Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 19
He nodded in answer. “Was Isabella upset?”
Lauren frowned, closing her book. “When?”
“You came into this room together, then she announced she was leaving. Had anything happened…?”
“I don’t think so,” Lauren mused. “She did seem a bit quiet when I found her, but only for a moment. I think she was just distracted by her meeting. Have you heard how it went?”
He thought of the email address she’d saved in his phone. Not even a personal one – it was cook@IsabellaMoss.com , probably monitored by a staff member. The fact he had no easy way to contact her tightened his gut until it hurt. He felt like he’d been filled up with gravel.
“I haven’t heard. But knowing Isabella, I’m sure it was a success.” It was true. He had no doubt that she would have charmed whoever it was she’d been meeting with.
The jealousy caught him completely unawares, ripping through him, so he almost stumbled backwards. The idea of Isabella being out in the world, meeting new people, men, being flirted with, asked out on dates, charmed by whoever the hell she came across made him want to claw at the bricks with his bare hands. What the hell?
“I’m sure it was,” Lauren smiled as though Gabe wasn’t having some kind of emotional breakdown. He couldn’t fathom what was going on, but he felt a nauseating need to be completely alone. Il Nido flashed into his mind.
“So she didn’t say anything?”
“No, not at all. Why? Had you argued?” Lauren pushed.
He frowned. “No.”
“I’m glad. I really liked her, Gabe. I hope we get to see her again.”
Gabe tightened his lips into something like a smile. He knew none of them would ever see Isabella again, but for some reason he couldn’t put that into words.
Il Nido was a disaster. It had been his sanctuary from pain and now it was an instrument of it. She was everywhere he looked. At his coffee machine, in his kitchen, on the sofa, imprinted in every single damned decoration on the tree he’d dragged in for her. In his bedroom. The study. The books. Everywhere.
He groaned, knowing he had to perform an exorcism, needing to rid her spirit from this house. He started with the Christmas tree, removing each decoration with cold finality, a cathartic freedom coming from the act. He placed them in the box one by one, trying not to think about the way they’d decorated the tree together, trying not to think about the way she’d looked as she’d climbed the ladder, trying not to think about Isabella. He poured himself a measure of scotch; that helped blot her from his mind, at least for a few minutes. When he reached the turtle doves, the memories were too strong. He put those decorations on the bench top, staring at them as though they were a talisman to Isabella.
Cristo, he was a mess.
He boxed away the ornaments and then stared at the tree, his anger with it deeply personal. Grabbing it roughly from the bucket, he didn’t worry about rope or gloves, simply shoved his hands around the trunk, glad when pine needles stabbed him and the bark gave him callouses. He dragged it towards the door then threw it onto the snow with an almighty roar, the act powerful, visceral, but nowhere near the exorcism he was hoping for.
His bed smelled like her. The sweet floral fragrance of her shampoo infiltrated his pillows and senses so his body ached for her in a way that made breathing difficult.
He gave up on trying to sleep, poured another scotch then opened up her Youtube channel.
It was probably a mistake, but to hell with it. Perhaps he just needed to wean himself?
A video from Christmas day was the most recent. He stared at the still frame, his heart clunky. He’d had a bit to drink. There was no other excuse for the way he reached out and ran a finger over the screen, touching her face as though it were Isabella in person.
He closed his eyes, imagining she were with him, seeing her smile, groaning into the empty room. Bracing himself to hear her voice, he pressed play.
Hey guys. Merry Christmas! She waved towards the screen. I hope you’re having a festive day, however you choose to spend it. If you’ve been with me for other holidays, you’ll know that Christmas can be a hard day for me. I love everything about it, but I miss my mum, and I miss those family traditions that other people take for granted.
His heart twisted for her. That raw vulnerability was so obvious, he wanted to reach into the screen and kiss her until she felt only desire. He wanted to reach into the screen and draw her into his arms until she smiled again. He hated to think of her sad, missing family.
But not this year!
Finally, a smile!
I’m spending Christmas with –
a pause. Gabe waited, staring at the screen so intently he was surprised he didn’t burn a hole into it.
Someone really special to me, and he’s been kind enough to let me crash his family celebration. It’s amazing, you guys. Everything I’ve always dreamed of, actually. There’s a huge tree and family heirloom decorations, special traditional recipes, carols being played on the piano, and so many cousins and siblings and nieces and nephews, as well as the most inspiring matriarch, his grandmother. And so much love.
She paused again, this one loaded with feeling.
He stared at the screen, his pulse in overdrive.
I feel very lucky this Christmas, and I feel hopeful too. I’ve always known that life can be unpredictable, but I presumed that unpredictability had to tend towards the bad. I had no idea curve balls could sometimes be really, really good too.
She smiled brightly at the screen, and his chest tightened.
So I hope you have something to look forward to this Christmas. I hope you’re happy, I hope you’re well and most of all, I hope you have someone in your life to love – it really is the greatest gift. Merry Christmas.
She finished by blowing a kiss at screen.
It landed straight in Gabe’s chest.
She moved forward to stop the recording and something caught his eye – a familiar pattern of wallpaper, that which covered the walls of the morning room. It was where Gianfelice had read the paper at the start of every day, hence ‘the morning room’. He’d liked it because it was near the pool, and he could sit there and catch up on business news while watching the boys swim laps.
His heartrate kicked up a gear.
Something was pushing at the back of his mind. A memory or realisation, something demanding his concentration, but it was like trying to grab soap in the bath; he couldn’t quite grasp it.
He rewatched the video, her words breathing through him.
In the small hours of the morning, he woke with a start.
Holy hell.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, replaying his conversation with Nico, remembering the frustration he’d felt at having been accosted by every member of his family throughout the day and asked to define his relationship with Isabella. He’d become impatient. Some things were impossible to describe; the invasiveness of demanding he discuss intimate details of his life had made him snap.
She’s been a welcome distraction. A beautiful, pleasing distraction.
She means nothing to me.
I would have thrown her out if I could have.
I’ll be glad when she’s gone.
I felt sorry for her.
She means nothing to me.
He didn’t need to wonder if she’d heard. Even as she’d left he’d known something had happened. She’d been completely different with him, as though a switch had been flicked and she was no longer herself. She’d looked at him as though they were strangers.
Could he blame her? The words that had come out of his mouth had betrayed everything – everything – they’d shared.
He swore into the room as he stood, his body ramrod straight, his expression haunted.
She had nowhere else to go, what was I meant to do?
He’d made it sound like she’d tagged along to their family Christmas, as though he hadn’t wanted her there at all, when having her with him at Villa Fortune had meant somethin
g to him. Just because he hadn’t wanted to share his feelings with his cousins and brothers didn’t invalidate the sentiment. He’d wanted her with him.
She’d heard what he’d said though. He’d hurt her. Just like he’d known he would.
I hope you have someone in your life to love – it really is the greatest gift.
His blood was running hot and cold, a fever taking over his bloodstream. Hell. Everything was falling apart.
In the kitchen, he made a strong black coffee. She was all over his machine. He touched it and felt her touch. He caressed the coffee cup and imagined her hands on it.
He needed to see her, that much was obvious. He had to apologise for what he’d said, and to explain that he’d been wanting to close down his family’s questions, nothing more. He’d said things that weren’t true simply to get them off his back, simply because he didn’t want anyone else interfering in what they shared.
He dragged a hand over his stubbled jaw, staring out of the window.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, loaded up an email and then stared blankly at the screen. For God’s sake. He made multi-million dollar deals for breakfast, was he actually afraid to email this woman?
Apparently so. He put his phone away, threw back his coffee then stalked towards the front door. Pausing just long enough to slip on a coat and boots and grab the keys she’d left, he crossed the snow-covered forest until he reached the embankment. Her car was visible now, though the front-half was still partially covered in snow. Something like anger cut through him – how could she possibly have attempted to traverse these roads in this tiny, narrow-tyred vehicle? Anger with the hire company and anyone who’d seen her driving and not told her to steer clear of the mountains filled his eyes with a red mist. His shoulders squared resolutely, he clicked the button on the keys, unlocking the car, then popping the boot.
Her suitcase was bright pink with stickers all over it – daisies and pictures of the sun. He pulled it out, placing it on the snow before methodically going through the vehicle and removing anything else of hers. She was with him the whole time, her presence like a whisper in his ears.
Now, he knew what to write.
To: cook@IsabellaMoss.com
Date: 29 December
Subject: Your suitcase
Isabella,
Where are you staying in New York? I’ll get your suitcase to you.
Gabe.
It wasn’t exactly poetry, but at this stage, it was the best he could give. He didn’t want to anger her further with any more mixed messages.
He didn’t hear back for hours. Gabe used the time to organise a tow truck for the hire car and deal with the rental company. It was the kind of logistical exercise he relished. Black and white, detail orientated, one foot after another until it was dealt with.
Sometime after lunch, an email pinged on his phone. He clicked into it faster than lightning.
To: Gabe@Montebello.com
Date: 29 December
Subject: RE:Your suitcase
Hi Gabe,
I’ve bought what I need so the suitcase can go to my assistant in Australia.
PO BOX 382-1a, Broadbeach, QLD.
As I said, naturally I’ll cover any costs incurred. Please forward her an invoice.
Thanks,
Isabella.
He made a guttural noise of frustration and put his phone down far too heavily, glowering at the window. He’d wondered if she might do something like that – and he’d been right.
She obviously wanted nothing more to do with him, and he couldn’t even blame her. The things he’d said about her and their relationship had painted it in the worst possible light. He’d just wanted people to stop asking him about her and their relationship, that was all.
A long time ago, Gabe had made the decision that he didn’t deserve happiness or the kind of happily ever after everyone else in his family seemed to have found – he’d taken Carmen’s future and he deserved to carry that with him every day – that was his marriage, in a sense, his dying commitment. He’d never wanted a relationship, and he still didn’t. But he couldn’t bear to think of Isabella thinking he’d actually meant what he’d said to Nico. He couldn’t bear to think of her imagining that she meant nothing to him.
He had to find a way to fix that at least – he owed her that much.
16
BEING IN THE KITCHEN was good for Isabella. It was like slipping into a pair of comfortable old slippers. She knew what to do, how to behave. Everything about it was familiar. She’d spent two days prepping for the New Years Eve dinner and now, everything was ready. The exclusive venue with views out over Times Square had been decorated with a single table and eleven chairs after a last-minute addition of some mega donor, who’d paid five times the ticket price to secure a seat.
She hadn’t had time to look into the details, but the contribution alone meant she’d never dream of saying ‘no’.
Nerves – the good kind – fired through her as the hour drew close for guests to arrive. She had just enough time to go back to her hotel and change into a fresh outfit – sleek black pants, a gold metallic singlet which she wore under a crisp white chef’s jacket with her YouTube show’s name emblazoned across the left breast.
She wore minimal make up and secured her hair in a high bun. In a tilt of the cap to the event, she added a pair of dangly earrings, gold to match her top. After the cooking was done, she’d be expected to join the table, to share stories over cognac. It was a photo opportunity to raise profile for her professionally, and also to highlight the charitable work she was involved in.
All in all, it was a night Isabella had been looking forward to for a long time. But Gabe was everywhere. He’d taken over her mind as she’d cooked, as she’d chopped, as she’d rinsed her knives; he’d been in her head as she’d kneaded bread, whisked zabaglione, cracked eggs. She’d seen him as vividly as if he’d been there, and her heart had never once stopped aching.
She’d cooked a feast fit for eleven kings and queens but she herself had barely eaten in days. An apple with her coffee in the mornings and a dry biscuit in the afternoons, perhaps a piece of toast for dinner, but nothing more. She couldn’t do it.
Meeting with her publishers had required a maximum of effort – to appear happy and vibrant, to talk excitedly about a book that now bore all the flavours of Gabe’s recipes, and his grandmother’s traditions. Her heart was impossibly heavy.
She caught a taxi back to the restaurant and ran through the final checklist with her team, educating the waitstaff on the dishes, presenting each with a tasting platter so they could speak confidently about what was being served, describing each wine that would pair with the dishes. She ran through the motions as she’d done for countless other dinners in the past, putting herself into work ‘autopilot’ mode until the first guests arrived.
She supposed she should be grateful to Gabe. Obsessing over him, grieving him, had meant she’d had very little time to dwell on the fact she was about to cook for some of the most famous individuals in the world.
A pop star was the first to arrive, her music famous globally, bright, bubbly and unmistakably kind, she raved about Isabella’s most recent recipe book so that Isabella felt more comfortable. A couple were next – Hollywood actors and devoted philanthropists. They knew the first guest. A recording industry executive was next, followed by two financiers, a rock star, a woman who was famous for property development in Manhattan, a world number one tennis player, and then a Senator.
Isabella stared at the table with a strange sense of awe. All these people had paid thousands of dollars to be cooked for…by her? There were times when she couldn’t believe how far she’d come.
“There’s just one guest we’re waiting on,” she explained to the table. “But they’re late, so I don’t see why you should have to wait.” She winked, her easy manner bringing smiles to the diners’ faces. “I’ll have your amuse bouche served. Sit tight.”
“Do you need a
hand?” The pop star called, such a genuine and kind offer that Isabella felt a buzz of something like relief. She would feel human again one day. The grief would fade, and other people’s kindness would supersede it.
The Amuse Bouche were served, and still no sign of the eleventh guest. She moved onto entrees next, then a primi main, followed by a palate cleanser. While they were eating that course, she sent an email to her assistant, letting her know that the high-paying guest hadn’t arrived, but given the time difference with Australia, she didn’t expect to hear a reply. She really hoped whoever it was wouldn’t expect a refund. The charity had already been given the money – though she could personally reimburse it, of course.
The main course was served, then they took a break to look over Times Square as festivities built to a crescendo. It was only an hour until midnight.
She oversaw the presentation of the desert, placing berries as necessary, then stepped back as the waitstaff delivered it to the table. Just before midnight, cheese platters were brought to the table, coffee and Cointreau, champagne glasses filled, and now Isabella removed her chef’s jacket and took a seat – down the opposite end of the table to that which one guest had left conspicuously absent. The night had been a success, but she felt no relief. Instead, Isabella simply felt as though she’d survived something she’d needed to get through. The sooner this was over, the sooner she could be alone. Properly alone.
What she wanted was to lie in bed for days in a row, staring at the ceiling and letting her heart absorb what had happened.
Joining in on conversation on autopilot, Isabella answered questions as she deemed appropriate, told jokes that didn’t touch the sides of her humour, laughed at other guests’ jokes, until the fireworks went off and there were hugs and kisses and cheers and resolutions.
She took part in it all because it was expected of her and because the charity needed the donations, but she’d never been so glad as when the last of the guests left. It had been great for her reputation, she was certain. The pop star hadn’t stopped sharing photos on Instagram all night, each one tagged with Isabella’s handle, so she’d gained tens of thousands of new followers in the course of a couple of hours. One of the Hollywood stars had asked if she’d come and cater for her birthday in the summer. The night had been an unqualified success, but she wanted it over.