LUCY GORDON - The Italian’s Miracle Family

A book in the Heart to Heart series, 2008

Dear Reader,

Because I’m English by birth and Italian by marriage, I’ve experienced Christmas in both countries. Both celebrate the Nativity, but in Italy there is the extra festival of Epiphany on January 6-the coming of the Three Kings, bearing gifts.

The great gift of Christmas is that with its promise of new beginnings it can heal wounds that had once seemed beyond hope.

Alysa approaches Christmas full of joy at the life that’s opening up for her. Then a cruel act of betrayal snatches everything away, leaving a long, bitter road ahead.

She can only travel that road with the help of Drago, a man whose loss has been as terrible as her own. Two damaged people, they must stumble on together, supporting each other through pain that nobody else understands, hardly daring to believe the love growing between them. Until they reach another Christmas, with its promise of rebirth, new hope and a life together.

May all your Christmases be happy.

Lucy Gordon

T HEChristmas lights winked down from the tree, which was hung with tinsel. It was only a small tree, and made of plastic, because the modern apartment of a successful businesswoman had room for nothing larger.

Alysa had always loved her home, its elegance and costliness affirming her triumphant career. Now, for the first time, she sensed something missing. Placing her hand over her stomach, she thought, smiling, that she knew what that something was.

Not that this was a good place for a baby. James’s home had more room, and when he knew he was to be a father he would want to finalise the marriage plans that had been vague until now. She would tell him tonight that she was pregnant.

There was one other thing to set out: a small nativity scene, showing Mary leaning protectively over the crib, her face glowing as she watched her child. Alysa had bought it on the way home as an expression of her joy.

Gently she laid it on a shelf, close to the tree so that the lights fell on it, illuminating the baby’s face. He looked up at his mother, perhaps even smiling. Alysa tried to dismiss the thought as fanciful, but it returned, whispering of happiness to come.

Why didn’t James hurry? He was an hour late, and she loved him so much, every moment in his company was precious. But he would be here soon-very soon.

For the hundredth time she checked that everything was perfect, including her appearance. For once she wore her long hair flowing freely. Usually it was pulled back and wrapped up in a chignon. She kept meaning to cut it short and adopt an austere style, suitable for her job as an accountant. But she’d always deferred the decision, possibly because she knew that her hair was her chief beauty.

She had never been pretty. Her face was attractive but, to her own critical eyes, her features were too strong for a woman.

‘No feminine graces,’ she’d often sighed. ‘Too tall, too thin. No bosom to speak of.’

Her women friends were scandalised by this casual realism. ‘What do you mean, too thin?’ they’d chorused. ‘You’ve got a figure most of us would die for. You could wear anything, just like a model.’

‘That’s what I said-too thin,’ she’d responded, determinedly practical.

But then there was the hair-rich brown, with flashes of deep gold here and dark red there, growing abundantly, streaming over her shoulders and down to her waist, making her look like some mythical heroine.

James loved her hair, which she’d been wearing down when they’d first met.

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off it,’ he’d told her afterwards. ‘One look and I began scheming to get you to bed.’

‘You mean you didn’t fall in love with my upright character and solid virtue?’ she’d teased.

‘What do you think?’

How they had laughed together, and the laughter had ended, as it always did, in passion.

‘I thought you looked like Minerva,’ he’d said once. ‘I’ve got a picture of her with flowing hair, although not as beautiful as yours.’

‘But who was she?’ asked Alysa, whose education had been practical rather than artistic.

‘She was the ancient goddess of warriors, medicine, wisdom and poetry.’

It had become his special name for her, to be used only in the darkness.

He scowled when she dressed for work, taking up her hair and donning a severe suit.

‘It’s for my job,’ she’d chided him fondly. ‘I can’t be Minerva for my clients, only for you.’

Once she’d had a couple of inches cut off, without telling him, and he’d been annoyed.

They had actually squabbled about it, she recalled now, smiling.

But tonight she’d taken care to look just as he liked-a slinky dress that took advantage of her slim figure, hair flowing down to her waist so that he could run his fingers through the cascade and bury his face in its perfumed softness. Then they would go to bed, and afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, she would tell him her wonderful secret.

If only he would get here soon!

T HEcold February sunlight glittered over the place where fifteen people had died in one terrible moment.

Far below, the crowd looked up to where the hanging chairs swung over the top of the waterfall. They were newly installed, replacing the ones that had broken suddenly, tossing the screaming occupants down, down to the churning water, to be smashed on the rocks.

That had been one year ago today, and the crowd of mourners was there to remember the loved ones they had lost. Out of respect for the foreign victims the service was held in both Italian and English.

‘Let us remember them at their best-with pride. Let us rejoice in having known them…’

Then it was over. Some of the crowd drifted away, but others remained, still gazing up, trying to picture the tragedy.

Alysa stayed longer than the rest because she couldn’t think what to do or where to go. Something inside her, that had been frozen for a long time, held her prisoner.

A young journalist approached her, microphone extended, speaking Italian.

‘Sono Inglese,’ she said quickly. ‘Non parle Italiano.’

He looked astonished at someone who could deny speaking Italian in such excellent Italian, and she added, ‘Those are all the words I know.’

He switched to English.

‘Can I ask why you are here? Did you lose someone?’

For a wild moment she wanted to cry out, ‘I came here to mourn the man I loved, but who betrayed me, abandoned me and our unborn child, a child he never even knew about, then died with his lover. She had a husband and child, but she deserted them as he deserted me. And I don’t know why I came here except that I couldn’t stay away’.

But she mustn’t say any of that. For a year she’d allowed nobody into her private grief, hiding behind steel doors that were bolted and barred against the world, lest anyone suspect not only her desolation but also her terrible fear that, if she let go, she might never regain control over the torrents of grief and anger.

Let us rejoice in having known them…

‘No, I didn’t lose anyone,’ she said. ‘I’m just curious.’

He was a nice lad. He gave a rueful sigh.

‘So you can’t point anyone out to me? Nobody wants to talk, and the only one I recognise is Drago di Luca.’

She jumped at the name. ‘Is he here?’