Christmas tree in the background, a dark-headed baby on the floor in front of a heap of jumbled presents, in his jammies half-crawling, half-on his belly, being licked on his baby-laughing face by a little brown and white dog.

The next in a black lacquered frame, the photo black and white, Sampson Cooper walking down the side of an American football field. Held to his chest, sleeping head resting on his shoulder, was his little son. Held to his side, arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, was his wife. There were boys in uniform and football pads in the background. Sampson was looking down at Kia, he was not smiling. His face seemed serious, intent but nevertheless content. Kia, head tipped way back, was looking at Sampson. She was smiling. She was also very, very pregnant.

And the last, the most recent, in another lovely wooden frame were Sampson and Kia Cooper standing in front of a white-painted wooden railing. The small dog was sitting by Sampson’s feet probably panting but looking like she was grinning. Sampson was wearing jeans and a shirt and holding a dark-headed toddler straddled to his hip in one arm. His other arm was around his wife’s shoulders, holding her close. Kia had one arm wrapped around her husband’s waist; her head was bent to the side, resting on his broad shoulder. She was wearing a sundress and her skin was tan. Her hair, again, was blowing in the wind. In her other arm she held another little bundle, closely and protectively. Except for the infant and the toddler, but, as noted, also the dog, they were all smiling, beautiful and big at the camera. The infant appeared to be sleeping. The toddler, Benjamin Travis, appeared to be laughing.

Paolo went to the letter.

It began (in Italian, of course),

Dearest Paolo,

Talia Celeste has arrived! And she’s perfect!

The perfetta was underlined. Twice.

Seeing it and reading one of Kia’s frequent letters, all the way through, Paolo smiled.

His wife, Talia, rest her soul, always told him he was a hopeless romantic.

This wasn’t a complaint. Her life was not long but he did his best to fill it with romance.

Then, when she was gone, he had to find other ways to act out these tendencies.

Sometimes, they didn’t work.

Paolo’s eyes went to the shelf and, again, he smiled.

And he smiled because, sometimes, they did.

Spectacularly.

He had never been to America; he didn’t know what North Carolina was like.

But from those pictures, it looked like heaven.