‘What about if the other person wants to buy you things?’ Sam asked. ‘What if that brings them happiness? I mean I could sit and drink this wine alone, and I could have gone out to Grotto Maria and had dinner for one, but that would have been sad. Having you share those things with me adds to my enjoyment. You can’t put a price on that.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be independent,’ she told him. ‘And having somebody buy me dinner doesn’t really make me feel as if I’m succeeding on my own. I don’t like accepting things if I can’t give something back in return.’
Sam tipped his head to the side, scrutinising her. ‘Did Cristiano pay for your dinner?’
Cesca blinked twice. There was a jealous tone to his question, that she couldn’t help but notice. And it warmed her from the inside out. ‘I don’t think he was charged,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t see a bill, and I suspect it was a freebie because he was thinking of buying the place.’
Sam looked gratified. ‘Cheap bastard.’
A shocked giggle tumbled from Cesca’s lips. ‘That’s rude. And anyway you’re the one stealing wine from your father. What does that make you?’
He winked. ‘Messed up and full of issues.’
There he went again. This time she couldn’t swallow down her interest. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
She sighed. ‘You keep bringing this up and shooting me down. I don’t get it. It makes me feel . . . ’ She trailed off, her face screwed up as she tried to find the right word. ‘Like I’m not good enough.’
He looked shocked. ‘What do you mean? Of course you’re good enough. Too good, if I’m being honest.’
Cesca twisted the napkin between her fingers, looking down at her empty plate. ‘I’ve opened myself up to you, I’ve let you read my play. I’ve told you all about my problems and my issues and my family. But every time things get personal you just pull away.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘And I get it, I think. This is just casual to you, and that’s OK.’
Sam’s expression was pinched. ‘It’s not casual,’ he said quietly.
For some reason that made her chest ache. ‘Then why won’t you talk to me?’
He reached out for his empty wine glass, running his finger around the rim. A soft hum echoed from the crystal. ‘It’s old news.’
‘No it isn’t.’ She pushed her plate out of the way and leaned across the table. ‘I can tell by your face it’s still important.’
He blinked, looking at her with heavy-lidded eyes. For a moment he looked like a child. Young. Lost.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done it again. It has nothing to do with me.’
He was still looking at her, and his expression was breaking her heart. She stared back, her lips firmly closed, feeling the electricity buzzing in the air. For a moment neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room the tinny ring from his crystal glass.
Eventually, he leaned back on his chair, his eyes still on hers. ‘Actually, it has everything to do with you.’
She frowned. ‘It does?’
He nodded slowly. ‘You asked me before why I left the play so suddenly. I think I said some bullshit about family stuff. I guess that much was true.’
Goose pimples broke out on her flesh, in spite of the warmth in the kitchen. She felt as though she’d smashed through an invisible barrier.
‘The night before we opened, I got into an argument with Foster. Not that it was unusual in those days. It felt like every time we saw each other we almost came to blows. I could never do anything right as far as he was concerned.’ Sam paused for long enough to refill both their glasses, then took a long sip of wine. ‘He’d been drinking. He was a nasty drunk – still is, I guess. But that night he took it to a whole new level.’
Cesca’s hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Sam’s face took on a faraway look, as though he was reliving that moment with his father.
‘I was a bit of a punk, too,’ Sam told her. ‘You’d probably agree with that. I was cocky, arrogant, thought I could rule the world. I didn’t miss an opportunity to rub it in Foster’s face, either. I’d call him an old man, tell him his time was over, told him to make way for the younger generation. Stupid stuff like that. But that night, I tipped him over the edge. Told him he wasn’t good enough for Mom, that he never was. That she’d have been better off never marrying him.’
‘And then?’ Cesca was full of trepidation.
‘Then he grabbed me by the collar and shoved me against the wall, hard enough for my head to bang against the plaster. The next minute he was screaming at me that I was a little bastard, that I was no son of his, that if he hadn’t married my mom the two of us would be rotting somewhere.’
‘Your dad called you a bastard?’ she asked, wide-eyed.
Sam looked down at his hands. ‘Funny thing was, he was right.’