It didn’t take her as long to pack the mud over the hole. She clipped a few flowers after, and then, tucking the box underneath her arm, rose from the ground without any help. “Walk with me,” she said, nodding toward the door that led into the house.
I looked up at the window. There he was again, watching me. I walked next to her, and he watched until he could no longer see us anymore. The lace curtains fluttered when he closed them.
She turned to me when she knew he could not see and gave me the box with the flowers. She took my hands in hers, squeezing. “I learned to hate him,” she said. “My husband. I loved him. I loved him the moment I saw him. It came so naturally. To love. But over the years—the life, always coming second to it—I learned how to hate.
“It was not an easy emotion for me. I wrestled with it. But after time, so much time,things, the loss of my children, the loss of a life I expected, the hate came, and it has never left me. Ihatehim. I had always thought the best day of my life would be my wedding day. It was the day we put him in the ground.”
She squeezed my hands even harder. The metal box, my wedding rings, and the rosary bit into my skin. “Mynonnagave me this tin. She told me there are two things a woman should always have: a garden and a money tree to bury. It should grow over the years, given to the next generation, so if they need it, it’ll be there.” She shrugged. “They have their secrets. We have ours. One thing we have in common, we all bury them,capisci?”
She looked into my eyes and then took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “If you love my grandson,go, or one day, you will be me. You will have so much hate in your heart for someone you once couldn’t imagine living without. Preserve what you have. Don’t let this life kill that, too. This life always comes first. Everything else comes second.
“Give your baby a chance. A chance to…choose life. Not this one, but a good one. Give this tin to your daughter, or your son, empty. The two of you build it up together again.” She released my hands and went into the house.
Men were around, but behind the gates, they browsed more than they watched. I cracked the tin, and inside, rolls of money filled it. She wanted me to take the money and leave.
“We’re digging up buried treasure now,” he said.
I shut the tin quietly and then looked into my husband’s eyes. He could be as quiet as a ghost when he wanted to be.
I sighed, lifting the tin and the flowers. “Your grandmother gave me a family heirloom,” I said. “When the baby is old enough, we will bury this tin after using thefrangipaniseeds inside for a garden. A family tradition.”
He put his arm around my neck and kissed my temple. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Alcina,” he said. “I can smell the old money in that tin.”
We stopped walking.
“It’s a secret,” I said. “Between two women. Why do you have to know about it? You do not tell me everything.”
He studied my face. “You want to leave me.”
“If I did?”
“Yes or no,” he said.
I did not say anything. After a minute, he put his lips closer to my ear, pulling me even closer. “If that’s a yes, tell me before you do, and I’ll give you the knife to carve my heart out.”
“You have been offering a knife to me a lot lately.”
“You’re the only person I would allow to kill me,” he said. “Without you, I’m dead anyway.” He said the words so nonchalantly, but with so much weight, I suddenly felt tired to the bone.
We stepped into the house, and after he walked me to the dining room and pulled my chair out, he cleared his throat. “What I told you the night of our wedding—” He paused. “It stands the test of time. I’m the only man in your life, whether you’re beside me or not. I’ll kill any man who even tries to get close to you.”
Then he left.
28
Alcina
He looked at her like she hung the moon.
That was why he named our daughter Eleonora Lucia Capitani—the night she was born, the moon was full and bright enough to see by. Like the night he came to me in Bronte, he was moved by something bigger than the life that ruled him.
Eleonora means “shining light.” Lucia means “graceful light.”
Her dark hair was hardly enough to brush through, and her skin was like fine porcelain. Her eyes were brown, but I had a feeling they were going to lighten to dark amber. She would share the color with herpapà. Or maybe even hazel. A mixture between his and mine—amber and brown.
He could hold her with one hand, and she ruled his world.
He slept very little after Eleonora was born, and something about it satisfied me.
