Chapter Seven
Scarlett
I found Brando without having to look far. He sat outside on the bench in front of Matteo’s garden. Head down, arms on his legs, eyes forward, staring at the placard. It gave me a pang to see that he was still in the same clothes from the previous night.
So was I.
I didn’t have time to spare for vanity—I only needed him.
Going barefoot made me feel more centered, warmed by the earth and sky, and when I stopped to stare at him for a moment, to collect my breath, I lifted my head to the sun, letting it flow over me for a moment.
If he noticed my presence, he didn’t move or make a noise. Neither did I as I slid in next to him, entwining our arms, placing my hand on top of his, and resting my head against his shoulder.
He didn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t move away from me either. He was as hard as a stone figure. His mood was as cold as one too.
Matteo’s garden had become a place for us to find peace, to be as close to our loss as possible. It was also a reminder of the ineffable and irredeemable cost of love.
This sobering thought led to another. After we had lost Matteo, the gaping wound that had torn me in three had been fused by Brando, his love and stubbornness the needle and stitch, and with this argument, it felt as though a piece of the healing had come undone, blood trickling.
I held tighter to his hand, taking comfort in his presence, thankful that no matter what, he was the one who sat beside me. We shared the weight of the loss in front of us.
The silence that sat between us wasn’t thick, though it was there, like another soul.
Birds chirped merrily in the trees. Men’s voices were borne on the breeze. One of the men tripped over a branch and the other men were laughing. The kids were starting to howl from inside, a clear sign that in a matter of minutes they’d be outside, doing what kids do.
Life moved around us in a steady, pulsing beat, yet it was just the three of us that existed in this world.
After I placed a kiss on his shoulder, I kept my lips there, breathing him in. “Andrò bene,” I whispered. “Lo prometto.”I’ll be fine. I promise.
Another thought hit me like a fourth person coming between us. The severity of the life we were in, and the circumstances that encircled us, had reduced us both to this—me promising him that he would see me again after a vacation and him worrying to the point of madness that he wouldn’t.
Brando’s madness and rage were a living being. I could reach out and touch it. When other men saw it on his face, felt it around him, it made them retreat, hands up, nothing worththatmuch trouble.
A sigh escaped my lips after a few minutes had passed. I didn’t expect him to respond, and he hadn’t, so I rose, knowing it was time to prepare for lunch with Monica and her mother, the Countess Sibilla.
Plucking a white rose from its stem, I kissed it, and then left it for our son.
* * *
Fiddle, fiddle, was all I could do.
I wasn’t sure what Brando was going to do, but I hoped he would still go with me. I dressed alone, choosing a mauve midi dress that had crisscross straps and a tied waist. Gorgeous heels always made me feel braver, so I went with a pair that matched the dress.
A knock came at the door, causing me to look up.
“It is me,” he said. “Rocco.”
I grinned despite my growing anxiety over meeting a family that I had no idea belonged to me, or me to them.
“Come in,” I said.
He peeked in, a smile on his face. “Farà la tua famiglia orgogliosa, bella,” he said.You will make your family proud.“Monica will love you.”
“You know her?” I stood and straightened out my dress, going for the perfume on the vanity.
“Ovviamente.”Of course.
He said this as though everyone was on a first name basis with a countess and herfamiglia.
