The Italian's Doorstep Surprise

“My favorite thing here,” Nico said, and dug in.

Picking up her fork, Honora tried to smile. She cut very slowly with her knife, and she forced herself to take a bite.

“How do you like it?” Nico said, watching her.

“Delicious,” she managed to say, trying not to breathe through her nose or taste the mushroom as she gulped it down.

He set his jaw. “Honora. If you don’t like something, don’t suffer in silence. Be honest. Speak up.”

“I hate mushrooms,” she blurted out. For a moment, she was shocked at herself, and even proud.

Then as she sat in the picturesque Italian restaurant with its amazing view, fear surged through her. What if Luigi’s feelings were hurt by her honesty? What if her husband was embarrassed, or what if he despised her for not being sophisticated enough to enjoy this meal? Would he tell her he no longer wanted such an unpleasant wife who made such selfish demands?

Setting down her fork, she nervously lifted her gaze. Her husband smiled at her, his dark eyes glowing. Then he turned, lifting his hand for the restaurant owner’s attention.

“Luigi. My wife doesn’t care for mushrooms. Please get her something else.”

“Sì, signore. But of course.”

Nico’s smile spread to a grin as he reached for her plate of mushrooms. “And I will take care of this.”

Two hours later, they finished the most delicious seafood pasta Honora had ever tasted, along with crusty bread and Caprese salad with ripe tomatoes, basil leaves and fresh mozzarella laced with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. She felt happy, relieved. It was strange. Something about Nico made her feel brave, like she had the right to speak up for herself. Like she shouldn’t take the blame for things that weren’t her fault. Like she wasn’t a burden, but a treasure.

S

miling, she drank creamy decaf coffee and finished a cannoli that was as sweet and light as air. Then her smile fell as she saw, on the other side of the empty cliff-side restaurant, Luigi tenderly kiss his wife. She saw his lips form the words Ti amo.

And just like that, all her happiness dissolved. Having told Nico that she loved him, she yearned so badly to hear those words back. How wonderful it would be to be loved, now and forever, after her hair had long turned to gray.

But why would she ever think she deserved to be loved like that, when—

She tried to push the thought away. But suddenly she couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Nico asked quietly. She looked at him, so handsome on the other side of the table, shadowed by the flickering light of the candle.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Any of it. I never have.”

“How can you say that? Of course you do. You’re the kindest person I know.” He gave a grim smile. “If you don’t deserve happiness, no one does.”

“You don’t really know me. What I did.”

“So tell me.” His voice was gentle.

Honora looked away. Through all the open-air windows, she could see the clusters of lights of Trevello’s houses and shops, stretching joyously up from the sea to the sky, twinkling like stars.

“When our car almost went off the cliff, just because I wanted pasta...it all came back.” She licked her lips, closing her eyes. “How I begged my parents to take me up to a pumpkin festival in the countryside, two hours outside the city. I thought if we could go, then maybe we’d be a happy family like in the ads.”

“What happened?”

“My parents fought the whole time. Just like always. My mother cried and begged as my father drank and criticized her. He drank the whole time we were at the autumn fair, then crashed the rental car into an oncoming truck on the way home. The other driver lived. So did I.” She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “But my parents died because I just had to sit on a hay bale and eat pumpkin bread.”

“No, cara.” His voice was gentler than she’d ever heard as he put down his small cup of espresso. “They died because your father chose to drink while he was driving his family in a car. It wasn’t your fault. You were a child.”

Honora looked up at him, her heart pounding. Then she told him the worst. “They were miserable because of me. They only married because of me. Because I was born. They grew to hate each other. That was why she cried and he drank. They felt trapped but didn’t know how to get out. Because of me.”

He put his hand over hers on the table.

“It was not your fault,” he said quietly. “Your parents made their own choices.” He pulled away his hand, straightening his shoulders as he sat back in his chair. “Forget the pain they caused you. Be happy. Live your life only for yourself.” He gave her a crooked grin. “That’s what I do.”