Emma Darcy: The Arranged Marriage

She wore one of her signature tie-dyed scarf tops with a halter neckline—a garment that could only be worn well by very slim and small-breasted women—and the artistic pattern of earth colours was complemented by gold hipster slacks which affirmed there was no excess flesh anywhere on the fashion designer’s body.

Gina instantly felt fat. Which was stupid because she really wasn’t. She was simply built on a different scale to Michelle Banks. However, that common sense argument did nothing to lift the lead that had descended on her heart. This was the kind of woman Alex King wanted to marry. Would marry.

“Gina Terlizzi and her son, Marco,” Isabella finished.

“A pleasure to meet you, Gina. And Marco,” came the warm welcome from her grandson, the deep timbre of his voice striking pleasure chords right through Gina’s body. “A good family, the Terlizzis. Still in fishing boats?”

“Most of the men are,” she answered, amazed that he knew of them.

Many years ago his father, Robert King, had financed the Terlizzi family venture into fishing. His great-grandfather, Frederico Stefano Valeri, had begun the tradition of financing Italian immigrants into businesses when the banks had denied them loans. Everyone knew that the Kings would listen to a deal when more conventional financial institutions would not. Judgement was made more on the capability to succeed than on up-front money, and as far as Gina knew, no one had ever failed to pay back the Kings’ faith in them.

“And you’re Angelo’s widow,” Alex King went on, his tone softening with sympathy.

She nodded, even more astonished he knew her husband’s name.

“I remember reading about him going to the rescue of a lone sailor whose yacht had broken up on the reef.”

“The storm beat him. They both drowned,” she choked out.

“A brave man. And a very sad loss to you and your son.” The caring in his eyes squeezed her heart. “I trust your family has looked after you?”

“Very well.”

“Good! My grandmother tells me you’ve come to sing for her. You must want a drink first. Please…” He gestured to the empty chairs on the near side of the table, opposite to where his fiancée sat. “What would you like…wine, fruit juice, iced water?”

“Water for me, thank you.”

“And you, Marco?”

“Juice, please.”

“Only half a glass for him,” Gina quickly warned as she settled them both on chairs. Her eyes appealed for understanding. “He tends to spill from a full one.”

Another warming smile. “No problem.”

“So…you’re a professional singer,” Michelle Banks drawled, focusing Gina’s attention on her.

“I do get quite a few engagements—weddings, birthdays, other functions—but I can’t say I make a living from it,” Gina answered truthfully. No point in pretending to be something she wasn’t. In fact, more often than not she was asked to sing by family or friends with no fee offered at all.

“I presume you have had some training,” the woman pressed in a slightly critical tone that niggled Gina. What business was it of hers?

“If you mean singing lessons, yes. And I’ve competed in many eisteddfods over the years.”

“Then why didn’t you pursue a career with it?”

“Not every woman puts a career first,” Isabella dryly interposed.

Michelle shrugged. “Seems a waste if your voice is good enough.”

She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows at Gina who bristled at the implied put-down. Why did Alex King’s fiancée feel the need to put her on the spot like this. She was a woman who appeared to have everything other women might envy, including the man whose ring she was wearing.

“It wasn’t the kind of life I wanted,” she answered simply. “As to whether my voice is good enough, I’m here—” she transferred her gaze to Isabella “—for Mrs. King to judge if it meets her requirements.”

“And I’m looking forward to hearing it,” the older woman said, smiling encouragement. “Indeed, if it is true to your performance on tape…” She looked directly at her grandson. “…you may very well want Gina to sing at your wedding, Alessandro.”

Silence. Stillness. For the first time Gina lost her own self-consciousness enough to realise there were tensions at this table that had nothing to do with her. Or perhaps she had become an unwitting focus for them. Very quietly she picked up her glass of water and drank, grateful to be out of the direct firing line.

Michelle Banks glared at Alex, clearly demanding his support. He stirred himself, addressing his grandmother with an air of pained patience.

“Nonna, we have already discussed this. Michelle wants a harpist, not a singer.”

“I heard what Michelle wants, Alessandro,” came the coolly dignified reply. “Did I hear what you want?”

“It is the bride’s day,” he countered with a slight grimace at the contentiousness behind the question.

Isabella regarded his fiancée with an expression of arch curiosity that Gina instantly felt had knives behind it. “Is that what you think, Michelle—that a wedding belongs only to the bride, and the groom must fall in with everything she wishes?”

Michelle gave a smug little smile. “Alex is happy for me to have a harp playing.”

“I’ve never thought a harp—indeed, any musical instrument—can project the warmth and emotion that a human voice can.”

“It’s purely a question of taste,” Michelle argued. “A harp is very elegant.”

“Undoubtedly. However, to my mind, even within a showcase of elegance, room could be made for some spotlight on love at your wedding.” She turned a smile on Gina. “Are you now refreshed enough to sing?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She set her glass down and picked up her handbag. “I did bring a backing tape. Are there facilities for it to be played in the ballroom or…”

“Of course.” She nodded to her grandson. “Alessandro will set it up for you and give you a remote control for pausing between songs.”

Gina’s heart fluttered. Was he going to listen, too? She glimpsed a V of annoyance forming between Michelle Banks’ brows, but said a quick, “Thank you,” to Alex King anyway.

“My pleasure,” he said kindly, though she couldn’t help wondering if he also was annoyed at this manipulation by his grandmother. It didn’t make for a comfortable audience. His fiancée, for one, was bound to be judging very critically.

Isabella stood up—a definitive signal for them all to rise from the table. Gina hastily removed the glass from Marco’s hands and set him on his feet.

“Are we going to see the balls of mirrors now, Mama?” he asked.

“Yes, we are.”

“Come, Marco. Give me your hand,” Isabella commanded. “I will show you everything while your madre is preparing to sing for us.”

He responded without so much as a hesitation, trotting straight over to her and eagerly taking the offered hand, his eyes sparkling with happy anticipation. What was it that made him so pliable to this old woman when he could be quite obstreperous with other virtual strangers? Gina doubted he would have taken Michelle Banks’ hand so readily. But Isabella King…was he instinctively drawn to the power that emanated from her…the power imbued by so many years of being the matriarch of this family?

It was definitely there.

Even Michelle Banks was not about to buck it at this point, although Gina could feel the younger woman’s hostility as they moved as a group to the ballroom. It made Gina wonder if Isabella King was using her as a pawn in a battle she was subtly fighting against her future grand-daughter-in-law.

She hoped it wasn’t so.

She needed this opportunity to be a straight deal between them, one she could count on to lead to a better situation for her and Marco if her singing was approved. It was a big if, given the current tensions that were affecting her. Somehow she had to set them aside, concentrate on her singing.