“We are strange only if we believe we are.” She paused for a moment. “You are touched too.” She held a hand up. “Give me a minute.”
I went to speak but closed my mouth.
“I felt…that’s it. You feel. You have an over-abundance of empathy. You are more aware of people and their intentions. You can feel even when there’s no…life. But there’s one connection that’s stronger than the rest. You feelhim, am I right?”
Donato took a step closer, not out of fear, out of intrigue. My heart beat faster at her truth. She understood.My, how good it felt to be understood. I wiped at my eyes, though they were dry. The humidity gave me a second, softer, slicker skin. “My husband,” I said, the catch clear in my throat. “I feel him—”
“At all times. Especially when he’s in need.”
“Yes.Yes.”
“It feels nice to connect, doesn’t it? I know I feel lighter.” Her wide smile seemed to grow even wider. “I don’t see everything, though, only what I’m supposed to see. Are you just visiting?”
I shook my head to clear it. I pointed at the red brick. “I’m in town for one night. This is my parents’ place.”
She pointed across the street, where the melody still flowed and purled like the tide of the Mississippi. A window was open, the lace curtains fluttering with the zephyr, or with the voice and music. If it could move a person, certainly it could move things.
“That’s our place.” Her eyes sparkled, her smile turning a bit more sensuous. “He’s lost to his music right now.”
“Your husband?” Donato said.
“Sì,” she said.
“He is good.” Donato sounded disappointed. I almost elbowed him. “Signora…?”
“Oh,” she said, laughing. “Evangeline—Eva Roberts.”
She held her hand out to Donato, and he kissed her knuckles, avoiding the sparkling rings on her left finger.
“You are?” she asked me.
I turned away from her house, from the hypnotizing melody. “Scarlett Fausti.”
“Fausti, huh?”
“You know the name?”
“Perhaps,” she said, leaving us in suspense.
“Donato!” Rocco emerged from the shadows of the house, coming to a complete halt when he saw Eva. “Is this your sister,bella?” His tone was quite clear—if so, you lied to me.
“Rocco,” I said, a note of warning in my voice. “This is our neighbor, Eva Roberts. She lives across the street. Herhusbandis the one playing the beautiful music.”
“No,” she said, almost to herself. “He’s not the one you are connected to.”
“No,” I said, agreeing. “This is my husband’s brother—Rocco Fausti. And those,” I pointed behind him, lining up like men to be inspected for a life partner, “are his other two brothers, Dario and Romeo. The rest of the guys are here with them. Thefamiglia.”
I heard a mumble of irritation in Italian that I hadn’t introduced each of them individually.
“I know a thing or two about families,” she said, something behind the words almost humorous.
“Eva,” I said, pointing to the entrance of our place. “Would you like a drink?”
She looked toward her house and listened for a minute. “Why not?”
Romeo said something in Italian, compliments that were meant for her mouth (it is so kissable) and her rear (with a behind like that, she has to be Italian), followed by a low whistle.
“Thank ya,” she said, smiling to herself as she passed him by. “Only half of my behind is Italian. The other half is French. I’m assuming this is why God gave me two cheeks.”
