The Last Promise (31 page)

It all seemed too good to be true. They kissed awhile longer; then she said, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“No idea in the world.”

“I’m afraid Manuela will worry.” Eliana sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to wake from dreams.”

“This one’s just started.”

She ran her fingers across the base of his neck, causing goose bumps to rise on his skin.

“You have no idea how good that feels,” Ross said.

“Hmm. I think I do.” After a few more moments she sighed. “I better go.” She rubbed her hands back through her hair. It was matted on one side and Ross also ran his fingers through it. He stood, took her by the hand and lifted her. “When will you tell Maurizio?”

“He doesn’t come home until Friday.”

“Do you want me to be with you when you tell him?”

“No.”

“Will you call me right after you talk to him?”

“You can be sure of that.” He took her hand and they climbed around the fence and up to the street. The streets were still quiet and they walked the four blocks to her car. They kissed at length at her car. Finally she sighed and unlocked her door. “What about your painting? Do you want to take it now?”

“No, just bring it when you move out. This way you can still have me around for a few days.”

“Good idea.” She smiled and they kissed again.

“I love you,” she said.

He smiled. “I love you too.”

Then she reached her hands behind her neck and unclasped her necklace. She held it out to him. “This is for you until you can have the rest of me.”

He looked at the medallion then back at her as he slowly closed his hand around it. She started the car, then blowing him a last kiss, drove off. Ross stood in the street watching her until she turned the corner and was gone from sight. Then he looked again at the medallion. It reminded him of her words. He would have hope just one last time.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

E
liana rolled down her window and let the cool morning wind rush by her. The ecstasy of being in love was far more potent than she imagined it could be, and she felt new. It had been a long time since she had indulged in passion or even the pleasure of hope.

She imagined their life together, and, ironically, the pull of family, the belief that they—she, Alessio and Ross—could be a family was powerful too. The drive home seemed short.

She pulled her car into the long drive of Rendola. The dash clock said seven twenty-three. She wouldn’t go in. Not yet. Not when she still felt like she could fly. She parked the car short of the villa, just outside the winery, and walked down to her secret place, where she and Ross had met after the
vendemmia
. From the low wall she could see the villa silhouetted against the morning sky. It seemed more like a prison to her now.

Her mind played out a thousand summer days and cozy, winter evenings to come. To be loved again, what could be so unimaginably sweet? The crisp, new autumn wind played with her hair, and she closed her eyes and imagined it was Ross running his fingers through it. She did not want the night to leave her. She relived their conversation, savored the memory of his voice. She thought of how her hand fit in his, his gentle touch as they kissed, his hand caressing her body, his lips against her skin, even how he had responded to her painting and how it filled her with pleasure.

“I love you, Ross,” she said softly. It was not just how she felt, but a promise. Last night she had loved and felt loved in depths she hadn’t known possible, and it filled her with faith that there would be other such nights—a lifetime of such nights. Could it be so in real life? Were there really happily-ever-afters? Her story had the makings of a fairy tale. In fact hers was the oldest of love stories, the beautiful princess locked away in a castle rescued by a handsome knight. Change the names and a few other details and it was all there.

She had suffered the chill of indifference for too long. She felt guilt for loving a man who wasn’t her husband, yet this time it was quashed by her love for Ross. That and her newfound knowledge of just how much she had been deprived of for so long.
Il bisogno non conosce legge. Need knows no law,
the Italians said. You might as well condemn a starving man for stealing a loaf of bread.

Yet this was more than the satisfying of a hunger. There seemed to be something divine about it. This man had come from thousands of miles away, from a million indignities, to save her. Surely there was divinity in this. God is love, she had always believed, and this man had brought her love. Love and dignity and self-respect.

Finally she laughed at herself. She was as giddy as a lovesick schoolgirl, warm, wrapped up in love’s cozy blanket. She sighed happily at the thought as she walked back to her car.

Then, as she came around the wall of the villa, her heart froze. The only car in the gravel lot was Maurizio’s Alfa Romeo.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

E
liana stood outside her car for a moment. How could he be home? She paused again outside the courtyard gate, fearful to open the door and set in motion the events that would come about, as if a hurricane waited inside kept at bay only by the gate’s inch of wood.

Fear and guilt rose up within her, seeping up between the cracks of her conscience like groundwater.

She opened the courtyard door, fully expecting to see Maurizio standing there, cigarette in hand, waiting for her. But the courtyard was quiet. She crossed the stone pavement, and it seemed as if all sound were amplified. She was conscious of the click her heels made against the stone pavement, her own quick breaths.

Her throat was dry. She grasped the door handle but it was locked. She fumbled with her keys, tried the wrong one, then found the right one. As she inserted it, the door opened inward. Her keys fell to the ground, ringing against the stone porch as they hit. Maurizio stood in front of her, his eyes dark.

“Where have you been?” His voice was low and sharp-edged.

She didn’t answer.

“Where have you been all night?”

She stooped to pick up her key ring, still avoiding his gaze. “Since when do you care where I am?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her forcibly up against the stone threshold. She gasped.

“Let go.”

“Who have you been with?”

She turned away from his face.

“Tell me where you have been.”

“I just went out.”

“In the city?”

“Yes.”

“With the American?”

“Leave me alone.”

“My friend saw you with him, at Ristorante Alle Due Fontanelle. Do you deny it?”

She shrugged herself free from his grip. “Why do you care? You don’t care about me.” She started to walk from him, but he grabbed her blouse and yanked her back.

“I warned you to stay away from him.”

“Like you stay away from other women? How many are there, Maurizio? Ten, twenty, or is it in the hundreds by now?”

“Shut up!” he shouted and raised his hand. She cowered slightly, lifted her hand to cover her face, but his hand never fell. His voice became more deliberate. “You want this American criminal?”

She said nothing.

“Of course you want him. Why he would want a
brutta
woman like you—that is the question. You can have him. Take your things and go.”

She didn’t move.

He walked to the wall and flung one of her paintings from it. The frame cracked when it hit the tile of the floor. “Take all this ugliness from my house.”

“Okay, I’ll go. Where . . . where’s Manuela?”

“Loro non sono qui,”
he said, and there was cruelty in his voice.
They are not here.

“They? Where’s Alessio?”

“You don’t think you will take my son with you for another man. My son is not a
brutto americano
. You go alone.”

“You can’t have my son.”

“He is no longer your son. You have betrayed my home. Now get out.”

“I’ll divorce you and I’ll take him.”

Maurizio seemed darkly amused. “Is that what you thought? No, you will not take him. I can promise you that. You have made your decision, now get out of my house.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“You already have. And it is not your choice now. It is mine. And my friends will see to it that it remains mine. You stupid woman, you have known me for this long and you didn’t know that it has always been my decision. You should have been more
obedient
.”

The word scraped across her soul like fingernails.

“You can’t . . .” She did not finish her sentence. The back of Maurizio’s hand broke across her face, knocking her to the ground. She lifted a hand to her face where it stung. Her nose was bleeding. Then he was on top of her. He grabbed her by her hair and lifted her head. She was too frightened to struggle. She began crying.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Please, Maurizio.”

“I should beat you.” He wavered, as if considering what to do; then he put his knee in her back and pushed himself up. She winced and gasped slightly, as much in fear as pain. She lay on her chest, her face to one side partially eclipsed by the floor. The blood from her nose slowly pooled in front of her, while her body convulsed with her sobs. “I didn’t sleep with him,” she said.

“You liar.”

“I didn’t, Maurizio.”

“I want you out before I return.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving all quiet except for the muffled sounds of her whimpering.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

E liana lay on the floor crying for a long time before she struggled to the phone on the hall table. She pulled the phone off onto herself and frantically pushed Manuela’s number on the handset. Her husband, Vittorio, answered.

“Vittorio, this is Eliana. Where is Manuela?”

He hesitated. “Eliana . . .”

“Does she have Alessio?”

“I’m sorry, Eliana. Maurizio has made me promise not to speak to you.”

“What?”

“He made it clear.”

“Vittorio, I need to know. Alessio’s asthma is dangerous. If he’s upset he could have an attack.”

“What can I do? I’m very sorry.” He hung up on her.