before Papa Viareggio's death and they had grown closer since. He and Maggie saw more of her than of Christina, and visited her for lunch on the first Sunday of every month.
She frowned at Beppe once more. 'Listen to him,' she muttered. 'You know, son, for al that big bog-Irish father of yours . . . God rest his generous soul . . . you're more Italian than your uncle ever was or ever wil be. When they named you after your papa, I think much of him passed into you. You understood him, and you stil value the things he did. Like your dad, he died too soon, or a lot of things might have been different.'
She put a strong hand on his elbow and drew him into a corner.
'That's what we want to talk to you about, your mother and I,' she said, quietly.
'What do you mean?' As he spoke, he realised that Maggie was no longer by his side; Aunt Sophia had taken her off to meet the two boys, who were dressed, inevitably, in Manchester United shirts. As he glanced across at them, his mother moved towards him, as if answering a private summons by Nana. Christina McGuire was tal and handsome, like her mother, and like her she was a one-man woman, who regarded her widowhood as a period not of mourning, but of waiting.
'I mean,' Nana continued, reclaiming his attention, 'that there's family business to be talked about.'
'Such as?'
'Such as your part in it,' his mother answered, pausing for a moment to let her words sink in.
'I've made a decision, Mario; I'm retiring. I'm selling my share of the business to Rachel and Bert.'
Christina McGuire was an Edinburgh player in her own right; she had trained as a personnel manager after leaving university, and had worked in industry, until, two years after Mario's birth, and with backing from her father, she had set up a recruitment consultancy. She had begun by specialising in finding staff for the financial services industry, and she had shared in its success and expansion. Over the years the scope of her business had broadened, taking in new sectors, including law and accountancy, and adding on a training division. Christina had refused several offers for the company, preferring to control her own destiny with the support of the two partners who had joined her in the eighties, Rachel Dawson and Robert Ironside.
Her son stared at her in surprise; through all of his life, her consultancy had been part of her. When his father, big Eamon, had died of cancer ten years earlier, it, more than anything or anyone else, had helped her deal with the tragedy.
'You serious?' he exclaimed.
'Never more so,' she assured him.
'You realise that as soon as you're gone those two'll sell out?'
'Good luck to them if they do. I'm happy with my deal.'
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. 'In that case, good for you. Mum. If it's what you want to do, I couldn't be more pleased for you.' He frowned, suddenly. 'But what the hell's it got to do with me?'
'I'm not just retiring from the consultancy, son,' Christina answered.
'I'm going away. I've bought a house in Florence, and I'm going to live there. I want to study fine art, I want to paint, and I want to listen to music till my head's completely filled with it. I'm selling my flat in Northumberland Street; whenever I come back I'l stay with Mama or with you and Maggie.'
He blew out his cheeks. 'You're taking my breath away; but again, if this is what you really want, then go for it.'
Christina had never been a demonstrative woman, but she pul ed her son to her, and hugged him. 'I'm so glad you feel that way, all things considered.'
Gradual y, the rest of the truth began to dawn on him, and he understood the real reason for the family gathering. 'Wait a minute . . .'
he exclaimed. On either side of him, the two women smiled.
'You've got it,' said his mother. 'I'm retiring from all my business, including the family trust. And in that event, my place as a trustee passes to you.'
'Oh bloody hell. Mum,' he protested. 'I can't take
She frowned at Beppe once more. 'Listen to him,' she muttered. 'You know, son, for al that big bog-Irish father of yours . . . God rest his generous soul . . . you're more Italian than your uncle ever was or ever wil be. When they named you after your papa, I think much of him passed into you. You understood him, and you stil value the things he did. Like your dad, he died too soon, or a lot of things might have been different.'
She put a strong hand on his elbow and drew him into a corner.
'That's what we want to talk to you about, your mother and I,' she said, quietly.
'What do you mean?' As he spoke, he realised that Maggie was no longer by his side; Aunt Sophia had taken her off to meet the two boys, who were dressed, inevitably, in Manchester United shirts. As he glanced across at them, his mother moved towards him, as if answering a private summons by Nana. Christina McGuire was tal and handsome, like her mother, and like her she was a one-man woman, who regarded her widowhood as a period not of mourning, but of waiting.
'I mean,' Nana continued, reclaiming his attention, 'that there's family business to be talked about.'
'Such as?'
'Such as your part in it,' his mother answered, pausing for a moment to let her words sink in.
'I've made a decision, Mario; I'm retiring. I'm selling my share of the business to Rachel and Bert.'
Christina McGuire was an Edinburgh player in her own right; she had trained as a personnel manager after leaving university, and had worked in industry, until, two years after Mario's birth, and with backing from her father, she had set up a recruitment consultancy. She had begun by specialising in finding staff for the financial services industry, and she had shared in its success and expansion. Over the years the scope of her business had broadened, taking in new sectors, including law and accountancy, and adding on a training division. Christina had refused several offers for the company, preferring to control her own destiny with the support of the two partners who had joined her in the eighties, Rachel Dawson and Robert Ironside.
Her son stared at her in surprise; through all of his life, her consultancy had been part of her. When his father, big Eamon, had died of cancer ten years earlier, it, more than anything or anyone else, had helped her deal with the tragedy.
'You serious?' he exclaimed.
'Never more so,' she assured him.
'You realise that as soon as you're gone those two'll sell out?'
'Good luck to them if they do. I'm happy with my deal.'
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. 'In that case, good for you. Mum. If it's what you want to do, I couldn't be more pleased for you.' He frowned, suddenly. 'But what the hell's it got to do with me?'
'I'm not just retiring from the consultancy, son,' Christina answered.
'I'm going away. I've bought a house in Florence, and I'm going to live there. I want to study fine art, I want to paint, and I want to listen to music till my head's completely filled with it. I'm selling my flat in Northumberland Street; whenever I come back I'l stay with Mama or with you and Maggie.'
He blew out his cheeks. 'You're taking my breath away; but again, if this is what you really want, then go for it.'
Christina had never been a demonstrative woman, but she pul ed her son to her, and hugged him. 'I'm so glad you feel that way, all things considered.'
Gradual y, the rest of the truth began to dawn on him, and he understood the real reason for the family gathering. 'Wait a minute . . .'
he exclaimed. On either side of him, the two women smiled.
'You've got it,' said his mother. 'I'm retiring from all my business, including the family trust. And in that event, my place as a trustee passes to you.'
'Oh bloody hell. Mum,' he protested. 'I can't take
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