“Scarlett Rose Fausti—true definition of beauty and grace. A traditional ballerina in a new world.”
Calling the stewardess over, I had her bring us an entire bottle of whiskey and two glasses. I shot the first one back with a growl after the flames licked my throat and the pit of my stomach caught fire. Mitch poured me another.
This magazine,thismagazine, was even more scandalous than the first. All of the pictures were in black and white. Scarlett sat on a fancy chair, my leather jacket draped over the back, her head facing down, nimbus of curls traced by silver tint, a long fluffy tutu around her waist, one slipper done up around her leg, the other’s silk ribbon hanging loose. The picture gave the impression that she was naked under the leather.
I threw back another glass and then flipped the page with a calm that belied the explosion ready to set the plane on fire. The pulse in my head thumped like a sledgehammer.
The tutu was still on, but she was bent over, one arm reaching out. Her entire back was highlighted in this one. Every knob of her spine, the curves of her shoulder blades, and every rib.
Flip.
Her side was in profile, nothing but the bottom of a thin bathing suit on, standing en pointe, head thrown back, arms covering her breasts. Some still bulged from the side.
Flip.
She wore a pale blue leotard, her nipples hard and outlined by the fabric.
I grabbed for more magazines.
Each article mentioned me—our wedding and so forth. Her legendary grandmother was mentioned a time or two. How their paths compared and differed. I breathed easier when the pictures aligned with her career, but the rest, especially in those flexible positions—
I held my glass out and the angelic sound of liquid pouring met my ears, right before I downed the burn with pleasure.
Part of this was that Scarlett was not ashamed of her body. She was so comfortable in her skin that being naked came natural to her. The other part, an ironic twist, was that she always felt she needed to prove her womanhood to herself and to me.
She didn't have a fucking thing to prove to me. I had always known the woman in her, even when she was just a girl. She had a face as innocent as rose wine, an inside like cognac, and a body like the drink in my hand. I had been stoned on her since that first night out in the snow.
“Whiskey and women.” Mitch smirked into his glass. He took a sip and thenahhh’edhard and long after he swallowed the burn down. “About the same thing. Goes down smooth, puts your heart at ease, settles your rattling bones, and makes you even forget the burn. But hell if there isn't some wicked witchcraft hiding in the layers. Even knowing it’s a spell, what's the first thing we reach for?”
He reached for the bottle, pouring us another. Then he held his glass up. We clinked and took another drink.
He grabbed for another magazine. His laughter drifted out raspy and low. He cleared his throat. “‘Five things to know about Scarlett’s husband, Brando Fausti,’” he read out loud. He showed me a picture of Scarlett and I that had been taken at an event in Italy. A little box at the end of the page held all of the information. “No, he's not a model.” Mitch laughed so hard that he had to put the magazine down for a second. He wiped at his eyes. “‘No, he’s not a model,’” he repeated, voice trembling, wanting to laugh again. “‘He’s a deep-sea diver who works off the shores of Louisiana…He travels back and forth between Natchitoches, Louisiana to wherever Scarlett is performing every two weeks… Can we say devoted?’”
Mitch batted his lashes at me.
“‘His family hails from Italy, where their collection of Ferraris and their involvement in racing is legendary. His father is none other than racecar driver Lucious ‘Luca’ Fausti...Not only is he hot, he’s fast.’”
Mitch doubled over, gasping for breath. “‘His brother, Rocco Fausti, is married to the famed Opera singer Rosaria Caffi…His two younger brothers are single, and all bear a striking resemblance.’ Free marketing,” Mitch mumbled.
At the end, the article mentioned my stint in the Coast Guard as a Rescue Diver. Mitch laughed again when the magazine asked if anyone would take the chance to go fishing in the Bering Sea to find a catch like me.
“Come on.” Mitch nudged me. “It’s all smoke and mirrors. She’s yours. You should be proud. Thankful.”
The only thing I could find to be thankful for was the confinement of the airplane. The world was safe from me—at the moment. The burn for Nemours grew even stronger, the whiskey gas to the fire, those pictures a direct reflection of his vision of my wife.
Setting the magazines aside, I reclaimed the note. Snow in Natchitoches had always seemed like a miracle, but also a sign of things to come—here’s to things turning out better than the last time.
I downed one more glass before I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Two
Brando
The house on Snow sat in chilled darkness, only a dusting of stars in the sky above it. The cool air seemed to chase the smell of absence away.
Both comfort and hollowness welcomed me home. Instead of my wife beside me, I had Mitch.
He found the bathroom as soon as we were through the door, still muttering thanks that we made it out alive. We had hit some serious turbulence an hour out.
