The Sicilian's Bride by Carol Grace Page A

She doubted that very much. She brushed past him and held the door open.
    “Good luck,” he said. Then he stood in the doorway, one arm braced against the door frame. He looked at her with a gleam in his eye as though he was about to say or do something, so she waited. And waited. The tension rose. Her cheeks were burning. The temperature in the room must have gone up ten degrees. His gaze held hers and she couldn’t look away. All the breath had left her lungs. She couldn’t stand there much longer. She had the strangest feeling he was going to do something rash like kiss her. But that was ridiculous. He didn’t even like her. Finally after an eternity he seemed to switch gears, change his mind and the gleam in his eye disappeared.
    “Thanks for dinner,” he said briskly. Then he was gone.
    Isabel closed the door and staggered backward. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her, imagining him kissing her? Maybe it was a Sicilian custom, after dinner you kissed the hostess. Or at least thought about it. It would have meant nothing if he had kissed her. But he hadn’t. She was not disappointed. She was relieved.
     
    The next day she needed all the luck she could get and she didn’t get much. First she went to the bank, but it wasn’t open yet, so she proceeded straight to the Azienda. There, the foreman, whom Dario had assured her was the best in the business, was emerging from the wine cellar, and she suspected that he might have been sampling her vintage collection. At least he was cheerful which was more than she could say for the crew who all looked so glum she thought they must have just lost their best friend.
    If only she could talk to them, but whenever she practiced her Italian on them, they just looked at her with a blank expression on their faces. Even without a common language she understood that the old trailer they found in the barn had a flat tire and without it they had no way of loading the grapes as they picked them.
    The men handed her the tire and it was obvious they expected her to fix it. Or have it fixed. Fortunately she’d paid attention when Dario changed her tire, knowing he wouldn’t always be around, and knowing she was too proud to impose on him again. She located an old spare tire in the barn then took the tools from the trunk of the car and after enlisting one of the workers to help her hold the tire in place, she actually replaced the old tire.
    She might have imagined it, but she thought the workers looked impressed. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she’d done it herself. She needed supplies in town so she got in her car and headed down the hill, a feeling of pride swelling inside her.
    But that feeling didn’t last. One backward glance told her the men were glad for the lack of work. They were standing in her driveway, some leaning against trees, others lying on the ground as if they’d already had a hard day. They wouldn’t mind if she never came back as long as they got paid at the end of the day, which would be difficult without a trip to the bank.
    She remembered what Dario had said about keeping an eye on them or they’d take advantage of her, but what could she do? She was only one person, one person who had way too much to do and no real knowledge of how to do it.
    In the small gas station she asked the owner for a tank of propane and a container of diesel oil. She was pacing up and down in front of the station as she waited when Dario drove by in his convertible. He pulled over and took off his sunglasses.
    “Everything going well?” he asked. He must be working, but he looked as though for him it was just another day in paradise, and he didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe some day she’d have the same calm, cool attitude, the same confidence, but right now she was frazzled, worried and nervous. And seeing him like this, all she could think about was his almost kissing her last night, even though he hadn’t, and she knew it would have meant