After the sun had settled its dues and all of the leftover heat had dissolved, the night turned bitter with cold. Scarlett hunkered down, her shoulders coming up to meet her neck. I zipped the jacket up and kept her hand in mine to ward off some of the chill.
We strolled in the opposite direction of the bridge, preferring not to walk underneath it.
The night was quieter than the water.
Bodies of water had always spoken to me; whether in response to the wind or to powerful undercurrents, each one had a unique voice. I took comfort in the telling of such things.
Reaching a small grove of shading trees, Scarlett took a seat on a cement bench, snuggling in closer to the jacket, sticking her hands in the pockets.
“I should’ve taken a jacket,” I said. I went to take off my shirt, but she held a hand up.
“As much as I love to see you half naked, don’t you dare take that shirt off. I’m fine, Brando. It’s not the temperature that’s bothering me.”
I stared at her for a while. Finally coming to my senses, I turned toward the water.
“Parlare, mio marito,” she whispered.Talk, my husband.
I grinned to myself and turned around to face her. “When did you get so bossy, woman?”
“Being married to you taught me a few things.”
“Got me there.”
She patted the spot next to her, but I decided to stand instead. “Did you know Nick Stone talked to your father about his feelings for you before he died?”
After a short hesitation, she shook her head. No, she didn’t know.
“He did,” I said. “He mentioned marriage.”
“Brando—”
I lifted a hand up. The situation rubbed me raw, but there was nothing to do about it. I forced myself to change the subject. “Luca fought Maggie Beautiful for me.”
“We both know that. She fought back. She would have lost her life for you, Brando. She refused to give you up. Thank God for it. You were meant for me.”
I felt a rush of warmth that would melt any block of ice at her words. “If Luca would’ve never been arrested, what do you imagine would’ve happened to me?”
“What do you think?” Her tone was wary, and only a breath above a whisper.
“We would’ve never connected the way we did,” I said.
“Perhaps we would have, but that’s wishful thinking. I should have more faith, but the thought terrifies me. If we would’ve never met, I know for a fact that I would be living a life with my heart missing, and on the constant hunt for it. It’s a bit like knowing the other half that you can’t remember.”
“In that case,” I said, “are we all predestined to a certain journey? Or is it by the choices we make? Does the author of our stories plot ahead of time? Or does it have no idea what’s going to happen from scene to scene? Not knowing what’s in store, but forging ahead, one chapter dictating the next—the kind of author who writes himself into a corner and has to fight his way out? Or is the ending already known—all of the secrets and surprises figured out ahead of time?”
“Could be a bit of both, I suppose,” she said.
“How so?”
“Well, I’d say that even if life is predestined, our choices still have to dictatesomething. You can’t get to Z if you skip over C, D, and E. Even if the destinations are already known. The plotter has to adjust his or her story depending on how it goes onceinsidethe story.
“The author who writes by the seat of their pants still has to know something about the characters. Character is not the words we speak; it’s what wedo.Our actions over time prove who we are. An author still has to write one chapter after another, even if that means fighting from chapter to chapter to get to the ending.
“Perhaps it’s our choice, Brando. It’s what we believe that forms our existence, that determines how we write our own stories and get from one chapter to another in our own lives.”
“Fate or conscious decision, Scarlett?”
“You know my answer to that.”
