“What, working on the family estate with you, your wife, my mother and four younger sisters all looking over my shoulder?” Once he was finished with his education, he’d returned home to the family estate, or fazenda, as it was called in Portuguese. The fazenda, named Aguas Santas after the natural spring’s “holy waters” that bubbled up in the churchyard fountain, was a huge outfit on the Portuguese mainland with several farms, ranches and vineyards. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, still lived there in a smaller house on the property. Two of his sisters and their families lived nearby and the other two were at university in London and Lisbon, respectively.
“I’ve barely been alone to take a coffee break, much less waste my youth. Besides, isn’t that the speech the disappointed father gives to a dissolute son who wanders back after blowing all his money on wine, women and song?”
Benedito grabbed his wallet, yanking out a handful of euros. “Here, take my money and waste it. Waste it on wine, women and song. You are like the virgin who chooses the convent before she can experience life.”
“Ah…” Frank pushed the money away in disgust and Benedito shook it at him. “Stop shoving your money at me.”
A middle-aged male clerk walked around the corner, eyeing them with interest. Frank groaned and grabbed some seeds. “No, Ben, you don’t have to pay for these, I’ll pay.”
Disappointed, the clerk wandered away. Benedito let out a wheezing laugh. “If only you were here with a beautiful lady, he wouldn’t have gotten the wrong idea.”
Frank rolled his eyes. Maybe he could text his sisters for some paint ideas. “Come on, old man, let’s get some coffee.”
“Ah, you finally have a good idea.” Benedito slapped him on the back.
Frank followed him out of the hardware store and down the street to a café where equally wizened men lounged around tables and eyed the surprisingly scantily clad local girls walking around. He didn’t remember seeing quite so much exposed flesh in his last visits to the Azores and mentioned it to Ben.
The older man gave him an amused glance as he sipped his thick black coffee. “You sound like a cranky grandma. All they do is complain about the racy Brazilian soap operas influencing the girls nowadays, but the old ladies watch them all the same. Why not just enjoy the view?”
Frank shrugged. Girls half his age were children, not women. “Like I told you, I have Paulinha on my mind.”
“Ah.” He was uncharacteristically silent.
“What does ah mean?”
“Let me be blunt, Franco.”
“How could I prevent it?” he murmured.
“Do not settle for a marriage without fire.”
Well, he hadn’t expected that. “What are you, a couples’ counselor?”
“And how long have you been married, you young punk?” He took another sip. “You know I don’t like to interfere…”
Frank almost snorted hot coffee out of his nose. “Since when?”
“Shut up and listen—this is serious. You would be miserable with her—not because she is not a nice woman, but because you are not in love with her.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because you are fifteen hundred kilometers away on an island with an old man and not back on the mainland with her.”
Frank made a dismissive gesture. “I have business here, not in Portugal.”
“So you can’t buy her a ticket to come with you? Are you too cheap or do you not want her here?”
He knew he was beat. “Love can come later.”
“Or not at all.”
“Enough about me. We have other errands to do.” Benedito was one of his oldest friends and mentors, but he wasn’t Frank’s first choice for a romance advisor. Especially when what he said cut too close to the bone.
2
From the website of Fashionista Magazine: The Royal Review
FASHIONISTA MAGAZINE IS thrilled to bring you The Royal Review—a hot new blog devoted to the upcoming wedding of Princess Stefania of Vinciguerra and her über-sexy, über-famous groom, Count Dieter von Thalberg, international soccer star. In less than two months, the stunning couple will say their “I do’s” in the magnificent cathedral tucked away in the tiny, exclusive principality of Vinciguerra high in the Italian mountains.
Fashionista Magazine has an inside track with the royal lovebirds—last year, we brought you Romance in Provence, a blog written by American travel blogger Lily Adams about her trip to sunny, sensual Provence. Lily did more than write it, she lived it, and is now married to Princess Stefania’s childhood friend, Count Jacques de Brissard, who owns the oldest lavender farm in the South of France. Countess Lily has kindly offered to fill us in on some of the inside scoop, with the bride’s permission, of course!
One juicy detail—in a huge break from tradition, Princess Stefania will not have any brides-maids—she’ll have bridesmen! Her brother Giorgio, Lily’s husband Jacques and their friend Francisco Duarte, Duke of Santas Aguas in Portugal, will be standing up with the bride.
“These men helped raise me after my parents passed away in their tragic car accident,” said Stefania. “Along with my grandmother, they are the dearest people in the world to me. How could I not acknowledge that special relationship?”
Even the most jaded celebrity reporter has to admit to a certain misty eye at the tender sentiment. And the thought of those handsome men lined up in their formalwear is enough to make the heart go pitter-pat!
JULIA FOUND HERSELF wandering around the town again the next morning. Her parents had arrived safely in Boston and were on their way to the hospital to visit her aunt and uncle. She had rattled around the apartment for a few hours, cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning until sheer boredom ran her out the door.
Boredom and a nagging curiosity about the man who looked so much like Frank. It could just be the familiar surroundings triggering her memory. The summer she and Frank had spent together had been magical, the summer after her first year in college. She attended Boston College but had gotten a cheap ticket to the Azores, a favorite place since her family had been stationed there for a year when she was a kid.
It was a favorite of Franco Duarte das Aguas Santas, especially since she’d found out later that his family owned their own small island there. He’d enjoyed America but was relieved to be home where he could speak Portuguese again after a few years in New York.
Julia heard plenty of Portuguese coming from the town square. She followed the noise and found a farmers’ market full of fruits and vegetables, local honey and wine. The Azoreans didn’t eat vegetables by themselves, either in a salad or cooked. The locals preferred to cook them into a soup filled with mostly meat, if they remembered the vegetables at all. She had discovered this after asking for a salad in the local restaurant and getting a blank stare. And when her neighbor had seen her eating a raw carrot as she sat in the garden, he told her those were either for the soup pot or the donkeys.
Julia had given a loud hee-haw, sending the man into a laughing fit that threatened to topple him.
But the fruit in the market was something more exciting. Baby bananas and golden-fleshed pineapples were on the table every morning. And her mother had made a great marmalade-type topping out of the local sour oranges, tart as lemons.
Julia picked up a packet of locally grown tea, the only tea grown in Europe, if she remembered correctly. And a jar of Azorean honey would sweeten it nicely. She paid a young lady for the