Beautiful Secret Read online

  “How am I supposed to find this place?” Tate asked. And why couldn’t Zio or Michel do this for Zia?

  “Listen to me, Tatiana,” Zia said, removing her glasses and cleaning the lenses before continuing. “When you arrive in Valanidi, you will see signs for Trunca.”

  “That’s my grandmother’s hometown.”

  “Yes, I know,” Zia said, nodding, then becoming quiet, as if she were weighing the words she spoke next. “I have given you many chapters of your Nana’s story, Tatiana. Some your Nana may never have wanted me to tell.” She squeezed Tate’s hand and smiled through watery eyes. “You must find out the rest for yourself, cherie. Now, you must go to Trunca and locate this address.” Tate waited for further explanation, but none came.

  “Do you have a name you can give me, Zia?”

  Zia’s gaze drifted to the bed then. She leaned sideways and picked at a piece of blue lint that littered the white chenille spread. She said nothing.

  “Zia?” Tate placed her hand over her aunt’s, noticing its tremble. “Are you okay?”

  When Zia looked up again, Tate noticed there were tears in her eyes.

  “I know, Tatiana, that you wished for me to travel with you along the road of Maria’s youth.” Zia swallowed and continued. “I too wish that, cherie, but it is not to be,” she said, squeezing Tate’s hand.

  Tate’s shoulders slumped, but she didn’t speak, not wanting to cry even one more tear on this sad night.

  “Ahead of you is an amazing journey,” her aunt continued. “And you must let it lead you where it will. You have much to discover, Tatiana. Perhaps more than you bargained for.”

  Tate’s head snapped up then, her wide eyes asking Zia, without words, if she was referring to Nana Maria or to something else altogether.

  “My door is always open for you, my love. Come back to me when you’ve found all the answers your heart seeks.” Zia took Tate’s face into her hand and kissed her forehead, silently pressing the mysterious package into her niece’s open hands.

  “I love you, Zia,” Tate said, tears dotting her cheeks. “I promise I’ll come back.”

  “Good, good,” Zia said, rocking Tate’s body with her own. “Now, Tatiana, you must do as I ask and deliver this package. But do not mention anything of this to your uncle, you understand?” Zia’s eyes, now dry, regarded Tate seriously, dark and loaded but refusing to spill forth any hint of their knowledge.

  Tate sniffled and nodded. “Okay,” she said, burying her face once more in her aunt’s soft shoulder and inhaling the flowery black pepper scent of the woman she hated to let go. “I promise.”

  Chapter 20

  Tate

  “Could we make a pit stop?” Tate asked the comfortably quiet men in the front seat.

  “What is this you say, Tatiana? What is pit stop?” Michel asked.

  A smile found her lips at the way he pronounced the words—peet stoap. “A pit stop means to stop the car somewhere to use the restroom,” she explained.

  “Oh,” Michel said, grinning at her in the rearview mirror. “You have to make pee.”

  So much for modesty, she thought, rolling her eyes. “Yes, Michel, I do.”

  For the second time since she’d been in this country, she’d slept through her chance to take in the sights of France. They’d been driving for about four hours, and she’d hardly budged until the pulsing burn of a full bladder had jarred her awake a few minutes ago. “Is there somewhere close we can pull over?”

  “We are just outside of Strasbourg, cousine, a very beautiful place to see the sights and to stop for food.”

  “And to make pee?” she asked, smirking back at him in the mirror.

  “Yes, Tatiana,” he said with a snort. “Anyone can make pee at Strasbourg.”

  As she listened to Michel explain their conversation to Zio in his own language, Tate stretched her legs in the backseat and yawned. Her uncle turned and gave Tate the thumbs-up sign, and Tate returned the gesture with sarcastic vigor.

  The city of Strasbourg came into view like something out of an old Swiss storybook. From afar, Tate could see what looked like a medieval town, surrounded by water on all sides. A massive stone bridge stretched and swam into the town, connecting Strasbourg to the countryside beyond. Tate couldn’t help but think of Rapunzel as she noticed four tall towers, strategically placed along each curve of the bridge. Every tower boasted its own set of arched windows, complete with cascades of colorful flowers overflowing from their baskets.

  “This point is famous, Tatiana,” Michel said. “It is the Ponts Couverts. Very old, from the time of kings and queens.”

  Tate knew he meant the bridge and not “the point. This subtle comprehension thrilled her, but she pushed the thrill away, focusing on the view. “The architecture here is so unique,” she said.

  “Yes. There is much history in Strasbourg. A lot of pretty churches and buildings… gothique.”

  Pressing her face against the window, Tate glimpsed spires that reached skyward from several rooftops. With its old-fashioned architecture and cobblestone streets, the city made Tate wish she had a pair of wooden shoes and some braids in her hair.

  “We stop at a restaurant in this place, Tatiana,” Michel said as he guided the Mercedes down a narrow street and into a parking space.

  “Okay,” she said, applying a thin layer of gloss to her parched lips. She felt his eyes on her before she looked up and saw them, fixed on her slick mouth, serious. Clearing her throat, she stuck her lip gloss back into her purse and pushed the car door open.

  “I really have to go,” she said, and hopped out of the car, escaping Michel’s open-mouthed gaze and wondering just how the hell she was going to get through these next sixteen hours.

  * * *

  He was waiting across the hallway for her when she exited the restroom. Leaning against a rough slate wall, he stood with his long legs crossed at his feet, his faded jeans hanging loosely at his waist. He was studying his hands. Tate allowed herself a long look at him while no one was watching, noticing the stray strands of honeyed curls landing at his cheeks, staying her gaze upon his dense pink lips, remembering…

  “Tatiana.” Zio’s voice boomed in her ear, and she bounced up and out of her little daydream. Stealing a glance to make sure Michel hadn’t caught her staring, she felt the blush land instantly on her neck and face, adrenaline lacing up her arms. Tate gave Zio a weak smile, trying to ignore his one raised eyebrow.

  “Andiamo,” he said. Let’s go.

  “You should try a demi-pêche, Tatiana,” Michel told her after they’d been seated at a small, round wooden table in a corner of the dark, pub-like restaurant.

  “Si, bella,” Zio said, agreeing with his grandson. “Delizioso, demi-pêche.”

  This time it was her turn to raise a wary eyebrow at Zio, remembering her experience with his fiery grappa. The last time he’d told her to taste something, she’d nearly choked to death. “What is demi-pêche?”

  “It is a peach flavor of beer, made special in Strasbourg breweries. You will like it,” Michel said, his knee grazing her bare one slightly. Butterflies danced along her legs, landing aflutter at her center.

  Tate summoned all available effort to focus on the menu instead of the sudden heat lighting the narrow space between herself and Michel. Couldn’t they have been placed at a larger table? Just as the thought entered her mind, their elbows brushed.

  “Sorry,” they both said at once, snapping their faces toward each other.

  “Mamma mia,” Zio groaned and got up from his chair. He set down his napkin and hobbled off toward the restroom corridor at the back of the restaurant.

  “Huh,” Tate said, her shoulders hunched around herself, protecting both her virtue and her shame. “He must have to make pee.” She tried to speak the words in Michel’s French accent. Tried to be funny, to take the edge off of the ridiculously intense flavor of the moment.

  Just then, the server arrived with a pitcher of something frothy and amber
-colored.

  “The other man from your party ordered a pitcher of demi-pêche,” the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman explained, bending to place their glasses and beverage on the table. Tate’s eyes widened at the young woman’s massive breasts, each the size of a casaba and practically spilling forth from her blouse.

  “Merci, mademoiselle,” Michel said, smiling widely at the waitress, whose cleavage was practically resting on his right cheekbone.

  Tate felt her nostrils flare as the server flashed a bold grin at Michel. When she walked away, Tate noticed Michel’s eyes trailing the woman’s ass.

  Men and their wandering eyes.

  For some reason, the thought of Nathan and his wandering struck her then, poking at her insecurities and magnifying her imperfections in her own mind.

  “Nice waitress,” Michel said, pouring Tate a beer and handing it to her, taking obvious care not to allow his fingers to touch her own.

  She bit her lip before chancing a long drink of the almost opaque ale. “Mmm,” she said, letting the aftertaste of tart peach linger at the back of her tongue. “It is delicious.”

  Michel nodded. “I knew you would like it,” he said and then peered into her eyes. “You should trust me, cousine.”

  Tate choked on her beer then, as Michel’s pinky finger dusted her own.

  “Are you okay?” he asked nonchalantly, looking away from her.

  “Fine,” Tate said, and purposely knocked his knee with her own beneath the table.

  He snickered quietly and removed his hand from hers just as Zio rounded the corner and made his way back to the table.

  “Ti piace la birra?” he asked. Do you like the beer?

  Tate fingered the rim of her glass before lifting it deliberately to her lips and enjoying a long, slow sip.

  “Yes,” she told Zio. “Delicioso.”

  The remainder of dinner was quiet. Zio didn’t talk much as he ate his hamburger and mayonnaise-coated fries, and Michel and Tate exchanged only pleasantries.

  How does your food taste?

  Would you like more beer?

  But the insistent pulse of Tate’s desire was loud in her ears. It screamed through the silence and demanded attention. With the taste of peaches on her tongue and a beer buzz coating the edges of her consciousness with heady courage, she found herself staring hungrily at Michel.

  “Pago Io,” Zio said, snatching the greasy bill from the table and leaving them.

  Michel grabbed a fry from Zio’s plate and bit into it, staring back at Tate as he chewed. “What is it?” he asked her.

  Tate shook her head and looked away, tossing her hair to the side, thinking that she could drink a thousand peach-flavored beers and still lack the bravery to put her feelings into words.

  “We are going to have a long time together this vacation, Tatiana,” Michel told her. He edged forward in his chair and bent at the waist so that his face was nearly in her lap. Resting his chin between his fists, he looked up into her eyes, grabbing her attention with this simple gesture.

  “You don’t have to tell me, cousine,” he said. Straightening up, he used both of his hands to gently take hold of her head, turning it to face him.

  Tate squeezed her lips shut and died a little as Michel painstakingly gathered her hair into a pile of curls on the side of her face, taking care to sweep a stray ringlet from the bridge of her nose. Out of the corner of her eye, she snuck a peek at her uncle, grateful that his back was to them.

  A bright voice crashed into their moment, startling Tate and then annoying her as she realized it was the voluptuous blonde, once again sticking her boobs into the side of Michel’s face.

  “Was everything okay?” she asked. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” Michel answered, never taking his eyes away from the tender nest of curls he’d created at the nape of Tate’s neck. “Perfect, thanks.”

  Chapter 21

  Tate

  Seven hours, two oddly long tunnels, and endless miles of highway later, the Mercedes pulled onto a country road and began its trek into the Santerno Valley of Bologna, in the Emilia Romagna region of Italy.

  They’d crossed into Italy outside of Milan, and when Michel had brought her a takeaway cup of Italian coffee from a petrol station just over the border, she’d experienced her first taste of heaven.

  “It’s good, no?” Michel had asked after Tate took her first sip.

  “So good,” she’d said, curling herself into a ball and lazily finishing her beverage.

  Between Milan and Bologna they’d stopped twice, once to gas up and once to make pee. Each time she’d gotten out to stretch her legs, Tate had noticed a raw richness in the air, in the people and her surroundings. Italy itself amplified everything: tastes, smells, sounds.

  Now, long after sunset, as they ventured into the rolling land of the Santerno Valley, Tate felt tired but energized by the change of scenery. So much autostrada was starting to make her eyes cross, and the meandering road ahead was a welcome change.

  “I have a friend,” Michel said quietly, so as not to wake Zio Nino in the backseat. “She has a villa in the valley. There is her farm and also…un vigneto,” he told her.

  “A vineyard,” Tate said, noticing his use of Italian. “It sounds amazing.”

  “Yes, it’s very nice, Tatiana. And my friend, she let us stay the night gratis. No charge,” he told her.

  “That’s generous of her,” Tate replied.

  Michel opened the windows, and Tate breathed deeply. Lemony cool, the country air floated into her lungs. She sat back, enjoying the free feeling of her curls bobbing in the breeze.

  As the road narrowed and pavement gave way to a bumpy dirt road, Tate squinted, trying to make out the landscape through the darkness. From what she could tell at this late hour, the round hills were dotted with trees both tall and tiny. The dark silhouette of the valley promised to be beautifully green in the daylight.

  “We are nearly there, Tatiana,” Michel told her, steering the Mercedes with ease despite the bumpy road. “Look there,” he said. “Do you see the lights and then the drive?”

  When the view of Villa Daniela finally transposed from shadowy sludge to the outline of a rambling stone mansion, Tate fell in love. “It’s amazing,” she whispered. From their vantage point in front of the villa, they looked out at hills that seemed to tumble right into the mountains beyond, and above, just a sliver of moon.

  “Pretty, no?”

  “More than pretty,” Tate breathed as they pulled up in front of a row of porticos and a terra-cotta sign that proclaimed “Villa Daniela: Una Porta Aperta.”

  “Why does it say ‘An Open Door’?” Tate asked.

  Michel tilted his head to one side. “This I don’t know. Daniela, my friend, she never tell me her reason for naming the house this way.” He parked the car and turned off the engine. Tate sat, wide-eyed and still, amazed at both the home and the view that could be seen from its doorstep. When Michel’s hand covered her own, she turned to him. “Come, Tatiana,” he said, his eyes tired but still wanting—possibly even tired from so much wanting. “Let me show you Villa Daniela, okay?”

  “Shouldn’t we wake Zio?” she asked, glancing at her snoring uncle, who was curled onto his side in the backseat.

  Michel grinned. “My grandfather,” he said. “He will not leave this car for fear someone might steal it.”

  “He’s going to sleep there?” Tate couldn’t imagine the old man all scrunched up like that all night long. He’d be a stiff mess in the morning.

  Michel shrugged. “Maybe he come out when the sky begins to light.” He laughed. “He is a tough old man, Tatiana. Do not worry about your Zio,” he told her. Michel got out of the car and quietly pushed the driver’s door closed.

  Tate sat still in her seat and regarded him, wishing she could see his thoughts. Standing with his rear to the driver’s door, Michel had his hands in his back pockets, watching the sky or the moon, maybe.

  Perha
ps he was thinking of her and the different scenarios that could take shape in the space of one night.

  Her heart, which had calmed considerably since their moments at the restaurant in Strasbourg, was once again aflutter. No matter how deeply she tried to breathe, her chest remained tight.

  Tate watched Michel make his way around the Mercedes and open her door. Silently, he reached a hand out, and she let him help her out of the vehicle, her feet crunching down on the gravel drive. Stray pebbles found their way in between the straps of her sandals as he led her away from the car and toward the house. Tate’s heartbeat pulsed hot and hard in her ears; a cool sweat gathered on her forehead.

  A few feet from a door that Tate assumed would lead them inside, Michel suddenly stopped and turned slowly around. Standing a foot apart with their hands clasped between them, Michel stormed Tate with his eyes.

  “Do you need to get an overnight bag from the car?” he asked her, his voice a near-whisper.

  Tate tried to think about the question, tried to wrap her head around what she was walking into. Decidedly, she stopped thinking and just answered.

  “No,” she told him, her mouth full of lust and her head empty of reason. “I don’t need anything.”

  He didn’t smile then, just turned and continued toward the arched front door of Villa Daniela.

  “Do you have a key?” Tate asked.

  “It’s right here,” Michel told her, reaching into a heavy iron urn that stood beside the door and pulling out an old-fashioned brass key.

  She watched Michel slip the key into the lock, and when the doorknob clicked open, she shuddered. Michel’s friend could never have imagined how the name she’d chosen, the Open Door, could be so fitting, so meaningful to a certain July stranger in Daniela’s villa’s future.

  As the door creaked open, Michel turned and once again sought Tate’s eyes. He moved into her, closing the charged space between them. His hand slipped beneath her denim jacket and cupped her waist, pulling her into him. Tate felt pieces of herself evaporate at his touch.