And when Hap had slid hers on her finger, it had been filled with sparkling diamonds.
She lifted her eyes to the framed photo on the nightstand at Hap’s side of the bed.
She was in ivory. A Massimo (of course). Sleeveless. A deeply plunging vee neckline, gathered crossover, natural waist, a full, ethereal, tiered skirt of floating gossamer flounces. Delicate. Stylish. Sophisticated. Angelic.
Hap was in his mess dress.
They were standing tight to each other’s side, their arms around each other’s backs and were both looking to the side, laughing at something Skip had said.
Behind them was a field of corn.
She heard a high-pitched giggle and that was what pulled her from the bed.
She reached to the bottom, grabbing then shrugging on the boldly printed silk robe, closing it and tying it at her waist, the deep slits in the sides and opening at the front making the bottom waft about her legs as she walked across the cool stone to and through the opened doors of the Juliet balcony.
She stopped, resting her hands on the balustrade. The beautiful blue waters dotted with sailboats, leafy green swells of mountains at the sides, mingled with the terracotta roofed buildings adorning the fringes of Lake Como was her view.
She didn’t study it.
She looked down to the veranda below.
Sam, wearing a pale-blue linen shirt and jeans, had hold of nearly three-year-old Bash, her darling, her baby, little George Sebastiano, wheeling him through the air as Ben danced around his father’s long legs, pulling at the denim, crying out for his turn.
She swept her gaze down to the end of the veranda where there sat a wrought iron table. On it, it appeared there was fruit, slices of cheese, pastry, toast, crystal pitchers of juice, silver-topped French presses, bright-colored stoneware, cutlery glinting in the sun.
Celeste sat with head bowed to Talia, Sam and Kia’s little girl, who was in her lap. Talia was reaching to a strawberry.
Kia sat across from them, next to Thomas, also wearing a beautifully printed robe and leaned back with her coffee cup in her hands, her head turned, her face filled with laughter at whatever Thomas was telling her.
Luci swung her attention to the other end of the veranda where the steps started that led down to the vine-covered arches at the edge of the lake where they kept their gleaming Riva Aquarama with its ivory cushions.
As she suspected, Hap, in jeans, a tight tee, with a baseball cap pulled down on his head and running shoes on his feet had an abundance of pink frills with white details stuffed secure in his arm, pudgy legs tucked to his ribs, a little white hat on her head.
Daddy’s little girl.
TeeTee.
Vita mia.
Little Luciana Vita, their six-month-old baby girl.
“Mama!”
Her eyes went direct to her son, who was upside down against Sam’s side, but still waving frantically up at her.
Luci smiled and waved back.
Sam flipped him around and he squealed.
Her smile got bigger, but she felt it and her attention turned.
Her husband was two steps down, but he’d stopped, tipped his head back, and under the bill of his cap he was looking up at her even while his daughter was slapping his throat, an indication she wanted him to keep moving.
When Hap took Luci out on the boat, he went fast, held her close, the wind whipping her hair, making it fly in her face, his face, and often she would laugh. Laugh and laugh. For no reason except she liked speed. She liked the beauty of Lake Como. And she loved being with her husband.
When Daddy took his baby girl on the boat, he held her tucked tight in his lap and he went slow.
Vita still laughed and laughed for no reason, except she loved the wind in her face and being with her daddy.
Luci lifted her fingers to her lips and blew him and their daughter a kiss.
He shook his head, grinning, but eventually tilted up his chin.
Then he resumed his descent.
Luci stood where she was and watched, her eyes trained precisely where they needed to be.
The gleaming boat made its appearance, sedately trailing white foam against the deep blue of the lake, the man in the cap with a precious bundle of pink frills in his lap, his fingers wrapped firm around the ivory wheel, father and daughter gliding into the sun.
And life was beautiful.
The End
A short story from The Unfinished Heroes Series
featuring Deacon and Cassidy of Deacon
DEACON BARELY GOT in the front door before he heard stampeding little feet and a screech of, “Daddaaaaaaay!”
And boom!
Pepper hit him like a bullet shaped as a four-year-old girl.
He swayed back, righted himself, cupped a hand on her head over her thick, soft, dark hair and watched as, a lot slower on her feet and a lot less steady, not to mention a lot quieter, Ruth followed her big sister.
On the move, he swung Pepper up into his arms and deposited her on a hip, all the while she shrieked with glee like they didn’t do this every day, something they did.
Still on the go, he scooped up Ruth, who giggled softly and latched on to his tee with a fist while he strode to the kitchen to find their mother.
In the kitchen Deacon did not find their mother, his wife, his Cassie.
He found their friend Milagros.
“Hola, Deacon,” she greeted with a smile.
“Hey,” he replied, glancing around for his wife.
“Sorry, we were supposed to be gone by now,” she told him.
His eyes shot back to her.
We?
Gone?
“Note for you from Cassidy,” she said, tipping her head to the counter where an envelope lay. “The girls are coming with me to have dinner with Manuel y mis hijos.”
“Enchiladas!” Pepper shouted.
“Tamalaysh,” Ruth whispered.
Deacon tightened his arms around his girls as he dropped his eyes to the note.
On it, he could see, was written, Deacon Deacon.
His lips twitched.
All was good.
Used to Deacon not saying much, Milagros clapped her hands in front of her, announcing, “All right. We’ve got the car seats in. Jackets, girls. Let’s go. Vamanos, mijas.”
Processing the order that was not exactly verbalized, Deacon turned his head and kissed Pepper’s cheek, muttering, “Be good for Milagros, baby.”
She giggled, gave him a kiss on the mouth and replied, “I always am, Dadday!”
She never was.
He shot her a grin, hunkered down to put her on her feet and still in a squat with his hold on his two-year-old, he turned and kissed her cheek.
She laid her hand solemnly on his.
“You be good too,” he said.
“I will, Daddy.”
Christ, daddy was the most beautiful word in the English language.
Right after husband.
But Ruth would be good.
Pepper was her mother, in looks and personality. Boisterous, fun-loving, full of energy and bossy, she was Cassie head to toe. Cassie had named her and it seemed with that she’d claimed their eldest in every way she could.
Ruth, named by Deacon, was like her mother in looks, but her father in temperament. Quiet. Contemplative. But a risk taker. If there was something to try or discover, she was all in. But she did it introspectively. It was the experience, not the thrill, that engrossed her.
Deacon helped his girls with their jackets and walked them out to Milagros’s car, then buckled Ruth in while Milagros dealt with Pepper.
“Love my girls,” he said into the back seat.
“Love you too, Dadday!” Pepper cried.
“Love you, Daddy,” Ruth replied, looking him direct in the eyes.
He gave them a wink before he pulled out of the door, closed it and moved around to accept Cassie’s friend’s kiss on his cheek.