“No,” I agreed. “We don’t. What is it then? Did Rocco fall for someone else?” I didn’t think so. Though Rocco had affairs, he had a wife. No matter what went on between them, he loved Rosaria, in his own way. I also felt that the unfaithfulness between them was not the most conducive thing to a marriage, or the healthiest thing for it either.
“Other than you?”
“He does not love me—inthatway—and you know it!”
Her smile was rueful. “It is so easy to get you sometimes.” She shocked me by taking my hand.
Rosaria was Rosaria—she was self-absorbed and demanding, but there was tenderness to her that she hid well. After we had lost Matteo, one night as I lay there with my eyes open, seeing nothing, she slipped in beside me and held my hand. Tears had flowed down her cheeks, a silent acknowledgment of the sorrow she felt on our behalf.
She had cried for me when I couldn’t.
“No,” she said, Rocco’s form glinting in her eyes. “I know how he loves you. So does he. It is not another woman or man that has come between us. Our marriage has become a…burden I no longer wish to carry. We have hit the bottom,bella.”
“Bene,” I said, squeezing her hand, making her turn to look at me. “Good,” I said again, more forceful. “There’s only one way out. That’s up.”
“If we could find ‘up’ together. That does not seem possible.”
The affairs were mutual. Both parties had agreed to a certain understanding in their marriage after it had been arranged. If one of them hadn’t conceded or known, I could understand how reconciliation may not have been possible. It wouldn’t be for me. It was a deal breaker. But for them? Why not? I said this.
“Neither of us knows how to fight for the other. He claimed me once, but for a man like him, he feels once is enough. It was. Still is. I will always be his in a way that no man can touch. However, the love is missing.”
“Or hiding?”
She didn’t answer. I used my free hand to trace the F on her foot. “What about this?”
She flashed a set of perfect white teeth at me and gave me a look that was so natural on her that I knew she was making it clear that I had missed the obvious. “Oh,” I said, touching the headscarf over my hair. “RF. Rosaria Fausti, instead of Rocco Fausti.”
“I will always be his,bella. Just not with him in the flesh.”
“Does Rocco know?” I asked softly.
“Not yet. I will tell him later.”
“He’s not going to let you go. You have to know that.”
“He has inherited the Fausti pride. All of them have. It has just manifested in different ways. He will not come after me if I leave him. That is your husband. Not mine.”
Rosaria was right about the Fausti pride. Brando had it too, except he found it almost impossible to say he was sorry, even when he knew he was wrong. He would work on it sometimes, but it was a hard habit for him to change. He usually made it up to me in other creative ways.
I sighed, feeling the burden in the pit of my heart. I loved Rosaria and Rocco. I loved them even more together, or perhaps the thought of them together. “You know,” I said after a little time. Rocco and Brando gave each other high five and then came together for the one-arm man hug. “It’s not only them that have pride. We have it too. Lord knows I do. The difference is that we know how to put it aside when we need to. If your love can be saved, Rosaria, fight for it.”
She sighed but added no more. The sadness that seemed to radiate from her soul to mine made me ache for her.
“I love you, songbird,” I whispered.
“I love you,bella,” she whispered back.
* * *
Being in Marzio and Grazia’s villa, surrounded by Matteo’s paintings, I had come to find that sleep hit me harder and kept me under for longer periods of time. Comfort was absorbed and turned into a more peaceful sleep.
When my eyes opened again, my mind thought I was there, but the stars were still in the sky—this was the beach, I was sleeping on a lounge chair, and something cold and clammy was attempting to slide in next to me. He smelled like the sea. Whatever water was left on his body seeped into my clothes.
“Brando?” I whispered.
“You’re hogging this entire chair and the blanket.” He attempted to move me even closer to the edge, and I almost fell over. His strong arms came around me, bringing me closer to his front.
I shivered. “It’s not a big chair, and the blanket is not full size. I don’t want to share. I’m comfortable.” Still, I found myself moving closer to him, despite the cool wetness, loving the feel of his body next to mine—his clothes were the only chilled things about him.
