Throughout all that, Bruno had shown that he did indeed have a good side. He was patient and calm and kind. Chiari knew that many men, especially rich successful men with estates to pass on to the next generation, would have been very disappointed that she couldn’t bear him a son. Maybe even angry, but if he was frustrated, he’d never let on.
But still, at other times, Bruno could have rages. It was in these moments she learned that crying would not help stop the rages. The only thing that would work was turning off her emotions like a tap, sitting with a face like stone, and only bringing her spirit back out from its hiding place once his rage had passed. It was a great skill to have, and now that she’d found out his dirty secret, she was employing it during every moment of the day and night.
Chiari had no one to talk to. Sometimes, when her heart swelled with pain in light of the betrayal, she turned to the saints. She clutched her pink glass rosary praying the rosary until she could barely talk, then prayed over her statues in the little altar room she’d set up. Other times, she just collapsed on the bed and cried, feeling so wretched she was sure the divine wouldn’t possibly listen to her.
Today was one of the latter days. It was a blazing hot afternoon outside. She was lying on top of the comforter on her and Bruno’s bed, feeling nothing at all. She was more than numb, she was an empty shell. Today, she couldn’t even cry. Her mind took her back to thirteen years ago. She could remember it all, clear as day.
“Sofia,” Chiari had said, on the brink of tears. “I’ll miss you so much.”
Sofia Ossani, their maid, sat on the couch, her blonde hair tied back in a neat chignon. She was always immaculately well-groomed, which Chiari had liked. She thought maybe they had something in common, since Chiari always had her nails, hair, and makeup done. It almost felt like some kind of armor. A psychological armor against the difficulties in life.
Sofia and Chiari hugged each other tightly, and Sofia tucked some of Chiari’s dark hair behind her ear. “You are a good woman,” Sofia had said. “Be strong and keep praying, and you will be happy.”
Chiari had confided everything to her, about her marriage, about how unhappy she sometimes was in the gilded cage in which she lived, and even about Salvatore. She had never told a soul before, but there was something about Sofia that was so warm and kind that she felt like Mother Earth to Chiari, and the whole thing just came spilling out of her mouth one day.
Since then they had been like kindred souls, though Sofia was certainly the ‘leader’ of the two, always giving Chiari little pep talks. “Men are not worth all that much,” she had always said. “Especially not your tears.”
When Sofia became pregnant and the father didn’t want anything to do with her or the child, she stuck by her word. Chiari was horrified, and cried on her behalf, but Sofia stuck her chin in the air and smiled. “I will not cry over this. Sofia Ossani cannot be broken.” She declared that she would move to the other end of the island and start a new life.
“But how will you survive?” Chiari had asked, her heart beating with worry for her friend.
Sofia had pinched her gently under the chin, like someone would a child. “Don’t you worry about Sofia. I will get by.”
But Chiari couldn’t help herself from worrying. The thought of her friend suffering and struggling to feed her child kept her awake at night. She woke Bruno up one night and explained the situation to him. “Can we help?” she’d asked. “Just give her some money for a few months to help her get started?”
“If you want,” he said in a disapproving tone of voice. “Though you should not get so involved with her. She is only a servant.”
“Not a servant, Bruno!” Chiari said passionately. “She’s a person!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bruno said. Then he rolled over and soon started snoring.
Chiari set her plan in motion, so that by the time Sofia was scheduled to leave, she had everything in place. She handed Sofia a huge bunch of flowers, a box that contained a very expensive necklace (it was her own and she loved it, but she thought Sofia might love it even more) and an envelope thick with cash.
Sofia and Chiari cried into each other’s arms as they hugged. Then Chiari rubbed Sofia’s belly and said, “Love you, little one. Maybe someday you will meet Auntie Chiari.”
But Sofia had never returned. Never written. Never even called.
And only now, thirteen years later, did Chiari know why: Because the child in Sofia’s belly was Bruno’s.
Only now he was a thirteen-year-old boy. An angry thirteen-year-old boy who had been consistently lied to, Chiari deduced from the letter she’d received from him.
It was written in an angry scrawl…
To Chiari Lombardi
You are a devil woman. Leave Bruno, my father, alone so he can come back to his family and stay with us forever. No one knows I am writing this, but I am not afraid of you like everyone else is. Let my father go. NOW.
Diego Ossani-Lombardi
Chiari’s world had closed in on her when she’d read the letter for the first time. Thankfully there had been a couch nearby, so when her legs gave out, she was able to stagger over to it and collapse without hurting herself.
She’d tucked the letter into her pocket and since then seemingly read it a million times. The paper the letter had been written on was well worn now. The word that stabbed her through the heart like a knife was ‘Diego,’ the name she’d picked out for her son years ago, and confided to both Sofia and Bruno. It was the cherry on top of the icing of betrayal. She didn’t know who had hurt her more, or what had hurt her more.
Even now, as she lay on the bed, so motionless she felt dead, she was confused. Did she care that Bruno would likely bring this ‘false Diego’ to their home, and give him everything? Of course, Bruno’s son, regardless of who his mother was, would inherit the winery and everything else. What if Bruno died before she did? She would probably be kicked out of her house and home, while Sofia would be moved in by little Diego and become the new queen of the Lombardi kingdom.
It wasn’t the money. Although Chiari had become accustomed to a very high standard of luxury living over the years, this went deeper than that. Much deeper. Beyond the betrayal, it was about her identity. Though the ‘not good enough’ feeling her family had given her still lingered under the surface of her life, she’d managed to mask it very, very well. She was the successful, beautiful, honorable woman of the Lombardi empire, the Lombardi Empress, so to speak, and that position allowed her a safe place to hide all her insecurities. It kept her family happy, too.
But if Diego was brought in, everyone would know, she thought. The shame of it all would come back full circle onto her.
I was not enough to hold Bruno Lombardi.
I was not able to give him a child.
Bruno chose a maid to procreate with, over me!
I have lost power to a thirteen-year-old boy and a maid!
Chiari lay staring at the ceiling. Her life had come to a standstill. Every moment dragged out, seeming like an eternity. She couldn’t possibly confront Bruno. She’d stand to lose everything. She’d have to admit it was all reality, too. Despite Bruno’s difficult moments, she loved him. She was deeply fond of him. They’d had nearly twenty years together. Another reason she couldn’t confront him was she was afraid of her own rage.
She’d learned to tightly control any anger she’d felt ever since her wedding night. She didn’t dare get angry with Bruno, so once again, she tried to control it, even though her fury was so heavy it felt like a lead weight around her neck.
Chiari’s life seemed to be crashing down, piling up as rubble and ruins around her ankles. She hadn’t chosen this. But now, for reasons she had no part in or control over, she was forced to bear the burden.
CHAPTER 6
Salvatore Lombardi sat at Gianna’s Beach Bar, as he did most days, and drowned his sorrows. Gianna herself handed him his whiskey on the rocks and didn’t make eye contact. He knew why. He had a tendency to over
share, and overshare the same things repeatedly at that, but he was too miserable to care. She might have thought it was annoying to have the same story repeated to her, but for him, it was torture, having the same tragedy played over and over again in his head, each and every miserable day of his life.
He’d had plenty of advice from Gianna’s patrons over the years.
“Forget about them. Live your life.”
“Get therapy if you have to.”
“Man up.”
But nothing got through.
He was at least business savvy enough not to drone on and on about it to his own Bed & Breakfast guests. He knew that he’d struck the jackpot by somehow managing to get them into this old rundown town, and he had Alessa to thank for that. He’d hired her to do a bit of cleaning, but she’d quickly proven herself to be ambitious and hardworking and, in all fairness, somewhat of a visionary. She kept saying, “Oh, but that would look nice in green,” or “We really need some flowers right here.”
So he’d given her a little money here and there to buy paint and cushions and curtains and whatever else she said would brighten up the place, and she’d transformed the whole B and B into something quite new and fresh looking.
She’d also uploaded photographs of the rooms onto Booking and TripAdvisor, and now they had people coming in from all over the world Visitors generally rated the area as poor, but the B and B as excellent. Alessa was even trying to fix that discrepancy, though, and had started to think about creating cultural tours to show off the hidden gems in the community. Salvatore thought Alessa was the only hidden gem in the community. He’d lost all interest in the business and often thought he might give the business to Alessa, but he never got as far as planning it out in any real detail.
Instead, he ended up at the bar, drinking.
How different life could have been…
No matter how he tried to distract himself, this ‘different life’ was always where his mind ended up. It was almost impossible to believe where he was when he walked the alleys of the slow, ramshackle seaside town, with mangy stray dogs begging and young boys falling over themselves to sell some poorly-made handcraft to the tourists who had lost their way.
He hadn’t made any friends here. How could he, when they lived here too? When they were living in the present, accepting this reality as their lives? Rather, each day he just talked out his story to anyone who would listen. Sometimes it was a local who hadn’t been around for a while. Sometimes it was the people who lived up on the mountain and came down for flour and sugar now and again. Sometimes it was a tourist. Or a fisherman. Or on really bad days, one of the mangy dogs.
Today, it was a young Australian tourist. A bronzed woman in her 20’s with scruffy clothes, a camera around her neck, and a seemingly fearless attitude. She had walked into Gianna’s bar and ordered herself three beers – they were on special.
“So where are you from, then?” Salvatore asked in thick English.
“Australia,” the woman said. “You?”
Salvatore smiled. This was his standard opening. It could get them into the conversation faster. “From one of the finest places in Sardinia. The Lombardi wine estate. You know of it?”
The woman shrugged, looking distinctly unimpressed. “I’m not really into wine and all that. I’m here to see life, real life. And capture it on film. I’m a photographer.”
Salvatore laughed. “Oh, you won’t see any real life around here. This is the land that time forgot.”
“You’re disillusioned,” the woman said directly.
“You bet I am. You would be, too, if you had lived the life I have.”
“Can I take your picture?” she said, already sliding off her barstool.
Salvatore was beginning to get annoyed. “No.”
“Aww, come on. I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t want your money!” Salvatore snapped. “Just because you see me here in this disgusting place with these clothes, don’t think I’m just like the rest of the people who live here. I wasn’t born here. This isn’t me. It’s just what has happened to me, where desperation has brought me.”
The Australian nodded thoughtfully. “So this is your last resort? Ooh, I like that for a blog post title. The Last Resort.”
“For a what title?”
“Nothing,” the woman said quickly. She got back on her barstool. “I’d love to hear your story. Can I include it in my blog?”
“You can include it in whatever you like,” Salvatore snapped. He felt pressure building in his chest, the same pressure that built every day. He felt it would burst if he didn’t get his story out, and fast. “I was in love…”
“Wait. I’m Blair. What’s your name?”
“People call me Sal.”
“You have an interesting face for photography, Sal. Your nose is… well, you’ll make a fascinating profile.”
“My nose was broken in a bar fight. Now, did you come to ask me about my nose or my story?”
“Go ahead,” Blair said.
“Right. I was in love. And rightly so. Anyone with half a mind would be in love with this woman. Chiari Romano was a goddess somehow mistakenly put on earth by our Creator. You should have seen how her eyes danced, like a thousand candles at mass flickering in a gentle breeze.”
Given that he’d told this story thousands of times before, he had come up with what he thought were rather poetic phrases. “Her smile was like the most beautiful sunset you’d ever see. I thought about her every waking moment. How could I not?”
“How long ago was this?” asked Blair.
“Many years. It goes back into the mists of time,” Salvatore said. “You see?” he blurted out, both soothed and angered by what he felt was the heartbreaking poetry in his own speech. “You see I am not from here? My spirit and culture are from somewhere entirely different. I was not born here, among the spit and the cockroaches.”
“A dramatic fall from wealth?” Blair said, looking excited. She was looking for a story as much as Salvatore wanted to tell one.
“Not a fall. I was pushed! I had proposed to Chiari before I left for college. Under a blanket of stars we lay, atop a hill. I asked if she would do me the honor of being my special princess for eternity. She said she would. We agreed that once college was finished, we would be together and officially marry.”
He took a long swig of his whiskey. His heart still ached in his chest when he told this part of the story. Sometimes the fury leaped up afterward, sometimes it did not. He was not sure if it would today. It seemed the story had a will of its own, gripping his heart and twisting it in whichever direction it wanted to go on any given day.
“So what happened then?” Blair asked as she motioned to Gianna and said, “Bring him another whiskey, please.” Then she took a swig from her beer.
“My father died while I was in my final year of college.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Blair said. “My father died when…”
“Don’t be!” Salvatore spat. “He was a cruel, vindictive man right up until the end. He pretended like he was a good man, spoiling my brother Bruno and taking him under his wing. But really, he was a squirming mass of maggots underneath the surface. An evil man to my mother, God rest her soul. She deserved much better. And a bully to me. I was a child, and I could not defend myself, as much as I tried.” He took a sip of whiskey from the fresh glass.
“My father, in his signature style, left our entire award-winning vineyard and mansion to Bruno, along with most of his fortune. I inherited a pittance. Just a few pennies. Everyone said it was because Bruno was the eldest, but I knew better. It was because he hated me.”
“Wow, so you were really rich before all that, huh?” Blair looked far too excited. “Then this is a real fall from grace.”
“The worst is yet to come,” Salvatore said. “While I was away, my father and Bruno had poisoned Chiari’s mind against me. They told her all sorts of lies. They said I had another girlfriend at the university. In fact, I had
girls everywhere, according to them. Also, they told her I was going nowhere. I was a lazy waster. In fact, I was at college studying political science because I wanted to help people. I wanted to make people’s lives better.
“I had considered being a doctor, but I thought a politician would be better. Perhaps I could protect people from the mafia. Perhaps I could feed the hungry.” Salvatore laughed bitterly. “What a stupid young dreamer I was. I envisioned Chiari and me living happily with our children, while I changed the world.” He looked Blair up and down. “I hope you are not so stupid.”
Blair held her hands up. “I don’t believe in politics. I think all politicians are liars.”
“Before I knew what had happened, my father had suggested that Bruno and Chiari marry each other instead of her marrying me. ‘You have the wrong brother’ they said to her, and all of them thought it was very funny. I did not attend the wedding. I would have fallen down dead on the spot.
“Instead, I accepted my father’s pittance and came out here to this godforsaken place. I bought a B and B and tried to do my best. But my empty bedroom haunted me. When I walked the streets, I thought every dark-haired woman who passed me was Chiari. I could not look into another woman’s eyes without wishing they were hers.”
Blair blew a stream of air out of her lips. “Whoa. This is some heavy stuff.”
“Life is heavy, young lady, and the sooner you get to know it the better. Many people find that out as they get older and tragedy strikes. They live a blissful lie beforehand. For others of us, we see the tragedy clearly from an early age.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Blair said. “Sure, bad stuff happens. But good stuff happens, too. There’s a lot of awesome stuff in the world.”
Salvatore smiled at her, the first time he’d smiled in a long time. “The innocence of youth.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Blair said. “Seriously. You could change your life. Okay, so you’re not Brad Pitt, but you’re not a bad looking man. You could go out there and get yourself a loving wife.”
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