Ah, that was the issue. Ita probably knew my husband…inthatway.
What was new?
“Has she always been so angry?” I asked.
Rocco shrugged.
That seemed to be the only response I would get from him. He didn’t want to touch the situation with a ten-foot pole, not with me in the car.
All right.
I sat up some and turned the radio louder, then watched outside the window as the Italian terrain moved like snippets of movie scenes outside the window. It would be my first time visiting the region. Mamma Maria Maria was from Rimini, and Brisighella was where some of my family came from—not far from Rimini. Rocco said it was only about an hour’s drive.
It was almost hard to believe I’d be walking the same terrain my family had, see the same things they did, maybe even feel the same way they had at one time or another.
I thought of nothing but this to redirect my thoughts from Ita and the situation between her and my husband.
Once we arrived in Rimini, my husband and Ermanno’s father stepped out of the SUV.
Ermanno sat up straighter, fixing his suit. “I do not have much time. I did not have the chance to tell you this before, but I believe the pig witch who killed the captain in the kitchen with her evil spells is the same woman who sent thecinghialeafter us the night of the harvest celebration.”
“Are you sure?” I whispered, not sure why.
“I cannot be one hundred percent. I did not see her face that night. It is her voice, Ari. My bones have not forgotten it.”
“Have you told my husband?”
Ermanno nodded seriously. “He was not happy. Angry. He was very angry and concerned. He knows what she is now. An enchantress. There are good witches and bad. You are good, the best, and she is the worst.”
Rocco hadn’t told me that. Maybe because he was worried about the bad witch and I getting into a fight.
“Don’t be afraid of her,” I said. “Do you understand me? Cautious, yes, but not afraid.”
“I am not afraid of her,” he said. “I am worried for you, Ari.” He said it so softly, my eyes burned from his thoughtful words.
I held the tears back, knowing my husband would scent them and think something was wrong. Before I could reassure Ermanno I could hold my own, Rocco opened my door, giving me his hand. He helped me out of the car, and I took my spot next to him, ready to begin my duties as the next queen of the Fausti family.
Rocco kept me at his side as he made his rounds. He introduced me to everyone, and the meet and greet gave me hope for thefuture. Everyone was warm and welcoming, and they seemed to appreciate the fact that Rocco and I had made time to attend Mamma Maria Maria’s small funeral and pay our respects.
I had to admit. The woman looked much more peaceful in death than she had in life. It looked like a great weight had been lifted, and she had found the rest she so desperately needed. I wasn’t sure what happened in her life, or what made her the way she was, but no matter what, I was glad she seemed to find peace wherever she was.
Once the funeral was over and Mamma Maria Maria was taken to be buried, her family invited us to eat at their home. Before we left to share dinner with them, Rocco began speaking to a branch of his family that belonged to the region. It was all men, and they too seemed to appreciate the fact that Rocco had found the time to pay his respects to someone who lived in their area.
The plan was to visit with the grieving family for a bit, be respectful of their loss and eat a few bites of their food, and after, we would head to where part of my family was from, Brisighella. When the guests at Mamma Maria Maria’s funeral found out a side of my family was from not far from their home, it seemed I was welcomed even more. While my husband and Mac spoke to the Fausti men about family business, Mari and I decided to go back into the church.
My husband made sure the entrance and single exit was blocked off by his men. Ermanno, as usual, escorted me inside, taking a seat at the back of the church. He removed his cap, set it over his heart, and slid into a pew before he closed his eyes in prayer.
The church was set in the hills, the inside dim with hundreds of candles swaying with an invisible breath—hundreds of prayers alive within each flame. The smell of incense was strong,along with the smell of preserved bouquets. A mixture of roses and death.
Mari genuflected and slid into the pew before the votive candles. I followed her. Both of our heads were covered in black lace out of respect. We both took a stick from the sandbox (or was it called a match holder and extinguisher?), using lit wicks to light our own.
The entire church was silent except for the crackling of the wicks as the fire slowly burned them down. Hundreds of prayers attached to each glass jar.
I selected a matchstick from the selection in the sandbox, found an unlit candle, and as the wick burned to life, lifted my heart’s desires above. I also lit a candle for Aunt Lola, Uncle Tito, Mamma Maria Maria, and for anyone who loved and would miss her.
Mari lit her own candles.
We both seemed to fade into our own space, the quiet embracing us both. Our eyes were closed, and we knelt next to one another, rosaries clutched in our hands. After we both made the sign of the cross, signaling we were done, we sat back in the pew, Mari’s hazel eyes glistening in reflection to the swaying flames.
