He didn’t pick up the vein of the conversation after that, and I had no idea what else to say, except for…you have a brother!For whatever reason, I wasn’t ready to tell Brando, and I wasn’t ready to tell Rocco either.
Tread lightly!a voice inside of my mind screamed from the depths.
“Bella,” he said, his eyes hot on mine. “I prefer your hair that way. You look like a…woman.” He said the word with such passion that I turned away from him.
After that, it seemed like my days were crammed with villa decisions, and as much as the workmen dirtied their hands, I dirtied my own.
In between visits from Rosaria and Rocco, a middle-aged woman, Apollonia, dropped by with her three kids. She lived not far up the road and wanted to be friendly neighbors. She brought some type of stuffed squash dish as an offering, and I gobbled it down.
“Would you like me to teach you how to…?” She motioned to the dish.
“Yes! That would be lovely.Grazie!”
Apollonia came over in the evenings with her three children and she taught me how to cook rich, fulfilling Italian dishes. Beautiful dishes that had names likebrodetto,ossobuco,ribollita, and plain ones that didn’t even need the flair, like pizza, risotto, minestrone, and ragu.
On the plane back to Milan, I smiled to myself, not able to shake it from my face. For the first time in…a long time, I felt useful. I felt whole. I felt like I would make him proud in a way that I never could before.
I couldn’t wait to see Brando the next day.
Chapter Seven
Brando
Two weeks. I had only been gone fourteen days. And I hardly recognized her.My wife.
Mitch once told me that after two weeks offshore, he would sometimes return to find the boys had grown months instead of weeks. Their hair would be longer, or their speech different, or some mysterious milestone had passed that he missed. The change was there regardless, staring back at him, trying to introduce itself. He said that it left a lingering sadness in his heart because the growth had happened without him.
I didn’t understand then. I understood now.
She stood in the kitchen, back to me, laughing. She laughed because when I first walked in, I said, “Excuse me, Signora…I am looking for Signora Fausti.”
Yeah, I didn’t even recognize my own wife, until she started to laugh. Her hair was gone.Fucking gone. It seemed much thicker and rose in a wild tangle of fat, loose curls around her head.
The long dress she wore was thin and moved with her when she did, and from the outlines I could tell that her body had softened, defined by curves that my teeth could sink into. But she was no less supple than she always was.
She took a pan out of the oven, setting it on the counter. When she closed the door, it sent out a rush of scents. Lemon was the most prominent. She had baked a cake. Something else. I sniffed again. New perfume.
Usually, by this time she would have already flung herself into my arms, hardly able to wait for me to get through the door. Instead, she fiddled with the food, humming to herself.
I placed my bags down, still not over the shock.
At the noise, she left the food, slowly turning around to face me. The haircut made her features more pronounced, especially her eyes. In turn, it took the innocence from her appearance. She seemed more exotic, more mature. The necklace that I had made for her from the key to the house on Snow dangled between her breasts, but above it, a gold cross now hung.
She touched the ends of her hair. “What do you think?”
“The new perfume. The new jewelry. The new haircut. The new you. I get to take my pick, ah?”
The smile faded from her lips when I didn’t return it. She narrowed her eyes, and the stab of her displeasure hit me square in the chest.
“Let’s start with my hair.”
“It makes you look older. What are you going to do when you go back to work? Ballerinas have long hair.”
“It’ll grow out. If not, I’ll wear a hair piece.” She shrugged. “The perfume?”
“I don’t fucking like it. You smell like Rosaria Caffi.”
“The cross?”
