She nodded. “Maybe I should try talking to him?”
Thandie was hesitant about trying to talk to Ermanno. She wanted him to accept her into his life, but up until that moment, Thandie had dedicated her life to her career, and she felt unequipped in dealing with Ermanno and his Fausti issues. But as Scarlett reminded her, the Fausti family was a family of soldiers, and she would probably be able to reach Ermanno on a level none of us could. Once she reached him there, maybe he would reach her on a different level.
Besides feeling the fluttering bubbles in my stomach, which had reached my heart and settled there, Scarlett reminding Thandie of this made me feel warm inside. Thandie needed Ermanno, and Ermanno needed Thandie.
Thandie nodded at the advice, then stuck her hands in her pockets as she walked ahead of us and reached Massimo. She offered to push Uncle Tito while they followed behind Ermanno.
Although Uncle Tito had not been a father, he had been a father figure to many. I was sure he was going to help aid Thandie in talking to Ermanno too. Maybe it would take the village to reach him, but that was the amazing thing about a village—no one was left alone in a time of need.
Massimo nodded at Scarlett and me as he passed. Rocco had given him a certain amount of time to heal, and he’d be cleared to go to war soon. Another man for me to be sick with worry over.
Maggie Beautiful emerged from wherever she’d been catnapping in the sun, and she pinched Massimo’s cheeks before she met us, breathless.
“I hate this,” she murmured. “The hiding. Not being a part of the action. Because then you have no idea what’s going on.”
Scarlett and I both nodded.
Maggie Beautiful bit her lip, then released it. “Do either of you resent me for this? I know what I asked is a big thing, but it felt like the right thing to ask. Ihatethe fighting between our men. I don’t want to not be here to stop it. Maybe I couldn’t, even if I was here. I don’t know why, but I’ve reached a point in my life where I can’t even stand the thought of it. I understand Grazia and her wishes like never before.”
Scarlett shook her head. “It’s easy to resent a lot of people for doing this or not doing that. Lord knows I had my share of resentful people against me—just for being me. This…special touch, or ‘gift,’ or whatever you want to call it, has never been easy to carry around. The only reason I’ve ever embraced it is because it keeps my husband safe. I still know when he’s in danger. But plenty of people haven’t seen my ‘gift’ that way. As a gift.”
“It’s caused wars,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “It has.”
The three of us became quiet then, because in that moment, we realized we were deep inside of another war, as if the news had only just dawned on us, and it had only just begun.
Chapter 42
A Sunday Dinner to Remember
Aria Amora
The Sicilian sun bloomed high in the azure sky. The temperature was already warm at sunrise, and I could hear the sea singing to the shore. By evening, the entire world would be a shade of orange I was sure could only be found on the island. It was like a great hand was squeezing what was left of the citrus fruit, mixing it with oozing honey, and then allowing it to flow over the land, competing with Mount Etna for who would enrich the soil more.
It was Sunday, and per our tradition since we were brought to the olive tree grove, we prepped during the week with meals we all felt like cooking. Sunday morning, we all headed to the small church sitting atop the hill, then we all walked back together, enjoying an Italian feast at the table—we never knew when the men would arrive, so we always had food prepared, even if it wasn’t as wide a spread as it was on Sundays.
Scarlett and I walked next to each other, both of us narrowing our eyes at the hard glare glinting off the stained-glass windows. The church was otherwise dim and smelled like the olives growing on the hundreds of trees. It was like the oil had seeped into the wood, and the scent lingered in the air. Ormaybe the church had been built from the wood of fallen olive trees.
From the open door, I could see miles of vast land, the hills still bare from the harsh winter, but here and there, wildflowers were beginning to rise from their cold slumber and stretch their petals toward the warmth of the sun and the day.
We all took our seats and found our peace.
On the way out, I set a hand on Scarlett’s arm as we reached the exit of the church. She stopped and glanced at me.
“The words inside of my head are getting poetic,” I whispered. “I feel it stirring inside of me…a story.”
I’d told her how I was paranoid of writing something new, because I didn’t want to know the outcome of this war, just like I was sure she didn’t want to know all the things she felt at times. The struggle was clear on her face—to feel or not to feel. I was sure in one way, to feel things no one else could was an advantage, a blessing, especially when it came down to saving those she loved. At other times…it probably felt like a curse.
She said it was a particularly hard struggle when the person she felt something from was an enemy, because even though this person meant them harm, she could almost always understand why they were doing what they were doing. Some people could hide from her, though. They buried their intentions so deep, she felt only God could know.
A serious look overtook her face, and in a quick move, she set her finger against her lips and swiped, as if she was just running the finger over them. I knew what she’d meant, though.
Keep this feeling a secret between us.
She knew the price of what this “gift” could cost me. The truth in it. It would come at me, and I knew sooner or later it would become so hard to carry around, I’d have to sit and write or almost crumble to its power.
Writing fiction was a big part of my truth—or finding it. It was a gift, but with lingering effects, especially when the truth was going to possibly hurt or change the course of our future.
