Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
My next stop is at the pharmacy. Mrs. Campana utters a shriek when I enter.
“Oh my, Sabella. Where on Earth have you been?”
I tell her about Sophie’s measles.
“It’s a good thing you had measles when you were young,” she says when I finished my story.
A customer enters. I step aside for Mrs. Campana to help the lady, pretending to browse the vitamins.
Once we’re alone again, Mrs. Campana gives me a quizzical look. “Do you need something?”
“Actually, I do.” I approach the counter. “A pregnancy test.”
Her eyes grow round behind her glasses. It takes her a moment to hide her reaction, but she doesn’t quite pull off her usual professional expression. “How late are you?”
“My period isn’t due for another two to three weeks.”
“It’ll be too early then,” she muses. “You better wait the full three weeks before using the test.” She opens a drawer under the counter, takes out a packet, and puts it in front of me. “To be sure, you should go to the laboratory in Bastia for a blood test.”
I hide my discomfort by fishing the money I earned from Mr. Martin from my pocket.
When she’s rung up my purchase, she hands me a bag and my change. “Are you planning a family?” She probes more gently, “Is this what you want?” Then she shakes her head. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”
“That’s all right.” My smile is meek. Not knowing how to explain, I settle for, “I didn’t plan this.”
She leans over the counter and pats my arm. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first couple who had a slip-up. You may not be pregnant.”
My throat is too thick to speak. I can only nod my gratitude for her support.
“If you’re not pregnant, get a prescription for birth control from your doctor asap,” she says. “And no more slip-ups until the birth control is effective. You’re so young still.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“Please keep me posted. If there’s anything I can do, you know where to find me.”
“I appreciate that.”
Her compassionate look follows me to the door. I’m glad to escape into the mild winter’s day.
At home, I hide the test in an evening clutch bag that I shove into the back of a drawer in the dressing room.
I think about little else until Heidi shows up the next day to deliver groceries as well as a phone and a charger. Angelo’s number is programmed on the phone.
“In case of an emergency,” she says. “See? I told you Mr. Russo would get you a phone.”
What she doesn’t mention but we both know is that I can only dial his number. All other numbers are off limits.
The look she gives me says that it’s a start, but I’m not in the habit of lying to myself, so I ask her for news about the kids to change the subject.
She tells me the kids got their vaccinations and started school in the village. At least Angelo kept his word about not sending them away to boarding school. If I’m honest, I’m curious about what’s happening at the old house. Is my husband entertaining other women? Is that why he doesn’t come here? Is that why he asked Heidi to deliver the phone instead of bringing it himself? Or is it because of what I said?
I shouldn’t care, but I do. I’m trying to scrape together the courage to ask Heidi about Angelo, but in the end, I’m too embarrassed to ask her so directly, and the only information she offers is that the children are doing fine.
Chapter
Six
Angelo
* * *
The teacher waits outside, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette when I arrive at the school after closing time.
I tamp down my annoyance. “The boys again?”
“Uh-uh.” She puts the cigarette out on the ground and flicks the butt into a trashcan. “Those boys do need a strong hand, but you seem to have it under control. It’s Sophie who concerns me.” Tilting her head toward the entrance, she says, “We need to talk.”
My gut tightens. I follow her into the building and down the hallway to a classroom with a big window through which the sunset over the mountain is visible. The walls are covered with child art in vivid blues, reds, greens, and yellows. The room smells of crayons, finger paint, and apples.
Unable to quell my defensiveness, I take a wide stance. “What’s wrong?” I’ve only been the kids’ guardian for a couple of weeks, and I’m already fucking it up.
She leans a hip against her desk. “Sophie cried again today.”
I spear my fingers through my hair. The sound of that grates on my nerves. I hate my niece’s tears. I hate that I’m failing so spectacularly in making that little girl happy. “Why? What happened?”
Mrs. Aravena studies me with a perceptive look. “I was hoping you’d tell me.” When I don’t reply, she continues, “Sophie is an exceptionally bright young girl. She has the potential to go far.”