He smiled. “And the picnics?”
“And the picnics.” There was no forgetting the bountiful picnics on his property by the lake. Or the way he’d lavished attention on her. She fidgeted.
Just then, her mother’s voice called from the kitchen, “Ciana? You here? There’s a strange car in the front—” Coming into the parlor, she stopped abruptly. “Oh, hello.”
Enzo stood and so did Ciana, who quickly made introductions. He took Alice Faye’s hand, showered her with greetings in beautifully accented English and courtly manners.
Ciana watched her mother’s face color as she smiled shyly and slipped her hand from Enzo’s. Ciana recognized what was happening immediately. Alice Faye’s hands were a farm woman’s hands, rough and callused from years of hard work, hands she thought unfit to be caressed by one such as Enzo. Somehow understanding her mother’s embarrassment touched Ciana. She stepped up quickly. “Mom, I first met Enzo in one of his vineyards. He was working with his vines, and he caught me inspecting a handful of dirt and almost called the police.”
Enzo laughed and together, they told Alice Faye the whole story. She laughed with them, her eyes frequently lingering on Enzo. The man oozed sexual warmth. He didn’t flaunt it; he simply owned it. No wonder her mother was charmed. Ciana had been too. “Where are my manners? I haven’t offered you anything to drink,” Alice Faye said suddenly, looking mortified.
Enzo held up his hand. “This is all right.”
“Not in the South,” Ciana joked. “It’s like a crime.”
“I have sweet tea,” Alice Faye said.
Enzo’s brow puckered. “I have brought you wine, an excellent vintage. I will open a bottle if you wish.”
Ciana remembered the case of wine in the kitchen, knowing her mother would be unable to drink it. She didn’t want her mother put in an awkward position, but before she could say a word, Alice Faye smiled and said, “Sweet tea is the wine of the South, sir. And I make the best for miles around.”
Enzo dipped his head in consent and Alice Faye exited to the kitchen. He turned to Ciana. “Tua mama è graziosa, di buon cuore.”
“My mother is charming and kindhearted,” Ciana translated smugly. “I haven’t forgotten all my Italian.”
He chuckled, his brown eyes dancing, lit by an inner glow. “You are her best reflection.” Ciana felt her own face grow warm under his scrutiny. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. Enzo was beguiling. And damn near perfect to boot.
Alice Faye invited Enzo to stay for supper, but he graciously declined, saying he already had dinner plans in Nashville. Ciana had to concede that everything Enzo did seemed gracious. Night had fallen when Ciana walked Enzo out to his car, and the cold air sent a shiver up Ciana’s arms. Enzo reached out, rubbed his gloved hands up and down her coat sleeves. She felt very inelegant in her barn jacket. Still he said, “I’d like to visit you again.”
“I’d like that too. We’ll go riding. My horses aren’t so grand or finely bred as yours, but they give a good ride.”
“No doubt. But I come for your company, Ciana, not a horse’s.”
She flushed. Charming as always. “How long will you be in the States?”
“Not so sure just yet. All is centered around business. I will call,” he said, and drove away.
Before she could get up the front steps, Jon caught up with her. “Fancy guy.”
His observation irked her. “Elegant guy. He was very kind to us when we were in Italy.”
“No doubt.”
“He’ll be coming back,” she snapped.
“I’ll make sure to tell Soldier to put him on the approved visitors list.”
She stamped her foot. “Why are you being so sarcastic? Enzo is an amazing horseman. Has some of the best horses in Europe. You might want to talk to him.”
Light from the parlor played across Jon’s features. She saw mischief in his eyes. “What’s he going to tell me, Ciana? I want to raise and train mustangs, mongrels to a man like him. No, I’ll leave that field open.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “But that’s the only field I’m leaving open.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He bounded up the steps. “Come on, I smell fried chicken.”
She was furious at him and his macho attitude. “You’re really pissing me off!” she growled, as he opened the front door and stepped inside. He turned, winked. She shouted, “This isn’t a contest, you know, Jon. I’m not a prize!”
He turned, winked. “Supper’s getting cold.”
She watched him disappear into the house, waited a full five minutes shivering in the dark and cold before she calmed down enough to follow him inside.
When she walked into the kitchen, he grinned.
After Eden’s close call with drowning, Garret’s family doted on her to the point of embarrassment. Maggie insisted they stick close to the house, so with long lazy days beside the ever calm pool water, Eden began to open up to Garret about her past, working backward, starting with Italy and the fun they’d shared. The gift Garret had always given her was space. He never pressed her or insisted she tell him about herself. To the contrary, when she’d tried to tell him about her past while in Italy, he had brushed it away with “Don’t care. Right now is what matters.” At the time she’d been fine with that, believing she would never see him again once her stay at the villa was over.
Except that now she was with him constantly, and more involved with him than she’d thought possible. She’d come to realize that she needed to be more forthcoming with her personal history—all of it, good and bad.
One morning while they stretched out on towels, he asked, “Do you think your mum will like me?”
“Sure, if she gets to meet you,” Eden mumbled, lulled by the warmth of the sun.
“If? I was thinking ‘when.’ We could send her a picture of us in an email. I’d like for her to know who you’re with. Does she ask?”
She realized that while she always talked about Ciana and Alice Faye, she never mentioned her mother. Of course he was curious. Eden raised up, measured her words, took a deep breath, and plunged into her story and uncharted territory. “She lives in Florida. I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”
Garret raised up too, lifted his sunglasses in order to see her unshielded. “You have a fallin’-out?”
Eden encircled her knees with her arms. “Have you ever heard of bipolar disorder?”
“I have, but don’t know much about it.”
“Doctors say it’s caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. It—um—it causes huge mood swings. When it’s at its worst, a bipolar person goes from manic activity to extreme depression. My mother has it.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough.”
“There must be medicine for it.”
“There is. Psych counseling too. But my mother could never stick with either. Not even when she had a child to care for.” She said the words softly, surprised at how much the old truth still hurt.
Garret’s gaze went from curiosity into gentle understanding. “How did you deal? With growing up, I mean.”
“I coped. Early on, I knew she was different from my friends’ mothers, especially when she fell into depressions. She’d lie on the sofa for days, unable to do anything except cry and sleep. I was scared, and didn’t know what to do. I learned to open a soup can when I was four, and how to warm the soup when I was five.”
“You ate it straight from the can?” He looked sympathetic and shocked.
“The stove was gas. I was afraid of it. But I learned.” Eden shifted. “I could do laundry by the age of six … a few mishaps, like suds all over the floor. How was I to know it didn’t take a whole cup of detergent to wash a couple of tees and some socks?” She offered a smile and a shrug. “But we got through.”
“Your dad?” he asked.
“Never knew him. She left him when I was a baby.”
“She—she never hurt you, did she?” He t
ensed when he asked the question.
“Not physically. In truth, I sometimes wished she would hit me, because then at least I’d know that she noticed me. Her depressions were the worst. I actually preferred her manic phases, when she was hyper and music played all night.” Eden could still hear some of the songs in her head. She stretched out her legs. “But when she came up for air, when the depression lifted, usually because she took a few of her meds, she was always sorry, and would try and make it up to me. Then things would be fine. Until the next time.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone? A teacher, or neighbor?”
“Social services would have taken me away. The idea terrified me. ‘Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.’ Maybe you’ve heard that said before.”
“Is that why you cut?” His question was perceptive. He knew that she’d been a cutter, and although a doctor in Nashville had greatly reduced her scarring, thin white lines of self-abuse still showed on her arms and inner thighs. These would be with her the rest of her life. So be it. Thankfully, Garret treated her as if the marks were invisible.
“Crazy, but the pain helped me, made me feel better. For a while.” She retreated from the dark memories. “Going off to school, meeting Arie and Ciana when I was in middle school, changed everything for the better.”
“Bugger. Poor kid.”
“Now don’t sit there feeling sorry for me. I can’t stand that.” Agitated, Eden stood.
Garret was beside her instantly. “I can if I want.” His smile was coaxing. “Don’t like seeing my girl hurt.”
She peered up at him. “Am I your girl?”
He wrapped her in his arms. “I’ve caught you and I’m never lettin’ go.”
She buried her face in his chest, relaxed against his sun-warmed skin and the scent of coconut sunscreen. She was many years and almost ten thousand miles from her old demons. Of course, she’d hardly scratched the surface of her past. There was so much more she should tell him, had to tell him. Not now, her mind cautioned. Not just yet.
Eden had lost contact with her mother. Gwen’s cell phone was no longer in service. All Eden knew was that she was in Tampa “with people who understood her.” That was what Gwen had once told Eden. Translation: No one was forcing medication and therapy on her. Not knowing anything about her mother was both scary and heartbreaking. Bipolar was a cruel disorder, and one Eden dreaded she would develop too. The secret fear had driven her choices, many of which had been bad. Her one smart choice had been coming to visit Garret. She had him. She had Ciana. She had Alice Faye. All were lifesavers.
When Eden received a chatty email from Ciana about Enzo’s visit, she was a little sorry she couldn’t be at Bellmeade to greet him too. Give him a hug from me, Eden directed in her return email. How’s Jon taking Enzo’s visit?
He’s edgy, came Ciana’s reply. He keeps to himself and gives me a wide berth, when Enzo comes around. But sometimes he makes me crazy mad with some comment, so I just have a good time with Enzo and keep a civil attitude toward Jon. Men!
March brought the approaching end of Eden’s Australian visa. She had buried thoughts of leaving, knowing that saying goodbye to Garret and his parents wouldn’t be easy. She had grown into the space they had carved out for her, and she was happy. They were out on the patio having dinner from the barbie one evening when the latch on the side gate clicked and Alyssa stepped through. Maggie rose quickly. “We’re eating.”
“I have a reason for coming.”
“Not interested,” Garret said.
“Go on with you,” Maggie said. She made a shooing motion with her hand.
“What I’ve got to tell you can’t wait.” Alyssa stood her ground. With a malevolent look, she held up a manila folder. “I’ve gathered some information on your girlfriend, Garret.”
Eden’s heart was in her throat, and her hands had turned cold as ice. All she saw was Alyssa’s wicked expression and glinting eyes.
Garret stepped over. “Go away, Alyssa. You’re not welcome here.”
Alyssa sidled around Garret, came to the table, and slapped the folder down onto the glass top. She looked at Trevor, then directly at Eden. “Thought you ought to know that your son’s American girl, Eden McLauren, was once the whore of a drug lord.” Alyssa turned to glare down at Eden still sitting at the table. “She’s not so clean and proper after all. Are you, Eden?”
For a moment, time stood still. No one spoke. Eden heard every sound around her amplified: the lapping of the pool water against the tiles, the crackling of the wood fire in the brazier, the voices of tree frogs and night insects, the drip of candle wax from their holders onto the patio table. Garret moved first. He came to the table, picked up the file, and purposefully walked to the brazier and lifted the safety screen.
“You should read—” Alyssa started.
“Get out,” he said, his back to her, his voice firm.
“I’m only trying—”
“Out.”
Maggie stepped forward. “You heard my son. Leave.”
“I was only trying to help,” Alyssa whined. “I thought you should know. I’m doing all of you a favor.”
“You heard them,” Trevor said. “I will call the authorities if you don’t go away right now.”
Alyssa took the time to glare at each of them, but finally she retreated to the gate and slipped out into the dark where she’d come from.
Eden felt nauseous, mentally hammered and cold, so very cold. She watched Garret’s back, arrow-straight and rigid. She watched him hold the folder over the dancing flames, but before the thick paper could catch, she pushed her chair backward. The scraping sound of the chair grated harshly, but she moved swiftly and caught the folder as it began to smolder. She pulled it from his hand. “No. Don’t. You can’t burn history. You can’t change the truth,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, sounded foreign to her ears.
He turned, his face a mask of denial, his eyes sad. “Not important to me.”
“You need to know,” she managed to say. She blew away the few cinders that edged the folder, held it to her chest. “Give me a few minutes. Please.”
Not certain she could make it back to the table, she dropped into the nearest patio chair and opened the folder. There was just enough light through the patio doors behind her to thumb the pieces of paper, obviously printouts of information downloaded from the Internet. It was all there: Tony’s death in a shoot-out, the extensive tentacles of his drug network, stories of the lives he’d destroyed, and two stories about her, the girlfriend thought to be “hiding in Europe” and a “person of interest,” wanted for questioning. Every word she read felt like a nail being driven into her heart.
She looked up and saw that Trevor and Maggie had left the patio and she was alone with Garret. Tears swam in her eyes; dread filled her heart. “I want to tell you. Please, sit and listen. I need to tell you, Garret. Really. Truth is long overdue.”
“Won’t care,” he said stubbornly, but he dragged a patio chair over and sat beside her, stared into the fire, his features set like stone.
She took a breath, shuddered, handed him the folder. “Read it.”
He eyed the soot-edged folder as if it were a snake. “Why?”
“Because you need to. Because I want you to. And after you read what’s inside, we’ll talk about it. We must.” Hurting him would be the hardest thing she would ever do, but it was necessary.
He took the folder, flipped it open, and read. She watched his eyes, how they darted over the news stories compiled from that painful time when she was in Italy and Tony had died in a bloodbath between rival drug gangs. When he was finished he closed the folder, leaned toward the brazier, and said, “Now I’m going to burn it.” He set one corner on fire and held the folder until the flames had half devoured it, then tossed what remained into the fire. Eden watched bits of charred paper flutter upward and float away on a night breeze. In minutes nothing remained. If only the past could be so easily destroyed.
 
; “Did the police talk to you?” he asked.
“By the time I came home, it didn’t matter anymore. With a little help from the shoot-out, two drug kingpins had been taken down and almost a million dollars’ worth of drugs had been confiscated.” She shrugged. “But drug wars are like that creature in Greek mythology. You know, the one with all the heads that keep regrowing every time one’s cut off?”
“The Hydra,” Garret said.
She watched the fire with him in silence, wanting him to question her, wanting him to help rid her soul of its darkness.
“Is that why you were in Italy? Running away?”
“Yes. The trip was Ciana’s idea. She planned it, paid for it. We told Arie it was for her sake, but it was for both of us. And it saved me.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“Better than blood kin,” Eden said. “Not that I’ve ever known any of mine,” she added dryly.
Garret continued to watch the flames consume the wood in the brazier.
“I’ve always wanted you to know, Garret,” she said. “I should have told you sooner. I should have told you when we were in Italy. Big regret.”
“I never cared about what happened before we met, or who you loved.”
“Loved?” She recoiled at the word. “I never loved Tony. I might have thought I did at one time, when I was too young to know better, but when I saw him as he truly was, I had no love for him. But by then, I couldn’t get out. Not alive.”
After a great deal of time, he said, “I—I need some time to think, sort it all out.”
“I understand.” She was emotionally wrung out herself, the pumping adrenaline having melted from her body, leaving her limp. She stood, looked down wistfully at Garret Locklin, and wished with all her heart things could have ended differently. “I’d like to talk to your parents.”
“Later. I’ll talk to them first.”
Her heart squeezed and a lump lodged in her throat. “All right.” Eden liked his parents so much; the idea of their knowing that their son’s girlfriend was “a drug lord’s whore,” as Alyssa had so accurately put it, stung like the tail of a scorpion. But truth was truth.