The Costanzo Baby Secret. Catherine Spencer
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accompanying her to the airport touched her arm sympathetically. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “I’ll see you safely to the plane.”
The thought of mingling with the general public appalled her. She’d seen herself in a mirror and knew what a spectacle she presented. Despite the clinic’s excellent food and the hours she’d lately spent in the sunlit gardens, she remained gaunt and pale. Her hair, once long and thick, was short now, no more than four or five inches, and barely covered the long curving scar above her left ear. Her clothes hung on her as if she’d lost a ton of weight or was suffering from some unspeakable illness.
When the car she was in arrived at the airport, though, it drew up not outside the departure terminal, but took a side road to a tarmac quite separate from the main runways, where a private jet stood and a uniformed steward waited to usher her aboard.
What kind of man was her husband, that she was entitled to such luxury, she who’d grown up in a workingclass neighborhood in east Vancouver, the only child of a plumber and a supermarket cashier?
Remembering her parents and how much they’d loved the daughter born to them years after they’d given up hope of ever having children brought a rush of tears to her eyes.
If they were still alive, she’d be going home to them, to the safe, neat little rancher on the maple-shaded street, half a block from the park where she’d learned to ride a two-wheeler bike when she was seven.
Her mom would fuss over her and bake her a blackberry pie, and her dad would tell her again how proud of her he was that she’d made something of herself and become such a success. But they were both dead, her father within weeks of retiring at sixty-eight, her mother three years later, and the neat little rancher sold to strangers. As a result, Maeve, already exhausted by the emotional upheaval of the day, was strapped in a divinely comfortable leather seat in an obscenely luxurious private aircraft, headed for a life that was nothing but a big, mysterious question mark.
CHAPTER TWO
ALTHOUGH not exactly chatty, when Mauve asked more about the place she was being taken to, the flight attendant wasn’t quite as tight-lipped as the medical personnel had been.
“It is called Pantelleria,” he said in careful English, as he served her a late lunch of poached chicken breast and asparagus spears so tender and young, they were almost premature.
“So I understand. But I don’t think I’m familiar with it.”
“It is an island, known also as the black pearl of the Mediterranean.”
“And still part of Italy?”
“Sì, signora. Close to one hundred kilometers southwest of the extreme tip of Sicily and less than eighty from Tunisia, which is in Africa.”
She hadn’t lost all her marbles. She knew where Africa was, and Tunisia, but Pantelleria? The name still didn’t ring a bell. “Tell me about this black pearl.”
“It is small, windy and isolated, and the road circling the island is not good, but the grapes are sweet, the sea is a clear, beautiful blue, the snorkeling and the sunsets magnifico.”
It sounded like a paradise. Or a prison. “Do many people live there?”
“Except for the tourists, not so many.”
“Have I lived there very long?”
She’d veered too far from the geographical to the personal. His face closed, and he straightened his posture as if he were on a parade ground and about to undergo military inspection. “May I offer you something to drink, signora?” he inquired woodenly.
She smiled, hoping to trick him into another revelation. “What do I usually have?”
The effort was wasted. His guard was up. “We have wine, juice, milk and acqua minerale frizzante on board or, if you wish, I can serve you espresso.”
“Sparkling mineral water,” she said testily, and decided that whoever met her when she arrived had better be prepared to give her some straightforward answers, because this whole secrecy conspiracy was getting old very fast.
But the questions bursting to be asked fled her mind when the aircraft skimmed in for landing and, descending the steps to the tarmac, she saw the man waiting to greet her.
If Pantelleria was the black pearl of the Mediterranean, he was its imperial topaz prince. Well over six feet tall, broad, sun-bronzed and so handsome she had to avert her gaze lest she inadvertently started drooling, he took her hand and said, “Ciao, Maeve. I’m your husband. It’s good to have you home again and see you looking so well.”
His thick black hair was expertly barbered, his jaw clean shaven. He had on tan linen trousers and a light blue shirt she recognized was made of Egyptian cotton, and sported a Bulgari watch on his wrist. By comparison, she looked like something the cat dragged in, and ludicrously out of place juxtaposed next to this well-dressed stranger and presumable owner the sleek private jet.
Privately he must have thought so, too, because, despite his kind words, when she ventured another glance at him, she saw the same pity in his dark gray eyes that had dogged her throughout her teenage years.
Desperate to give her advantages neither of them had enjoyed, her parents had almost bankrupted themselves to send her to one of the best private high schools in the city, never realizing the misery their sacrifice had caused her. They’d hidden their words behind their hands, those snooty fellow students born to old money and pedigrees, but she’d heard them anyway, and they had left scars worse than anything a car accident could inflict.
Poor thing, she could eat corn through a picket fence with those teeth….
No wonder she hides behind all that hair….
I feel bad not inviting her to my party, but she just doesn’t fit in….
An orthodontist had eventually given her a perfect smile, and flashing it now to hide the crippling shyness that still struck when she felt at a disadvantage, she said, “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m afraid your name’s slipped my mind.”
They had to be the most absurd words ever to fall out of her mouth, but if he thought so, too, he managed to hide it and said simply, “It’s Dario.”
“Dario.” She tried out the word, splitting it into three distinct syllables as he had and copying his intonation, as if doing so would somehow make it taste familiar on her tongue. It didn’t. She paused, hoping he’d enlarge on their relationship with a few pertinent details, and caught something else in his eyes. Disappointment? Reproach?
Whatever it was, he masked it quickly and gestured at the vehicle parked a few yards away. Not a long black limousine this time, but a metallic-gray Porsche Cayenne Turbo, which, although much smaller, she knew came with a hefty price tag attached. “Let’s get in the car,” he said. “The wind is like a blast furnace this afternoon.”
Indeed, yes. Her hair, or what remained of it, stood up like wheat stalks, and perspiration trickled between her breasts. She was glad to slide into the front passenger seat and relax in the cooling draft from the air conditioner; glad that she was on the last leg of the journey to wherever. Though the flight had lasted no more than a couple of hours from takeoff to landing, fearful anticipation of what lay ahead had left her weary to the bone.
Since Dario was so clearly disinclined to talk, she turned her attention to the passing scene as he drove away from the little airport, praying something she saw might trigger a memory, however slight. Soon they were headed south along the coast road the flight attendant had mentioned. It was narrow and winding, but picturesque enough.
To the left, neat patchwork vineyards protected by stone walls rose up the hillsides. Groves of stunted olive trees hugged the earth as if only by doing so could they prevent the winds from sweeping them out to sea.
On the right, turquoise waves shot through with emerald surged over slabs of