She took my hand. ‘My mind is a sea, Santina.’
I looked at her, wishing I could tell her why I felt the same.
‘An awful thing happens and it makes you know how short this all is. And it’s ridiculous and selfish maybe, but truly, one of the first things I thought was don’t waste a second. I want Pasquale to be my husband, Santina. I want to share whatever time we have together. And now I know that in any moment things can change. Is it wrong to be thinking these things?’
Her eyes shone with their familiar warmth now. She looked like the Rosalia I knew. It was a comfort to see her luminous despite, or maybe because of, the anguish her family were in.
‘I think mistakes don’t happen if we truly follow our hearts. And I don’t care how sappy that sounds,’ I replied.
She stopped and turned to me against the blanched white of the wall behind her, scorching in the sun; her skin looked a deeper shade of olive. A palm from beyond the garden wall behind fanned her outline. It reminded me of the Madonna’s crown of stars. She pinned me with the same direct stare as the first time I met her.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I replied, feeling the color in my cheeks deepen, pretending it was the unforgiving beams from above.
‘Santina the mountain goat has softened at last. I turn to you for sensible truths. Now listen to you. From this I know your answer was “yes”! Tell me everything! What did he say? How did he say it? What did he look like?’
Elizabeth took off at a sudden pelt, allowing me to escape the answers. We called out to her and reached her just as she was about to negotiate the steepest length of steps. I took her hand despite her protests.
‘Well?’ Rosalia asked.
I couldn’t shunt the truth for long. ‘I haven’t seen him yet.’
‘Why? What on earth are you waiting for? If Pasquale asked me I’d be dancing on the streets.’
‘You’re always dancing on the streets.’
‘Beside the point.’
‘Does Pasquale know how you feel?’ I asked, steering the conversation to safer ground. She blushed at that, which caught me off guard. Perhaps I had misunderstood her confidence all this time. At the mention of his name her expression streaked with a childlike vulnerability.
‘Rosalia, I’m sure it must be difficult for him now with everyone grieving. He wouldn’t ask you now, would he?’
She shrugged, intimating that it wouldn’t be wrong if he did.
‘And your mamma? How would she react if you blurted this out right now?’
‘That’s what I mean, Santina. Time. It’s so precious. It’s so fast. Am I supposed to stand by and watch it all trickle away? Why? To be proper? How can I believe in that any more? My brother is dead. All the rules have been broken.’
That’s when her tears shuddered through. I held her. My tears fell on her shoulder too. She pulled away and held her hands around my face.
‘I don’t want you to cry too, Santina. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t ever apologize, Rosalia,’ I replied with snatched breaths, feeling like my tears were a lie. I longed to let her in on everything that had passed in the few hours we were apart, but it was more than I could burden her with.
We pressed our foreheads together. Soggy laughter. I felt the heat rise up from below, in that narrow stony vicolo where we stood.
‘I love you, Santina.’
‘I love you too, Rosali. We look like a couple of witches, no? Stood here with our wet heads together.’
A belly laugh frothed out then. We wiped our faces.
‘Then let’s cast a spell!’ she boomed, dancing her hands like she always did. ‘For love and courage and not wasting time!’
I smiled. In spite of everything she was still a sunbeam. My first true friend.
Marco arrived looking cooked.
‘Food or a bath?’ I asked, opening the door.
‘Both! So the cat’s away . . . ?’ he asked, skulking onto the terrace. He looked up at the vines. ‘Impressive! Does he ever let you sleep?’
My stomach tightened with guilt. I wondered if my face hid it as well as I hoped.
‘Why don’t I throw in the pasta and you go ahead upstairs and have a wash?’
‘You really taking to this lady of the house thing, no? Comes a little too natural if you ask me.’
I forced a giggle.
‘Well, if you twist my arm,’ he said, ‘I’ll swan around here like a lord – what the hell!’
I didn’t love the way his eyes surveyed the Major’s belongings. He took a mental inventory. My memory pierced with our last conversation here.
‘How’s he have the time to read all this lot?’ Marco asked as we walked past the bookshelves beside the stairwell.
‘Every day a little. He’s taught me too.’
‘Doesn’t he have a job like the rest of us?’
I rolled my eyes at that and led us up to my floor. I showed him the bathroom, laid out some extra towels and explained that he would be staying in the guestroom toward the back of the house, just near mine. He stood in my doorway and leaned against the wooden frame.
‘Just look at this, Santina.’ His eyes rose toward the ceiling. ‘Do you ever really see where you are any more? These ceilings, look at all that work. And the colors make me feel what I think people go to church to feel.’
His eyes lit up. It was wonderful to see him like this. Yet the fleeting happiness soon slipped into a more familiar sarcasm. ‘We all end up the same place though, eh?’ He turned toward the bathroom, humming to himself.
Downstairs I set to lunch. I laid a dish with several handfuls of fresh vegetables, cherry tomatoes, lengths of cucumber, a small head of cos lettuce. I chopped a radicchio into quarters and set it upon a griddle pan to wilt. When its skin became charred, I slipped the leaves onto a plate and drizzled it with olive oil and a sprinkle of coarse salt. Meanwhile, the spaghetti swirled in a steamy simmer, a handful of fresh anchovies melted in several glugs of warming olive oil to which I added some paper-thin slices of garlic and one of our home-grown chillies to infuse. When the pasta tasted done but not soggy I forked it in to the warm oil, coating each strand with the sweet-salty taste. The smell earthed me. For a moment I could escape the sensation of standing at the precipice of a deep hole. For a moment I was safe in the daily order of the world.
When Marco returned, Elizabeth and I joined him on the terrace. His hair was wet and fragrant, swept off his face to reveal his high cheekbones and the reddened apples of his cheeks. That’s when I noticed his shirt.
‘Marco, put that back this instant!’
His eyes took on a childlike gleam. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s not yours.’
‘Obviously. I never have my shirts monogrammed. It’s like he’s terrified someone’s going to steal it. I’m impressed you noticed. You know all his shirts by heart?’
I could feel my cheeks turn crimson.
‘Touched a nerve, did I?’ he laughed. ‘Seriously, it’s just for lunch. I’ll hang it back in his wardrobe after. All right?’
I shook my head in resignation. ‘You’re a liability.’
‘I’m starving is what I am. And this, my darling sister, smells like I died and went to anchovy heaven!’ He poured a glass of wine for me and made me salud before I could press my point. We sipped the chilled wine. He teased Elizabeth for her lack of table manners. Then he inhaled my spaghetti and vegetables.
‘So, he says I live here to guard the place, eh? Did he talk numbers?’
‘Stop it, Marco! You’re here to look after me. You’re not working.’
‘You don’t need looking after. That’s what other people ask of you.’
I smiled and twirled another forkful of the spaghetti, noting that I’d timed the softening of the garlic to perfection. ‘He wouldn’t trust anyone other than my own family in here. I won’t let anyone in past the front chairs usually. People have greedy eyes around here. I don�
�t need to tell you that.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
I received his affront and let it slip off me without defense. ‘I mean, look at the people living down on the vicoli. Barely enough to eat, Marco. And we sit here, sheltered like kings. He knows that. I do too. I also know there are roving hands all over town.’
‘Speaking of rovers, how’s lover boy?’
I blushed in spite of myself.
‘That bad, ha? You’ve turned into a tomato.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘And you’re denying it too. I didn’t realize it was so serious!’
‘It’s not.’
Marco looked through me.
‘I’ve heard rumors, is all,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eye I chose to ignore.
‘Rumors about what?’ I was stalling. We both knew it. I’d never longed for Elizabeth to command my attention more.
‘Santina, you may live in a fairytale, but around here, if a man follows a scent, he usually expects a little something in return.’
I was counting the strands of spaghetti now.
‘I would guess it wouldn’t be long before he either asks you to do something you’re not ready to do, or begs you to put a ring on, so he can.’
‘That’s enough!’ I blurted.
He rested his fork on his bowl. I sipped my water. My swallow was loud.
‘I’m sorry, sorellina. I’m teasing, is all.’ He reached for my hand. A gentle squeeze threatened the start of my tears. I swallowed them.
‘Seems like it’s everyone’s business but mine,’ I answered, trying not to replay the slew of memories.
Marco’s face lit up. ‘See, I know things when I see them.’
‘Ready for some fruit?’
‘You don’t get to change the subject now. I want to know if he’s going to be my brother-in-law.’
‘I want to know why it’s so important to you.’
He leaned in toward me now. His face was a moody sky, fast-moving clouds passing over the sun. ‘You say you want to be family. You say how important it is that we’ve found each other. Well, Santina, the harsh truth of that is you actually have to say the things that are hard, because in the end family are the only ones you can trust around here, believe me, I know. I had no one, just like you, and I learnt who to trust. I found my family where I had to and I stick to them because they have my back. And I have yours. And if you think you can’t trust me to tell me the things you’re going through then we’re not family at all.’
My face froze.
‘And it’s fucking scary. But until you stop behaving like a sanctimonious island you aren’t ever going to know what it means to love. Not really. This is your brother asking you to trust him, for chrissakes!’
I ignored the way he spoke and clung to his meaning. He was right, of course. I did hold him at arm’s length. I was happier knowing about his life than revealing anything about mine. His delivery was brusque, aggressive even, but I knew that it came from a passionate place. His words were those of a kid who’d grown up as an orphan. This was new territory for both of us. I wondered how many conversations I could have at this intensity over the next few days before it broke me.
‘I’m so sorry, Marco. I didn’t mean it to feel like I was shutting you out. I just don’t know which way my life ought to go right now.’
He watched me for a moment. I let him read me in the silence.
‘You’re not in love with him, that much is clear.’
I stiffened.
‘It’s ok, Santina. Please, trust me. Does your master know about it?’
‘He’s not my master.’
‘Pays you, teaches you, has you be his child’s mother. That’s pretty much a master.’
The bell jangled.
‘Who comes at lunch hour?’ Marco asked, irritated.
I walked down to the door, unlocked it.
A hopeful lover stood before me. A tray of sweet pastries eclipsed his sunny smile.
CHAPTER 18
The knots in my stomach tightened. A dusting of vanilla sugar powdered the space between us.
‘Buona sera, tesoro,’ Paolino said, his eyes lighting up with the familiar gleam of mischievous affection.
‘My brother is here,’ I answered, realizing there were several hundred other more appropriate replies. He registered my unease, then stepped in anyway.
‘Buona sera, signore!’ Paolino called out to Marco, sat at the head of the small table at the far end of the terrace, the two huge terracotta pots framing him like pawns to their king. His expression tipped into an oblique smile.
‘Please, I’m only her brother, not her father.’ He lifted his wine glass then and gestured for Paolino to join him. It was my place to do that, not his. It felt like excited adolescents had overtaken the villa. ‘You can call me Marco if you must.’
‘Piacere,’ Paolino said, balancing the tray of pastries in one hand, strolling down the length of the terrace, reaching out the other for Marco to shake. ‘We met last year, Ferragosto. On the beach.’
‘I didn’t know I was so memorable.’
I shot Marco a look.
‘We’ve just sat down to lunch, Paolino, have some with us, yes?’
We performed a perfunctory polite rally of insistence and refusal till he sat down at last. My spaghetti would be getting cold. I took the pastries into the kitchen. For a breath, the small room skidded back into my night with the Major, the sweet smells of that midnight feast filling my mind, our hushed thoughts and words, his gentle fingers on mine, his mouth.
Marco’s voice calling out for me to not keep them waiting wrenched me back to the present; how different these voices were, bouncing across that table, a world away from that night. It was no longer the tiny altar at which we paid reverence for a secret, our culinary delights. It was fast becoming Marco’s chessboard, in which he might corner Paolino, that much was clear. I stepped back outside with a bowl, cutlery and a linen napkin. Paolino watched me fork several generous swirls of pasta onto it. His face lit up.
‘Won’t the Major mind us eating out here like this?’ he asked, flicking his napkin out onto his lap, sat between Marco and I, opposite Elizabeth. He didn’t wait for an answer but dove into the bowl, twisting his fork at speed.
‘Master is out of town,’ Marco replied. ‘My sister doesn’t waste any time getting all sorts of riff raff around her table.’ He grabbed Paolino’s glass and tipped in some wine.
Paolino laughed a little too loud. My appetite clamped shut.
‘What’s wrong, Santina?’ Marco asked, filling his mouth with a final twist of pasta, emptying the glass carafe of wine into his glass, then raising it as if I ought to go back to the kitchen to refill it.
‘Nothing,’ I lied, standing up, feeling my eyebrows crease together.
‘Why the look? You want us to enjoy the fruits of your labor or not?’
I walked to his end of the table and snatched the carafe from his hands. I stepped back into the kitchen and tipped the demi john to fill it, only halfway this time. I had no desire to be sat upon that terrace with two drunk men sullying it. The liquid swirled into it and the Major’s face rose into view: his lips, salty with our dinner, sweet with this wine. I returned to my seat. Would I be a coward and pretend I hadn’t read Paolino’s proposal?
‘So, Paolino,’ my brother began, a swagger in his voice, as if intuiting my reticence, ‘when are you going to make an honest woman of my sister?’
I stiffened. Marco noticed. Paolino slid him a wry grin, as if he knew the answer. Perhaps his written proposal was a formality and nothing more? How different this childish expression from the flowery words he’d asked the American to write on his behalf. His whole demeanor a world away from the Major, my tentative lover who had lost himself with me, who had cradled the heart of me, tasted me, searched me. I ignored the prickle at the base of my neck.
Paolino’s expression fell. He glanced back at me, a man betrayed. Had my thoughts streaked
my face? ‘You talk to him about it before me?’ he asked, letting his fork drop onto the rim of the bowl.
‘What do you mean?’ I stalled.
Paolino shot Marco a look.
‘Santina and I have no secrets,’ Marco replied.
My embarrassment bubbled toward a rolling boil. ‘Paolino, Marco is teasing – and you’re letting it work.’
It fell flat.
‘And you invite me in here, to sit at the table to make a fool of me?’ Paolino replied, his words poking up like little thorns.
‘Most people don’t need others’ help for that,’ Marco replied, cool. ‘There are exceptions, of course.’ His glass touched his lips and he swallowed the contents.
‘Are we ready for fruit?’ I asked, a feeble attempt to rein in the battle of pride combusting before me.
The men weren’t distracted that easy.
‘I think I’ll come back another time,’ Paolino said, running a tense hand over his hair.
‘It’s fine, Paolino, really,’ I replied. His clothes looked at once too tight, the heat fighting to escape somewhere around his suffocating collar.
‘Thank you for lunch, Santina. I’m not going to impose any longer.’
He stood up, let his napkin drop onto the tablecloth, pushed in his chair.
‘Food that good, eh?’ Marco chirped.
‘Please! That’s enough!’ I called out, my own temperature rising.
The men stared at me.
I was navigating down a narrow gorge. My breaths quickened. ‘Elizabeth will be taking her nap soon,’ I began, determined that their little game would not conquer my feigned calm. ‘I will have lots to do. We’ll come to the shop later, Paolino. Will you be there?’
‘Of course.’
He reached out a hand to Marco, which he shook without hesitation.
I followed Paolino along the terrace, beneath the vines and the trailing wisteria, which did little to soften the atmosphere. I closed the door behind him.
‘You never told me he actually asked you already,’ Marco said in a sarcastic slur.
‘You’re right. I didn’t,’ I replied, twisting back to face him, watching his body language slip toward inebriation.
The Secret Legacy Page 21
