I nodded. If her mother and sister knew about any of this—I glanced down at the chest—it would only lead to more resentment, and a bunch of questions that maybe Maja didn’t want them to have the answers to.
Pnina was brought up with her own set of rules. She was taught to believe that she was of an elite family, and the rules didn’t apply to her, except the ones created by the rich. Charlotte stepped in those same footsteps.
Scarlett had been abiding by her own rules for as long as I could remember. She fit into the same rich mold and had a certain aura about her that only a life of privilege could create, but then again, there was nothing about Scarlett that was even close to vain or materialistic.
To find out that the graceful woman who had claimed hearts all over the world had once been an assassin—among other things—would take the family down a notch.
Not Scarlett.
Her Grandmother Evelyn had once told me that looks were deceiving. Scarlett didn’t resemble her side, but she did where it counted, in behavior and thought. Evelyn had been wrong though. Scarlett had something from her side too, those sparks of red that went off like fireworks in her hair when the sun lit them.
Would I paint those? No.Dangerous.Those were more alluring.
Shaking my head, I felt the weight of the letter in my hand. It smelled of dry paint, leather, wood, and time.
“You left me for a moment, didn’t you?” she said, looking down at me, holding the letter in her hand, careful as if it were a sharp sword instead of paper.
I fiddled with a strand of her hair. “Yeah. But I’m back now. I didn’t go too far. You were there with me.”
“All right,” she sighed. “All accounted for. Here goes.”
She began to read her letter before I did. I was almost too caught up in the movement of her eyes to even look at mine. Watching Scarlett read was like watching a movie, and through her expressions, I could usually tell what was going on or what she felt was coming.
Feeling more like my wife than usual, I became curious about my own letter. It started out simple enough—“take care of her,Bell'uomo” (good man,orbeautiful man).Maja went on to share parts of her history, how she had been forced to dance to live. At some point in her life, dance had become her life, a friend she could always depend on, no matter what happened.
She discussed her love affair with Matteo, some of it in great detail (he was obsessed with my naval, he made love to me as though I was the air that he needed to breathe). She mentioned rose petals on their bed, saying that even though it was considered cliché in modern day, it wasn’t back then. She had found it erotic, especially the feel of the petals against her bare skin.
I glanced at Scarlett, wondering if she was getting her grandmother’s guide to pleasures of the flesh, but tears ran in streams down her cheeks, and one hand was to her mouth in an attempt to hold back a sob.
All I could do was hold her, be next to her, and I continued forward with my own. The end of the letter was where I found the heart of the matter:no matter what happens—and here the pen had dug into the paper, the ferocious intent behind her words carved into flammable flesh—do not leave her,Bell'uomo. I have lived long enough, and have survived horrors that are no longer known to this generation, to not know true love when I see it. It is true, between you and my granddaughter, as it was true for Matteo and I.
Things will come to pass, things I cannot foresee, even with the knowledge I have acquired through the journey of my life.But!Believe me, her gift of dance will be a blessing and a curse. It will attract the wrong sorts. It always has—because she moves like magic. And men have always been known to covet what is rare and true for their own selfish desires. She is no exception.
She also has the gift of feeling what most people do not. Though he frightened her, I am glad she got to see Matteo. He named her, you know. Not directly. My favorite rose was the scarlet. With these he created a bed for me, and with these he gave me the gift of everlasting love—the child we created.
He did not have her gift, but something of a rare intuition. He told me the child within me, or one of her children, would have a rare gift, just as I did. And perhaps she would become more than the two of us together. I took one look at her mother and knew it was not her, nor was it Charlotte.
It was my Scarlett Rose. She has my feet, you see? And his eyes.
Those eyes beguiled me, as they did you. They see you as you are, yet they can change you for the better without even a spoken request. I once told my lover that his conscience lived in his eyes, along with his soul, and both spoke to mine. You should understand this.
“I do,” I said.
You mustn’t allow anyone, or more importantly, yourself, to convince you of separating from your other half for good. If you do this, your fate will mirror ours. For God’s sakeDO NOT!Matteo knew this, yet I had convinced myself that he was safer without me. I had convinced the world that he had been nothing but a fling.
You know the end of our story. Create your own, Bell'uomo.
That is all the advice I can offer. Freedom is yours. Make every day a beautiful one. After all, who is to say what will happen tomorrow? I was known as a quiet woman. This because I held too many secrets, had too much knowledge—no one seemed to understand my language. The peculiar thing about being quiet is that when fate speaks, you hear her.
Since the moment I saw those gorgeous, intense brown eyes, I knew you were meant for Scarlett. I know your family, your blood. They are ruthless men, even the women have that streak in them, but what impressed me the most is this: There is no doubt that the monster that lives inside will come out to play when the ones he loves the most are in danger.
If you must, ask your father what he knows of this. It is not my place to say. Ask him of the pears. This will trigger his memory.
Go with God, Bell'uomo, and with the rose we both adore.
Maja
Looking up from my letter, I realized that Scarlett was trembling.
