The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

not a personal decision belonging to two people.

      ‘It’s Aysha’s choice.’ He turned to look at her, his smile infinitely warm and sensual as he took hold of her hand and brushed his lips to each finger in turn. His eyes gleamed with sensual promise. ‘We both want a large family.’

      Bastard, she fumed silently. He’d really set the cat among the pigeons now. Teresa wouldn’t be able to leave it alone, and she’d receive endless lectures about caring for a husband’s needs, maintaining an immaculate house, an excellent table.

      Aysha leaned forward, and traced the vertical crease slashing Carlo’s cheek. His eyes flared, but she ignored the warning gleam. ‘Cute, plump little dark-haired boys,’ she teased as her own eyes danced with silent laughter. ‘I’ve seen your baby pictures, remember?’

      ‘Don’t forget I babysat you and changed your nappies, cara.’

      Her first memory of Carlo was herself as a four-year-old being carried round on his shoulders, laughing and squealing as she gripped hold of his hair for dear life. She’d loved him then with the innocence of a child.

      Adoration, admiration, respect had undergone a subtle change in those early teenage years, as raging female hormones had labelled intense desire as sexual attraction, infatuation, lust.

      He’d been her best friend, confidant, big brother, all rolled into one. Then he’d become another girl’s husband, and it had broken her heart.

      Now she was going to marry him, have his children, and to all intents and purposes live the fairy tale dream of happy-ever-after.

      Except she didn’t have his heart. That belonged to Bianca, who lay buried beneath an elaborate bed of marble high on a hill outside the country town in which she’d been born.

      Aysha had wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t, for Bianca had been one of those rare human beings who was so genuinely kind, so nice, she was impossible to dislike.

      Carlo caught each fleeting expression and correctly divined every one of them. His mouth softened as he leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple.

      She blinked rapidly, and forced herself to smile. ‘Hands-on practice, huh? You do know you’re going to have to help with the diapering?’

      ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

      Aysha almost believed him.

      ‘I’ll serve the cannoli,’ Gianna declared. ‘And afterwards we have coffee.’

      ‘You women have the cannoli,’ Luigi dismissed with the wave of one hand. ‘Giuseppe, come with me. We’ll have a brandy. With the coffee, we’ll have grappa.’ He turned towards his son. ‘Carlo?’

      Women had their work to do, and it was work which didn’t involve men. Old traditions died hard, and the further they lived away from the Old Country, Aysha recognised ruefully, the longer it took those traditions to die.

      Carlo rose to his feet and followed the two older men from the room.

      Aysha braced herself for the moment Teresa would pounce. Gianna, she knew, would be more circumspect.

      ‘You cannot be serious about returning to work after the honeymoon.’

      Ten seconds. She knew, because she’d counted them off. ‘I enjoy working, Mamma. I’m very good at what I do.’

      ‘Indeed,’ Gianna complimented her. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job with the house.’

      ‘Ecco,’ Teresa agreed, and Aysha tried to control a silent sigh.

      Her mother invariably lapsed into Italian whenever she became passionate about something. Aysha sank back in her chair and prepared for a lengthy harangue.

      She wasn’t disappointed. The use of Italian became more frequent, as if needed to emphasise a point. And even Gianna’s gentle intervention did little to stem the flow.

      ‘If you had to work, I could understand,’ Teresa concluded. ‘But you don’t. There are hundreds, thousands,’ she corrected, ‘without work, and taking money from the government.’

      Aysha gave a mental groan. Politics. They were in for the long haul. She cast a pleading glance at Carlo’s mother, and received a philosophical shrug in response.

      ‘I’ll make coffee,’ Gianna declared, and Aysha stood to her feet with alacrity.

      ‘I’ll help with the dishes.’

      It was only a momentary diversion, for the debate merely shifted location from the dining room to the kitchen.

      Aysha’s head began to throb.

      ‘Zia Natalina has finished crocheting all the baskets needed for the bomboniera,’ Gianna interceded in a bid to change the subject. ‘Tomorrow she’ll count out all the sugared almonds and tie them into tulle circles. Her daughter Giovanna will bring them to the house early on the day of the wedding.’

      ‘Grazie, Gianna. I want to place them on the tables myself.’

      ‘Giovanna and I can do it, if it will help. You will have so much more to do.’

      Teresa inclined her head. ‘Carlo has the wedding rings? Annalisa has sewn the ring pillow, but the rings need to be tied onto it.’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘I must phone and see if she has the ribbon ready.’ She gathered cups and saucers together onto the tray while Gianna set some almond biscuits onto a plate.

      ‘The men won’t touch them, but if I don’t put a plate down with something Luigi will complain.’ She lifted a hand and let it fall to her side. ‘Yet when I produce it, he’ll say they don’t want biscuits with coffee.’ Her humour was wry. ‘Men. Who can understand them?’ She cast a practised eye over the tray. ‘We have everything. Let’s join them, shall we?’

      All three men were grouped together in front of the television engrossed in a televised, soccer match.

      Luigi was intent on berating the goal keeper for presumably missing the ball, Aysha determined, and her father appeared equally irate.

      ‘Turn off the set,’ Gianna instructed Luigi as she placed the tray down onto a coffee table. ‘We have guests.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ he grumbled. ‘They’re family, not guests.’

      ‘It is impossible to talk with you yelling at the players.’ She cast him a stern glance. ‘Besides, you are taping it. When you replay you can yell all you like. Now we sit down and have coffee.’

      ‘La moglie.’ He raised his eyes heavenward.

      ‘Dio madonna. A man is not boss in his own house any more?’

      It was a familiar by-play, and one Aysha had heard many times over the years. Her father played a similar verbal game whenever Gianna and Luigi visited.

      Her eyes sought Carlo’s, and she glimpsed the faint humorous gleam evident as they waited silently for Gianna to take up the figurative ball.

      ‘Of course you are the boss. You need me to tell you this?’

      Luigi cast the tray an accusing glance. ‘You brought biscuits? What for? We don’t need biscuits with coffee. It spoils the taste of the grappa.’

      ‘Teresa and Aysha don’t have grappa,’ she admonished. ‘You don’t think maybe we might like biscuits?’

      ‘After cannoli you eat biscuits? You won’t sleep with indigestion.’

      ‘I won’t sleep anyway. After grappa you snore.’

      ‘I don’t snore.’

      ‘How do you know? Do you listen to yourself?’

      Luigi spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘Ah, Mamma, give it up, huh? We are with friends. You cooked a good dinner. Now it is time to relax.’ He held out a beckoning hand to Aysha. ‘Come here, ma