“That’s not an answer.”
“It is an answer. Be happy. That’s a sweet payday we needed. I have a good feeling about the future.” He heads up the stairs.
I stare after him, nervous about all of this—his disappearing act, the cash, and his behavior in general, but still, he’s home. He’s safe. And I love Gio, which is why I call out, “I’m happy because you’re home.”
He leans over the railing and gives me one of his big ol’ Gio charming grins. “Me, too, sis. Me, too.” He winks and disappears from sight.
I stare after him again.
Art.
That description stands out to me.
Our father used to call a magnificent instrument “art.”
Please, Gio, whatever you’re up to, and I know you’re up to something, be careful.
I blink awake and sit up to the sound of Kace’s violin coloring the morning hour with his beautiful musical notes. His music is art. His skill is art. His composition this morning of Paganini’s “Caprice No. 24,” is a brilliant work of art. It’s also one the most difficult pieces to play in existence and he owns it. And for that reason alone, any other time I’d revel in this breathtaking way to wake up, but not now. I’m still too in the past, too in my memory of some kind of art Gio sold for seventy-five thousand dollars. He never told me what he sold. I pushed and he dodged. My lashes lower and I slide back into that memory. He smelled like perfume. The same perfume I’d smelled in the store the other night.
I throw off the blanket, and hurry into the bathroom, zipping through a short morning routine of necessities which include brushing my teeth and face. Not much more. I’m still in Kace’s T-shirt when I hurry back to the bedroom and find my suitcase that Kace brought up for me last night, pull out my slippers, and then grab the bag I’d packed in Gio’s office. Sitting on a loveseat next to the patio doors, I open the bag, pull out the letter from Sofia I’d found in Gio’s desk, and read it again. Something about Sofia’s words nags at me and I can’t quite name why. Kace’s violin goes silent and with the letter in hand, I hurry to the door, rushing down the stairs.
I find Kace’s violin, but not Kace.
Certain he’s in the kitchen, I pad up the stairs, and sure enough, Kace is there, fully dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, with his back to me while he pours coffee. Closing the space between us, he turns as I reach the island across from him.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he greets, his blue eyes warm, while my cheeks are warmer with the compliment. “I’d say I hope I didn’t wake you,” he adds, walking to the fridge and opening it, “but we have Savage and Blake here in an hour, plus our lunch with Mark and Crystal.”
My eyes go wide. “An hour? What time is it?”
“Nine. They arrive at ten.” He returns and pours creamer in the cup and then hands it to me. “You were knocked out though, so I let you sleep.” He rounds the island and pulls out two stools for us. “That’s an Italian bean coffee,” he says, indicating the mug as we both sit down, angling toward each other. “You were young when you left, but I thought it might give you a little taste of home.”
My heart swells with his thoughtfulness and he watches me expectantly. I set the letter down and sip the warm, wonderful brew. “It’s perfect. I don’t remember it from home, but now this taste will always make me think of Italy.”
We’re close, our knees touching, his hands settling possessively, warmly on my leg and I can almost feel our bond growing. “One day,” he says, “when all of this is over, I’ll take you home, baby.”
As if my heart wasn’t full enough this morning with this man, he now has it overflowing. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good. It’s a date then, and I have a good feeling about where this meeting takes us today.”
“About the meeting,” I say. “I remembered something that may be important, Kace.”
“Something good I hope?” he asks.
“No. It doesn’t feel good. Not at all. Remember I said that there was a perfume smell in the store when the security system had those hiccups?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Well, a few months before Gio disappeared, he came home after being gone for three days. He handed me an envelope of cash, a lot of cash.” From there, I recap the entire memory, the person he confronted outside. The reference to “art.” The missing phone. “But here’s the thing,” I say, wrapping up. “He smelled like perfume. The same perfume that I smelled in the store the morning after you stayed. I’m sure of it. I can’t believe I didn’t remember it until now.”