Beatitudine.
I had captured the moment for myself and had it done in color and in black and white, but the one she held was the latter copy.
She didn’t even blink or try to snatch the picture back after I’d plucked it from her fingers and dropped it on the notebook.
“It’s not finished,” I said.
“Iiiia,” Mia twittered, slapping the desk and the marble.
“Oh.” Scarlett blinked, noticing the writing on the pad. She scanned the unfinished business before she met my eyes. “You wrote me a poem?”
“In the midst ofwritingit. You came in here like a wrecking ball.”
Her mouth twitched. She lifted the picture. “This?”
“Inspiration.”
“This inspires you?”
“You. You inspire me, Ballerina Girl. But yeah, that picture does. Among other things.”
“You were concentrating really hard,” she almost muttered to herself.
“The words were coming to me like a song,” I said, catching the paperweight before Mia flung it on the floor. I set it back on the desk.
“Brando,” she breathed. Her eyes glazed over. “I know it’s not finished. But. Thank you.” She scooped up the notebook and held it to her heart. “Grazie, mio marito. I—I thought you were just messing around. I—” She scooted forward, opening the drawer, and placed both the notebook and picture back. “Will you read it to me after you’ve finished?”
“Sì,” I whispered. I lifted her chin. “Do you want to write the book with me? The one Violet told me about.” The real question was did my wife want to be forever embedded on the pages of a book with me—something time couldn’t even erase.
“You want to write a book with me?”
My mouth twitched. “Yeah, I do.”
“Me too.” She smiled.
I felt like a drifter, but at the same time, never more rooted when she smiled at me that way.
She seemed almost shy. “Will you—I mean, the poem? Will you include it?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Tell Violet we both agreed so she can set things up. Then we’ll get started.”
Two things seemed to happen at once after those words were spoken. Mia threw down the paperweight—it crashed against the floor with such a clatter that it dented the antique wood—and she started to wail from the scare and the loss of her newfound toy.
At the same time, the phone rang, and more than the crash of marble, the sound of it made Scarlett flinch.
Handing Mia to Scarlett so she could console her, I picked up the phone, putting an end to its demands. But I couldn’t hear because Mia continued to wail. I had heard enough to know that it was Burgess, Eunice’s husband, but other than that, the old voice was drowned out.
Asking him to hold for moment, if he could hear, I opened my arms to Scarlett, urging her to hand over Mia.
I kissed her eyes and kept her close to my heart, whispering comfort in Italian. She gave one last screech and started to hiccup, her little fingers moving against my arms.
Scarlett started to pace.
“Burgess.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m here. That lil’ lady has quite the lungs on her.”
Scarlett took Mia from me, and not able to contain herself, she continued to move around the office while Mia rested her head against her shoulder.
