Bride By Choice

To be fair, he was beginning to understand her feelings. The men of the Angolini family were of a type that was becoming outdated even in Sicily where tradition still prevailed. In this household male superiority was still taken as the norm. Only the younger women, who spent their working lives outside in a different world, questioned it. The men, enclosed in the haven of Little Italy, thought nothing had changed.

The dinner was superb and Lorenzo was able to praise his hostess’s cooking with real pleasure. She smiled and accepted his tribute with a few words, but when her husband intervened to say that Angolini meats were second to none she retired and let him take the credit.

Lorenzo tried again, but this time it was Giorgio who butted in, interrupting Signora Angolini in a way that nobody would have been allowed to do with his own mother. Mamma’s reaction was to rise with a smile and a nod to her daughters to help her clear away. After that the party broke into two groups, women washing up and making coffee, and men gathering to talk.

The evening culminated in a grand family toast to Lorenzo, and an invitation to supper whenever he wished. At last the family began to drift off to their own homes, in some cases just across the street. The party was over. Poppa yawned. He had to get up early next morning.

‘Time for me to go,’ Lorenzo said heartily.

‘No, no, you stay a while,’ Mamma protested. ‘We’re all going to bed, but Elena can make you some more coffee.’

‘Yes, do stay,’ Helen said affably, but with her hand implacably through Lorenzo’s arm. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

He gave her a hunted look.

The younger girls drifted off to bed. Mamma and Poppa beamed and departed. Helen surveyed her prey.

‘You are Lorenzo Martelli,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘And you’ve been Lorenzo Martelli all this time?’

‘Well, it’s not something that comes and goes,’ he said defensively. ‘I’m kinda stuck with it.’

‘You were Lorenzo Martelli while we were talking at the hotel?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘And you were Lorenzo Martelli when you kissed me?’

‘Guilty!’

‘Even though you knew I disliked you?’

‘You disliked some guy who doesn’t exist,’ he protested. ‘That wasn’t me.’

‘It sure was. I disliked Lorenzo Martelli then and I dislike him ten times more now that I know he’s a devious scoundrel without a shred of honour. Shall I tell you what I’d like to do to you?’

‘I think I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Kissing me like that was a dishonourable act, and if I told Poppa the full truth you’d be mincemeat.’

‘Not if he wants you to marry me,’ he was unwise enough to say. ‘All right, all right!’ He backed off fast. ‘Whatever you were going to do, don’t do it. I shouldn’t have stolen that kiss, and I’m sorry, but I got carried away by your beauty and—’

‘I’m warning you, Martelli, don’t insult my intelligence. You should be ashamed of yourself. No gentleman would do what you did.’

‘I’m not a gentleman,’ he protested quickly, evidently seeing this as some sort of defence. ‘I never pretended to be one.’

‘You got that kiss from me by false pretences.’

‘You’re right. How about I give it back?’

‘Come one step closer and you’re dead.’

‘Aw, now look, that kiss wasn’t a one-sided business. You kissed me back.’

‘It’s a lie! Nothing on earth would persuade me to kiss that man.’

‘Will you quit talking about me as though I wasn’t here? And don’t tell me I don’t know when a woman’s kissing me.’

‘That will be your experience talking, I suppose?’ she asked, her eyes kindling. ‘Your vast experience?

He took a nervous step behind a chair. ‘Fair to middling,’ he said self-consciously.

‘Hah!’

He rallied his forces, such as they were. ‘May I ask what you mean by “Hah!” in that voice?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘You don’t know what you mean by it, do you? When a woman knows she’s talking nonsense she says “Hah!”’

‘Oh, really? Well, consider this. Everyone in the street saw us kissing, and that makes it a very public thing. I can’t tell them I didn’t know your name because that would bring shame and disgrace on my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my nephews and nieces, my aunts and uncles, their aunts and uncles, their ancestors, their cousins and the whole shooting match going right back to Sicily. What’s more, my mother is dying to tell Aunt Lucia in Maryland, who will certainly pass it on to Aunt Zita in Idaho, who will telegraph it to Los Angeles. This is a Sicilian family. Today Manhattan. Tomorrow the world. Do you realise,’ she demanded, incensed, ‘that now they’ll expect me to marry you?’

‘No problem. I can take care of that.’

‘How?’

‘I swear I’ll never propose. My solemn word, so you’re quite safe. And to make doubly sure, I’ll talk to your parents and tell them I’ve decided I don’t like you very much.’

‘After what they saw in the street?’

‘I’ll tell them you’re a lousy kisser—don’t throw that!’

He ducked as a book came flying past his head and struck the wall with a loud crack.

‘Out,’ she told him.

‘Shouldn’t we fix our next date? They’ll expect it—’

‘Out!’

He got as far as the door before saying, ‘Are you spending the night here?’

‘No, I’m going back to my apartment.’

‘Then shouldn’t we be leaving together?’