The Villa

"Something that'll make Rene crazy when she sees it."
    Helen nodded with approval. "Now we're talking."

CHAPTER SEVEN
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    Sunday slid into the week like a balm on a mild, nagging itch. She wouldn't be spending her morning hours covered in wool and flannel and pruning vines. She wouldn't have Ty breathing down her neck just waiting for her to make a mistake.
    She could drive into the city, do some power shopping, see people. She could remember what it was like to have a life.
    With this in mind, Sophia considered calling one of her friends to set up a few hours of socializing. Then she decided she'd rather spend that frivolous time with her mother.
    Next free day, she decided, she'd make plans with friends. She'd spend a weekend in San Francisco, have a dinner party at her apartment, go to a club. Now she was going to nag her mother into taking a girl day.
    Sophia knocked briskly on her mother's bedroom door, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer. She'd never had to wait for her mother.
    The bed was already made, the curtains open to the wavering sunlight. As Sophia stepped inside, Maria walked in from the adjoining bath.
    "Mama?"
    "Oh, long up and about. I think she's in the greenhouse."
    "I'll find her." Sophia stepped back, hesitated. "Maria, I've barely seen her all week. Is she all right?"
    Maria's lips tightened as she fussed unnecessarily with the yellow roses on Pilar's dresser. "She doesn't sleep well. I can tell. Eats like a bird, and then only if you insist. I scolded her just yesterday, and she says it's holiday stress. What stress?" Maria threw up her hands. "Your mama, she loves Christmas. It's that man who troubles her. I won't speak ill of your father, but if he makes my baby sick, he'll answer to me."
    "Get in line," Sophia murmured. "We'll look after her, Maria. I'll hunt her down now."
    "See that she eats!"
    Christmas, Sophia thought as she jogged downstairs. It was the perfect excuse. She'd ask her mother to give her a hand with some last-minute Christmas shopping.
    She scanned the house as she hurried through. Her mother's poinsettias, red and white stars in dozens of silver pots, were mixed with miniature hollies in lush arrangements throughout the foyer. Fresh greenery twined with tiny white lights and glossy red ribbon swagged doorways.
    The three Giambelli angels were displayed on the long refectory table in the family parlor. Tereza, Pilar and Sophia, she thought, the carved faces reflecting each of them at the age of twelve.
    How alike they looked. It was always a little jolt, a little tug of amused pleasure to see them. The continuity, the undeniable blood tie of those three generations. She'd been thrilled when she was given her angel all those years ago. Thrilled to see her own features on the graceful, winged body. And, she realized as she trailed a fingertip over the trio, she was still.
    One day it would fall to her to commission an angel for a child of her own. What an odd thought, she mused. Not unpleasant, but certainly odd. The next generation, when the time came, was hers to begin.
    Measured by those who'd come before, she was falling a bit behind on that particular family duty. Then again, it wasn't something she could pencil in on her monthly calendar. Fall in love. Get married. Conceive child.
    Nope, such things didn't schedule neatly into a life. She imagined she'd enjoy those things with the right man at the right time. But it was so easy, too easy, to make a mistake. And love, marriage, children couldn't be casually crossed off the slate like an inconvenient dentist appointment.
    Unless you were Anthony Avano, she corrected, annoying herself with the automatic snap of resentment that accompanied the thought. In that area she had no intention of following in her father's footsteps. When she made the choice, and the promises that went with it, she would keep them.
    So for now, three angels would have to be enough.
    She turned to study the room. Candles in spears and chunks of silver and gold, more greenery artfully arranged. The grand tree, one of four that would traditionally stand in the villa, dripping with crystal garland, laden with precious ornaments brought over from Italy, stood regally by the windows. Presents were already tucked under it, and the house smelled of pine and candle wax.
    Time had gotten away from her, she thought guiltily. A great deal of it. Her mother, grandmother and the staff had worked like trojans to dress the