Burning Fields

by Alli Sinclair

  “A dowry? He was bribed to marry you and…to be…my father? Oh god.” She hung her head. “I don’t see how this could get any worse.” Her father had always been independent so why would he accept such a proposal?

  “Rosie, I promise you, it is nowhere near as bad as it sounds. Yes, my grandfather wrote John into the will, but it was to preserve my future. After all, I was their only child. Your grandfather was extremely ill at this stage—we believe it was cancer—and his time on this earth was limited. Your father had experience as a foreman and so it made sense that he take over when the time came.”

  “Why wouldn’t he leave Tulpil to you?”

  “Your grandfather was a traditionalist.”

  “I know someone else in this family who is like that,” she said, sounding more bitter than intended. “Are you telling me you were married in return for Tulpil?”

  “No, darling girl. He would have married me regardless.” Her mother went to take another sip then hesitated. “I don’t mean to sound conceited. I’ve always had a soft spot for John and I knew he loved me. And when you were born”—her lips formed a nostalgic smile—“he loved you as if you were his own.”

  The penny fell to the floor, spun then rolled away and fell between the crack in the floorboards.

  Her body ached.

  Her head wanted to explode from the relentless pounding.

  Cecile’s large eyes were full of concern. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Rosie stood. “I don’t know what to think. I’m angry, sad, heartbroken…There are far too many emotions to name.” She marched toward the back door then stopped and turned. “I should have been told this a long time ago. This is my life, my heritage, my identity. And you chose to keep it secret.”

  “But you’ve always been so happy and I didn’t want to spoil it—”

  “I haven’t been happy for years!” Rosie tried to remain composed, though an urge to scream at the top of her lungs overcame her. “I lived in the shadow of my brothers—”

  “Rosie, that is not the case.”

  “It is, Mum. After Geoffrey died you went downhill with alcohol and when we thought we’d lost Alex…you switched off from the world. You barely noticed me and I had to learn to live with the guilt of being the only surviving child—and a girl at that.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  “I know that.”

  “Oh, Rosie, it wasn’t like that at all!” Her mother stood and walked toward her but Rosie took a step out the door, one foot on the verandah. “I love that you’re my girl. Your father does as well.”

  “So why did I always feel like I was never enough? How many times have I tried to get involved in the business only to get knocked back?”

  “You ran the place—”

  “For five minutes! Then Alex showed up.” Opening the door a fraction wider, she stared at the hill where Tomas had taken her after his family’s party. That little piece of land was a sanctuary. She felt a strong desire to climb up there and shut herself off for as long as it took to process everything.

  She needed to breathe.

  She needed to think.

  She needed to adjust to her new reality.

  * * * *

  Rosie sat at Tomas’s secret spot, hugging her knees, staring at the valley below. Up here, she had a clearer view of the valley she’d grown up in, believing she was the child of John and Cecile Stanton. She studied the river that snaked through the valley; bringing life to the sugarcane, to the people. Workers from an array of nationalities had flocked to these fields for generations, intent on earning enough money to bring out family or buy their own parcel of land and marry a local girl or an imported bride. As with all aspects of life, things rarely turned out as expected. How many shattered dreams and crushed hopes were scattered amongst the cane? How many secret love affairs, broken hearts, and betrayals littered the nourishing soil? How many friendships had been destroyed because of greed, ignorance, or addictions?

  Leaning against the large rock, she closed her eyes and bathed in the orange of the setting sun. If only the land could talk. Perhaps then, she’d better understand why her grandfather behaved the way he did. If he hadn’t been such a stick in the mud, maybe she’d have had a chance to meet Vincenzo because he wouldn’t have died as a result of laboring for farmers with no respect for workers. Although, if all that had happened, then John wouldn’t have become her father.

  She got up and brushed the stones and dirt off her skirt. Rosie needed to seek out her dad and talk. Blame couldn’t be thrown at him for leaving Cecile to deliver the truth, it was entirely appropriate that he’d made himself scarce as this story had to be told by her mother.

  Rosie’s legs gave way and she sat down with a thud. Dirt flew up around her.

  Maybe she wasn’t ready.

  A familiar light laugh travelled up through the scrub and a moment later Tomas emerged. “Are you going or staying?”

  He climbed the last few steps to where she sat and he eased down next to her. His smile dropped when he saw her face.

  “You have been crying?” He placed his arm around her shoulders. She instantly relaxed against his chest, a sense of comfort and caring wrapped around her as she listened to his heart steadily beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. Tomas whispered into her hair, “Tell me what has made you so sad.”

  Rosie opened her mouth but a large, painful lump in her throat stopped her from talking.

  “Take your time, dear Rosalie. I am here, waiting, when you are ready.”

  His compassion made her want to blurt out the whole sordid story but an array of emotions tugged her in countless directions. It left her flat, disheartened, confused. She took a deep breath and moved back slightly so she could see Tomas’s beautiful face.

  “Why do you care so much?” she asked.

  Tomas gave a small laugh but his expression turned serious when he noticed she hadn’t joined in. “You do not know why?”

  She shook her head, any confidence having been ripped away.

  “Ah, sweet, sweet Rosalie, I wish you knew the effect you have on people.” He ran his hand lightly down the side of her face, leaving a trail of tingles across her skin. “You never stop caring and your heart is big enough for twenty people. You make me laugh. You care what I think. And”—his fingers gently brushed through her hair—“this beautiful red matches fire in your soul. Rosalie, there are so many ways you are beautiful. How could I not love you?”

  “I…you…you love me?”

  Tomas cupped his hand under her chin and gently tilted it upwards. “Of course I love you. I’ve loved you from the minute we met on that bus. Anyone can see that you’re a special person, my lovely Rosalie. I would be a fool not to tell you how I feel.”

  She bit her lip. “You need to know something because I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I would say I know you very well.”

  “You don’t know me at all, Tomas. I don’t even know myself anymore.”

  Rosie launched into the events leading up to the confrontation with her mother, the sliding scale of emotions, the confusion that reigned. Tomas listened and asked questions while he held her hand, giving her strength to go on. She didn’t leave out one detail, and as the tale unfolded Rosie came to a new realization. “No wonder I always felt like the black sheep.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I tried to fit in by forcing my way into the business—accounting, mechanics—but it never really gelled, even though I was good at those things. I always felt I was trying to prove myself, trying to justify my existence.”

  “I am sure your parents did not see it this way,” Tomas said.

  She lowered her head, the pain having returned to her temples. Looking up into Tomas’s dark eyes, she said, “You don’t seem the slightest bit surprised about what I’ve told you. Why is that?�
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  “I have not led a protected life, I—”

  “I haven’t been that protected.” She shouldn’t sound so defensive.

  “I do not mean to say that you have been,” he said gently. “What I want to say is that with all I have seen and done in my life it is almost impossible to surprise me. Things happen, we try to deal with it the best we can and then we move on.”

  Rosie raised an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure you practice what you preach.”

  Tomas’s back stiffened and she instantly regretted her words. Her emotional turmoil was not Tomas’s fault.

  “I have spent much time thinking about this,” he said quietly.

  “And?” she encouraged.

  “And you are right.”

  “I am?” Should she have been so shocked? She loved that their conversations may have given him a light to lead him out of the darkness.

  “Yes, you are. I cannot change the past—even though I wish with all my heart that I could. I have made mistakes—so many mistakes—and I regret decisions that have caused suffering to others. I do not think I will ever lose the guilt but I need to find a way to live with it. I must remember that the decisions I made at the time were the best they could be and I never planned to hurt or damage someone. Never.”

  “You’ve come a long way. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “I could not have done it without you, Rosalie. You see the world in a refreshing way.”

  She moved toward him, her confidence returning. “I love you, too.”

  When their lips met, her unstable world gained a semblance of balance. She closed her eyes, lost in his warmth, his light stubble tickling her chin. His hand roamed her curves and she luxuriated in his sensuous touch, every fiber of her being alive. Without hesitation, she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and slid her hand across his chest, relishing the thrill of caressing the skin she’d yearned to touch for so long.

  Tomas ran his hands along her arms; goosebumps sprouted on her skin. A feeling of overwhelming love washed over her as she pushed aside the painful revelations of the day in favor of being in the moment.

  Tomas pulled away, his dark eyes staring intently in hers. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” she said and pulled him close. Tomas took off his jacket and lay it on the ground. A deep love shone in his eyes and she knew this was the moment to finally let herself go. To find out who she truly was. Rosie ran her hand through Tomas’s hair, and whispered, “Love me. Love me now.”

  Chapter 28

  A half-dressed Rosie nestled against Tomas, the full moon shining on their entwined bodies. Stars twinkled in the clear sky, reminding her of how large the world really was. Yet in this vast expanse, she’d somehow found the perfect man for her.

  Rosie should be appalled she’d just lost her virginity, but the warm glow within told her it was absolutely the right thing. Their lovemaking had cemented their love, and their relationship had escalated to a whole new level. Unfortunately, though, the timing was atrocious.

  “You think a lot.” Tomas pulled her closer.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I can hear the tick-tick-tick in your head.” He playfully tapped her forehead. “It is very busy in there.”

  “I can’t deny that.” She sat up reluctantly and slipped on her brassiere then her blouse. Buttoning it up, she said, “I don’t want to be one of those girls who cling—”

  “You are not one of those girls.” Tomas did up his trousers then sat and pulled on his boots. “I suspect you wish to talk about what all this means.”

  She nodded, a trifle embarrassed for launching into this conversation so quickly.

  “It means that I have fallen for you even more, Rosalie Stanton.” He left a lingering kiss on her cheek. “Why would you think any different?”

  “My head is one mess of emotions right now.”

  “I hope this did not add to that confusion.”

  “Definitely not,” she said. “You know…” Should she continue? “I have no idea where life is headed but the one thing I do know is that I want you by my side.”

  “And I will be.” His lips brushed hers and once again, any sense of being off-balance righted itself.

  “I probably should be getting back.” She pulled on the rest of her clothes and laced her shoes.

  “Stay.” Tomas reached over and straightened her collar.

  “I want to but I have a lot of things to deal with at home.” She stopped. “Tulpil used to be the one place I felt safe and now it just…feels so foreign.”

  Tomas guided her hand upwards and rested it over her heart. He held it in place. “This is where home is. I have spent too long trying to figure out what home means to me and I have finally come to the realization that your home is wherever you feel love.”

  “Not Italy?”

  “Not Italy. Not Australia. Not the moon. Here.” He squeezed her hand that still lay over her heart. “This is home and I hope you have enough space for me.”

  “This is a very big home, you know.”

  “Good, because I would like to move in.”

  “You already have.”

  * * * *

  Rosie sat on the steps of Il Sunnu. The fading sunlight kissed her skin and, for the first time in what felt like forever, a feeling of finally realizing who she truly was came over her. It had nothing to do with making peace with her Italian connection, although that certainly explained her pull toward Tomas and his family. It was more about her soul connecting with her past—a past she hadn’t realized she possessed until a week ago. She’d been grateful Tomas had been so understanding and given her space when needed. Even Tomas’s parents, Cosimo and Beatrice, had shown concern and empathy for her situation. Meeting Tomas’s parents had only reinforced how wonderful his family was and highlighted the fractured mess of her own life.

  When Rosie returned to Tulpil late in the evenings, her parents never quizzed her about where she’d been spending her time. Rosie hadn’t deliberately set out to avoid her family, but time was what she needed and she protected it like a newborn.

  The screen door creaked open and Tomas appeared, carrying a tray laden with olives, cheese, fresh crusty bread and a jug of water and ice. He set it down between them, then sat and kissed her on the forehead.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Confused. Happy. Sad. Angry.” She let out a small laugh. “Quite frankly, I am a mess. Still.”

  “You are my mess and for this I am grateful.” He cut a few slices of cheese then stopped to look at the knife. “This has been in my family for many generations.”

  “The knife?” She looked at the innocuous utensil with a weathered wooden handle and tarnished blade.

  “Yes.” Tomas studied the knife from different angles. “It has many stories to tell.”

  “How old is it?”

  Tomas shrugged. “The age is not important, it’s the history that means the most to me.”

  “That’s lovely for you, Tomas.” She paused. “I’m afraid for me, though, what I thought was my family history is not mine anymore.”

  “You are speaking of your father, John, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Tomas rested his hand gently on her shoulder. “Blood is not always thicker than water.”

  She gazed at the rolling hills in the distance, the magnificent blue-green of the trees now looked alight with the setting sun. Nature, like humans, had an amazing ability to create illusions that not only fooled the eye, but the heart.

  Rosie stretched her legs in front of her. “I am actually over the moon that I have an Italian heritage. It certainly explains a lot.”

  Tomas stroked her hair and she closed her eyes, reveling in his tenderness.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For?”

  “F
or being here. For listening. For just…” She knelt on the step and turned to place her lips on his. Pure love rushed through her. “For just being you.”

  “I can only be me, just like you can only be you—and you, my sweet Rosalie, are everything I could ever hope for, and more. I…” The sound of whistling drew his attention to the entrance of Il Sunnu and she turned to find a man strolling up the driveway. His hat obscured his face and hands were shoved in his pocket, his manner giving the impression he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Tomas stood and placed his hands on his hips. He cursed under his breath and even though he couldn’t decipher all of it, she picked up porca miseria, bloody hell. An expression she’d heard before. Tomas narrowed his eyes while he paced, tugging at the hair on his head.

  “Tomas?”

  “You need to go.” He kept glancing in the direction of this person, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “Why?”

  “You need to go. I will find you later but probably not until tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “I beg you, do not ask questions.” His firm tone told her there was no point in arguing.

  “Fine,” she huffed.

  Rosie’s tired legs carried her down the slope toward the man.

  “Good evening,” he said as his short, thin frame carried him up the hill. Close up, this man had quite the interesting look: a beautifully tailored suit—not dirty working clothes—a skinny oval face, and extremely bushy eyebrows.

  “Buonasera,” she said. The word ran off her tongue with more ease than she’d expected. Since learning about her heritage, Rosie had decided to embrace not only the culture, but the language. While Tomas was out in the fields working, Nonna had sat with Rosie and given her a crash course in the basics. Rosie was a quick study and before she knew it, she had a working knowledge of her father’s native language.

  Her father.

  How should she refer to Vincenzo and John? One was her natural father and the other was the father who brought her up. Both had significant roles in her life and, as she traipsed down the driveway, it occurred to Rosie she was grateful to both of them. Without Vincenzo, she would never have been born, and without Cecile marrying John, her mother wouldn’t have been welcomed back into the family and Cecile and Rosie could have been forced to live a life of destitution. Not everyone was as lucky as her mother, who had found a way out of single motherhood. What about all the other women who were doomed to live one day at a time, praying they could put food on the table for the children and have a roof over their head? What kind of life did those poor women and children lead?