“Too long,” he said and then hung up.
* * *
Green eyes. I couldn’t get the vision of an emerald-eyed, bronze-skinned, black-hairedbambinoout of my mind. It wasn’t until I had been shopping most of the day that the deliverance of Eva’s dream from the night before brought her to me.
Yes.She.
Eva didn’t specify whether the baby she saw in her dreams, in my arms, was a boy or a girl. She had asked me if I wanted to know, but I told her no, I wanted it to be a surprise. Regardless, I had this feeling in the pit of my heart that the emerald-eyed baby would be a girl.
When I had imagined our baby, though, I had never imagined her with green eyes. The thought bugged me. Maybe it bugged me because I had always envisioned our ‘hypothetical’ children with Brando’s eyes. His eyes were one of his strongest features, his most dominant.
Nevertheless, what Eva had given me was a gift. A wonderful gift she had shared with me, all in thanks to her foretelling dreams.
I considered telling Brando but decided to wait. I wanted to be selfish with it for a while, enjoy the small flare of life that could possibly be his and mine, no matter how far off in the future it was.
I stopped walking, stepping to the side to let other shoppers pass by, searching in my bag for my phone. Guido stopped next to me, a few bags dangling from his arms.
We were shopping in Galway’s Latin Quarter, an area filled to the brim with shops that reminded me of something out of a Harry Potter book: cobblestone streets, and lanterns strung up from one end to the other. Most of the morning was spent shopping, popping in and out of the numerous businesses, some of us getting a head start on Christmas. Around noon, we stopped for a bite to eat, a beer, and some music.
Guido, understandably, had given me the cold shoulder until I bumped him in the hip as we walked and apologized. To settle matters completely, and to soften him up, I bought him a coffee and an apple tart from a sweet little bakery.
“I forgive you,” he said, taking a bite of the pastry. “However, this does not mean I can be bought with apple tart. I am not Donato.”
“Sure you can,” I said, taking a bite of my own. “Apple tart makes everything better.”
He grinned at the comment, his eyes softening some, but then took a sip of coffee, sobering up. “We care about your safety and do not want to see any harm come to you. It is not just because of your husband, though he is a looming threat. These are dangerous times. I am only concerned.”
I touched his hand. “I know. It won’t happen again.”
Guido was as stringent and as serious as they came, an immense threat, subtle and lethal, but he was also jovial and had a good sense of humor. He was forgiving. After we cleared the air, we had a great time shopping and talking. Though he paled when he brought up the tattoos on my heels, but I told him not to worry, my husband would understand.
In time—I hope. Superstition made me refrain from saying that aloud.
“Are you tired?” he asked as I stood there staring at nothing in particular.
“No,” I shook my head. “Just taking it all in.”
The streets here felt alive, full of history and mystery. I found myself drawn to the crowds, breathing in the magic of the blissful air, absorbing the moment. I wondered how the place would be at Christmas.
Christmas in Ireland?I texted to Brando.
A moment later:You okay?
A sigh slipped through my lips at his automatic response. The phone call changed nothing.
Yes. Just taking a break from shopping with Guido.
No response after that.
“Your husband seems to be keeping his eyes shut tight until he can find the strength to open them,” Guido commented, taking the last drink of his coffee. He found a trashcan and dumped it, leaving me a moment’s time to think alone.
“Kot nocna mora,” I said to myself, in Slovenian.Like a nightmare.
Before Guido and I realized it, the day had slipped away from us,so many shops, and we were hustling to meet up with our group. Each woman had an Italian or two with her, and Carmen had wanted to see some kind of parade in the street. Since the plane was ours, we were free to set our schedule as we pleased, and would leave for Spain after the procession was over.
I was thankful that I had worn an oversized sweater, a pair of leggings, and a scarf. The night showed signs of fog, though it was summer, and the temperature had come down. I should have rethought the Italian sneakers though. My heels were sore and begging to be bare. The plastic below caused them to slip more than usual.
Guido stopped and took my hand firmly in his when we came to the parade route. Metal barricades created two sides for the spectators to stand on, a center strip left open for the performers. The street was teaming with people, all bundled up, ready for the show to begin.
