Beautiful Secret Read online

  Here, she could walk along the path of Nana’s truths and perhaps garner some wisdom to put to use in her own trashed life. Maybe after a month abroad, she could go home and start over. Divorce Nathan or find a way to rebuild.

  She reached for her carry-on bag, which was on the floor just beside the bed. Inside was the journal that Suri had given her as a going-away gift. On its cover was a photograph of a glass of wine with a cork lying next to it. Tate’s fingers closed around the pen that was nestled between the journal’s pages. She decided to make notes for herself to remind her of all of the names—aunts, uncles, and cousins she would soon meet. Seeing the names on paper reminded her of the rough diagram of sorts that Aunt Mimi, her father’s sister, had made. Aunt Mimi had called it a cheat sheet.

  Tate searched inside her bag for the drawing. When her fingers opened the wrinkled paper, she smiled. Aunt Mimi hadn’t been artistic enough to draw a tree, but she’d managed to create a picture that looked like a spider, its legs having reproduced more legs and so on and so forth.

  A small cluster of names sat in the upper left hand corner. Cristo and Felicia, Concetta and Alfonso. This small section of the diagram was Nana Maria’s family, the Saccones. Tate wondered if there were any surviving Saccones left in Trunca, the town of her grandmother’s birth. According to Nana Maria, her aunts and uncles were deceased. Her cousin Concetta had moved to Switzerland with her husband and children.

  The rest of the paper was consumed by Domani names: her grandfather’s side. Tate began reading each one, her mind’s eye conjuring its own caricature of each person Nana had spoken about. There hadn’t been time for photographs. Only for the story.

  When her eyes stumbled upon his name, they stayed there.

  Michel Domani.

  Until tonight, she hadn’t given his name a second thought. Nana Maria had never mentioned him, really, except maybe to say that Zia Luisa had a grandson. Tate couldn’t recall a specific conversation.

  And now, here she was, tracing Michel’s name with her fingertip, thinking not of the estranged husband she’d left at home, but of him. He was her second cousin—not by blood but by marriage. According to Aunt Mimi’s chicken scratch, Michel was Chanson’s child from a former marriage. Tate’s second cousin, Maxime, had married Chanson a few years after Michel’s birth. Maxime had adopted Michel, giving him the Domani name and raising him as a son.

  So, she didn’t share blood ties with Michel.

  Interesting.

  Tate folded the paper and slid it inside the journal. She tossed it aside, and this time, when she closed her eyes, all she saw were lists of names, so instead of counting sheep, she recited the names silently in her mind. After a while, her consciousness floated away on the musical names from her grandmother’s story—a story that had begun so long ago, on a mountain that was not so far away.

  Chapter 2

  Maria

  Buon giorno, or “good morning,” always came before sunrise for me. I can’t remember a day I didn’t wake up before the chickens to either tend to the garden or the animals. Of course, we relaxed more on Sundays, but there was still the cooking and the housework to do. The men did the proverbial resting on the Sabbath. For a woman in Trunca, rest was unheard of.

  “Maria, come. I’ll teach you how to milk the goat.”

  I stared up into my mother’s eyes—mirror images of my own, pale blue with tints of silver—then watched as she tenderly pulled on the goats’ teats, later leading my hands through the work. I trailed her all that day, watching her pick ripe tomatoes and olives the correct way, learning by observation. The transition between child and adult happened overnight for me. One day, I am standing next to my mother, watching her labor from a child’s perspective, noticing light and color and make-believe in the shadows. The next, I am still with my mother, laboring alongside her, but the make-believe is gone. In its place is necessity and poverty come to life.

  I was six years old that first day of work. My family needed the extra help with my father gone, having died of a heart attack at only twenty-eight. I never attended school, never learned to read or write, but worked the fields every day for eleven years.

  Then, when I was seventeen, I met your grandfather, and this, bella, is another story altogether.

  It happened on a Sunday.

  * * *

  “Ciao, Maria!” Zia Felicia’s warm brown eyes smiled as she welcomed me in, kissing me once on each cheek. “Would you like some wine?”

  It was late July, and the sun was ruthless. The walk down the mountain from Trunca to Valanidi had left sweat on my forehead and ashes in my throat, so a small glass of wine sounded like heaven to me.

  “Grazie, Zia,” I said, and she nodded, her big black curls bouncing on broad, straight shoulders.

  “Cristo, arriva Maria,” she called to her husband, who was propped comfortably in his easy chair, poring over a newspaper. My uncle was a plumber by trade but an intellectual at heart. Mamma always said that when my father was alive, he and his brother Cristo had shared many heated political discussions, some ending in bloody or even broken noses.

  “Ciao, Maria,” Zio said half-heartedly, his one-track mind on course with whatever he was reading.

  I grinned, finding his lack of attention endearing rather than offensive and thinking how much my uncle, with his thick black hair and olive complexion, resembled pictures of my father. The Saccone family carried a striking beauty in its bloodline, colored with the characteristics that were typical of Calabrese people, our dark hair and skin and long, thin noses a hallmark of the region.

  “Your cousin was a successful fisherman today, Maria,” Zia told me as she bustled in and out of the kitchen. “Swordfish for dinner.”

  “Bravo, Alfonso!” I said, as my cousin strutted into the dining room with his head held high. Zia handed me a stack of plates, and I began setting the table.

  “Maria!”

  At the sound of my cousin Concetta’s voice, I stopped what I was doing and ran to greet her with kisses. She was my only real friend, and I was always thrilled to be able to spend time with her at Sunday dinners.

  “How are you, Maria? How is your mother?”

  “We are well, cousin. Mamma stayed in Trunca today with my brother. He sprained his ankle yesterday. Fell off of a ladder in the field.”

  “Oh, no.” Concetta’s face paled. “Is Giovanni all right?”

  “He’s okay, just clumsy.” I smiled at her.

  “A tavola,” Zia bellowed, calling us to the feast, and even Zio Cristo heeded her.

  “Salute a la famiglia Saccone!” Cristo lifted his glass, and we drank to our families, breaking bread at one of the last peaceful moments we would share together as a family yet untainted by the demons of betrayal and shame.

  After dinner, we sipped our coffee, Italian espresso that simply cannot be found anywhere in America. Nothing is quite so strong and rich.

  “A wonderful meal, mi amore.” Zio Cristo thanked Zia Felicia and got up from his chair to kiss her on the forehead. As I began to clear the plates, Zio’s hand over mine stopped me.

  “No work for you tonight, Maria,” he said. I started to protest, but he placed a stubby finger over my lips. “I am content when you sit at my table, Maria. You bring good memories of my brother.”

  Zio picked up his empty demitasse and stared silently into it. I imagined he was lost in his memories of my father or just stuck in the sadness at losing his baby brother.

  “Concetta,” he said, and without lifting his gaze, he handed her a few shiny lire. “Take Maria and go for gelato.”

  With our heads down to show respect for her father’s words, Concetta and I excused ourselves and slipped out into the dusky evening. We felt lucky to slip away from the after-dinner cleanup and the sadness.

  At eight o’clock, the orange sun was still visible just above the mountain that surrounded us. We started out along the bumpy road that wove through dry, flesh-colored rock, the landscape nothing but dust and
crabgrass in every direction but downhill.

  “Look,” I said to Concetta, pointing down the mountain toward Via Marina and the sea. “You can see the lights in Sicily tonight.” The fog in Trunca did not often allow us a view of the island, but from Valanidi, it was a sight to behold.

  “Maria,” Concetta said, stopping suddenly. “I must tell you something.”

  I turned to her, wondering what could be so important to my fifteen-year-old cousin. She looked vibrant and alive and beautiful as always in a red cotton dress and sandals, her black hair pulled away from her face and tied with a scarf at the nape of her neck. There was something different in her tone, though, an anticipation or an unsettledness that was quite unlike my typically serene cousin.

  “What is it, Concetta?”

  “Maria, I think I have fallen in love.” She leaned against a neighbor’s porch, her eyes fixed dreamily on the ever-darkening sky. “His name is Giuseppe. Giuseppe Domani. And he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.” She paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but I had none.

  “Come, Maria. Let’s stroll past his house and introduce ourselves.”

  She took my arm in hers again and led me down the road. I felt as if I were traipsing around in another person’s dream, and I wondered if I would ever have ice cream this evening. Concetta led me across a bridge and past some houses until suddenly her pace slowed.

  She whispered into the evening air, “There he is.”

  I followed her gaze to a house that was much like Concetta’s, only two stories tall. The first floor was a groceria, and sitting at a table out front were six young men, playing cards and passing around a bottle of what looked to be whiskey.

  “Which one is Giuseppe?”

  “He’s the one with the hat.” She seemed mesmerized. “They’re all brothers. I go to school with Nino and Francesco. Carmelo is the one ranting and raving. He is supposed to attend school but always misses. Giuseppe is the oldest. He’s twenty-six.”

  I felt my eyes stretch wide. “He’s eleven years older than you, Concetta! Why is he still unmarried?”

  “His mother coddles him, her first baby boy, you know. But I think I can win her over.” Her eyes were glossy and hopeful, but something told me Concetta was brewing trouble. As we walked toward the young men, my intuition grew stronger, a foreshadow of dread settling like a stone in my belly. Suddenly, Giuseppe looked up, and his eyes met mine. All at once, my stomach hurtled toward my knees, and my fair face betrayed me with redness and heat.

  Even now, I wonder how it was that Concetta never noticed the way his eyes possessed me, taking me in at their will. The force of his leer sent me spinning so fast, it was all I could do to stand still in my shoes.

  “Buona sera,” Concetta said to them as we approached.

  Carmelo looked up, noticing us despite the drama of his soliloquy. “Ah, ragazze, come and sit next to me.” He pulled up a wooden stool and gestured for Concetta to sit. “Perhaps your beauty can bring me luck. Every time I play with these cursed brothers of mine, I lose my shirt.”

  “Aye, shut up, Carmelo,” another brother said, this one with beady black eyes and bare feet. The two began hurling obscenities and then fists at each other as they boxed their way toward the back of the house.

  “Sorry about your card game,” I said to one of the remaining brothers. This one looked content, a broad smile painting his face, thick glasses framing his blue eyes.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” He waved my concern away. “We play Scopa every evening, and it never fails to end with Francesco chasing Carmelo from the table. It has become sort of a joke. They are twins, and Francesco, who is younger by seven minutes, is always the first to lose patience with our brother’s poetic drama.”

  The man’s casual warmth calmed me, but just as my pulse slowed to a comfortable rate, Giuseppe spoke up.

  “Who are you?”

  I swallowed as his deep voice enveloped me in a dark desire I’d never before experienced.

  “I am Maria Saccone,” I mustered the strength to say. “And this is my cousin, Concetta Saccone. I live in Trunca, and Concetta lives here in Valanidi.”

  At the mention of my town, the brothers shared a knowing look. Trunca was infamous for its poverty.

  “I am Giuseppe Domani, and these are my brothers, Federico and Nino.” His eyes dug into me, and I had to look away from his stern face for a moment. “I’ve seen you before, Concetta, but I’m not sure where.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice high-pitched, her words quick. “I go to school with two—I mean, three of your brothers.”

  “It’s okay.” Giuseppe said. “You don’t have to cover for Carmelo. We all know he is too busy studying the sea and catching fish to go to school.” The brothers shared a laugh at Carmelo’s expense. “What about you, Maria? Do you go to school?”

  I could practically feel his bold stare walking all over my body, up and then down, as if it were his property to peruse as he pleased. Beautiful or not, I refused to let him frighten or shame me.

  “No, Signore Domani, I work on my family’s farm.” I smiled humbly. “There isn’t time for school.”

  “Ah, then.”

  And that was all he said before they excused themselves, wishing us a lovely night and disappearing into the house.

  “Oh, Maria,” Concetta gushed, gripping my hands with her own. “You are the best cousin a girl could ask for. I am going to buy you two scoops. Andiamo.”

  As we walked away from the Domani home, she continued to ramble on and on about Giuseppe, his beautiful dark eyes and wavy hair, the way he looked at her when they spoke. Her words faded in and out as I silently questioned if I would be able to eat even a lick of gelato.

  To this day, I do not know what flavors of ice cream I had that night, if any. All I can remember is a pair of black eyes that followed me through all of the trouble that brewed from that day on.

  Chapter 3

  Maria

  Family. The single most important value in Italian culture. Nothing comes before it, and very little is powerful enough to break blood ties. All families have arguments. Cousins who don’t speak for years; jealous sisters or proud brothers who refuse to make amends. They sit across from each other at Sunday dinner and exchange dirty looks, snide remarks. Still, they break bread together. An estranged cousin’s side is unquestionably favored over a close friend’s. For Italians, blood is more important than breathing.

  The events of that winter of 1949 were strong and ugly enough to alter tradition. I am ashamed to say that I was half of the reason for not only the destruction of the Saccone family but for the heartache and bloodshed that followed us all for years afterward.

  * * *

  My mother caught on right away. She probably measured my distraction in the number of tomatoes I dropped in the garden and the amount of goat’s milk that boiled over while I was daydreaming through cheese-making in the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter with you, Maria?” My brother Gio’s cold blue eyes sliced into me every time I made a silly mistake.

  But my mother was silent, regarding me with staunch worry. And while her expressions accused me, all I could see were Giuseppe Domani’s eyes, forever in front of my own, leaving me red-faced and trembling through every task I was expected to complete with ease and without error.

  I tried to squelch my restlessness, to remind myself of the necessity of my hands and concentration at home, but it was as if Giuseppe entered my mind as he so chose, without invitation, and I was expected to stop everything to entertain my thoughts of him. He’d taken over my consciousness so completely, this man I’d only once laid eyes on. And while I knew so little of him, I believe I created whatever details I needed to suit my fantasy. Perhaps this is why the true nature of Giuseppe Domani never ceased to surprise me in the months and years to follow.

  When the letter arrived, inviting us to dinner to celebrate the engagement of Concetta and Giuseppe, Gio was the one to read it aloud. Being the only
one in the family who could read easily, he traipsed into the kitchen, where my mother and I were slicing tomatoes for salad, and unfolded the letter. As the words poured from his lips, my outlandish hopes drowned in a flood of reality. Fingers of guilt crept over my skin, reminding me to be happy for the cousin whom I loved so dearly, to smile, but I couldn’t get my face to move a muscle. I was numb.

  “Maria,” my mother said to me. “Go and lie down.”

  “Why?” I was unaccustomed to being told to rest when there was always work to be done.

  “Your heart is heavy, Maria.” It was all she said, and I didn’t protest, didn’t even want to look at her for fear she would ask me to explain. Instead, I trudged into our bedroom, unjustified tears running in hot trails down my dirty cheeks.

  By the night of the engagement festa in early October, my emotions had run the gamut from sorrow to shame. I’d admonished myself for dallying in girlish daydreams where I had no business playing around. As my mother, Gio, and I walked out of our distressed town and down the mountain, I was reminded of my lot in life. I was a poor farmer’s daughter from Trunca. Drama and grand romance did not have a place in my future.

  “Your wine is wonderful this year, Cristo,” my mother said once we were all seated at the table under the grapevine behind their home. “Your brother would be envious.”

  “Ah, bella, you are wrong there,” Zio Cristo said, swishing a drink of wine around in his mouth. “My brother and I were never envious of each other.”

  Hot shame crept up my cheeks at his words as Concetta appeared in a dress that was as crimson as my face surely felt. She smiled stunningly, her black curls tumbling gently down her back in sharp contrast to the colorful silk of her clothing. I watched her bend to greet each of Giuseppe’s brothers and then his two beady-eyed sisters with kisses and words I imagined to be flatteringly appropriate. Her hands shook as she approached his mother, offering her a glass of wine. The odd, bird-like woman took the glass without saying a word or turning to meet my cousin’s eyes.