With the last light of the day hanging over the city buildings in the distance, the whole scene is really quite romantic. I watch the happy faces of the couples dancing. Uncle Carlo and Pacer’s other Uncle, Mario, spin their wives around the terrace like seasoned pros. Even Lucia looks happy with her husband as they dance, little Camilla holding on between them. Giorgie dances proudly with his Nonna, and Rico swings the arms of his younger siblings. There is plenty of love floating amongst the group. Pacer’s body is nice and warm. It heats up all the right parts.
“How about we sway through the crowd … to an empty space.” The moment he speaks Bowie to me I go to water.
Is this guy serious? Guys I know don’t speak Bowie.
I grin like a fool. He touches my face and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I kiss him as we sway to the Italian love song, both of us unconcerned about who’s with us.
Clapping erupts around us and I hear ‘amore’ being called out. My eyes catch Pacer’s and we grin, our stretched lips now straining to meet each other. The crowd of family breaks out in song together. All I understand of the Italian song is ‘amore’ but the tune is a familiar Italian classic. With Pacer’s forehead pressed against mine, I close my eyes and take in the overwhelming emotions in the air.
***
“This has been a really wonderful day. Thank you so much for inviting me into your family like this.” I hug Pacer’s Mum tight. It’s such a loving embrace, again a stark contrast to what my own family is like.
“Don’t let Paciano keep you away from here for long, eh?” she says and grins. “You are welcome to come here any time. Maybe we can have a girl’s day, cooking and drinking. I can make a good Italian wife out of you, yet,” she playfully teases.
“Now. Paciano.” She grabs hold of Pacer’s cheeks and pinches them as she finishes off the sentence in Italian. He listens and grins, laughing when she gets really excited about something. When he speaks back to her in Italian, my puss pulses. There’s nothing sexier than listening to him speak in another language. He could be abusing me in Italian and I swear I’d still be turned on.
“Come on, Chels. Let’s get out of here before Ma has us married with kids.”
“Ah. Kids! Mio figlio.” She kisses his cheeks adoringly.
We wave goodbye to the family who look intoxicated from both the wine and the company today. Pacer takes my hand and leads me towards the boathouse, not the front of the house as I was anticipating. He grins, knowing how stumped I am.
“We’re taking the boat home.” He winks.
I knew it. He’s a boat guy.
A stunning classic wooden speedboat, the type Gorge Clooney would cruise Venice in, waits alongside the jetty. My bag and a basket full of food and wine sit on the cream leather bench at the rear, all ready to go. I hold Pacer’s hand, and he helps me to step down into the boat. I sit in the front next to the driver’s seat. Pacer unties the boat from the jetty and pushes it out, jumping in as we drift away. The family gathering looks even more romantic from the water. Strings of warm party lights hang above the company of people below at the long table. The full table of glassware and discarded bottles is the sign that a good party was had. Franco lights up sparklers for his own four children and the twins. They run down to the water’s edge and wave them at us as Pacer starts the engine, the boat now rumbling on the water.
I continue waving back at them; it’s almost sad to leave. But I’m craving alone time with Pacer. We leave the little cove of Hunter’s Hill and I sit back into the leather chair and watch Pacer enjoying the ride. This day has surpassed any expectation that I had of Pacer and his family. None of the news reports, police files or accusations of his family’s crimes ever show the other side to the infamous Leganos. They never show the love and deep connection they all have for and with one another. Watching the dimly lit houses that sit along the waterfront, I can’t help but consider my own family. Sure, my family love each other, but their strength has never been tested like Pacer’s family … until now.
At a time when a family should be showing unity like Pacer’s family, mine is showing signs of imploding.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The boat ride home was the obvious clue that Pacer’s house is right on the water. As we round the corner into Vaucluse, he pulls the boat’s throttle and we slowly drift into the bay. We float up alongside the jetty that’s closest to the beach and Pacer jumps off the boat.
As he ties off, I grab my bag and the basket. Pacer’s chivalry does not falter and he immediately leans down and takes both items that I just picked up. He raises the bar a level—expert —when he tucks my bag under his arm and holds his gloved hand out for me to take.
He’s not just a magician, he’s a fucking sorcerer!
Like my obsession with him wasn’t bad enough already. I bet I’ll love his house and we’ll live happily ever after. I just know it. I can feel it.
Trailing up to his house, we pass a pool next to the jetty. I can just make out the structure of the house in the moonlight. It sits up a steep ledge, amongst the trees. What is with him and his treetop love-nests?
We walk up a lit cobblestone stairway, and climb each stair for what feels like forever. Exhausted from a solid Italian drinking session and an hour’s boat ride home, my head and legs feel like rubbish by the top of the stairs. Pacer catches sight of me under the doorway light and smiles.
“Come on. Let’s go soak in the bath. It’s been an intense day for you.” He puts my bag down and unlocks the front door.
The door swings from the centre. The house is modern, but not as minimalist as the treetop love-nest. For one there is more artwork in here. After hearing him play Nelly in his car, and his Mum having an unfortunate taste for all things euro-trash, I would not have picked him to be an art lover. The first piece right in front of the door is a huge and instantly recognisable piece by the renowned artist, David Bromley. Anyone who’s into the Sydney art scene would recognise a Bromley. His work won the prestigious Archibald Prize for so many years, and he knows my family—but that’s nothing rare. Everyone knows my family.
I recognise this particular piece. She’s nude, as most of Bromley’s paintings are. Her upper torso and perfect breasts have so much detail within single black brush strokes. She looks like someone you wouldn’t mess with—her gaze is killer. I know this particular version of the painting, too. She’s one of the only ones who has butterflies and flowers around her. I was there when she was unveiled … because she was named after me.
“How long have you had this piece?” I watch for Pacer’s response.
“She was the first Chelsea I ever fell in love with,” he says with a smile.
I try not to act like a complete girl with his love confession, and answer as quickly as I can. “Do you believe in serendipity?”
“Sure.” He shrugs nonchalantly.
I laugh. “I’m serious.” His eyes narrow while I talk. “What if I told you that this painting was named after me?”
He looks at the painting, then back to me. He searches between the two of us a couple more times.
“It’s not of me; it was just named after me. See? We were meant to meet, eventually.”
Now I sound like a crazy stalker. I need to shut the fuck up, right now.
We stay standing in the foyer, Pacer still contemplating the whole situation. “I’ve had her for a long time. What if between Ma’s praying and my saying ‘Hi Chelsea’ every time I walked in my house, it somehow made us slowly gravitate towards one another?”