We made a pact that we would spend market day together, buying plants and seeds for her new garden. We laughed when we conspired to persuade Brando and Livio to buy us Vespas to make the trip.
“Non è probabile,” Brando said under his breath. He laughed when my eyes narrowed into challenging slits. I’d show him just howunlikelyit was. “Your hair didn’t fluff up from air, it grew to accommodate your power trip.”
“Haha.” I shook my head, taking a nice swallow of wine.
He leaned in and kissed me. I softened, mellowed, wishing we had romantic music to sway to. As if he was my personal genie, Paolo Occhipinti arrived with his violin, making his rounds, patting Brando and me on the head in a conspiratorial kind of way when he reached us.
Thoroughly welcomed, fed and juiced, he took a spot out of the way, pulled out his violin and started to create a soft tune. Every chair turned toward the man. The glass walls somehow combined the sea and stars and his passion, a reflection unlike any other I’d ever seen. Paolo’s eyes were shut tight, blocking out the world, his arm moving in an artful symphony.
Brando leaned over, putting his mouth to my ear. “You move like one of his notes,” he whispered. The tone of his voice caused me to shiver, and goosebumps rippled over my skin like a cold tide.
The song ended to light applause, but another picked up once more. This time the violin was accompanied by a soloist, the gravelly tone of her voice a match made in heaven. Lothario held out a hand to Bela and they moved to the makeshift dance floor, the center of the restaurant, without a word. Two by two, couples drifted in the same direction, captivated by the elements to move.
Santina grasped my arm before she took Livio by his outstretched one, eager to make the most of their night.
The cold tide was back, but this time, instead of a cool rush over heated skin, it was ice slicing through scalding veins. I could imagine the spot she had touched on me, handprint stark white and fading from the warm pink of my flesh. It reminded me of a warm print against a cold glass, one that fades in a matter of seconds.
“Scarlett.”
Brando’s voice brought me back from where my mind had been lost. I sat there, staring up at his outstretched hand, but not able to take it.
“Baby.” This time he didn’t bother to wait. He practically lifted me off my feet, carting me forward, and we get lost in the revolving crowd of dancers.
“Something’s wrong,” he whispered in my ear. “I see it on your face.”
“I—I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I didn’t need to think to dance. I could move without conscious thought, adapt to the speed and style, muscle memory branding me deep. “She touched me. And I—I felt it again. N-nothing.”
“The girl.” He looked down at me, his arms secure around my body, his brows drawn down.
“Yes. Santina.” I made sure to whisper her name. She was dancing with Livio, awe softening her features as she looked up at him and he down at her.
“You haven’t touched her in a while,” Brando said.
“No.” I shook my head. “Not since her wedding. If so, just a brush.”
“Maybe that’s why. You don’t remember how you felt before.”
“I hope so,” I whispered again.
I could tell Brando contemplated all of this, attempting to figure out what to do about it. But unless we wanted to send the masses screaming out of the door, what could we do?
We swayed back and forth, easing into the mellow atmosphere. The contentment of good food, wine, and company still lingered in the air. Apart from Santina’s worrying touch, it had been a gorgeous evening. I understood why the Fausti family continued the tradition after so many years.
“This is very romantic,” I remarked, taking a deep breath in, letting it flow out.
“Do you ever think about my marriage proposal?” Brando said, surprising me.
I laughed a bit. Proposal stretched it. He never really asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s it. Yes.”
“That’s all, isn’t it? I said yes. And I got what I had wanted since I was fifteen. That’s a long time to make a girl wait, Fausti.”
“Is it?”
“This girl. Yes.”
