Later had come.
Brando
September.
Our beautiful years were close to spilling over.
Earlier, I had left Scarlett and Violet to go through pictures from Mia’s first birthday party. Scarlett enjoyed taking the pictures, developing them, and then framing her favorites. The rest she wrote letters about, added to an airtight container, then labeled and packed them way. A very intricate system. I was only allowed to stack them while she directed me.
There wasn’t a spot in any of our homes that wasn’t touched by beautiful memories. If I wanted to be reminded of a particular time, all I had to do was look around. She left her favorites out for us to relive, or for family and friends to ask about. Conversation pieces. Art lived out.
Scarlett was meticulous about it all, so I usually made myself scarce while she was at it. It seemed almost therapeutic for her.
Instead of hovering around, I spent time out in the fields. Summer slipped right through the hourglass, and we were close to harvesting. With the turn in seasons, a certain energy permeated the air—something fertile, almost charged. Earth’s way of preparing for a change.
We were on the cusp of cooler days, even cooler nights. The Tuscan countryside was laced with bales of hay, as gilded as the evening sun. Our trees were laden with a medley of green and black, decorating branches that were such a light green that they almost seemed silver.
By the time I was finished, dust coated the inside of my mouth, my hands, and my boots. Khakis handled the stains well. Though we were nearing cooler temperatures, the days were still clinging to summer. I could smell the musky scent of sweat on myself, and the tang of hours spent outside. Cool droplets ran down my back, pooling at the bottom of my white t-shirt.
Closer to the house, the smell of sizzling red meat floated out to greet me, replacing the more natural smells of being outdoors. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered. Undercurrents of our home, her smell and mine, and now Mia’s, met me at the door too, whisperingwelcome home, benvenuto a casa,in such a sweet voice that sometimes the feel of it made me pause. It reminded me of all that was mine.
Scarlett’s mother, also known in Slovenian asMati, opened the door with Violet on her heels.
“Scarlett’s still at the table.” Violet pointed in her direction. “She’ll be there for a while.”
Pnina asked me if I needed anything from town. She had been staying with us ever since she left Everett. After years of his infidelities, she had decided that what was left of her life was either going to be spent with a man who would be loyal to her, or she didn’t want love at all. He had called a few times, but other than that, we hadn’t seen his face.
I shook my head, wiping my feet on the rug. “I’m good,” I said, and thanked her for asking.
Violet went to follow her out to the car but stopped. “Before I forget. Scarlett might not mention it, but I think it would be a good idea. A big publishing house came to me with an idea to publish something.”
“Something?”
“A biography. They want it to be dually written. Her perspective and yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. Her biography has already been written by someone else. This is more personal. Her words. Yours. People are just as interested in you. This would give you the freedom to make it about whatever the two of you want it to be about. Think on it. Let me know.”
Pnina gave the horn a quick honk, and Violet hurried to meet her. I watched as they drove away before I pushed the door the rest of the way open and went inside.
The smells were even heartier. Meat and vegetables all stewing together. A sweet aroma barely kept up, but it was there.
Scarlett hadn’t heard me come in.
Below her surface, I knew she could feel me, though, even if her mind hadn’t registered that I was close. Still busy at the table, she was focused on the task at hand. The entire length of the table was a montage of memories. A box that I had never seen before sat next to her leg on the floor.
Before I caught her attention, I stood in the shadows and watched her.
Her face was unguarded, intent on reading. A letter was in her hands, edges crinkled and worn down with time. Through the gold-dyed light coming in through the window, I could make out the dark strokes appearing on the page like magic ink.
One of her fingers wrapped around a wayward strand of hair, twirling, while her eyes scanned the words, mouth silently moving at times. One leg was propped up, her body leaning toward the table.
Her hand came to her chest, absentmindedly rubbing her breasts. Mia napped next to her, in her portable bed, and Scarlett’s breasts were probably swelling, starting to tighten from pressure.
It seemed like the letter was in two parts. The first came face down with a lightswooshas she read on.
Her hand moved up, fluttered over her neck, up to her throat, and then her palm flattened, thin fingers staying put.
