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ANGIE WOKE THE next morning heavy-headed and bleary-eyed. Apprehensive about what lay ahead, confused about what had happened between her and Lorenzo last night, she dressed in jeans and a tunic, threw her hair into a ponytail and headed downstairs to the breakfast room, hoping it would be empty so she could spend a few minutes composing herself over coffee.
Her wish was not to be granted. Her husband sat by himself in the sun-filled room that overlooked the bay, the morning’s newspapers spread out in front of him. He looked gorgeous in jeans and a navy T-shirt, his thick, dark hair still wet and slicked back from his shower. It was utterly disconcerting the way her heart quickened at the sight of him, as if it had a mind of its own.
He looked up, gaze sliding over her face. “You slept in. That’s good. You needed it.”
She took a seat beside him at the head of the table, even though her brain was screaming for distance. It would have looked churlish to do otherwise.
“Constanza made your favorite,” he said, waving an elegant, long-fingered hand at the freshly baked banana bread on a plate. “And the coffee’s hot.”
“Thank you.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Where are my parents?”
“Your father went for a run. Your mother’s still in bed.”
And would be for a while, she figured, taking a sip of the hot, delicious coffee. His brow furrowed. “Your father, he is always this…distant when it comes to dealing with your mother?”
“Always. He thinks she is weak. That she should be able to conquer this addiction. When she slips it infuriates him.”
“That’s no way to get to the heart of the problem. Your mother needs support above all things.”
She eyed him. “You were the king of distancing yourself when I displeased you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, dark gaze flickering. “And we’ve talked about how I’m going to work on that.”
Right. And she was just supposed to take that at surface value? Forget the big stretches of complete alienation that had passed between them when he’d retreated into that utterly unknowable version of himself? How every time they’d made up in bed she’d thought it would be better just like she’d thought it would be better every time her mother promised to stop drinking, only to discover nothing had really changed.
She twisted her cup in its saucer. “It’s always been that way in my family. We are the exact opposite of the Riccis—instead of expressing our emotions we bury them. Instead of talking about things we pretend they don’t exist.”
He frowned. “Ignoring an addiction, continuing to perpetuate an illusion that everything is fine when it isn’t, is inherently damaging to all involved.”
“I told you my family is dysfunctional.”
The furrow in his brow deepened. “You said your mother started drinking when you were fifteen. What do you think precipitated it?”
She lifted a shoulder. “She always had the tendency to drink to cope with all the socializing. But I think it was my father’s affairs that did it. Ask her to represent the family three or four times a week—fine. Ask her to do that when everyone is talking about who my father is screwing that week…to suffer that humiliation? It was too much.”
“Why didn’t she leave him?”
“She’s a Carmichael. Image is everything. A Carmichael never concedes defeat. Ever. If we don’t get her help, she will drink herself into the ground proving she can make this marriage work.”
“That’s nuts.”
She arched a brow. “Didn’t you say there’s never been a Ricci divorce? It’s what our families do.”
He sat back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face. “That’s why you don’t like this world. Why you hate parties like the one we had last night. You hate what they represent.”
“Yes.”
“So you decided to leave me so you would never end up like your mother. You crave independence because you need to have an escape route in case our marriage falls apart like your parents’ did.”
Her mouth twisted. “That’s far too simplistic an analysis.”
“Perhaps, but I think your experiences drove your thinking with us. My withdrawal from you evoked shades of your father. Leaving you alone to cope while I went off to manage an empire. Except my vice wasn’t other women, it was my work.”
Her lashes lowered. “There may be some truth in that. But saying you’re going to be more present and doing it are two different things.”
“True,” he conceded. “We can start with your mother, then.”
“That’s my issue to handle.”
“No,” he disagreed. “It’s our issue. Like I said last night, we are going to handle this together. As a team. The way we should have the first time. You are not alone in this.”
She shook her head. “It gets messy with my mother. It will be awkward for you.”
“Exactly why I should be there.” His jaw was a stubborn, unyielding line. “I saw you last night, Angie, crumpled on the floor. You were a wreck. This isn’t going to be easy for you.”
She pushed a hand through her hair. “You want to solve this like you want to solve everything, Lorenzo. Snap your fingers and poof, it’s fixed. But it’s far more complex than that.”
“I know that. That’s why the power of two will be better than one.”
She exhaled a breath and stared out at the water, sparkling in the sun like the most electric of blue jewels. “We need to convince her to go back to the treatment facility in California. She’s refusing to go.”
“I may have an option. I called a friend of mine this morning. He had a brother in a facility in upstate New York that’s supposed to be a leading edge program. If your mother was closer, perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult for her. You could visit her more often.”
Her throat locked. The visits to see her mother in rehab had been the worst. Angry, bitter Della Carmichael had not gone easy despite recognizing the help she was getting. To put herself through even more of that with regular visits? The coward in her shrank from the idea, but she was starting to realize running from her problems hadn’t gotten her anywhere—not with her mother and not with her marriage.
“We could go see it,” her husband offered. “Then you can decide.”
She eyed him. Her husband wanted to solve her problem because it was just one more obstacle between him and what he wanted—a wife able to devote her full attention to him. And yet, when he had comforted her last night she could have sworn he truly cared. That she meant something to him.
Perhaps she needed to exhibit a show of faith in them if this was going to work—a tiny, baby step forward, with her head firmly on her shoulders, of course. Last night had proven the need for that.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go see it.”
Angie and Lorenzo flew to upstate New York the next morning and met with the staff of the treatment center. Nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks, the setting was lovely. By the time they’d finished touring the facility and meeting with the staff and doctors, Angie had an immediate comfort level with it.
They flew her mother