The Secret Kept from the Italian

Antonio was silent for a long time, his expression shuttering once more. Maisie didn’t think he was going to answer, and her heart twisted. She wanted to know. She needed to know. Antonio was her baby’s father and, more importantly, he was the only man in her life. She wanted to get closer to him, to help him if she could. To love him?

The question startled her. She didn’t love Antonio. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t know him well enough for that depth of feeling. And yet, she acknowledged, part of her wanted to love him. Wanted to open her heart, because she’d always wanted to open her heart. To find a person to love...and to love her back. But surely that couldn’t be Antonio. Nothing that had happened between them so far should make her think, hope, and yet...

‘Maisie,’ he finally said as her thoughts reeled, ‘will you do me a favour?’

‘A favour? What is it?’

He looked at her, his expression full of grief and appeal. ‘Will you play for me?’

* * *

Maisie’s mouth dropped open as she stared at him. Antonio knew he shouldn’t have come here. It had been a reckless act, driven by desperation and a deep, endless grief he kept at bay, or tried to, for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. On this night he let it out—and he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Maisie.

‘Play?’ Maisie whispered. ‘You mean...?’

‘Your violin. I’ve never heard you play, and I’d like to.’

‘I haven’t played in months,’ she admitted. ‘Not since Ella...’

‘Will you play for me?’ He wanted to hear her. He wanted to be carried away by music, on the wings of another person’s passion. Maisie’s passion. And most of all, for a little while, he wanted to forget. ‘Please?’

‘All right,’ she whispered, and she rose to retrieve her violin. Antonio closed his eyes, fighting against the tide of memory pulling him under, beckoning him to drown. One night a year he gave in to the regret and guilt, and yet it was so torturous.

The first strains swept over him in a symphony of sound and emotion. He recognised the aching, melancholy notes of Adagio for Strings, by the American composer Samuel Barber, and he let the music flood him, overwhelm and inhabit him.

It carried him away to that place of yearning and sadness he tried not to access, that split him right open and left him exposed and aching.

He didn’t realise the music had stopped until he felt Maisie’s hand on his damp cheek.

‘Antonio...’ His name on her lips was a plea, a promise. He kept his eyes closed, savouring her touch. Craving it, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’d tried to keep himself distant and safe

and here he was, undoing all that work. Wanting to undo it. ‘You seem so anguished,’ she whispered, her palm caressing his cheek. ‘So trapped...’

‘I am trapped.’ The words emerged from him in something close to a gasp. ‘I’ll never be free.’

‘Why?’ He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. ‘Why do you blame yourself for your brother’s death?’ she asked, her voice both soft and urgent. ‘That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?’

‘It was a car accident.’ He could hardly believe he was about to tell her the truth. ‘You know about car accidents, don’t you?’

A pause, a breath. ‘Yes...’

‘Reckless driver. A single moment. That’s how it was for your parents, wasn’t it?’

‘Is that what happened with your brother, Antonio? Were you driving?’

‘No, Paolo was. But I was driving the other car.’ He kept his eyes clenched shut, not wanting to see the dawning horror and judgement he knew would be on her face. ‘We were racing.’

‘Racing...’

‘Yes, racing. Extreme sports were our thing, our escape.’ He was trying to justify his actions, and he knew he couldn’t. ‘My thing,’ he amended. ‘My escape. And I brought Paolo along. My parents fought a lot, and my father was depressed after losing his job. It was a way to leave all that behind, if only for a short time.’

‘That seems understandable,’ Maisie murmured, but she sounded cautious, and who could blame her? Perhaps she could guess what he was going to say next.

‘Understandable or unimaginable?’ Antonio let out a hoarse laugh, more a cry of pain. ‘Paolo was five years younger than me. He looked up to me, for support and guidance, everything. And I led him to his death.’

‘It was an accident, Antonio—’

‘One that could have been so easily avoided. I urged him on, Maisie.’ He opened his eyes, needing to punish himself by looking at her as he told her the truth. ‘He didn’t even want to race that day. I called him a coward. I egged him on.’