‘I’m all for trouble.’ He raised his glass again. ‘Here’s to that as well.’
It was her turn to laugh, but memories of Mae brought back memories of Easton Hall. As much as Lake Como and Matteo’s villa were beautiful, Easton Hall washome. A home she wanted to go back to.
‘What did the engineer say about the house?’ she asked. Matteo’s face blanked smooth as a pond on a windless day. He took a long sip of his champagne.
‘He’s assessed the structure. Insurance is next.’
Which didn’t answer the most important question. ‘When can I go back?’
‘Easton Hall requires repairs and rewiring after the storm damage.’
‘That might be the case, but it’s my home.’
His eyes narrowed. His focus merciless, like a glaring spotlight in the dark. ‘Where you locked yourself away.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ It was as if a solid weight pressed on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. The place wasn’t her prison. She’d made a life there, taking tourists on tours through the house. There wasn’t a day she hadn’t felt safe, secure. ‘You don’t understand.’
He sat back, eyebrow raised. ‘Enlighten me.’
How could she share the terrible things her mother had done? So few people knew. Mae. Some doctors. The police. It had all been well hidden in the end. For the best, everyone said when her mother died. She didn’t know where to even start, so she took another sip of champagne. Breathing through the relentless pressure bearing down on her. Before she was forced to say anything more, a waiter arrived with some food. A plate filled with pillowy-looking balls in a creamy sauce. The memories of her past faded with the scent of cheesy deliciousness.
She didn’t want to look up and face Matteo’s relentless gaze, so she ate. The flavour burst across her tongue in its richness. She moaned.
‘Oh. My. Goodness. What is this?’
Matteo’s fork was partway to his mouth. His eyelids hooded.
‘It’s a local speciality. Gnocchi with Taleggio cheese. Have you never had gnocchi before?’
She took another forkful and it was as if a world of flavour had opened up to her.
‘No.’
Mrs Fancutt was a traditional cook, but her food was beautiful. Not quite like this, but it hadn’t mattered to a half-starved child what she ate, so long as no one tried to stop her.
‘Didn’t you ever wish—?’
‘I was happy for a home. That might be difficult for you to fathom.’
Matteo placed down his fork. ‘I’m trying to understand.’
‘There’s nothing much to understand. I’m a simple person. A creature of habit. I like things the way I like things.’
‘They keep you feeling safe,’ he said.
Louisa stilled. It was the first time someone had voiced how she’d felt.
‘Yes.’
‘And stable?’
She nodded. How did he know?
‘Because you lost your father and your mother and the world ceased to be a safe and stable place.’
‘Yes.’
It was such a simple and painful summation of her life, even if lacking some important context.
