Deep Waters Read Free

in it. She was woven into the fabric of his thoughts, day and night; they saw each other most evenings, and in between they spoke on the phone. She was even—miracle of miracles—accepted by la famigilia Lombardi , that formidable institution which pretty much governed his life.
    He still couldn’t believe that Mamma liked Callie. He’d been so prepared for the opposite that he’d delayed their meeting for months. After all, he had been programmed for his entire thirty-one years to bring home a nice Italian girl, with all that implied. And Callie wasn’t just an Anglo: she was an Anglican. An Anglican in Holy Orders, at that.
    To Mark’s astonishment, Mamma had taken it all in her stride. Callie had won her over without even trying. And where Mamma led, Pappa followed. Pappa thought Callie was wonderful.
    It was a mystery.
    Mark took a bite out of his cheese and pickle sandwich and looked at the clump of daffodils near the church porch. They were a bit battered in the wake of the storm, but still held their yellow heads upright.
    Rather like his sister Serena, he thought. The events of the last few months had been horrendous for her. Yet she had carried on,head held high, as if nothing had changed. Mamma and Pappa hadn’t known—hadn’t even suspected—that she was heartbroken , bearing the burden of her husband Joe’s infidelity.
    She had—in the throes of her anguish—confided in Mark. It had shaken him pretty badly as well. He had known Joe di Stefano for most of his life, and his sister’s marriage had always seemed rock-solid to him, the exemplar of all that marriage should be.
    Marriage. That brought Mark’s thoughts round to his good friend Neville—Detective Inspector Neville Stewart.
    If Mark’s life had changed in six months, Neville’s had altered beyond recognition. From being a confirmed and carefree bachelor , he had transformed into a married man. And it had been even more of a shock to Mark than it had to Neville.
    Neville had played his cards so close to his chest that Mark had had no idea what was going on. Yes, he knew that Neville was seeing someone, early on when Mark himself was getting to know Callie. But his absorption with his own new relationship had blunted his curiosity, and within a few weeks Neville had told him, in his taciturn way, that things were over between himself and Triona. Neville had never been comfortable talking about emotions , about things of the heart; he often kidded Mark about his Mediterranean temperament, wearing his heart on his sleeve.
    Suddenly, then, just before Christmas: an engagement. Neville had told him over a drink at their favourite pub. ‘Seems I’m getting married,’ he’d said casually, halfway through his first pint of Guinness.
    Mark could only stare at him. ‘Married? But who to?’
    ‘Triona O’Neil. Will you be my best man?’
    ‘I’d be honoured. But…’
    Eventually he’d pried it out of Neville. He and Triona had lived together for a few months, some years earlier. Their break-up had been painful; Neville had really never got over her. Then they met again by chance, were drawn together briefly, and split again.
    ‘But I finally realised,’ Neville said, looking down into his Guinness, ‘that I didn’t want to live without her. It was like…a lightbulb going on over my thick head. Difficult as it is to be with her, being without her is worse. Much worse.’
    He had proposed to her, he confessed, at the top of the London Eye. He’d done it properly, going down on his knees.
    ‘And she said yes?’ Mark surmised.
    She’d said yes—or at least maybe, at that point. And that wasn’t all she’d said.
    ‘I’m going to be a dad,’ Neville told him, pulling a bemused face.
    Triona had broken the news to him immediately after her provisional acceptance of his proposal: the one time they’d slept together, there had been consequences which neither of them had expected. She’d known about it for weeks but hadn’t been