Maybe out of all the men, Luca was the worst.
His stone eyes at my birthday party along the bayou had nothing on his eyes after he saw Uncle Tito, all alone in his chair, keeping his eyes closed, his mouth constantly moving—that was the only way we knew he was breathing. It was a quiet anguish that made me hide to cry. Rocco scented my tears, because he always found me and pulled me so hard to his chest, I would losemy breath. Then I’d hear his heartbeat, and it would send mine into a natural state ofrelaxation.
We were together.
We were together.
Aunt Lola and Uncle Tito had been together too. For years.And her death had carved his heart out and sent it with her.
A glass shattering in the sink made all the women at the table—me, Scarlett, Carmen, and Juliette—jump. Luca had gone in to try to speak to Uncle Tito, who was refusing to breathe a word. The old doctor’s eyes were shut tight, lips moving, moving, moving. Luca had flung a glass mug into the sink after he couldn’t get Uncle Tito to talk.
Luca braced himself against it, his head down, eyes closed, and when he looked up and out the window, he caught sight of Maggie Beautiful taking a walk in Aunt Lola’s garden. Like a dangerous lion who sensed his mate was in danger, he tore out of the villa. He picked her up in his arms and held onto her so tightly, I could tell she was struggling to breathe, but she stroked his back, speaking soft words to him that only they could hear.
Rocco looked up from the chair, and his eyes on mine stole my breath. I couldn’t look away, but an instinct inside of me told me I should. It was too intense, like he was inside of me when we made love. I couldn’t run from him then either.
His eyes spoke to me in a silent whisper.
Not you.
Not you.
Not you away from me.
It was like this chant was building, building, building into something I wasn’t sure I could control.
Scarlett stood abruptly from the table. She took my hand. “We’ll speak to Uncle Tito.”
I nodded, smoothing down the Tyrian purple dress Aunt Lola had complimented me on. It felt right to wear it, since she toldme she loved it. I glanced at Brando on the way to Uncle Tito’s room and noticed he was staring at his wife as hard as Rocco was staring at me.
A few steps away, they both stood and followed us. Scarlett gave me a side-eye glance, and I understood right away. These men were naturally protective, but not like this, where a few steps away and they were jumping up like we were going to disappear.
Uncle Tito’s door was cracked.
“I’m just going to speak to him for a moment, my love,” Scarlett whispered to Brando. “Uncle Tito needs this from us.”
I nodded at Rocco.
Both men were as hard as stone. No response.
Scarlett pushed open the door and then shut it quietly behind her. She gave me another look. This was going to be hard. Uncle Tito refused to speak on Aunt Lola’s final wishes.
None of us was imagining it. He was betting on a double funeral. If his Lola wasn’t next to him, he didn’t want to be here.
Sighing, I breathed in the scent of memories. The room hadn’t been changed in years. Maybe a little here and there after their wedding, but I doubted it changed all that much. It felt comfortable. It felt like their own private space.
The bedding was floral. The curtains matched. The walls were older than the couple, it seemed, but the old-time record player in the corner was newer, and the record being highlighted by the sun, dust motes dancing around it, was…Nicola Ariglisano… “Come Prima.”
Aunt Lola had crochet items in a basket next to a chair with a matching ottoman. A pair of purple house slippers still sat next to it. She hadn’t finished whatever she was working on. Seemed like a pink dress for a child.
I wasn’t sure what we were going to say to him. I allowed Scarlett to take the lead. She spoke to him softly, touching himlightly on his hand. When she did, I could tell by the pained look on her face she wanted to recoil, but she didn’t. She touched him through the pain. The overwhelming sadness she was feeling swirled inside of her from his feelings.
Maybe for some that would be an odd thing to say, or a foolish thing to believe, but I believed it. I believed some of us were touched, and it was a mystery as to why.
Scarlett squeezed his hand, and finally, finally, he met her eyes. Then he began to cry, cry like I had never heard a man cry before. Scarlett took him in her arms and held him tightly. She said nothing to him. There was nothing she could say. When the sobs stopped racking him, she gave him some space. He even refused the handkerchief she offered him.
“She is gone,” he said, his voice beyond anguish. It was completely shattered. “She is gone, and I am not with her. I have healed many people over the years. I have believed that I was only a tool, not the direct healer. Yes, I have done wrong, but I have made my peace with this. Why isn’t God taking me? I miss her. I miss her more than I would ever miss my life.
“Do not speak to me,piccola colomba, with empty comfort that will not bring her back. Words hurt me. Hurt me more than any sickness or disease I have witnessed ravage a person’s body. Because the words I long to hear, that will heal me, cannot be spoken.My wife is home with me.Those are the words I will not hear until I join her.”
