Page 99 of Forgive Me, Father
My voice was calm, but the glare I gave her left no room for argument.
Camilla stood tall beside me, silent, but I felt the tension humming off her like a wire pulled too tight.
“Can she speak Italian?The last time Fiona said she couldn’t.”
“Stop embarrassing me, please.I need you to like her, okay?”I sighed.“She is learning but it is a process.”
She let out a sigh but gave a small nod.My mother loves me, there’s no question, but she could be impossibly stubborn when she wants to be.
“Thank you,” I said, flashing her a wink before turning to Camilla.
She was holding herself a little too still, nerves tightening her posture.I could see it in the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress.
“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice softening as I reached for her hand, “I want you to meet the first love of my life.”
Camilla smiled.“Nice meeting you, Mrs.Pontisello.”
“Charming.The feeling is mutual.”
“I doubt that,” Camilla said without missing a beat.
Roberto let out a deep, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame, while my mother offered the faintest of smiles.“At least she’s not an idiot,” she muttered in Italian, which—for her—was practically a blessing.
I shot Camilla a wink just as my brother swooped in, ever the charmer, taking our mother’s arm and leading her away like some old-world gentleman.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I murmured, pulling Camilla into a hug.
“No,” she said, relaxing a little against me.“But I’d still love to know what she really said when she saw me.”
I smirked.“That you’re beautiful.”
“Liar.”She laughed, her voice low and warm against my chest.
I kissed the tip of her nose and laced my fingers through hers, gently guiding her toward the patio doors.
Outside, the estate grounds had been transformed for the occasion.A massive white marquee tent billowed in the soft spring breeze, its sides tied back to reveal long tables draped in linen, glittering with glassware and silver.Strings of warm lights zigzagged above, glowing against the early afternoon sky.The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and baked pastries drifted through the air, mingling with the faint floral perfume of the garden.
Every relative I’d ever known, including some I swore I hadn’t seen since childhood, was already there.A sea of familiar faces, laughter, clinking glasses, and gossip humming like static.
A sudden rush of energy came as a pack of little boys tore across the grass, shouting my name like I was some kind of hero.Most of them belonged to Maggie, Loretta’s older sister, and, surprisingly, one of the kindest women in the family.Camilla smiled, startled but soft, as they surrounded us.
For the next fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I became the unofficial emcee, guiding Camilla from one relative to the next, introducing her with a pride I didn’t bother to hide.She greeted each person with grace, even as the weight of their judgmental stares lingered a little too long.
“It’s really beautiful here,” Camilla said, her gaze sweeping over the hilltop, down to where the ocean shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun.The wind played with the edges of her ponytail, and for a moment, she looked completely at ease, like she belonged here.
“It is,” I replied, though I wasn’t looking at the view.I was looking at her.
She smiled, and I gently guided her toward our table, set near the back of the tent, far from the spotlight.I never did like sitting up front, paraded around like a showpiece.
Fiona arrived a few moments later, her arm linked with a man I didn’t recognize.Her plus one, no doubt.
“Camilla,” Fiona said with a forced smile, her tone just a little too bright.
“Fiona.”Camilla’s response was flat, emotionless, a verbal shrug that landed like a slap.
I placed a steady hand on Camilla’s back, tracing a slow circle as I glanced at Fiona.She caught the look I gave her and immediately backed down, eyes widening with a silent apology.She swallowed hard, visibly tense.I gave her the faintest nod, just enough to let her know she’d stepped out of line, but the moment had passed.
“Pierre,” Fiona said quickly, trying to recover.“I want you to meet my oldest brother—Alfonso Pontisello.”
