Lovers' Reunion. Anne Marie Winston

his finger at her. “Are you trying to deny me a chance to snuggle that baby? And where’s your kiss for your poor old overworked papa? Hmm?”

      She laughed as she crossed the room and bussed her father’s cheek. “How can you be overworked? You’re retired.”

      “That’s right,” he replied, “And your mother thinks up more chores for me to do than I had when I did work.” He took Ana from Sophie’s arm with the ease of one who’d handled many infants. “So who’s this pretty one?”

      She explained Ana’s situation to him and left them getting acquainted in the living room. When she entered the kitchen, she discovered that her sister Arabella was there already. “Hi,” she said as she hugged first her mother and then Belle. “Where are the girls?”

      Arabella and her husband had three daughters now. “Elissa had a softball game,” she explained. “Lionel and her sisters are cheering her on. I begged off on the grounds that I needed a few childless moments at least once a week.”

      Sophie chuckled. “Do I detect a hint of exhaustion? Frustration? Mild insanity?”

      “D—all of the above.” Belle’s voice was dry. “With the girls squabbling nonstop these days, moments of peace are few and far between.” Belle’s oldest two daughters were only seventeen months apart, and at ten and nine, they no longer played like little angels.

      “This will pass,” predicted her mother. “And then they’ll be each other’s dearest friends, just like all my girls.”

      Belle stuck a finger down her throat in an exaggerated gagging gesture. “Yes, Mama.”

      “Sophie, did you hear Marco’s home?” Her mother pounded on the pasta board and muttered at her pasta in Italian.

      “Yes. Vee told me.” She steeled herself for the inevitable discussion.

      Belle and Edie both looked up from their work. “And...?” said her mother.

      Sophie met their avidly curious eyes with a bland smile. “And what?”

      “Oh, come on,” Belle said. “Did your heart go pitty-pat? Just the least little bit?”

      “Of course.” If she denied it, they’d know she was lying through her teeth. “He was my First Great Love. But I didn’t swoon, if that’s what you’re asking.”

      “Humph.” Her sister muffled a skeptical sound behind her glass on the pretext of taking a drink.

      “I saw him the other night,” her mother said. “He’s still gorgeous. But oh, so sad, what happened. He’ll never be right again.”

      “What happened?” Sophie repeated cautiously. This was probably one of her mother’s little jokes. A ploy to get her to talk about Marco.

      Belle looked up. “You know ... the accident, his leg.”

      “What accident?” The sincere sympathy in her sister’s voice was alarming and her voice rose slightly.

      Belle’s eyes grew round with concern. “Mama, didn’t you tell her?”

      Her mother was looking equally distressed. “No. I thought you or Vee told her.”

      “No,” said Belle. “I didn’t tell her. I assumed you—”

      “Tell me what?” Sophie’s sharp tone of voice cut through their twitter, and silence descended on the kitchen.

      “Well,” said Edie, “you know how Marco’s always traveling into jungles and rain forests and deserts and—”

      “Mama.” Sophie crossed her arms.

      “He was in a plane crash,” Belle said hastily. “Everyone else on board was killed. He was rescued but his leg was torn up badly and they thought it might have to be amputated. But it wasn’t.”

      “Oh, my goodness.” Sophie sat down abruptly at the table. “You’re not kidding.”

      “No,” said her mother. “I wish I was. Cesare and Dorotea were frantic. He was in a hospital somewhere in South America. He didn’t even call them until a month after it happened, and he refused to let them fly down. Dora sat here in this kitchen and cried her eyes out.”

      “Why didn’t I know this?” Sophie shook her head blindly. “Where was I?”

      There was a silence in the kitchen. “You were on vacation,” said Belle. “It was at the beginning of October. I guess it just got overlooked after you got back.”

      “Yes, and you know how busy you are, cara mia,” her mother put in. “I’m sorry. We just got our wires crossed, I suppose.”

      Sophie rose from the table. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. But it wasn’t. She walked to the back door and stepped out onto the small porch, needing the fresh spring air and a moment alone.

      At the beginning of October. The month was a difficult one for her. Kirk had died in October, and for the past two years she’d gone to a friend’s cabin beside a lake in Wisconsin to grieve alone. It would suit her just fine if the month of October were erased from the calendar.

      Then the shock of what she’d just been told set in. Images of Marco rose. Playing basketball, dancing a wild swing with one of his sisters on New Year’s Eve, climbing the oak tree to bring down her stranded kitten—Marco was such an active, vital man. His whole life had been built around his physical capabilities.

      He would be like a wild animal in a cage.

      Her breath caught and she forced down the sob that threatened. It was ridiculous to cry for Marco now. His accident had been seven months ago. He’d survived, and if he’d come home for the anniversary party under his own steam, he must be doing fine.

      A door slammed and the sound jarred her into looking around. A man stood on the back porch of the Espositos’ house. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair—

      And a cane.

      

      He’d been waiting for the excuse to talk to her for days.

      Now that she was actually standing mere yards from him, the breezy greeting Marco had practiced flew right out of his head. God, she was beautiful. He stood there, staring like an idiot as she turned her head and met his eyes.

      The impact slammed into his gut so hard he had to take a deep breath. Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to carry over the fence between them. “Hello, Sophie.”

      She simply stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled gently. “Hello, Marco. I heard you were home.”

      He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, even for a minute, but he wanted less to humiliate himself with a tumble down his parents’ porch steps, so he tore his gaze away and concentrated on getting down the steps and over to the white picket fence as fast as possible. The whole time, he was conscious of her watching his labored progress, and the slow burn of helpless rage at his uncooperative limb gnawed at the lining of his masculine pride. If only—

      No, he wasn’t going to go there. He had a burn leg, a knee that had forgotten it was supposed to bend, flex and bear weight. That was reality.

      It would get better than it was right now, he’d been assured, but he could never join his former colleagues in the field again because he couldn’t hike over rough terrain and he couldn’t carry a heavy pack of equipment for more than a hundred yards. He knew, because he’d tried.

      That was reality. And thinking about the way his life should be would destroy him as surely as that damned plane crash had destroyed his leg.

      He stopped when he reached the fence and leaned one arm casually atop one of the posts, forcing his inner turmoil back into submission as his gaze took in the woman he’d never forgotten. He hadn’t asked about her once in the years since he’d held her last, because he didn’t want anyone to think she was anything