I kissed her forehead. I felt my mother's ring press into my right hand inside my jacket.
Valentina smiled against my neck.
"Luca. I'm a Moretti now."
"Sì, bella mia."
CHAPTER 32
"I carried the house behind me for four hundred kilometers. Even here, the wind beats against the same name."
Valentina MORETTI
The Villa stood white against the hillside.
It had been built by Luca's great-grandfather in 1923, with Sorrento stone and quicklime, and later renovated by his father in 1988.
It wasn't a hotel, and certainly not a rented house. It was the Morettis' property in Positano—the only one Luca's fatherhad put in his children's names before he died. I'd seen that in the papers last week.
We arrived at eight thirty at night, after four hours on the road.
Donna Lucia was at the door. Sixty years old, black hair threaded with silver pinned in a bun, a navy-blue apron, a Salerno accent. She greeted Luca with the deference of someone who'd worked for the family for thirty years. She greeted me, calling me signora Moretti from the very first syllable.
"Auguri, signora," she said, and took both my hands for a second. "Nonna Adelina called me the day before yesterday. Told me to open the windows of the main bedroom. I opened them."
"Grazie, Donna Lucia."
We ate little on the terrace. Mozzarella still damp, prosciutto sliced thin, bread from the bakery on the square, cold white wine. Yellow melon cut in slices.
I was hungry for my wedding, but the exhaustion won out, and Luca didn't eat much either. When we went up to the room, I lay down in a white slip and he lay down in pajama pants, no shirt.
And we slept.
I woke up first.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up before him. It was always the other way around—Luca already on his feet, buttoning a shirt cuff, smoking a cigar on the balcony.
Today he was face down beside me, the tattoo on his back exposed, breathing deep.
I looked at him for a while.
Husband, I thought. This man is my husband now.
The word still felt like new clothes, sewn but not yet worn.
I got up slowly. I took his robe from the arm of the chair—not mine, his—and wrapped it around myself. It smelled of cigar and sandalwood, and it covered me almost to the knees.
I went out barefoot.
The hallway window was open; the wind off the Tyrrhenian came into the robe and ran up my legs. Down below, in the village square, a bicycle bell rang twice, and there was the smell of fresh bread.
Donna Lucia was already in the kitchen. Italian coffeepot on the stove, the sound of the coffee rising through the inner tube.
"Buongiorno, signora."
"Buongiorno, Donna Lucia."
"Cornetto? They came from the Annunziata early, still warm."
