Page 9 of Broken Trust

She laughs as if I've said something clever. Behind her, a cousin's husband named Tino catches the tail end of it and steps in to pump my hand. His palm is damp, and his grip lasts a beat too long.

“The show, the show,” Tino says. “I read something. Trouble with the money? My brother-in-law does this for a living, he could look at your books, no charge. Family.”

“We're fine,” I tell him. “You know how the papers are. Trouble sells.”

“Sure. Sure it does.” He nods too fast, relieved to be let off the hook, and I watch the worry drain out of his face simply because I told him not to worry. That's the whole trick of me: a man will believe anything if you hand it to him with a smile. I can do it dead on my feet, and today I am.

In the middle of the lawn my mother-in-law is holding court in cream silk, a glass of something she'll never drink balanced in one hand and the other resting lightly on Mia's belly for the photographer crouched in front of them.

“Closer, Mamma,” the photographer says. “A little closer. Beautiful.”

My suocera tips her head toward Mia's and beams, the shutter clicks, and the second it's done the smile switches off like a lamp and she's already scanning the yard for the next thing that needs arranging. Her eyes land on me.

“Dante.” She raises a hand, and it isn't a wave, it's a summons. “Come. One with the three of us. Where have you been hiding?”

Mia turns. Her eyes find mine and hold them half a second longer than a sister-in-law's should, a whole conversation packed into one look and meant for no one but me. Then she's laughing down at an aunt who's fussing over her bump, as if I'm just another guest who wandered into the frame.

“Later,” I call back, keeping it light. “Let me grab a drink first.”

My suocera’s smile stays in place, but her eyes go flat as she files it away. In this family a no only ever means not yet, and she'll collect.

A waiter floats past with a tray, and I take a glass of something pale I didn't ask for, just to have something in my hands and a reason to stand at the edge of the yard instead of in the middle of the photo. For one clean breath I let myself believe I can get through this. Survive the afternoon, drive home tonight, and finally be a man about all of it.

Then I start looking for Gia.

It takes a full minute to find her, and when I finally spot her at the far end of the garden, half hidden behind the trellis, I wish I hadn't. She's wearing a dove-gray dress, gathered high under the bust and falling loose over a belly she doesn't have, and it hits me that it's a maternity dress.

Christ.

Gia hasn't glanced my way once. She's holding a tumbler with something brown in the bottom of it, and her other hand is bunching the skirt so it won't billow out over her flat stomach. Nella is beside her with a silver flask, topping her up every time the glass runs dry. When Nella's eyes land on me they turn to ice. She knows something, maybe not all of it, but enough to look at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe.

I set my glass on the nearest table and head for Gia. I have no idea what I'm going to say, only that I can't leave her standing over there in that dress one minute longer.

I make it four steps before my suocera's hand clamps around my arm, her smile still fixed for the guests while her rings dig through my sleeve.

“Dante, the photograph. Now, please. You've kept us waiting long enough.”

“Give me a minute, Suocera. I need to talk to Gia.”

“Gia's fine. Nella's looking after her.” She's already steering me across the lawn, and I let her, because making a scene here feels harder than walking away from Gia, and that tells you everything about the man I've become. “One picture,” Suocera says, “and then you can go and sulk in the corner with her if that's what you'd rather do.”

The photographer lines us up with my suocera on one side, Mia in the middle, and me on the other. Mia slides her arm through mine as though it belongs there and leans her hip into me, warm through her blush silk, and I catch the orange blossom on her skin.

“Put your hand on the bump, Dante,” the photographer says. “Daddy’s privilege.”

A few of the aunts laugh, and every face on the lawn turns our way, waiting. So I do it. I lay my palm on Mia's belly, the baby shifts under it, and the shutter fires. Over the photographer's shoulder I can see Gia by the trellis, lifting her tumbler toward us in a slow toast before she knocks it back. She saw every second of it, my arm hooked through her sister's and my hand on that baby, posed for the family album.

“Beautiful,” the photographer says. “Now just the ladies.”

I pull free the moment he lowers the camera, but Mia is faster.

“Gia!” Mia's voice rings across the garden, sweet as sugar. “Come help me open the presents. I won't do them without you.”

The aunts make that soft sound they save for weddings, isn't that lovely, the twins together, and the crowd parts to let Gia through. She walks down the middle of it with her chin up and her fist still knotted in that gray skirt. She has always been able to walk into a room with her back straight while everything inside her is falling apart. I used to love that about her. Today it scares the hell out of me.

I'm close enough to hear when she reaches the gift table and Mia leans in and sniffs her.

“Have you been drinking? I can smell it on you,” Mia says, and then, louder, over her shoulder, “Mamma!”