One minute before nine she left her room, headed down the stone stairs and counted the doors on the left, opening the second door as instructed.
The music room looked like a formal sitting room with antique chairs and oil paintings on the walls. The baby grand piano near the tall leaded window was the only instrument in the room. On closer inspection Monet discovered that the oil painting hanging over the fireplace was of a young woman playing the harp, while the painting near the piano was of a man playing the violin. So she was in the right room—this had to be the music room—but where were Marcu and the children?
She glanced at her watch. It was a minute past nine now. Perhaps they were still at breakfast.
She walked to the piano and lightly ran her fingers over the keys, not pressing hard enough to create sound. The keys were smooth beneath her touch and she was tempted to sit down and play something—she’d never had formal lessons but she’d learned to play by ear—but wasn’t sure if Marcu would frown on her playing the piano here. He’d once played the piano. He’d been a serious musician, taking lessons and practicing for an hour or more every day. At the palazzo she’d creep into a corner and listen to him practice, amazed by his gift. When he played, he made her feel so much. Maybe it was music that had made her fall in love with him.
“Sorry to be late,” Marcu said in English, as he entered the room, looking sophisticated and impossibly masculine in a black turtleneck sweater and black wool trousers. He didn’t wear the clothes, they wore him, hugging his broad shoulders and narrow waist, while outlining his muscular torso and thighs.
Heat washed through her, and Monet bit down into her lower lip, hating the sudden weakness she felt as Marcu ushered his three shy young children toward her.
The children all had dark glossy hair, but it was the smaller boy, the one who must be Antonio, that was the spitting image of Marcu. The resemblance was so strong it nearly made Monet smile. “Buongiorno,” Monet said huskily in Italian. Good morning.
“These are my children,” Marcu said, switching to Italian as he lined the children up by age. “Matteo, Rocca, and Antonio.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Monet said, approaching Matteo first and shaking his hand. “I am Monet.”
“Signorina Wilde,” Marcu corrected. “I can call you Monet because I have known you many years, but the children must call you Signorina.” He clapped Matteo firmly on the shoulders. “And they will be good for you. They have promised to be obedient and polite and not make things difficult while you are here with them.”
Marcu couldn’t see how the little girl’s face tightened, or how young Antonio blinked hard to hide the fact that his eyes were watering. She felt a pang of sympathy. The children were even more anxious about the change in their child care than she was. “I am only temporary,” she reassured them. “Signorina Sheldon will be back before you know it.”
“I have a great deal to attend to,” Marcu said. “Can I leave them to you, Signorina Wilde? You’re welcome to stay here or go upstairs to the nursery. I’m certain the children will be happy to show you around.”
“We’re fine. Please, don’t worry about us,” Monet assured him, giving him a bright smile. “See you later.”
“We’ll all have dinner tonight,” he answered, heading for the door. “I’ll see you then.”
After Marcu left the music room, there was just silence. The three children gazed at her, clearly uncertain, as well as more than a little curious.
It had been a long time since Monet had spoken Italian but she was sure it wouldn’t take long for it to come back as it was a language she’d spoken daily for years. “Do any of you play?” Monet asked, pointing to the piano.
The children shook their heads.
“Mamma used to play,” the little girl said. “This was her music room.”
“Your father plays for you, doesn’t he?”
They looked at each other, puzzled, before shaking their heads.
“He used to play really well,” Monet said, but this was followed by more silence. Monet gazed back at the children, lips curved, uncertain as how to proceed. She remembered from her past work that if she was too friendly the children would think her weak, and someone to be ignored, but if she didn’t appear somewhat friendly and kind, then they would fear the worst.
“Did you really use to live at our house?” the little girl, Rocca, asked after a moment.
“This one?” Monet asked. “No—”
“No, not here,” Rocca said quickly. “This isn’t our home, this is Nonno and Nonna’s house. Our house is in Palermo.”
“The palazzo?” Monet clarified.
The children nodded.
Monet sat down on the edge of one of the chairs upholstered in gold silk. “I did. I knew your father when I was much younger, and I spent six years at the palazzo. It’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it?”
“It’s very old,” Matteo said. “I like more modern houses.”
Monet’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you interested in design?”
“No, but you can’t get good Wi-Fi in the palazzo, at least, not in parts of it,” Matteo said mournfully. “And it’s even worse here. Here there is no internet. I can’t play games with my friends.”
“But you won’t be here forever, and then you’ll be back in Palermo,” Monet replied. “Surely there are fun things about being here. Tell me some of your favorite things to do.”
For a moment no one said anything, and the children looked at each other before Matteo shrugged. “We mostly do nothing. Everyone is very busy.”
“And what about your father?” Monet couldn’t help asking the question.
“He is very busy with work,” Matteo said with a sigh, sounding resigned.
“Papà is important,” Antonio added forlornly. “Everybody needs him.”
The three faces before her looked so woebegone that Monet immediately wondered how much of their father they actually did see. “Well, I hate sitting around doing nothing so the four of us will do lots of fun things. We will need to make a list.” Monet glanced from one young face to another, not certain why they weren’t more enthused. “I would think this is a magical place to spend Christmas.”
“Maybe,” Matteo said, shoulders shrugging. “We used to come in summer. This is the first time we’ve come for Christmas.”
Monet hid her surprise. From the way Marcu had described taking her to the children in the Alpine castello, one would have thought this was their annual tradition. “I didn’t realize. I thought you came here every year.”
“No. But Papà says it’s going to be a different Christmas this year,” Rocca said, before glancing at her brothers. “We don’t know what that means.”
Monet felt a heavy, sinking sensation in her chest. Had Marcu not yet told them that he was leaving them for the Christmas holidays? But she couldn’t bear to think of that, not yet. “When were you last here? In the summer?”
“No. It’s been a long time,” Matteo said.
“I didn’t even remember it,” Rocca said.
“Me, either,” Antonio said.
“That’s because you’ve never been here before,” Matteo said to Antonio before glancing at Monet.
“Papà didn’t want to come here after Mamma died. It was her house. We inherited it when Nonno and Nonna died. They are all gone now.”
“Inherited means it’s ours now,” Rocca said gravely.