I don't want to answer that. "Why aren't you?"
He tilts his head in acknowledgement of a point well made but he doesn't answer either.
"I didn't know your mother well," I say carefully. "But I liked her."
Gabriele nods. He glances at the building.
"I didn't talk to her enough," he says. "I didn't talk to her and now I can't even..."
He growls in frustration. As he stares at the open door into the crematorium I see a longing in his eyes and I think I see what his problem is. He wants to go in there but he can't.
"Your mother asked me to give you a message," I say. "The day I met her."
He goes very still.
"She asked me to tell you she understands."
His shoulders sag.
"I think I do too." I hold a hand out to him. "Come in with me. I don't want to go alone."
He looks at my hand, then up at my face. I give him an encouraging nod but he doesn't move, not for the longest time. Just as I think I've lost him and I'll have to go in and take my seat, he takes my hand.
I'm not sure which of us is leading the other, but we make it into the chapel. It's simply furnished with rows of wooden chairs.
At the front, here's an arrangement of flowers draped on a plain wooden casket, providing a burst of color I hadn't expected. There's a photograph of Beatrice when she was younger, when she was fully herself. She's beautiful. I see the sparkle in her eyes. It was there the day I met her, if only for a moment.
Most of the front five rows have been taken but there's still plenty of space. I choose a seat at the back. When I sit, Gabriele shakes his head.
"I'll sit on the aisle."
I'm not sure if that's to protect me if anything happens or because he wants to make a quick exit, but either way I'm not going to argue with his dominant tone. It seems he's like my husband in temperament as well as looks.
Gabriele lowers his head as an attendant comes to give us a copy of the order of service.
"A Humanist celebration of the life of Beatrice Volante," I read from the front. "It's not a religious service?"
Gabriele shakes his head. "It's what she would have wanted."
I think about the opulence of the hallway in Beatrice's home and try to reconcile it with the plain wooden casket and the bright fresh flowers. I imagine this is more to her taste. Damiano wouldn't have chosen such simple arrangements. Everything he's done has been according to her wishes.
I look up as he enters through a door at the side of the chapel. Dressed in black, he holds himself with his usual composure but I see the strain on his face. Lorenzo follows with Lucia. Marco and Agnesca join them on the front row.
The service is quiet, unhurried and beautiful. Songs Beatrice liked are played rather than hymns. The celebrant talks about the woman she was and her friends share memories. Agnesca talks about the time they baked bread together and it came out of the oven like a rock. It’s the perfect farewell.
Beside me, Gabriele fidgets. I reach across and lay my hand on top of his. He doesn't push me away. When Damiano gets up to speak, his eyes find us at the back of the room. He falters for a moment as he registers his brother and me together, a rare crack in his composure. Then a smile touches his lips.
As the service ends, and a curtain is lowered in front of the casket, Gabriele raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. Then he rises quietly and leaves. I remain where I am as Damiano receives condolences from his family and friends. He shakeshands, accepts embraces, smiles when a beautiful older woman who looks so much like Olivia she can only be her mother kisses his cheeks.
People slowly file out of the chapel. Olivia sees me and acknowledges me with a smile but she doesn't linger. Lucia and Lorenzo walk past and he leans in to kiss my cheek and accept my condolences.
Then it's me and Damiano alone. He turns, his shoulders dropping. I walk toward him and then I see it, peeking out of his pants pocket. The tiny red bear his mother knitted. That tells me everything I need to know about him.
With a shuddering sob I fling myself into his arms.
Damiano
As Violetta walks toward me,my heart rate picks up. When I got up to speak about my mother and what she meant to my brothers and me, I was composed despite my intense sorrow at her loss. Then I saw my wife sitting at the back of the chapel with Gabriele and I almost lost it. Having them both here was unexpected. I'd reconciled myself to neither of them being here. To see them together, her obviously offering him comfort. I would have preferred if he’d stayed to talk to Lorenzo and me after the service, but I understand why he couldn’t.
