“Innamorata. Scarlett Rose Fausti. Siamo nati in amore. Tutto mia.”He kept repeating the words against my hair.
I couldn’t speak. All those words. I knew the cost of such a declaration from a man like Brando Piero Fausti. A man who struggled to even tell me how beautiful I was in a dress, even though his eyes could never lie to me. The cost was blood—a sacrifice from deep inside. Each word was gutted out, extracted with a dull shard from the wreckage.
“Call mercy,” he said, after time had passed. “Call mercy, my woman. Your grief is killing me.”
We had to clean each other’s wounds—and after, we turned toward the sun together, facing the reality of our state of despair.
Light illuminates the worst of it, but also the hope of it, if we look for it. If we concentrate on it.
The words seemed to float between us, something Uncle Tito had always said in the worst of times, sometimes even in the best of them.
Allowing it to fall on our bared souls like glue, we stuck close together, examining as one.
In the sun’s opulence, the truth became clear. The lingering traumas were ugly, almost too gruesome to contemplate. But on deeper inspection, some of the deep wounds had already begun to heal. Some would leave scars, others not a trace.
All in all, though, hope was there.
We’d heal and we’d live.
Together. Insieme.
32
Scarlett
Atrip to the Hamilton Pool Reserve seemed to do our spirits good.
Brando had demanded that all that we did without them we’d repeat, our two missing links creating our family. Both Brando and Matteo were the most eager about all the water spots. Especially Hamilton Pool.
Mia, Mariano, and even Marciano went on and on about it, how much fun they had, and how much fun they expected their father and brother would have.
Marciano acted as if he had ants in his pants, hardly able to stand the steep and rocky trail, close to tripping on the uneven steps in his haste to reach the natural swimming hole again.
Brando kept a hand on his shoulder, afraid he’d get overzealous and take a tumble. We tried not to laugh when he kept huffing out angry breaths and mumbling words that revolved around his brothers, sister, and cousins going too fast. He wanted to get there as fast ashecould, but he didn’t want them getting there as fast astheycould without him.
This time, we had an assorted group. More bikers. More Italians. Romeo and Juliette had joined us that morning. Brando gave the men permission to swim at their leisure, to just enjoy the day. I noticed that Saverio stayed close to Mia. Never venturing too far.
The sun was bright, illuminating the deep green of the pool, and the temperature was nearing a hundred degrees. Once there, all the children were anxious to jump straight in, to take respite from the weather with a cool dip.
Marciano was last in line to get a coating of sunscreen, and as usual, almost danced from foot to foot.
“Hold your horses, son,” I said. “I’m almost done.”
Brando watched his youngest from underneath his Ray-Bans. A look that meant he was watching for a specific reason.
“I don’t have horses,Mamma!” He blew out a frustrated breath. “My turn tonuotare.”
Just as I finished up, Brando took him by the swim trunks and pulled him over. Since we were sitting on a small inlet, father and son were face to face. I watched, almost squeezing the sunscreen bottle.
“What is this I hear of my son throwing a tantrum?” Brando said in Italian.
Marciano wanted to glance at me, as if I told on him, but he refused to move his stare. He knew the consequences if he did. I hadn’t told Brando. No surprise that he knew, though. He knew everything—was briefed on all things big and small. Even what we ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner...snacks in between.
“I did not mean to—”
“A man gives no excuses for his behavior,” Brando said, cutting him off. He lifted his glasses, giving Marciano the full extent of his stare. It came close to making me cringe. “You aremyson. Own it.”
Marciano stuck his chin up, squared his shoulders. “I did it,Papà,” he admitted bravely.
