The Year of Chasing Dreams Page 11

  “Sì,” he answered, remounting Sonata. “Show me your estate.”

  She mounted Firecracker with a dismissive chuckle, knowing she was holding on to her “estate” by her fingernails.

  “You look lovely.”

  Alice Faye’s voice startled Ciana, who was staring into her dresser mirror, searching her reflection and seeing what she considered to be all her flaws: too-full lips, a slightly crooked nose, freckles no amount of makeup seemed to cover. “I feel like a kid playing dress-up,” she said, turning away from her image.

  Smiling, her mother shook her head. “When you were little you used to dress up in princess clothes all the time and tell me you needed a horse to take you to the prince’s castle. I don’t think you trusted any fairy godmother to get you there.”

  Ciana returned her smile. “A girl’s got to fend for herself.”

  “Is that wrap going to be enough? Still cold outside these nights.”

  “I wore it for the wedding and it was at New Year’s.” Putting on the dress had brought back all her memories of that night that made her heart ache. She remembered Arie sitting at the wedding party’s special table while the party flowed around her. At that point Arie had been going downhill rapidly, so signing on as Abbie’s maid of honor had been a brave and heroic feat for her.

  And Ciana also remembered Jon that night—dancing with him, his eyes pouring into hers, her heart all but breaking for want of him. An “Auld Lang Syne” she’d never forget. She felt ambivalence now. Jon and Enzo. Two amazing and different men. Enzo was easy to be with, comfortable in any environment. Jon made her blood run hot.

  “—your hands?”

  Ciana snapped into the present, threaded her way to what she must have been asked. She held out her hands, glowing with nail polish and scented with cream. “I gave myself a manicure, but these hands will never be soft.”

  Just then the doorbell rang. “Sounds like your coach is here,” Alice Faye said.

  Ciana quickly slipped on low heels, chafing with the unfamiliar feel of any shoe except boots. “Wish me well with all the socialites.”

  Alice Faye said, “Forget about them. Have fun. Just remember, you are, after all, a Beauchamp.”

  Ciana flashed her mother a wry grin and hurried to open the front door.

  The Horseman’s Ball was held at the Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville, in the grand ballroom, the same place it had been held for decades. The five-star hotel was over a hundred years old, gilded and ornate, aglow with polished marble and crystal chandeliers, but also swimming in twenty-first-century luxuries and amenities. As a child, Ciana had come to the hotel for occasional luncheons with her mother and Olivia when such things had mattered to her grandmother. As a girl, Ciana had been awed, but now, after the hotels of Rome, she could see how the Hermitage architects had taken their cues from old Europe, so its grandeur did not impress as it once had.

  The ballroom was filled with women in silk, satin, and glittering jewels. Tables were covered with long white cloths and set with ornate silver, fine china, and crystal. Every chair back was tied up with an elaborate lime-green bow clipped in the center with a spray of white roses. A small orchestra played music beside a dance floor roped off with velvet cording.

  Enzo introduced Ciana to the man who had brought him to Tennessee, Roland Shepherd III, who gave her a questioning look. She realized she wasn’t the person the man had expected to see with Enzo, but he covered his surprise quickly with a smile. “Beauchamp. You own Bellmeade. I heard that you might sell it.”

  Her back went up. “Rumors only. I’m not selling. I’m farming it.”

  Roland arched an eyebrow. “Big job.” He didn’t say, “For such a young girl,” but Ciana saw the words in his expression.

  Enzo intervened. “Are your lovely daughters here?”

  “Only Mallory.” Roland gestured to the masses of people. “Somewhere out there. I know she was looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

  “And I her,” Enzo said graciously, then took Ciana’s elbow. “Shall we dance?” He led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms.

  “I don’t think Roland is happy with your exit. Or with your choice of date to the ball, signore.”

  He smiled. “Sì, but I am.”

  “So tell me about Mallory.”

  “A pretty woman, but how would you say …? A woman who looks only inside herself, not at others.”

  “Spoiled? Self-centered?”

  “Corretto. Not becoming in a woman.” Enzo nuzzled Ciana’s neck. “Yet this man wishes me to want this daughter of his. I do not.”

  Ciana understood. A man like Enzo was prime meat on the market of the rich and famous. “Forgive him. Southern daddies are very protective of their daughters. And when said daughter desires something, or someone, a daddy just tries to help fulfill his little girl’s wish.”

  Enzo’s arm tightened around her waist. “You do not think poorly of me for not wanting to be with her?”

  “Look around. I’m enjoying the scenery. Plus, I’m hungry. When do we eat?”

  He stopped dancing. “I do not wish to eat at a table full of people I do not know. I have made a reservation for us in a private dining room here. I wish to spend my time with you, Ciana, not these people.”

  The private room had walls of aged fine-grained polished walnut, and a single frosted-glass door through which a wait-person discreetly entered with drinks and food. A fire glowed warmly in a fireplace, while candles and wall sconces softened shadows. “Are we alone?” Ciana asked, startled to see that she and Enzo were the only diners in the room though there were eight tables.

  “Do you mind?”

  “You’ll turn me into one of those spoiled rich girls.”

  His laugh was easy. “Not possible.” He leaned back in the massive dining chair, rested his palms on the carved arms, studied her until she felt her face grow warm. “You are very special, Ciana.”

  “Bet Mallory wouldn’t think so.”

  This made him chuckle. “Do you know my ancestry goes back hundreds of years? That I have titles?”

  “Of course.” His steady gaze flustered her, so she spoke quickly and confidently. “You have a ton of titles after your name. A bunch.”

  “Tell me one of my titles.” His voice challenged, but his eyes held amusement.

  Busted. She sat stock-still. “Right off the top of my head, I—I don’t recall … well, I’m not sure how to say them in Italian.” She squirmed as heat crawled down her neck. Had she insulted him?

  He laughed, reached up, undid his bow tie, unsnapped his dress shirt at his throat. “Most women know my titles. That’s all most women know about me. What do you know, Ciana?”

  She slid her hands under the table, sat on them to keep from fidgeting. “I know you’re a man who loves horses, and loves his vineyards. A man who loves his land.”

  His brown eyes grew serious. “Exactly. And that is all you have ever seen when you look at me and when you talk to me. You are a woman who holds dirt in her fist and who can tell me of its composition. How many women do you think I meet who can do that?”

  Her “talent” seemed dubious to her. She shrugged, feeling every bit the unsophisticated child. No wonder he chose to dine alone with her and away from the elite of Nashville. “Bet other women can tell the difference between Cartier and Chanel, though.”

  “Why should I value that? What is remarkable about a woman who can covet baubles and expensive trinkets, and not see the raw beauty in soil?”

  He scowled, and his disdain for things she didn’t value either made her feel better about his dining choice.

  He picked up a wine bottle already uncorked on the table and poured some of the ruby liquid into her glass. “I taste the land in every swallow of wine. I savor it. Cherish it. Do you know that in parts of Europe the only thing that separates great wine from very good wine can be a few feet between the rows of grapevines?” He set down the bottle, held his hands apart to make his point.
“This is the magic of the soil.”

  “And rain and sunshine,” she added, then wished she hadn’t. Like he didn’t know this?

  But he bent his head in tribute. “And that is why I like you, Ciana Beauchamp. Because you know these things and care about them.”

  A waiter came through the door with two plates of food and set them on the table. “I ordered for us already,” Enzo explained. Ciana barely saw the food, knowing that with Enzo, the food was only to accompany a great wine. She didn’t really care what they were eating anyway. His passion for his land was what drew her to him.

  She took a few bites of some delectable morsel splashed with wine sauce. A fresh bottle of wine had been opened, and Enzo poured some into a clean glass, swirled it, swallowed it, his gaze intense and ever on her. After a minute, she realized he wasn’t eating. Self-consciously, she edged her fork down to rest on her plate. “Food’s delicious,” she murmured.

  “I will be returning to my vineyards in a few days,” he said.

  Of course. He’d been Stateside for weeks, and he had a life back in Italy. “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I will miss you.” He drank from his glass.

  She felt the air snap between them, electric and taut.

  His dark eyes brimmed with desire. She felt her heart race. He said, “I would like, molto … to take you upstairs to my room for tonight.”

  Molto … very much. In the time he’d been with her at Bellmeade, he’d not done more than hold her hand and kiss her cheek. In Italy she’d come within a hairsbreadth of going away with him to his villa in Portofino. He wanted her still, and as before, the offer was tempting. “No puedo ir con tu para Portofino, signore,” she had told him then. “I cannot go to Portofino, signore,” she told him now softly.

  He searched her face, and as his expression turned to regret, he offered an understanding nod. “Again you refuse me, bella Ciana. You sadden my heart. After dinner and dessert, I will drive you home,” he added graciously.

  She smiled tenderly at him, reached across the table, stroked his hand. Dearest Enzo … She would never forget him. Together they lifted their wineglasses to one another in a toast.

  The drive home was cozy inside the plush Mercedes. Ciana leaned her head against Enzo’s shoulder, relaxed, but saddened knowing she would not see him again. They spoke little, listened to soft music, and before she knew it, the car was going up the tree-lined driveway of Bellmeade. The dashboard clock glowed the late hour as Enzo stopped the car. “The dog?” he asked before opening the door.

  “Mom’s put him inside. I’ll release him after you go.”

  Enzo came around and opened her door. She took his hand, stepped into the night air, which made her shiver after the luxurious warmth of the car. From where she stood, she saw a light glowing in the barn’s window.

  Enzo pulled her thin wrap tightly around her shoulders. “I would have liked to keep you warm in other ways,” he said tenderly. He glanced over his shoulder at the barn. “Someone is waiting for you.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Probably just left the light on by mistake.”

  Enzo tugged her closer, kissed her forehead. “Go to him.”

  “I—I don’t—”

  Enzo shook his head. “It is all right, bella Ciana. I see the way he looks at you.”

  “I—I—”

  “And I have seen the way you try not to look at him.”

  Ciana felt heat suffuse her face. She had tried not to notice Jon when Enzo was with her, but Jon’s sheer physical presence fought for her attention, and no matter what else she was doing, she couldn’t escape it. “I didn’t mean to …” She had never meant to insult Enzo.

  He whispered, “It is all right. I can see what’s in your heart. This man, he is the one you want. Yes?”

  No use to deny it. “Yes.”

  “Then go. Amore … love. Both beautiful and strange. We Italians know love’s ways.”

  She searched Enzo’s face, her heart swelling with appreciation toward this man who understood her so well. She took a step backward. “You stay clear of those Mallory types.”

  In the weak, ambient light, she saw his smile and the shrug of his shoulders. “It is my life’s mission.” He returned to the car and she watched until the taillights turned toward Nashville. Then she walked to the barn.

  Jon was straddling a bench, untangling a pile of ropes and untwisting old bridles. He glanced up when she entered. “You’d think people would be more careful with their tack.”

  Ciana kept her distance, her mouth dry, her heart hammering. “You’re working late.”

  He shrugged. “Has to be done.” He fought with a tangle of knots. “How was the ball?”

  “Crowded. Full of people it mattered to.”

  “You didn’t have a good time?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, it was fine.”

  “And Enzo? How did he like it?”

  His tone baited her, so she said, “He’s an amazing man. Gorgeous too.”

  “And rich.”

  “And eligible.”

  “And gone,” Jon said with finality. He stood, crossed the floor to stop within inches of her body, offering a satisfied smile, as if he surmised Enzo would not return.

  She peered up at him with a smidgen of irritation. “You’re pretty cocky. Pretty sure of yourself aren’t you, cowboy?”

  His expression went serious. He lifted her chin with his forefinger, searched her face as if absorbing her into himself. He said, “No. I’m sure of you.”

  She felt her chin quiver and tears fill her eyes. Jon knew her, too, and in that moment every wall she’d ever built to keep him out fell. She loved this man—loved him without boundaries, without conditions.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, tucked her against his side. “Come on, Miz Beauchamp. It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”

  They left the barn with Ciana leaning into Jon, and walked across the yard together.

  Eden spent six days and five nights in the Blue Mountains with Garret. He made the experience as easy as possible for her because after her experience at Bondi Beach, she wasn’t very adventuresome. They drove a jeep Tom owned, parked, and walked easy trails, spent three nights in a tourist-friendly campsite, which had a mess hall for supper and breakfast and showers with warm water. He pointed out fauna found only in Australia, and surrounded her with a wild and awesome beauty that took her breath.

  Once the sun set the nights were cool, and inside the small tent he put up for sleeping, he snuggled them into an extra-large sleeping bag, curled up behind her, and held her in his arms. “Don’t want you to freeze,” he whispered that first night.

  She’d been apprehensive, not knowing what he expected from her. She loved him and wanted to make love to him, but she was scared. Sex had almost destroyed her once. Tony had used it as a weapon, at first being seductive and gentle with her, and then at some point she had become his possession. She never wanted to travel that road again.

  But her and Garret’s nights were used for sleeping, her mind settling, her body relaxing once she heard his soft snore and felt his warm breath on the nape of her neck. And after a few nights, she curled into him and fell asleep quickly, safe and protected in his arms. He always awoke cheerful, a little annoying to her because she wasn’t a morning person, but he quickly made coffee in an old pot on a small, butane-burning stove. “My grandfather’s gear,” he said. “He used to take Philip and me for overnighters all the time.”

  The last night in the outback, he took her up on a bluff, where he pitched the tent but laid the sleeping bag outside on the ground. They ate ready-to-eat meals that tasted like cardboard. “People eat these things?”

  “Digger food. And brave campers. But it’s dinner tonight because this is where we’ll be sleeping.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You don’t think what we’ve been doing so far is serious camping, do you?”

  “I was serious.” She nibbled at the food.

  “You h
aven’t really camped unless you’ve slept under the stars,” he said with a boyish grin. “So far all you’ve seen at night is the underside of this old tent.”

  They watched the sun set, and later lay side by side in the sleeping bag, staring up at the sky. “Look. A half-and-half moon. Between waxing and waning.” Garret pointed at the moon, one side bright and cream-colored, the other dark and hidden.

  Looks like my life, she thought philosophically. She had struggled with darkness most of her life … loneliness, abandonment, fear. She knew those components well and no longer wanted to live with them. She wanted to bathe in the light, have it wash over her heart and make it whole. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, she wanted to burst out fresh and new. “Beautiful,” she said.

  His hand swept in an arc, at a canopy of stars so vast that they seemed to run together like a smear of glowing paint. “Can you count the stars, love?”

  “I’ve never seen so many,” she said in absolute awe. “But I guess they’re always there, aren’t they? Can’t see stars without night, though, can we?”

  “Too much artificial light from cities blocks them out. But out here you can see them all. Makes a person feel small and wanting.”

  As he talked she was absorbing the profound truth of this night: She no longer had to remain in the dark. She could be free of it. He raised up on his elbows, pointed, and named a few of the constellations.

  “I’m impressed,” she said, regaining her composure. “But I don’t know how those early stargazers saw those images. I can’t.”

  “Because the stars talked to them, told them about other lands and adventures to be had. And the stargazers believed the stars, so when they roamed far away, they looked up and saw the same star images in the night skies looking down on them as they saw at home. It probably brought them comfort. So they named the stars into constellations. Makes sense, don’t you think?”

  His words raised a lump in her throat. The same night sky had hovered above the earth for eons. Stargazers sought and found order in chaos, a place and a purpose under heaven. It made her think of Tennessee and the ones she loved. “Thank you for bringing me here, Garret. Lets me see how beautiful the world is … here and at home.”