“All right,” I said, taking his chin in my hand. “What do I owe you, Fausti?”
Something quick and searing passed across his eyes. “Another baby.”
“Ah,” I sighed, melting beneath him while the stars burned above, cold light in an endless, warm, black-velvet sky.
Part V
Always
1 Year Later
35
Brando
My wife still reminded me of a girl in a music box.
She could enchant me like the first time she had me spellbound standing outside of this window, in the falling snow.
Snow came down around us in thick flurries and it made me cold with unease.
Standing outside of the dance studio Scarlett and I owned, I watched as my wife finished her lessons for the night. She had decided to teach an adult ballet class. It was such a big hit, she added on a class later than usual—for those who wanted to take the class with their friends on the weekend.
Painting with friends, meet dancing with friends. Some of them hit the bottle before, during, and after. All wearing tutus.
Scarlett found it hilarious.
She mostly taught children, something she had always wanted to do, when we were in town.
We traveled a lot with Mia, seeing to her career. Nothing new to us. Accustomed to traversing the world, we called home wherever we were together.
That night felt different, though.
Something stirred in the air—something that brought me back to the first night out in the snow, when I stood outside and watched her twirl in the window, as she did then, hypnotizing me.
My (her) leather jacket kept me warm enough, but a chill still seemed to touch me. Something that went deeper. A feeling I had when it came to her.
The tea she craved, that I went to get, steamed in my hand, and Matteo took it from me, taking a sip.
“This is where you fell in love with mamma?”
“You know the story,” I said.
He grinned at me, smoky breath wafting from his mouth, his dark eyes dotted with lights. Downtown Natchitoches was lit up for the upcoming holidays.
“I do,” he said, sounding eerily like me. “I do not want a wife, but if I did—” He shrugged.
“You’re lucky it’s the weekend,” I said, taking the tea back from him. He had already destroyed his cup of hot chocolate. “Or you wouldn’t be up this late.”
He grinned. “Agnes only let us in because of me,” he said. “If not, mamma would not have her tea. Good thing she makes more than hot chocolate, ah?”
Agnes was related to the woman who owned the chocolate shop. She was much older than Matteo and from either Sweden or Switzerland. Agnes had taken more interest in my son than necessary—even opening the shop after it closed to serve us.
Then again, her aunt had taken an interest in me. History that I didn’t want to relive with my son. Her aunt had been much older too, and quick to jump my bones.
“You stay away from Agnes,” I said, giving him a hard look. “She’s too old for you.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so.”
