I grinned at him. “I knew you’d want to hear this. That’s a female red cardinal.”
His eyes swung to the bird, who was perched on a nearby tree, watching him. He narrowed his eyes on her, and she tookoff when Scarlett and I both exploded with laughter. Brando was watching her, too, that same suspicious look on his face.
“Her feathers,” I said. “They’re dull in comparison to the male’s bright red plumes. That’s how you can tell she’s a lady.”
“Fiddler crabs,” Brando seemed to say apropos of nothing pertaining to what we were discussing.
Scarlett gave a small smile, holding on to her husband’s arm even tighter. “He’s thinking of the crabs we see in Fiji. The male fiddler has one pincer to flex for the female he’d like to…have baby crabs with.”
“Oh,” I laughed. “I get it. Males are usually the most attractive in all species.”
“I do not agree with this,” my husband said.
“No?” I squinted my eyes at him. The sun had been bright, brutal even, along with the soaking humidity, but I couldn’t stand not to stare into his eyes when the color became a part of the Mediterranean I wanted to submerge myself in. “Why not?”
He looked so deep into my eyes, I almost wanted to squirm, but I was learning how to keep his stare, even if he could move me without touching me. “My love,” he said, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps in their world, she is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. This is all that counts, ah? That lovers see this in each other. This leaves no room for other beats between his heart and hers. Also, for all that flash he carries with him, he is not only handsome to his beloved, but to a dangerous world that would concentrate on him, not his heart.”
His heartfelt words left me speechless. This man, this gorgeous-beyond-what-the-law-should-allow man, was telling me that the reason most males, himself included, were more attractive than the females in the eyes of the world was to keep the females safer. Perhaps if the world only put weight on beauty, this would leave their mates free.
In all of that, Rocco was speaking for himself. He would want the world to watch him instead of me, since he would be the target.
All I could do was nod, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and run my foot back and forth on the ground. The line I’d created was crossed over in a second, my husband pulling me in so close, I could barely breathe. That was when Brando started talking about the fiddler crabs again, and Rocco took a bite of another berry before he fed me the rest of it.
My hand went instinctually to my mouth, knowing my lips were stained along with my heart from the memory that was made that day. I knew days like that were going to mark my heart for years to come. Mark it up so beautifully that, one day, my heart was going to be decorated with the art of our life.
As I sighed, a wistful, blissful sound, another breeze swept into the cottage, stirring up the scents that were heady in the air: fresh berry juice, sugar, lemon, bread dough, even the basil and rosemary I’d harvested from outside the cottage. Aunt Lola, Uncle Tito’s wife, had planted them there years ago. I walked to the wooden kitchen table and set down the vintage bowl I’d bought at a garage sale the previous day. I pulled my hair up, allowing the sensation of the cool hand of the zephyr to caress my neck. Even though the slip dress was thin, it was still sticking to my skin.
The beat of a familiar song, “Ain’t No Woman (Like the One I’ve Got),” started to play in the background of the kitchen. A whistle cut through it before my husband’s strong hands gripped my hips and he moved me around our small kitchen.
I smiled up at him, and when a beam of light hit my eyes, his breath seemed to catch, before he turned me out and then smoothly brought me back in.
“You never question my taste in music,” I said. “That it’s too old for me.”
He roared with laughter. “This music belongs to my father. I enjoy it as well.”
Sometimes the age chasm between us seemed to swallow me whole when he spoke of the music I enjoyed being closer to his father’s age, which in turn seemed to bring our age difference into the bright light. But…even though Rocco was older than me, his kids were still a bit younger than me, and…it never seemed to matter. In all the ways that counted, we matched. Nonna always said I was an old soul existing in a new body.
“You are more mature than your years, my wife,” he said. “I have known women older than me who cannot match your maturity. Your understanding of life.”
“Eva tells me this is because I’m…touched.” I tapped my temple.
“Perhaps,” he said, spinning me out when “Hungry Eyes” replaced the Four Tops hit.
“Oooh,” I said. “I know all the steps to this dance. I’m pretty sure all women do.” I released a breath when my husband moved me to the beat just like the couple in the movie did. “Damn.” Even though I was keeping up, my knees firm, my heart had turned to jelly in my chest.
He roared with laughter, and doing some fancy move with me again, he kissed the pulse in my neck before he turned me toward the table and pointed at all the things I had been making—beyond the blackberries.
“The party.” I shrugged. “I refuse to show up empty-handed. My Nonna taught me well.”
“Sì.She is responsible for my heart being the most vital part of me.”
I stared up at him, and when he looked down at me, he blinked. It was the only reason I blinked back. “Do you want to try one of the blackberry fritters with lemon glaze I made for us?” I had to curtail the urge to slap my forehead. My voicesounded so…lame in comparison to his. He spoke the most beautiful words, not once messing up, and that chasm opened a little wider. His upbringing and mine.
He looked me up and down and grinned. “Sì.”
I reached for one and slowly lifted it to his mouth as he opened it. Our eyes held, and this time, my heart pounded in my chest like it was a stick and my chest was a drum. His black hair was slicked back, the silver strands on the sides sparking in the sun, and I dared anyone to bet me that his bone structure, how strong his jaw was, how narrow his nose, how perfect he was, could ever be challenged for the most beautiful man alive.
His eyes…I’d sacrifice myself to drown in the color of them. They were sea green, and against his tan skin, they popped just like Mediterranean during sunset. His rich cologne drifted in the air, but underneath it was the scent of newly cut wood. He had been outside building me a temperature-controlled shed to keep all my canned items in. The white t-shirt he wore clung to all his muscles. He had strong legs for days, all wrapped up in old khaki work pants. His boots were filthy.
