“As beautiful as olive oil,” I’d said.
“As spicy as red peppers.” She’d touched my nose. “And as addicting as wine.”
As life progressed, I was coming to learn that my Nonna’s wisdom was starting to help direct me in life. I wanted to be my husband’s queen, but I also wouldn’t sacrifice my core values for the cause. I’d have to learn how to balance his work and our life. I felt Maggie Beautiful had done a great job of it, but somehow, it was different for her. Maybe because Luca had been gone so long, and when he returned, Italy was so thankful to have him back, they forgot he had been married in the first place.
Also, the woman he was married to hadn’t created a splash in Mediterranean waters like Rosaria had. Her entire family was in the arts, opera, and she was raised in the spotlight. The opera’s darling, like Scarlett was to the ballet.
My husband and Rosaria had painted a picture everyone loved to gaze it, even if the truest thing about them was his love for her voice. He never brought it up, but I knew—he loved the sound of her music. If anything, her voice was why he’d stayed all those years, and why he couldn’t free himself of her after she died.
Apparently, her voice was like barbs to many—I had a feeling they couldn’t free themselves of her, either, then there I was…the one who would walk next to Rocco Fausti when they were counting on it always being Rosaria Caffi.
Even if the world my husband belonged to was icy toward me, I knew it was because, when people set their hopes on a couple, and that couple ends, it reminds them of how love can leave them too.
But…
There wasn’t ever love between my husband and Rosaria. Only understanding. Love didn’t have a place in their marriage.
It would be the leading force in ours.
One day they would understand, maybe after the spell Rosaria’s voice cast on them faded into the background of the understanding my husband and Rosaria shared.
Speaking of spells…
I glanced in the rearview mirror of the armored SUV as we headed to the Emilia-Romagna region. I didn’t like why we were headed there, but something inside of my heart kept flickering at the idea that I’d be connected to my roots in a way I hadn’t been before. Part of my family came from the region. But ever since what happened in thecucinawith the temper tantrum woman, and then Mamma Maria Maria dying after, my side kick hadn’t been the same, and it was worrying me.
Ermanno was quieter. He didn’t laugh, and his eyes always on guard. I knew it had to do with his impression of the woman, and how he thought she was a witch. He thought she had cast a spell on Mamma Maria Maria’s heart and had taken her life.
I’d tried talking to him about it. I even asked Rocco to speak to his father about it, since his father was a part of Rocco’s close security, and Ermanno was with him for the most part. It always seemed like Ermanno wanted to say something, but he pulled back at the last second. His father said the same of his son.
“Ermanno will work it out in his own time,” my husband had said to me. “He is a man. He is a Fausti.”
The Fausti was so ingrained in my husband that he couldn’t bend when it came to men and their responsibilities. He didn’t have time for a man’s useless issues.Get over it and get on with itseemed to be a common theme. I didn’t want to set Ermanno in the wrong direction, since he shared the same blood as Rocco and would be raised as a soldier, but I also felt bad because I knew the woman had freaked Ermanno out.
The men were more sensitive to women being witches and casting spells. When we were on Aria Island, all the soldiers had thought Rosaria was haunting the island. The Fausti family was having trouble keeping the soldiers in thecastellothey thought she was haunting. Turned out, it was her living sister who was “haunting” the place.
So…I wasn’t a stranger to women and the lengths they would go to for a Fausti.
Still, Ermanno was bothered by the woman. I wanted him to know he didn’t have anything to be bothered about. Again, my Nonna taught me not to cower to women like her. Did bad things exist in the world? Things meant to cause harm, even to people?
There was no doubt in my mind they did.
My Nonna told me that her not teaching me about bad forces was as irresponsible as her not teaching me to have faith against them. We might not want to believe these things could exist, but that didn’t make them untrue. But…the woman and her curses wouldn’t have any power in our lives—I’d make sure of it.
I hadn’t spoken to Rocco about the witchy woman all that much. What happened in the kitchen was recounted, and with Thanksgiving and the funeral we were headed to, there wasn’t much time to discuss it. Though, I thought maybe the reason why Rocco didn’t discuss the situation with Ermanno was because maybe he was wary of the woman too.
I leaned forward some, turning the radio down, and faced my husband. His eyes were covered in glasses, and one hand was firmly on the wheel, the other holding mine.
Even what he was doing, something people did every day, took my breath away. Whatever Rocco Fausti did, he did with power and purpose, and he always looked beyond fine doing it.
I reached over and traced the line his hair made behind his ear. Not a strand was out of place, but my hands ached to touch him, to run my fingers through his silky salt and pepper hair. Hebecame very still, then a relieved sigh left his mouth. He lifted my hand to his mouth and placed a kiss over my pulse.
“The woman in the kitchen.” I came right out with it. “Do you know her name?”
A snort came from the back seat. Rocco narrowed his eyes before Ermanno’s father smacked him in the back of the head. Giovanni spoke to him in a sharp voice, something in Italian too low for me to hear. Ermanno sat up straighter, and his eyes hardened.
“Sì,” my husband said. “Ita.”
I looked in the mirror, my eyes meeting Ermanno’s, before he looked away from me.
