Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Success,” I hear him say, telling them we harvested a greater abundance of perfectly ripe grapes than ever. I hear Romeo respond and hope he’s praising Santo for once. Romeo’s sparing with his praise, but I know the guys need it sometimes.
I lean back and let Santo’s voice wash over me, the rich intonation of it rising and falling, as steady and as calming as a magician’s incantation. I love Santo’s voice. I could fall asleep to the sound of the inflections painted with calm authority and confidence.
He looks different, these days. He’s let his beard grow in thick, as if it’s a vineyard keeper’s job to look like a biker. A part of me wonders if he just doesn’t care anymore.
It suits him, though. It suits him fine.
I tune in to his voice, trying to piece things together.
But even though his voice is every bit as resonant as it ever was, there’s something missing. He speaks coldly, as if reciting something he memorized for school. There’s no… no passion.
And Jesus if that isn’t all I ever had with him.
I can still feel his hands in my hair, still feel his lips on mine. When he held me in the hall, I felt our hearts beat together in that stolen moment of time.
I ball my hands into fists and shove them in my eye sockets.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
I’ve been through so much that never made me cry, from my father’s cruel backhand to marriage to a man I married for the sake of the family.
They all thought I loved him. It was a narrative I told for the self-sacrifice I knew was inevitable.
The only love Anthony Mercadio ever gave me’s sitting in the Great Hall surrounded by her family, feasting on Nonna’s homemade pasta and Mama’s handmade bread. To Papa, I was a commodity, nothing more than a Rossi jewel on his tilted crown.
Anthony’s and my marriage deteriorated quicker than I would have anticipated. I thought I could hold things together like everyone else had.
But I won’t think of that now. Not now.
“We expect next year’s harvest to outdo even this one,” Santo finishes. This time, his voice rings loud and clear.
“Excellent,” Romeo says, before he orders another round of drinks. Someone will say my name in a minute and my private moment of solitude will evaporate. But I’ll enjoy this while I can.
I close my eyes and remember, the words of my brothers and Santo fading into the background like music. I remember sitting right here the night Santo was brought into our family.
“Rosa! Rosa?” My mother’s voice carried through The Castle as she called for me, and I knew I only had a small window of time before I’d get into trouble. Five-thirty on a Sunday meant Sunday dinner was in half an hour, and if I didn’t show up promptly, I’d be grounded for eternity by Mama, if Papa didn’t find me first.
I swallowed hard and fingered the little note in my pocket, crumpled and hidden away. A new classmate, a boy from out of town, who’d joined us late in the school year. While every other boy in St. Anthony’s eighth-grade class knew enough to leave any Rossi family member well enough alone, the new boy hadn’t learned yet and the other boys didn’t trust him enough to warn him.
I was on the cusp of womanhood, prepared to go to high school the next year, so eager for attention from the male of the species it pained me how they treated me like a pariah.
But not the new boy. He was a young guy from the West Coast, with short red hair and a friendly smile.
“Hey,” a guy from class whispered to the new kid when he saw me talking to him. I didn’t hear the rest of the words he said except “Rossi” and “brothers.” My brothers were younger than my classmates, but it didn’t matter. They’d already earned their reputations.
I got the note after gym class, folded in a triangle sitting on my desk.
“I can’t talk to you anymore.”
No reason. No explanation. Nothing at all.
I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have to. But the pains of continuous rejection still stung when I was so young. It wasn’t until much, much later that I learned to mute them.
Most of the time, anyway.
“Rosa!” Mama called, her voice taking on a more concerned edge. With a labored sigh, I pushed myself to my feet and went to go see her.
“Here, Mama.” I waved to her from the courtyard. The water in the pool behind me lapped quietly, as if sighing that I had been found.
“Ah, where’ve you been?” She walked rapidly to me in her signature high-heeled shoes, grabbed me by the elbow, and pulled me along. While Mama was a lot gentler than Papa, she grew rougher when she feared his wrath would focus on one of us. “Please, Rosa,” she pled. “Don’t make him angry. He has news he’s excited to share with all of us.”