He didn’t send James here. He gave him the winery as a gift, an inheritance. To do whatever he wanted with, not because it was some kind of scavenger hunt for the past.
“I know it was a long time ago,” she continued, “but Anamaria has a memory like a steel trap. She remembers details from when she was a child living here. Maybe she remembers something about them.”
“Other than they spent their time trying to make an eighth baby?”
“But don’t you see? That’s the kind of thing she knows. Let’s talk to her. I’ll help you, because her English isn’t great. Or would you just like me to talk to her, if it, you know, is too difficult to talk about your mother?”
He looked at her for a long time, knowing he was staring and trying to process about a hundred different emotions that were completely foreign to him. He went with the only one that felt normal.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
“James.”
“No, really, you’re gorgeous and…” Oh man. “Good. You have a good heart, Kyra.”
She slid her fingers down his arm to curl them around his hand. “Let’s go talk to her.”
“Now?”
“Why not? Don’t you want to know?”
Not as much as he wanted to lie in the sun and look at that yellow bikini. And then take it off.
And then tell her he was planning to sell the winery.
Wrong on every level. Once he found out the why of Dad’s gift, then maybe he wouldn’t sell it. Or he would. He didn’t know, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep with her while that unspoken fact hung between them. So going to Villa Pietro and talking to Anamaria made sense. It was a logical part of a business plan that might dictate his next move.
And Kyra was already standing up. “She’ll be getting up from her afternoon nap. We’ll talk to her, and then we can—”
“Stop.” He reached up and took her hand, pulling her back toward his chaise, reluctant to end this perfect taste of a vacation. “I reserved this pool and patio for a private party of two.”
She buckled and let her bottom drop next to him, her skin warm against his. His whole body reacted, tight and needy. “You can unreserve it.”
“Kyra.” His voice was husky as he pulled her down to him. “We can go on this errand and find out this stuff, which, I have to tell you, isn’t pleasant or fun for me, but then…” Tunneling his fingers into her hair, he guided her face to his, letting his kiss finish the sentence.
She pressed against him, hot, slick skin and sweet, sexy curves, opening her mouth to take his tongue and moan as the kiss grew deeper.
He stroked her back, sliding his hand over the slope of her spine then over the sweet slope of her backside. She rocked against him in response, and instantly he grew hard, a state he’d been learning to live in for days. And nights. And was damn sick of it.
“We can talk to Anamaria later,” she murmured into the kiss, sucking in a breath when his thumb dipped into the bikini bottom and grazed more skin. “Tonight.”
It would be easy to take her up to his suite now and do what they were both dying to do. Easy and…fun.
“James?” She lifted away from him, expecting a response.
“Let’s go now. I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Slowly, she sat up, searching his face. “You don’t really want to talk about your mother, do you?”
“Oh, let’s see. Talk about my mother, or take that bathing suit off with my teeth?” Sitting up, he put his hands on her shoulders and let them slide an inch or two closer to her breasts, not caring that his erection had to be obvious in his board shorts. “Which do you think I want to do?”
She just closed her eyes and smiled. “You’ll do what’s right, I think.”
“Always. Let’s go.”
“On the scooter?”
He looked skyward. “Let the good times roll, lemondrop.”
“They will, I promise.”
He took one more kiss. “Good, because I can’t wait much longer.”
Chapter Thirteen
In spite of the fun and relaxation—and increasingly smokin’-hot make-out sessions—they’d shared, James was still taut with nerves when they rode Kyra’s scooter up the mountain. He was quiet as she wended through the twists and turns, except for when he swore mightily at one particularly hairy near miss with a lost tourist who should never have been allowed to rent a car.
At least it meant he held tight to Kyra, his hands strong around her waist, his legs pressed against her, his breath warm on her shoulder and neck. Every time they had to lean into the next turn, he literally braced for death.
He didn’t relax until they reached the winery, parked her bike, and took one of the paths through the vineyard.
“We really have to get you to drive this sometime,” she said as they walked. “It will show you how much control the driver has.”
He snorted. “None. At least not over the other guy.”
She gave up the discussion when the small stone cottage she called home came into view.
“It’s humble,” she said as they got closer, imagining what her frill-free existence looked like to someone who lived in a penthouse apartment in New York and jetted around in his own plane.
The outer walls were the same gray and cream limestone as the surrounding hills, with a simple wooden door that led into a common room that was kitchen, living, and dining all in one. Two bedrooms and one shared bath were off the main room, plus a loft they rarely used. She knew when they walked inside that the main room would smell like garlic and baked bread, cooled by slate floors and wide-open windows.
Once inside, those windows would let in the clean and citrusy Amalfi breeze and the sounds of the workers in the vineyards. But it was home, and she loved it.
“Nonna,” Kyra called as she opened the door and peeked in.
Anamaria was at the sink, rinsing dishes. She turned, beaming at the sight of Kyra. “Buongiorno, Cara.”
“James is with me,” Kyra said right away, gesturing for him to come in.
Anamaria’s brows rose. “No Duomo today?”
Kyra shook her head as they entered. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said in Italian.
“English,” Anamaria corrected, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron as she came forward, smiling up at James. The difference in his six-feet-plus height and her four-nine was laughable, but that didn’t stop Anamaria from dropping her head back to meet his gaze with that fearless, spirited streak that Kyra had grown to love so much.
“With you and James, I speak English.” Anamaria pulled out a chair for him and ordered him into it with a pointed finger.
“We had lunch, Nonna,” Kyra said, knowing the woman’s first instinct would be to feed them.
“Then we do the after lunch,” she said, leaving no room for argument as James took a seat at the scarred, wooden table. Almost immediately, Anamaria produced her jug of Pietro table wine, which was as close to homemade wine as this Italian winery family would ever have.
She added three thick juice glasses, and next came a tray of the amaretto butter cookies she’d baked yesterday, followed by a nudge to James’s shoulder, ordering him to mangia.
He sneaked a smile at Kyra and poured them each a glass of wine.
“Why you no go to Duomo Sant’Andrea?” Anamaria asked as she sat down and pushed the tray of cookies to him. “Is beautiful.”
“We took a day off from sightseeing,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. “And we wanted to visit with you.”
Anamaria’s dark eyes flashed, and the slightest color rose in her cheeks, proving that no woman on earth was entirely immune to his charms. “Me?”
James glanced at Kyra again, as if to give her a chance to explain this errand.
“Nonna,” she said. “James was wondering if you remember anything about the time his parents were here. Any details, any information at all about their vacation.”
Anamaria nodded slowly. “Oh, s?
?. Very much remembering. They were speciali even before I knew Signor Brannigan would be the one in control of us.”
“He was hardly in control,” James mused. “What else can you tell me? Other than the fact that they spent a lot of time in their…” He frowned. “Did they stay in the main house?”
“They stay right here,” she said, sweeping a hand to indicate the room around them. “Back in that day, Giorgio and I lived in the big house with Enzo and Antonio and used these cottages for guests. Not too many hotels in Positano like now.”
He leaned back on his chair and let his gaze drift around as if trying to imagine his parents staying in a place like this. Very slowly, a smile lifted his lips.
“I can see that,” he said. “She’d go for something like this. Rustic and authentic.” His face changed when he talked about his mother, Kyra noticed. His features softened and his eyes warmed.
“Oh, she love the house,” Anamaria confirmed. “She always have the fresh flowers every day all over.” She took a cookie, lost in her thoughts for a moment. “I clean the rooms then,” she said softly. “I talk to her and bring her flowers.”
“She liked flowers,” James confirmed, his gaze on Anamaria but distant enough that Kyra suspected he was digging around his memory banks. They must be dim after, what did he say? He was twelve when she died? Twenty-three years.
Kyra’s heart slipped a little, hurting for that little boy and his six younger brothers, losing their happy, flower-loving mom.
“Anamaria, do you remember anything else?” James asked, leaning forward. “Do you have any idea why he decided to buy the winery?”
Dark brows drew together in an old Italian version of an are you serious? look. “Of course I know.”
James sat up straighter, inhaling a little. “Can you tell me?”
She took a deep sip of her wine and looked hard at him, a silent request that he do the same.
He took a drink and set the glass down. “I would like to know,” he finally said.
“Sì, sì. He talk to my husband, Giorgio, who tell him that Signor Casella, the owner who live in Rome, want to sell the winery. Giorgio tell Signor Brannigan that we are very scared. Like now. Very scared.”
Kyra watched James’s face for a reaction to that, but he gave nothing away. His gaze was intent on Anamaria, as if by looking at her he could draw out the answers he sought.
“My Giorgio tell Signor Brannigan all about it. They drink wine together and talk. Signor Brannigan say he would buy Pietro, then we no scared anymore. He said it would be…” She fluttered her hands, trying to describe something, then looked at Kyra. “Una sorpresa per il suo compleanno.”
“He wanted it to be a surprise for her birthday,” Kyra translated.
A little color drained from his face. “Her birthday?” James frowned. “It was a birthday present?”
“Sì, sì,” Anamaria confirmed. “And he buy it after they leave, just like he said he would. Signor Casella come here and say good-bye and tell us Signor Brannigan bought property and we keep our homes and jobs.” Her lips stretched over yellow teeth in a heartfelt smile. “We have a big party then. So much food. In abbondanza!”
James didn’t smile back. “She died before her birthday that year,” he said. “She died in February, and her birthday was in March.”
Anamaria lifted her brows. “Your father, he love my Giorgio. They like this.” She held up two fingers smashed together. “They drink and laugh, and Giorgio teach Signor Brannigan his favorite expression. La famiglia è tutto! All the time. Signor Brannigan, he love that.”
When James looked at her, Kyra explained, “It means ‘the family is everything.’”
“La famiglia…” He didn’t finish the Italian, emotion crushing him enough that Kyra could see his shoulders sink.
“La famiglia è tutto,” Anamaria repeated. “He tell his wife, your mother. They like those words. I guess with the big Brannigan famiglia.”
James nodded very slowly. “She had a little jewelry box on her dresser that said that.” He swallowed hard. “I’d completely forgotten it until now.”
Anamaria made a squeal of joy, placing her hands over her mouth. “I send that to her for Christmas that year! So happy she would come back, but I kept the secret of her present. But then, months later…” Her joy evaporated with a sad sigh. “We learn she never come back. Do you have?”
“No, I don’t have it,” James said. “Somehow it got lost.” He fell back into his chair, silent, making Kyra to literally ache for him. “Like a lot of things.”
But Anamaria brightened, clasping her hands like Kyra did now when she had a great idea. “You should go to the tree. It make you happy,” the older woman said.
He looked up, his focus sharp again. “What tree?”
“The big lemon tree. I found it years later, after they were gone. Signor Brannigan never come back. We wait and wait, but he never return. We get money, we get business man to visit, we make wine. No Brannigan. But once I was picking the lemons and I found the tree. Their tree.” She leaned forward and looked at Kyra. “You take him to the lemon grove,” she said, shifting into Italian. “The big tree in the middle, first one planted. You’ll see.”
Kyra glanced at James to gauge his interest in a tree. “Yes?” she asked him.
“Maybe,” he replied, pushing up to a stand. “Grazie, Signora Sebastiani,” he said, reaching for her hand.
She glared at him. “Nonna,” she corrected. “And you remember, James. Giorgio and Signor Brannigan drink the toast to Villa Pietro. He saved us. Your father, he saved us.” She seized his hand and brought it to her lips. “La famiglia è tutto,” she mumbled.
Anamaria looked tired, so they said their good-byes and walked out to the sunshine. There, James stared ahead at a vista she suspected he didn’t see, silent.
“Do you want to go to the tree?” Kyra asked.
“And do what?”
“Let go of some of that pain?”
He smiled at her. “You are the single most optimistic person I’ve ever met.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and put her head on his chest, feeling his heart. “Maybe the second most optimistic,” she said.
“Yeah, she was optimistic.” He stroked her hair slowly. “Okay, lemondrop. Let’s go see the tree.”
* * *
James didn’t know why Dad gave him the winery, but at least he knew why he bought it in the first place. And understood why he never returned or talked about it…or sold it.
Had he made a promise to Giorgio? Was James expected to keep that promise? That was exactly the opposite of what he planned to do.
“Right over here.” Kyra led him to a thick-trunked tree in the center of the grove, standing taller than the rest. “It was the first tree in the grove that the Sebastiani family planted fifty years ago when they took over the care of the winery. Every year, they’ve planted another tree here, so there are fifty-two, I think. But this was first.” She pointed to the tree, lifting her hand and gaze up to the mighty branches heavy with bright yellow fruit. More lemons were on the ground, too.
She got closer to the tree, examining the trunk, running her fingers over the bark. She looked up and smiled. “Oh. That’s why she sent us here.”
He followed her gaze and saw what Kyra did. Carved into the tree, inside a heart: Colin loves Kathleen.
Something that had existed as a wisp of a memory he rarely thought about suddenly sharpened into a clear and distinct image. The same words, in a heart, on another tree. “I’ve seen that,” he said.
“But you’ve never been out here.”
He stared at it, remembering when and where…and who. “It’s on a tree in Yosemite, at the Algoma Resort. My brother Luke owns the place now, and lives there, but once, when we were kids, we were on vacation there, and my mom…” He swallowed hard, a little choked up at the unexpected impact of the memory.
He hadn’t cried over her in twenty-three years. What the hell was wr
ong with him?
Kyra was silent, waiting while he cleared his throat to finish.
“My mom took me for a hike,” he finally said. “Just me. No pesky brood following along. I might have been…ten? Pretty young. I don’t remember the details, just that we were alone, because that was what was special.” He could still see his young, happy, carefree mother as she held his hand and pointed to her tree with some long story about how Dad had carved that when they met at the resort as teenagers.
“Must have been unusual to be just the two of you in a family that big,” Kyra said, staying close to him.
“Yeah, but she could do that, somehow. She could find ways to be alone with each of us even though there were so many. And when she did, it was…” His chest squeezed like his heart was in a vise grip.
“I bet it was nice,” Kyra suggested.
“Better than nice. It was the best feeling in the world. When Mom focused all her energy on you, it was like…” He couldn’t find a word without sounding ridiculous and like some lost little boy. “It was great.”
“She must have been awesome,” Kyra said, making his heart feel even more tender with her genuine sympathy.
“When we were alone, she always taught me something or made me laugh or…”
Son of a bitch, his eyes were tearing up.
“It’s okay, James,” Kyra said, taking his hand. “You’re so lucky to have had someone who loved you like that. Even if it was only for twelve years. You were so, so lucky.”
He nodded, digging for his composure, walking around the tree to make sure there were no more secret messages.
“So, he carved that into another tree?” Kyra asked.
“Yeah. I wonder if the old guy left it on trees all over the world.”
“It’s romantic,” she said softly.
“It is now. When I first saw that, I remember curling my lip at the grossness of how anyone could like a girl.”
She laughed. “Sounds like a ten-year-old boy who thinks girls are icky.”
“But that was her lesson that day,” he said, a little in awe as the realization hit him. “That was the point she was trying to drive into my ten-year-old thick head. That girls aren’t bad, but they are so…special.”