Scarlett
It was Thursday, though Wednesday still had us in its grasp. The night had gone soft and pliable, that magical time before it yields to the light of a new day.
It had been a standoff between the newly engaged couple and the rest of us for hours. Getting a week out of them to plan their wedding was like bleeding a rock.
What’s the rush?
Wouldn’t you like to get married in front of your families?
With a cake?
And a proper dress?
You need to speak to her father, again, like a man!
Sarà fatto! (It will be done!)Do not be hasty!
Finally,finally!, something Aunt Lola had said—think of your mamma—swayed Santina’s resolve. Though the decision came with conditions. The bride was to live with us, in a separate room, until the wedding. The couple didn’t want to take any chances that her father would send her to live with a family member in America. And no matter what her father said, the wedding would take place.
I sighed. We had a lot of work to get done in a week.Well, I amended, the wedding would take place next Saturday, a little more than a week. I needed to speak to my mother about a dress…
Walking a straight line became impossible. I was weary to the marrow, and the leg with the rods ached. Being bone tired stripped my resolve, and I felt it more acutely. Or when the weather turned cold.
“Nephew.” Lothario stood at the end of the stairs, looking up at us. He looked fresh-eyed, with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a cannolo in the other. He was dressed in a fine, custom-made suit, complimented by suspenders and his wide shoulders, ready for the day. His rich cologne drifted in the air. “A word?”
Brando gazed at him for a moment, not responding—from his own tiredness, or out of stubbornness to answer right away, I wasn’t too sure. After a minute or two, he finally answered. “In un minuto. Vedrò mia moglie a letto. Poi incontrerò in ufficio.”In a minute. I’ll see my wife to bed. Then meet you in the office.
Lothario raised the cannolo toward me in silent thanks, nodded once, and then disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.
I didn’t even notice that I favored my other leg—the one that wasn’t bionic—until Brando mentioned it. “Your leg is hurting, baby.”
“Some.” I yawned.
He swooped me up like a hawk would a kitten and carried me up the rest of the stairs. The circles forming underneath his eyes showed the strain of the night. I was afraid to even look in a mirror. “You need sleep too,” I whispered.
I had been caressing his face. At this, he turned, putting his mouth to my wrist, kissing it. “I’ll be next to you when you wake up.”
That’s not what I’d meant, but I was too tired to argue. He shut the door to our bedroom with a foot and then went to put me down on the bed.
I shook my head. “Have. To. Brush. My.” An explosive yawn that made me shake my head racked me. “Teeth.”
He made a noise that made it clear how he felt about me brushing my teeth, but hygiene was hygiene. It showed no mercy on the weary.
I scrubbed until he narrowed his eyes at me, and then hastily rinsed with mouthwash. I hung my robe on the peg in the bathroom, glad to shed an unneeded layer.
He made another noise. This time it was clear that he was perturbed with his uncle for requesting the meeting this early, and the rest of the inhabitants of the house for stealing our night.
“How can you even think right now? My mind is…” I plopped down in the bed, snuggling up to my pillow and settling into the coolness of the sheets.
He kissed me from breasts up to mouth, whispered something seductive in Italian against my lips, “non c'è bisogno di pensare quando fai l'amore…”No need to think when you make love.
He wasn’t…Oh.Yes, he was.
I sucked in a breath, and then gave myself over to him and to the delusional state I found myself in. It was like making love underwater. Limbs free and floating, yet we were weighted down by each other, sharing the other’s used oxygen. When it was over, I closed my eyes and allowed the tide to carry me to a shore of dreams.
I popped up an unaccountable amount of time later, as though someone reeled me in from the depths with a fishhook.
“Bad dream,” Brando said, squeezing my big toe. He sat on the edge of the bed, my feet in his lap, head down. His mask was off in the comfort of our bedroom, and a troubled look was on his face.
