When there was a lull in tasting-room traffic, Tara came over to the table. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” I said, standing to pull out the chair next to me. “How’s your day been so far?”
Her smile was broad, and her eyes sparkled. “We’re selling a lot of wine. Good, since that’s the goal.”
“I’ve become obsessed with the idea of you painting. I’m beginning to feel like a pest.”
“Rightly so.”
I smiled. “Is anyone else in your family as artistic as you are?”
Her eyes hooded. “No. Why do you ask?”
I didn’t like her response any more than she liked my question. I’d hit on something; I was certain of it. “Just part of me learning everything I can about you.”
“Better get back to work.” She stood and walked away.
Fuck. Why did my every instinct scream she was hiding something?
That night and the next morning, Tara had pulled back from me, reinforcing my suspicions. I’d also happened upon her typing something into her phone, stayed hidden, and watched while she continued an exchange.
I let her off the hook that first night, saying too much had taken place that day and we could put off talking about why she was in Italy. The time had come for us to have the conversation I knew in my gut would drive us even farther apart.
Before we did that, I needed to schedule a meeting with Matteo Casavetti. Something else I’d been putting off. In order to do that, my preference was that Tara stay at the farmhouse. Given she’d worked the last two days and the tasting room was closed tomorrow, I contacted the AISE agent, asking him to confirm we could meet the following day and that he could provide additional backup here at Valentini.
“I have a meeting in Florence tomorrow,” I said to Tara later, as we sat on the terrazza, having dinner prepared for us by Nonna Bella. Pia had begged off, saying she had work to do, but my guess was it was really to allow Tara and I to have a romantic evening.
She nodded and put another forkful of food into her mouth.
“While I’m gone, I’d like you to remain at the farmhouse. There will be people there making sure you’re safe.” She didn’t react in any way. “Ta
ra?”
She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard my gaffe. “Um, yes, thank you, Ben.”
“Please look at me.”
She set down her fork and did as I asked.
“While you may not realize it, I’m on your side. You can trust me, Catarina.”
“Can I?”
I’d been giving her space, waiting for her to open back up to me. Maybe that was the wrong approach. I reached over and took her hand. “You can trust me,” I repeated.
“You say that, but…”
I shook my head. “I say that because I mean it.”
She shook her head too. “You hardly know me,” she whispered. It was a recurring theme, one I had little argument against. How could I say in one breath that I did know her while, in the other, say how I wanted to learn everything about her? They were contradictory statements. Was there something I could say instead? I thought back to my childhood and the words my parents repeated to my sister and me often.
“No matter what you get yourself involved in, whether you’re in trouble or in over your head in some other way, you can come to your mother and me. We’ll always help.” I said the words to Tara in the way my father said them to me. “I grew up knowing I never had to overcome anything I believed was insurmountable on my own.” I lowered my voice. “I’m making the same promise to you, Tara. No matter what it is, or even who it is, I will help you.”
“That’s a promise?”
I crossed my heart and raised my hand like some kind of damn nine-year-old Boy Scout. “It’s a promise.”
Tara nodded. She wasn’t ready to talk, but she had listened. For now, that was as much as I could ask for.