Lucia (The Bonaveras) Read online

  A Murderous Game

  Run Rachael Run

  The Glebe Point Series

  This Time Forever

  Letters To Gabriella

  Return To Glebe Point

  The Bonaveras

  Lucia

  Caterina

  Caterina available 2017

  Cover design, interior book design,

  and eBook design by Blue Harvest Creative

  www.blueharvestcreative.com

  Edited by S.M. Ray

  Lucia

  Copyright © 2016 Patricia Paris

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Windswept

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2016954221

  Print edition ISBN numbers:

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-12-7

  ISBN-10: 1-946006-12-2

  Visit the author at:

  www.authorpatriciaparis.com &

  www.bhcpress.com

  Also available in trade softcover

  Thank you to the special five who have endured countless winery visits and wine tastings with me in the quest to learn about Virginia’s amazing wine industry. You know who you are!

  To my earliest readers, Nette Boliver, Sophie Moss, and Nadine Schneider, I can’t thank you enough for the time and thoughtfulness you put into reading the first drafts of this book and giving such wonderful feedback and insights. You are all awesome!

  Special thanks to John von Senden, for leaping into a new genre by reading his first romance novel to consult with me on architecture, licensing, and building materials. If I got any of it wrong, the fault is mine, not his.

  As always, I am extremely grateful to my editor, Sandra Ray, for the care and meticulous attention she gives to my work. You’re the best, Sandra!

  To my publisher BHC Press, thank you for your dedication to your authors, your guidance and support, and for turning my books into such beautiful works for my readers to enjoy.

  And to my husband John—you are the wind in my sails—thank you for believing in, and being there for me, always.

  The days of wine and roses

  Smile and run away like a child at play...

  Johnny Mercer,

  “Days of Wine and Roses”

  Cortona, Italy 1986

  Autumn drenched Cortona, rich, warm, golden beneath a Tuscan sun that painted the valley below in shades no artist brush could duplicate, no man with a soul could witness that his heart would not weep at its beauty.

  Rodrigo Bonavera and Vincenzo DeLuca sat at one of the two small iron tables nestled close together on the gravel courtyard situated on the side of Rodrigo’s villa. It was their habit to do so, just as they had many other evenings too numerous to recall, discussing the harvest, politics, family, or whatever took their fancy in the moment.

  From this perspective they could appreciate the gently rolling hills, so much a part of the countryside, the fields, and the mountains beyond, for they were men of the land. It fed their spirits as much as the air fed their lungs.

  “Mio bel paese,” Rodrigo murmured, as he was known to do when he was in an appreciative mood of his homeland, which was often. He picked up the wine glass in front of him and raised it to the light.

  The liquid nectar turned a rich, jewel red in the evening’s waning rays. He regarded Vincenzo, a man he had known since he was a mere lad of six, born on the same day, in the same year, fifty-eight years to the day.

  They had much in common. Both embraced tradition and held family close to their heart. Each had dark hair, peppered now with grey, and the weathered skin of men who worked long days in the sun.

  Rodrigo’s eyes were dark, black pearls his Sophia called them, for there was almost no brown in them, and when he laughed, she said they shown like jewels. Vincenzo’s were an unforgettable shade of blue, clear as a cloudless summer sky, rich and pure, and many a girl had fallen for those eyes before they did the man in his younger days.

  “You are the brother of my heart,” Rodrigo said, “no less than if we had sprung from the same womb. That we would each be blessed in such a way, it cannot be coincidence. Destiny, Vincenzo, it can be nothing less than destiny.”

  He brought the glass to his nose, scented the ruby ambrosia inside, and then tipped it toward his friend. “Your grandson, my granddaughter, born these many years later each on the same day as you and I. I believe we are right in this, my friend. It is a sign—a sign our families are meant to come together as one.”

  “We are agreed then.” Vincenzo tapped the rim of his glass to Rodrigo’s. “To our grandchildren. May they marry and prosper, and may our blood blend and flow through their children’s children.”

  “Yes, we are agreed, and although they may not be happy with us when they discover what we’ve done, they will thank us one day.”

  Each man drank, sealing a pact that bequeathed their firstborn grandchildren, Lucia Bonavera and Antonio DeLuca, neither more than five hours old, one to the other.

  “When will your son and his wife return from the States, Vincenzo?” Rodrigo inquired. “They’re planning to come home soon, are they not?”

  “Yes. I asked him the same question when he called to tell me of Antonio’s birth this afternoon. I told him I did not want to wait until my only grandchild was walking before I laid eyes on the lad. Their visas expire in a month and they will be returning then.”

  Rodrigo nodded. “Your grandson, he will be American as well as Italian.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I believe because he was born in the States he will automatically be a citizen of that country as well as our own.”

  “That may be, but he will be Italian first, in his heart.”

  “Of course he will. In Italie!”

  Vincenzo raised his glass again. “To Italy!”

  Rodrigo heard the crunch of gravel and looked around to see Michele, his only son, walking toward them with a grave look upon his face.

  “Father.” Michele stopped next to the table, his eyes a mirror of sadness. “We’ve just received horrible news.”

  Rodrigo stood up, concern flooding him, and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “The child…is she—?”

  “No, no, Lucia is fine,” Michele assured him, but his tone held much grief. “It’s Uncle Gino. He…he’s dead, and Aunt Rosa, too. They were murdered, Father.”

  Rodrigo clapped a hand against his stocky chest. “Mio fratello.”

  Shock and disbelief swirled in his brain. How could his brother have suffered such a fate? Why would anyone harm him? And his lovely wife, so young—only thirty-two—too young to be lost to them.

  He didn’t want to believe, but Michele’s shattered expression dismissed any hope there’d been a mistake. Rodrigo hung his head, pain filling his heart, tears flooding his eyes.

  THEY HAD BEEN in this place called Virginia for two months, arriving within days of Gino and Rosa’s passing, and Rodrigo longed to go home. His wife Sophia was even more anxious to return to their beloved Cortona.

  They were strangers here, and he knew she missed the familiarity of their little village, of walking to the square to pick up some bread and fish, some cheese and fruit, and perhaps a bit of gossip from her friends.

  Mi
chele had arrived a few weeks ago, bringing Isabella, his young wife, and their infant daughter, Lucia, with him. He had come to help Rodrigo sort through Gino’s affairs, but Michele and Isabella had wanted to wait until the child was a little older before making the journey to the States. Their presence soothed Rodrigo and his Sophia through this difficult time, for there was no greater comfort than family when the heart mourned.

  Rodrigo walked alongside Michele, in front of the rows of vines Gino had planted in the hope of establishing a successful vineyard. The sun had begun its climb, illuminating the haze that hung over the low foothills and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, giving them an ethereal quality ripe for mystical imaginings.

  At the sound of their approach, five deer that had been enjoying a breakfast of spring’s tender new grape leaves, bolted into a copse of trees on the far side of the property, their white tails flicking in retreat as they disappeared into the protective veil of the thicket.

  “I think my brother would have been wiser to invest in a few cows rather than trying to turn this land into a vineyard.” Rodrigo gestured toward the retreating deer. “The only thing these vines will ever be good for is foraging by the local wildlife.”

  Michele took in the acres of vines, planted in neat rows that marched all the way to the wood line bordering his uncle’s land. “It’s what he knew, Father. You always said he was a good winemaker. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have been successful establishing a winery here?”

  “He was better than good, but that was when he was making wine in our country. Have you tasted what’s in the cellar? I’ve had better vinegar,” Rodrigo said, thinking the problem lay with the land and not his brother’s skill. “These grapes will never produce wine that tastes like what we have in Italy.”

  “That isn’t necessarily bad. I’ve been reading uncle’s journals. He was experimenting, and given time he might have surprised you. His wines may be different from what you’re used to, but good in their own right. That is the beauty of wine, is it not, Father?”

  Rodrigo shrugged. Perhaps Michele was right. The vines were still young. They needed to mature before they could produce quality grapes. Only time would tell, he supposed, but unfortunately, Gino would never know if his gamble would pay off.

  “Maybe the new owner will carry on with what your uncle started.” Rodrigo put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “I think Gino would want that, that his dream be given a chance.”

  “Would you consider not selling?”

  “No.” Rodrigo didn’t have to think about it. Cortona was his home, the home of his heart. He did not want to live anywhere else, nor would he want to be a long-distance landlord.

  He had no use for his brother’s house, or this land, but he was a man of duty, so he and Sophia would stay until they settled the rest of Gino and Rosa’s affairs. Once they did, then they could go home.

  He felt his son shift beside him and eyed him curiously. “Why do you ask?”

  Michele looked down, kicked his shoe against the ground still damp with morning dew. “Isabella and I, we’ve been talking…we thought we might stay in the States a while…get a better feel for the area.”

  Rodrigo gaped at him. He knew his son well. His heart tightened over the thoughts racing through his head. “You want to stay here, make a new life here? You want to move from Cortona?”

  “Nothing’s definite, Father,” Michele was quick to respond. “We were just…talking. Neither of us has ever been more than fifty miles from our little village. Since we’re already here, we thought we should take advantage of it to see other places, consider other possibilities.”

  “Other possibilities? I know what you mean by other possibilities, Michele. I can see the truth of it in your eyes. And what of your mother and me? You give us our first grandchild and now you want to move some five thousand miles away and set up house in a foreign country before we even get a chance to spoil her?”

  “It would just be a trial, Father. We may decide we don’t like it well enough to stay, and if we do, it wouldn’t be like that. You would come visit, and we would come home to see you.”

  Rodrigo looked away, toward the mountains, his heart heavy in his chest. He had always known his son would leave one day. He had the spirit of an adventurer flowing through his blood, but he had not imagined the day would come so soon, or that Michele would set his sights on a land so far from home.

  What could he do? What could he say? Michele and Isabella were young and full of life, excited about the possibilities of all that lay ahead of them. It would be selfish to try and make them feel guilty in order to change their minds. And even then, they might not, which would only make everyone feel worse.

  He sighed heavily and closed a brawny hand over his son’s shoulder. “Will you keep the vineyards?”

  “I’d like to try. I’ve discovered they’ve been making wine in Virginia for a long time. Their industry’s young by our standards, but a few vineyards have shown strong promise. There’s speculation they could be producing award-winning wines someday.”

  Rodrigo was skeptical about that, but he heard the excitement in Michele’s voice, and his brother had possessed an uncommon oneness with the grape—the growing and turning it into wine that sang to the soul. If Gino believed this land held promise for a successful vineyard, perhaps his dream just needed more time and nurturing to become a reality.

  “You have not mentioned anything to your mother yet?”

  Michele shook his head. “No. It was difficult enough telling you.”

  “She has a strong heart. It will heal.” As would his own, Rodrigo told himself.

  He turned and embraced his only child, holding him close as the sun rose higher and washed the tips of the new spring vines in soft, golden light that, despite the sadness weighing on his heart, whispered of promise.

  Journeys end in lovers meeting,

  Every wise man’s son doth know.

  William Shakespeare,

  Twelfth Night

  Present Day

  I’ll take care of everything, Mr. Swan; just don’t let your wife go to your room until I give you the signal.” Lucia Bonavera gave the man standing beside the reception desk a conspiratorial wink.

  Carl Swan nodded and then turned to go rejoin his coworkers who were mingling in the solarium where the winery usually conducted tastings.

  “Oh.” Swan spun back around. “What’s the signal?”

  Lucia grinned. Swan was adorable. He’d sought her out shortly after checking in to enlist her help with an anniversary surprise for his wife of thirty years. She didn’t get to play cupid every day, but was happy to do so if it made her guest’s stay a more memorable one.

  “A nod and a wink.” She gave an exaggerated wink and nod. “Just like that.”

  Swan rubbed his hands together, clearly anticipating his wife’s reaction when she discovered his surprise.

  “I better get back in there before Sue comes looking for me. I don’t want her to get suspicious.”

  Lucia watched him go. Love, it must be wonderful.

  “What are you looking all dreamy about?”

  Lucia turned at her sister’s question. “Hey, Marcella. It’s Mr. Swan. He’s so excited about surprising his wife for their anniversary. It’s sweet. The guy’s still crazy about her after thirty years.”

  “Listen to you sounding all romantic.”

  “Hey, I appreciate a good love story as much as the next person.”

  “Oh yeah, since when?”

  “Since always. It’s just, well—true love is a rare thing. That’s why it’s nice to see a couple like the Swans who still try to make each other happy after being together so long.”

  Lucia glanced at her watch and mentally calculated how much time she’d need to set everything up. “Speaking of which, were you able to get the chocolate and flowers when you went into town?”

  “I got them. They’re in your room.” Marcella nodded toward the solarium. “How late are they schedu
led for?”

  “Until eight thirty. They were just served dinner, so they’re in Cat’s hands for now. Since you’re here, I’ll go set the stage in the Swans’ room and be back with plenty of time to spare.”

  “Okay, go.” Marcella walked around behind the reception desk and waved her off. “I don’t want to get stuck making small talk with a bunch of forensic accountants. Their social skills are probably worse than mine.”

  “You’re stereotyping. They’re just ordinary people who happen to be extremely analytical, suspicious, and probably think everyone they meet is embezzling something.”

  “Yeah, just the type I want to chink glasses with over dessert.”

  “Don’t worry, little sister, I’ll be back before they get to dessert, so you don’t have to stress over having to converse at any length with the guests.”

  After gathering everything she’d need, Lucia went up to the second floor where the guest rooms were located and slipped into the Swans’ room.

  Eliana, the marketing muscle of the family, had recommended naming the inn’s rooms after different grape varietals. She’d said going with a wine theme would add to the fun for guests, and she’d been right. Most people got a kick out of it when Lucia told them they would be in Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, or whichever of the six guest rooms she put them in.

  She’d originally scheduled the Swans in Seyval Blanc, but switched them to Viognier when Mr. Swan called her the day before their arrival to tell her he and his wife would be celebrating their thirtieth anniversary while they were there, and he wanted to surprise her. Viognier was the largest, and in Lucia’s opinion, most romantic room—perfect for celebrating a milestone anniversary.