The feast yesterday was indescribable. In every way. Yours,
Joe
Her heart pounded. She asked the private to wait, then ran back up the stairs and dashed through the kitchen and up to her room, ignoring her sister’s questions. Piera was finishing getting dressed as Carmela burst in.
“You catch fire?”
“I’ll be back,” Carmela said, riffling through the lowest drawer of the wardrobe for a shawl.
“Where are you going?”
Carmela straightened and looked at Piera. “I have to go the base for a few hours. Please tell Yolanda I will start a little later today. And tell Mamma not to expect me for dinner. I’ll stay on till early evening at the studio.”
She turned and flew down the stairs, across the terrace, down the winding garden, and back out into the street. She took her seat beside the private. The vehicle shuddered to attention.
“Take a seat, Ms. Chirigoni.”
Carmela thought back to the last time she had stood before this receptionist. Her platinum hair looked fake now, and her smile forced.
She heard his voice from down the corridor. Kavanagh stepped into the light-filled foyer.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, all business, holding out a firm, impersonal handshake. “There’s a gentleman who has agreed to meet us this morning. If you’re ready, we could engage him now?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, unable to decipher anything in his tone other than impeccable professionalism.
She followed him out to his vehicle and took her seat beside him. Moments later they were rumbling deep into the countryside, the sun beginning to warm away the night rainfall.
He didn’t speak as he drove. Then he took a sudden hard right off the main dirt road and headed down a narrow track deep into a thicket. Onward they bounded down this unfamiliar path. Carmela didn’t know of any farms along here. The pines clustered together, blocking the sun. The jeep reached a gradual stop. Kavanagh raised the handbrake and switched off the engine.
They sat in silence for a moment.
She wanted to ask where they were going, though she knew the answer. She considered feigning a disingenuous act. She imagined herself keeping up her frail performance of decorum. But what was that worth now? Instead she just turned her head and looked at him. She watched as his fingers reached for hers. He lifted her hand and unfurled her fingers. He raised her palm to his lips. She thought about saying something. Telling him to stop. Recoiling into safety.
He kissed her wrist and then interlocked his fingers with hers. Her heart raced.
She felt the width of each of his fingers against hers. Her eyes met his. He leaned toward her. She didn’t push away. Their lips met.
Soft.
Hungry.
She parted her mouth.
His tongue met hers—this was no stranger’s kiss.
Their lips separated as they rested their foreheads against one another.
Their breath fell into a shared rhythm.
“I have dreamed of this, Carmela,” he said in a whisper that sent shivers over her body.
She rubbed her cheek softly against his. “There are no farms, are there?”
Kavanagh pressed his lips against hers. Fleshy. Warm. Ardent.
She pulled away. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at Kavanagh, trembling.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Carmela, but I can’t keep away from you anymore.”
“I’m terrified of what I’ll say.”
“Then say nothing.”
He reached in for her mouth again. Then his lips traced her neck.
Kavanagh pulled away, moved around to his trunk, and removed a wide blanket from inside. He set it down on the pine needles of the forest floor. He opened her door, slipped his hands behind and underneath her, and then lifted her toward the darkness below the trees. He lay her down upon the blanket. Neither spoke. There was a time for conscience, but it was not now. He went down on his knees and then eased his weight onto her. Every touch of his fingers, hands, tongue, felt familiar yet uncharted. She fell into the earth and gave in to the sweet exhilaration of surrender.
Just after lunch that day, Franco arrived unexpectedly at the Chirigoni house. He insisted that Carmela ride his motorbike with him to his uncle’s villa, where the Curwins spent their summers. The familiar valley of Simius whirred by her, a blur of green noise that failed to divert her guilt. They pulled into the drive, lifting white clouds of dust behind them. Franco slid off and helped her with a gallant hand, wrapped tightly around hers. As they reached the front door, he turned and produced a strip of material, which he tied around her head, covering her eyes.
“I want this to be a surprise,” he whispered. Carmela felt him lead her through the door and make a sharp right, walking her up the granite steps. The air was stony and stagnant; she made a mental note to air out the place, even though it would be several months before any guests would arrive. She sensed the runner carpet underfoot as they walked along the corridor, then the creak of the bedroom door, which Carmela judged, from the distance, to be the master bedroom. Franco reached a gentle stop. He traced his fingers down her arm. A shiver spiked the back of her legs. The door closed behind her. She reached up to the blindfold.
“No. Let me do it,” he said.
She felt his hands untie the tight knot. The scarf fell away. She squinted in the suffusive light that came in through the shutters in subdued stripes. Across the bed were dozens of rose petals. Carmela glanced at the dresser and the vase upon it, filled with lilies and chrysanthemums. She had never seen those flowers in a bedroom before, only on tombstones or in church. On one of the end tables was a silver wine cooler filled with ice and a bottle of prosecco. Her heart lurched.
“You like it, tesoro?”
Carmela turned back to him, answerless.
“I said, do you like it?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Just kiss me.”
He stepped toward her, clasped her face with his hands, and pulled her into him.
Before she could pull away, he scooped her up and lay her on top of the petals. He fell onto her, smoothing the hair away from her face. “Get used to this, Carmela. This is the bed we’ll be waking up in every morning for the rest of our lives.”
“What?”
“My uncle, he’s giving us the house. Why wait to inherit it, he said.” He traced her hair with the tips of his fingers. “You’ll never have to serve those English again. Leave hot kitchens to the maids, tesoro. You’ll be a Falchi soon, not a Chirigoni farm girl.”
He dove to her neck, smothering it with his hot lips. She pulled his face up, away from her, “I love working for the Curwins. They are good people. They love this house.”
“Not as much as I love you.” He pressed his hips against hers. The birth of panic began.
“When were you going to tell me this?” she asked, unable to mask the first quiver of anger.
He yanked himself straight up, the weight of his straddle pressing down on her legs. “You don’t sound like a woman whose fiancé just covered a bed with petals to make love to her!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You want to live next to pig shit all your life?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve just told you this is our home, and the first thing you care about is those stuck-up foreigners.”
“They’ve taught me everything I know about English. I owe them more than you’ll ever understand.”
He started to undo his belt. “No need for English when you’re the lady of the house, tesoro. You won’t have to trail behind anyone ever again.”
“I can’t do this, not now.”
He undid the top buttons of his trousers.
“It doesn’t feel right, Franco.” Carmela wondered why she was whispering in a deserted house.
He fell down onto her, reaching out for her hands. His
grip around her wrists tightened.
“Please, you’re hurting me.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he twisted her face back toward him. “You love this little game, don’t you?” he asked, burying his face in her chest.
“Franco, stop!”
Carmela writhed underneath him.
“Can you feel me, my beautiful? You want me. Say it!”
“Stop!”
Franco pressed his lips on hers as his hand traveled up her skirt. Her knees pressed together. He forced his fingers farther up. Then he let out a cry and jumped to his feet, clutching his hands around his mouth.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he spat.
Carmela sat up. “I told you to stop.”
His eyes shot her look of fury. “I’m bleeding, you bitch!”
Beads of blood swelled on his bottom lip.
“I said stop—it’s not safe today!”
Franco grabbed her chin, his hand like a vise. “It’s not a wife’s place.”
“I’m not a wife.”
Their eyes locked. Carmela couldn’t tell whether he was going to strike her. The sheet slid to the floor. A scattering of red petals fell beside it. He let go of her face and walked to the open window. Carmela tried not to think about the Curwins. Or Kavanagh. Or the stinging between her legs.
“I can’t do this,” she said. “Not here. Not today. I’m sorry.”
Franco said nothing. She turned away from him. Above the headboard the Madonna and Jesus sat in a painted garden. A pair of doves fluttered above them.
“They’ve asked me to go on a trip,” she said at last.
“You mean he asked you,” he replied, without turning his eyes away from the orchards. This whole escapade was an act of desperation, not romance, Carmela realized with a shudder. He didn’t want her to speak English so that she didn’t have to trail behind Kavanagh.
“Casler’s thinking,” Carmela began, purposely emphasizing his name, “that some of the farmers down south might negotiate with them.”
Franco twisted back toward her. “What are you talking about?”
“Casler, at the base, wants to go to Cagliari. He’s asked me to go.”
“And what did you say, little Miss America?”
In the face of his vindictiveness, the guilt that had trailed her like a phantom since the morning turned to defense. “I said I would be delighted.”
“Without asking anyone? Me? Yolanda? Your father, for heaven’s sake? What’s got into you? You behave like a slut!”
Carmela’s eyes studied her lap.
“Go. Have a nice little trip,” he said, taking two threatening steps toward her, his body stiffening as he did so. “But don’t you set foot back here unless you can promise me that the only bit of land those morons will rent for their weapons tests and little military games is ours—do you hear?”
Carmela looked up at him and answered with defiant silence.
He clamped her chin again. “I said, do you hear?!”
Her breath caught. She swallowed her tears. He let go of her with a flick of his wrist, then walked back to the window.
She watched him without moving, furious that an involuntary tear traced down her face. After forcing the iron lock of the wooden shutters shut, he sat down beside her. “Tesoro,” he murmured, tracing a gentle thumb along her wet cheek, “you’re a clever woman. And clever women get what they want. And what you want is for me to be happy, no? Not just walk around with a bloody lip.”
Carmela looked at him. She gave up the fight against the tears.
“Come here, my darling.” He took her in his arms. The man had just presented her with the villa of her dreams, laid out the bed of a princess, and offered to make love to her all afternoon, but her body was cold. Somewhere, in the silences, did he know it wasn’t him she wanted to lie beside? Perhaps she ought to finish everything right here, right now. If the tender passion of Kavanagh was nothing but a moment of sheer carelessness that would never be repeated, it couldn’t change the fact that Carmela owed it to herself to be honest with Franco.
But she couldn’t do it.
Instead, she hid in his arms, feeling his desperation where once there was virile naïveté, the faintest smell of alcohol on his breath. He watched her, misunderstanding her sobs, then smoothed the hair away from her ear and whispered. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I should have listened. But you drive me wild, Carmela. The only woman I have ever wanted. Will ever want. A man can’t feel a passion like that and expect to control it always. It’s too powerful.”
He eased her face toward his. The only brightness in the darkened room now was the glint in his eyes—the hardness from but a moment ago softened with well-rehearsed seduction. “Get those Americans paying for my land, do you understand? Our future family deserves that, no?”
He stood up, buttoned his fly, and left her on the crumpled bed.
CHAPTER 24
The lull of the afternoon was Carmela’s favorite time of day. Today, although it was three o’clock and the family’s cups were filled with the comforting caramel of coffee, she couldn’t ignore the knot in her stomach. It tightened with every one of Franco’s words as he and her father discussed her upcoming trip.
“So you see, Signor Chirigoni,” Franco said, stirring his coffee, “it is important to all of us to make sure Carmela goes on this trip next week.”
Carmela picked up her father’s cup and refilled it.
“They’re not taking their business any other place!” Tomas insisted.
“With respect . . .”
“They’ve spent months establishing this base. Why would they seek land down south?”
“Signor Chirigoni—”
“Signor Tomas will do. . . .”
Franco lowered his head and smiled, bashful. His performance sent ice down her spine. “Why would they waste time traveling there if this was not their plan?”
“What do you say, Carmela?” Tomas asked.
Carmela looked up from the plate of papassini biscuits she was laying on a dish at the counter. She wasn’t expecting to be consulted and was loathe to lie to her father. She took a breath, affecting dispassion, as if the decision to let her go would be no more exciting than sewing a hem. “Papa, I think Franco is wise to secure their investment here. I know the captain has expressed interest in our land in particular.”
Franco looked at her with the satisfaction of a lion tamer before his obedient beast. She met his gaze and forced herself to soften her expression. The simplicity of her plan became clear. All she had to do was make Casler promise that the Americans would rent their land. She would rather secure her family’s finances than maintain this façade with Franco. If they were taken care of, the brutality of a public shaming by Carmela walking away from her wedding would be allayed. There was no way she wouldn’t sully their reputation, but at least she would know they would never want for anything. In the fullness of time Carmela’s actions would be laid to rest.
She struggled to silence the calculations charging around in her mind; with her family taken care of, she may even be able to flee the town altogether. This gnawing thought was the most terrifying. Since her encounter with Kavanagh she had thought of little else. She clung to the memory of his touch till sleep was victorious. She thought about how few clothes she would need to take with her if they chose to flee. How much money she had saved up over the year from her work at the studio. Try as she might, it was impossible to stop dreaming up their new lives in Munich. The home she would make. The love they would make on their small bed beneath a window that looked out to the surrounding mountains. The unfamiliar faces she would spy on her walk to the baker. Their expressions of delightful indifference, rather than the scrutiny of Simiuns who read her entire family when they greeted her, judged and related to her based on what her brother, sister, aunt, or mother had said or done or failed to. But as the story unfolded in her mind, the lakeside summer retreats, their gaggle of children frolicking in the sn
ow, the handsome clothes she would become well loved for, Carmela felt a sharp wrench of guilt—followed by embarrassment and annoyance at her girlish plans that had no roots in reality.
Two men, whom she ought to have loved and respected the most in all the world, stood between Carmela and her trip with Kavanagh. Now not only Franco but her father too was implicated in her betrayal, for which there would be no forgiveness. But try as her trained conscience might, it could not suffocate her yearning. It was impossible for her to let this opportunity slip between her fingers, for the sake of the men before her now, for the sake of propriety or her future. And what was that? Living a subordinate life beneath a man who would never change? It seemed that propriety offered a man a good life and taught women the art of perseverance and obedience, little more. Carmela watched them as they sipped the coffee. She wondered it did not taste bitter, like the food made by an angry cook.
She made her choice.
They looked up at her, expectant. “It could quadruple the incomings, Papá,” she began, appealing to her father’s practical nature, “if not more. If I am present at the meetings, I will be party to all the information.” She stopped there, in case insisting would make it seem that she was excited about leaving. It was important to make these men think it had been their decision. A passive manipulation on her part—perhaps there was more of Icca in her than she would have liked to admit.
“She speaks sense,” Tomas decided.
Franco stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you, Signor Chirigoni. I think this will be a great thing for the family.”
“There are greater things than money, boy, remember that. No silk or satin ever made a crop grow. But only a donkey could deny that a coin-filled purse shortens a winter.”
Carmela winced. Franco laughed as if he knew what humility was.
There was a ring at the gate. Tomas and Franco turned. Carmela left the kitchen and walked across the terrace to peer down. Kavanagh’s jeep was parked below. She ran to the stairs and down along the winding garden. There he stood, his hair golden in the bright May sunshine. Her breath caught. She opened the gate with care, gripping the handle tight as if to stop her hands wandering anywhere else. Kavanagh lifted his hat. “I’ve come to talk with your father about the trip.”
Under a Sardinian Sky Page 25
