Santini might have been the most handsome seventy-two-year-old Italian RJ had ever met—full salt and pepper hair, broad shoulders, deeply tanned, white smile, deep-blue eyes. He wore linen pants, a gauzy open shirt, and canvas shoes. And when he laughed his gaze always returned to Tessa, as if everything hinged on her smile.

Reminded her a little of her own parents, once upon a time, before her father’s heart attack. Maybe even a little of her mother and her new husband, Hardwin.

Maybe that’s how marriage was supposed to be—depending on each other for a smile, as if it might be part of your breath, your soul.

She didn’t deserve for York to chase after her, maybe. No, probably.

Tessa had uncorked a magnum of their table chianti that had only made RJ wish she had a more developed palate, and served it with cheese for dessert.

By the time they finished eating, the moon had risen, silvering the rolling hills, the stars cascading over the far mountains. Hana had fallen asleep on the bench beside RJ, the kitty in her embrace.

“Is she your daughter?” Tessa sat at the end of the table in a worn wooden chair, padded, holding her wine, still only half-drunk, a piece of gouda in her hand.

“No. It’s a long story. I’m watching her,” RJ said. She hadn’t exactly known what to do with Hana after they’d escaped from the hospital. “She went through a trauma and doesn’t speak, so…”

“She speaks,” Tessa said. She nodded toward the kitty. “They had a long chat.”

“It takes time for some people to trust.” She looked at Ziggy. “Especially after they’ve been hurt. But children bounce back.”

Ziggy looked at her, smiled. “If they are loved.”

Tessa smiled, and a sweetness fell over the table.

“Did Ziggy tell you the history around our villa?” Santini asked.

“A little. She told me about Alfonzo and Gemma, Massimo and also about Sigfrid. Said he was an American GI.”

Santini looked at Ziggy. Raised an eyebrow. “Really.” He took a sip of wine. “She does like that story.”

A heaviness fell into the air.

Ziggy, strangely, just stared away.

“It’s a sad story,” Tessa said. “But yes, one we shouldn’t ignore.” She looked pointedly at Santini. “It’s worth telling.”

He glanced at her, then Ziggy. “I suppose.” He picked up his wine. “Tessa’s mother, Angelica hid him on those grottos right over there.” He pointed toward a hill beyond the cottage. “If you want to visit tomorrow, I can ask Lucio to give you a tour.”

“Oh, I don’t need a tour.”

“You must have a tour,” Tessa said. “All our guests get a tour of the grounds, the grotto.”

Guests? That’s right—Ziggy had said it was an inn. “You have a lot of guests?”