“Yes!” I cleared my throat. “I mean, yes, I do.” I took it down a notch. No one had ever given me a pet before.
“Ah!” He slapped his hands together once. “This pleases me.”
Brando put a finger by the kitten’s nose and she went to bite, first putting her paw over his hand. He smiled, and the look he sent was clear:another biter.
“Am I allowed to name her?”
“Sì,” the old man said, his green eyes dancing in the light. “She is all yours,dolce gatinno.”
“Jet,” I said, hugging her closer. She purred against my chest in the same way I did against Brando’s. “I’ll call her Jet.”
“One more favor I will ask of you,Nipote,” Marzio said, eyes fading into the distance, voice becoming serious. “Before the festivities truly begin.”
Brando mimicked his grandfather’s stance, but his eyes were solid.
“I request to take a private walk with your wife.”
* * *
We strolled arm in arm toward the second lemon orchard. It was not grand by any means, but the way the trees grew created shelter underneath their offerings. An iron bench was nestled below in emerald tufts of waving grass. Sitting beneath the many branches, it was like looking up at hundreds of tiny sunbursts in a sky of green, their fragrance of sweet citrus pungent in the heat.
“He is still watching,” Marzio practically sang as we moved further and further away from the villa.
“He—he can’t help it.”
We paused our steps, and I turned around to catch a glimpse of Brando. He stood next to Ettore, who watched us as well, eyes firm on our retreat. The hate between nephew and uncle seemed to cause a mirage-like effect. They were two extreme fires coming together, refracting the light.
“Your husband watches because he is concerned. My son watches because he is greedy. Come.” He pulled me along. “Tell me about yourself,Nipotina.”Granddaughter.
Where to start? I began from the beginning of my time. I told him about my parents—he nodded, seeming to approve—and that I grew up in the dance studio. Mirrored walls, wooden floors, and barres created my home for as far back as I could remember.
“Ah!” He laughed to himself. His laughter was raspy, so attractive. “I have met you in dreams, but I have also seen you in memories. I knew your grandmother, Maja Resnik.”
“You did?”
“Sì. She was…abellissimo sonatathat was blessed with a pulse. She danced for me once.”
“She did?”
He glanced at me sideways. “Sì. But, ah, only the ballet.” He patted my hand. “Her lover, the painter, was a dear friend.”
Pausing our meandering stride for a moment, he bent over to pick up a long branch, using it to prod the ground before we picked up our pace again.
“You move like her. You resemble her. I should have known.”
“Did you enjoy watching her dance?”
“Does a Fausti man enjoy making love?” He grinned. “Yes,dolce gatinno, I did.”
Jet was on our heels, pouncing in and out of the grass like a lioness on the prowl.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked out of the blue.
“No.” I shook my head, moving in even closer to him, squeezing his arm. Though I knew what he was capable of, something about him was paternal, protective almost. “I should be. But I’m not.”
“Ah,” he almost growled. “As much as I am a soldier, I am also a lover of family and enchanting women.” He said this in Italian and then winked.
The Italian word for lover isamante, one of the most beautiful, in my opinion.
