chilled champagne was beside the table and a bottle of
red wine at the center, next to a basket of small rolls. "Thank you. Mamma Diana," Thatcher said,
and extended his hand to me. "Willow," he mouthed,
kissed me quickly, and pulled out my chair. "Bon appetito," Mamma Diana wished us. "Grazie, ma con il sou cibo, non c'e problema
con l'appetito,"
Thatcher said, and she laughed as she moved
away.
"What did you say?"
"I thanked her and told her that with her food,
there is no problem with appetite."
"I didn't know you could speak fluent Italian." "Cosi, cosi, abbastanza d'arrangiarmi. So-so,
enough to get by." he replied, and sat.
"You can get by quite a bit with that," I
quipped, and he laughed.
Then he reached across the table to hold my
hand.
"I missed you so much. Willow. Those days we
had, the picnic on the boat, those nights, were so
special, the memory of them was enough to sustain
me until you returned. I thought we'd have a
champagne toast to celebrate your coming back, back
to me."
I tilted my head.
"Maybe you really are Kirby Scott's son.
Thatcher,"
His smile wilted.
"I mean what I say. Willow. Kirby Scott came
here and used words like a magician uses the turns of
his hand to distract and confuse and betray," he said
sternly. "That's not my intent or purpose."