Beautiful Secret Read online

  Fighting my way out of the spell he had me under, I finally found myself able to speak.

  “I should take the water inside—”

  “No, let’s walk. It’s such a beautiful night,” he said, his voice like hot chocolate spilling over me, sweet but dark. “So many stars.”

  As he spoke, he edged closer to me until his face hung just above my own, his persistent stare making it hard for me to swallow. Rough fingers brushed a stray hair from my face and rested quietly on my cheekbone. I was suddenly a contradiction, my skin on fire, my feet frozen in place.

  “Come.” He gently but decisively took my arm in his and led me away from the fountain, in the opposite direction from my cousin’s house.

  “Life has been hard, Maria.” He spoke quietly as we walked. “I served in the war, in Africa. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head quickly.

  “It was hell.” He let out a heavy breath as if exhaling the memories. “I am tired of tragedy, tired of the weight of it all.”

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “It’s hardest on my Mamma.” He kicked a pebble, sending it tumbling into the street.

  “That must be hard for you and Concetta. I know your mother is unhappy about your marriage.”

  “Ah, bella. Let’s not talk about Concetta now.”

  I nodded, ignoring the pang of guilt that throbbed between my eyes as he led me beneath a cluster of lime trees on the side of the road. When the voice in my head warned me again and again to turn back, I turned down the volume and chose to exist in my fantasy for the time being. For the moment, Giuseppe Domani was all mine, and the fact that I liked it filled me with fear.

  “Maria,” Giuseppe whispered, “I know there are many layers to you.” He closed in on my face in the deep foliage of the trees. “I want to peel away each layer, one at a time.”

  I could hardly breathe, the closeness of his words shocking me. I stepped back, trying to put distance between us, but his hand quickly landed on my shoulder, securing my body exactly where he wanted it.

  “I watch you with your family, with my family. You’re always the first to help, to listen. You give and give of yourself without expecting anything in return.”

  He inched closer still.

  “I watch you when you don’t know I’m looking, and I feel the wonder you see in small things: the shape of the clouds, the smell of a lemon.”

  Now, I was breathing his breath. Trembling and hot, I was no longer comfortable.

  “And on your farm, Maria. I watch you there, too. When you’re alone in the pasture or in the garden. That’s when the layers start to come away, and I see a girl who wishes she were somewhere else.” His fingers trailed down my bare arm, landing softly on the inside of my hip.

  I stiffened and parted my lips to tell him that enough was enough, that it was time to go back to the house with everyone else. I meant to tell him those things, but it was too late. He crushed my words with his lips before I could even speak them, his hands going to the small of my back and gathering all of me into him.

  When he finally pulled away, it was with a soft sigh of what sounded oddly like relief. He brushed another wisp of hair from my cheek and gazed seriously into my eyes.

  “You, Maria, are the perfect cure for all that ails me.”

  I wanted to hate him then. For leading me down this road of betrayal. For making me want him.

  “Giuseppe, you are marrying my cousin in a few short—”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted and grabbed my shoulders forcefully, pushing my body back into the tree, the gnarly bark scraping my upper arms. His quick temper sent a shiver through me, but he swiftly cooled and softened his grip. “How can I marry Concetta when all I ever wanted was her cousin? I am drawn to each sweet layer of you, Maria, and obsessed by the parts of you I’ve yet to experience.”

  I faced him fully and moved sideways then, out from under the murky shadow of the tree, out of his arms’ reach.

  “Concetta is my best friend, Giuseppe. I love her and would never do anything to hurt her.” I looked away for just a moment, feeling guilty in the knowledge that I’d already done enough to slay sweet Concetta’s heart. “Family is family.”

  Back at the house, no one had noticed I’d been gone so long to fetch the water. After setting down the bottles, I ran to the bathroom to splash water on my very red cheeks. I stared at my face in the mirror. How would I ever look Concetta in the eye?

  Without warning, bile rose in my throat, and I was sick all over Zia Felicia’s bathroom.

  “Maria?” My mother knocked frantically at the bathroom door and then opened it. “What’s the matter, bella?”

  “Maybe I ate the wrong thing. I don’t know,” I said, a flame of chagrin crawling across my cheeks and into my ears. Feverish with guilt over my actions, I tried to speak, tried to lie and tell everyone I was fine, but my mother knew better.

  “You need to rest in bed, child,” she said, placing a hand on my forehead as I nodded in agreement.

  “I need to go home.” Or anywhere away from here, I thought. Away from him and the way he made me feel.

  Giuseppe Domani offered to drive me home.

  * * *

  The salty smell of him.

  The way his hands gripped the gear shift as he managed the sharp switchbacks up the mountain.

  His presence was all over me.

  “Thank you for driving, Giuseppe,” I said to him, relieved to be getting out of his car in front of my simple home.

  “Ah, bella, let me walk you in.” He took my arm in his and raised his black eyes to the sky. “It’s so quiet up here. And dark.”

  It was true there were no streetlamps in Trunca as there were in Valanidi. But even in the dark, the mere silhouette of Giuseppe Domani’s sure stance sent me spinning.

  Silence and starlight entranced us, and in moments, I was wrapped once more in Giuseppe’s embrace, his lips pressing into mine, my defenses broken, my moral obligations forgotten. All I knew was the heat of skin and senses, the strange vibrations that trilled through my yet-undiscovered body. And, as Giuseppe led me down a path that was paved with anything but good intentions, I could no longer squelch my hunger.

  And so I closed my eyes as I allowed him to see me as no other ever had, to take me in a way that made me feel alive but only for a moment. He groped and groaned, moving over and then within me, all the while schooling me for a pleasure that was his alone. I found myself changing under his fast fingers, and then, almost before it had begun, it was over.

  When I opened my eyes, we were lying under a prickly pear tree in the garden, although I couldn’t recall exactly how we’d ended up there. Through thick, thorny branches, I could see the North Star, bright and beckoning. I was drenched in sweat, both mine and his, and I’d just begun to notice the chill in the air when the disgrace of what I’d done crept over me.

  “Good night, bella,” he said without looking at me. He fastened his belt and flattened his wrinkled shirt. “I missed dinner, I think.”

  He chuckled as he strolled toward the car. I watched his taillights become tiny red fireflies as they made their way back down the mountain and finally disappeared.

  Rubbing my arms, trying to get warm, I walked slowly up to our front door when I noticed our neighbor, Signora Luca, hobbling down the street with her cane in one hand and her dog’s leash in the other.

  “Maria, what are you doing out here all alone in the cold?” she asked. “I don’t much like these winter nights.”

  I couldn’t look her in the eyes, so I mumbled something even I couldn’t understand and slipped into the dark house. I cleaned myself up as best as I could, hoping my mother would not notice this strange musky odor I now possessed. The scent of baseness, the perfume of lost virtue. I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Tate

  “Hello?” Tate’s voice was thick with sleep when she answere
d the insistent beep of her phone.

  “You said I could call you as much as I wanted to. Your international plan is unlimited, right?” a too-bright voice on the other end questioned Tate.

  “Suri?”

  “I’m dying to hear what it’s like over there.”

  Tate was shocked to hear from her best friend so soon. Had she been awake, she would have been more pleasantly surprised.

  “You’re six hours ahead of us over there in Viva La France, so that makes it just about noon for you. I’m on my way to the gym. How come you sound so sleepy?”

  As usual, Suri’s words raced over each other, hurtling into Tate’s ears at top speed. She needed a moment to string them into sense.

  “It’s noon already?” Jesus, she’d slept for fifteen hours. And probably would still be sound asleep if Suri hadn’t called.

  “You’re usually up with the chickens, Tate. Must have been quite a party last night.”

  “It’s jet lag, Suri.” Her hand went to her eyes to rub the sleep away, and she winced at the tender spot on her temple. The memory of meeting Michel crashed into her, reminding her of the train wreck exit routine she’d performed last night.

  “So, talk. Is Luisa a spitfire? Did she tell you anything?”

  Because Tate had told her friend bits and pieces of Nana’s story, Suri seemed as caught up in the saga of Nana Maria’s life as Tate was. To discover another side of the woman, to imagine her as an almost girl, caught in the turbulence of passion and melodrama, was probably as fascinating for Suri as it was for Tate herself. The fact that Suri had grown up just two houses away from Nana and that she and Tate were childhood friends made the story even more personal to her.

  “Luisa is quieter than I expected. The only time she raised her voice yesterday was at her husband.”

  “Nino, right?”

  “Yes. They bicker a lot, and she still has quite the flair for French curse words.” Tate laughed, remembering the choice ones she’d heard Zia Luisa spit at Zio Nino’s back as he’d shuffled away from her yesterday afternoon. “I get the feeling Luisa is dying to talk to me alone, but I don’t know yet, Suri. I’ve only been here a day, and I was so exhausted from travel.” Exhausted to the point of hallucination followed by humiliation. “I need a few days to gather up some real intel, okay?”

  “When do you leave for Italy?”

  “We were supposed to leave in five days, but Colette is worried about some sort of air traffic controller strike that’s been in the news. If it happens, our flight will be canceled.” She wasn’t comfortable with things being up in the air, even though everybody else around here appeared to exist that way as a rule. She’d realized yesterday, in the three-hour car ride from Paris to Revin, that Colette had quite the laissez-faire attitude.

  “Who’s Colette?”

  “She’s my second cousin. Zia Luisa and Zio Nino have two children. Maxime, their older son, is married to Chanson,” Tate explained. “Colette is their younger daughter. She’s almost fifty. Lives and teaches at the University of Reims. She’s single.” And as flighty as a feather in a windstorm.

  “Isn’t Reims famous for its champagnes?” Suri asked. “You definitely should try some.”

  Of course Suri would know this piece of trivia. “I promise I will try my best to get my hands on some,” Tate told her. “And I promise to catalog the nose and…fizziness of each bottle.” Tate knew nothing about champagne. She preferred a robust California Cabernet to the sweet, bitter bubbly.

  “Awesome. And maybe bring me back a bottle or two?”

  “Don’t push your luck, babe.”

  Suri laughed, then became quiet for a spell. Tate imagined her best friend’s dark doe eyes becoming serious.

  “Tate?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Look for your life, okay?”

  “Oh no. Please, Sur, no pep talk.”

  “I know you’re over there to search for Nana’s life, but you need to take a minute or two to dig for your own. All this shit between you and Nathan, losing your parents and then…” Suri paused, and Tate’s throat tightened suddenly. She wanted to tell Suri to stop, but the words were stuck in what felt like a ball of dried superglue at the back of her tongue.

  “It’s all taken a toll on you, Tate.”

  “I’m okay, Sur.” Tate whispered the words, wanting to stay tethered to the silence that made her feel safe.

  “You’re not okay. You won’t even talk about any of it.”

  This was not the conversation Tate wanted to have on her first morning in Europe. She’d come here thinking she could escape from all the bullshit. She was sick to death of sympathy stares. She felt like wearing a shirt that said “I’M OKAY,” just to get people to stop feeling sorry for her, to stop asking her how she was and if she wanted to talk about it.

  She didn’t.

  “Sur, can you please just let it go? Give me a pass—”

  “I’m not giving you a break on this one, Tate,” Suri interrupted. To argue with Suri was like trying to kick through a brick wall with ballet slippers. “It’s time to divorce him. Cheaters never change.”

  Tate closed her eyes and let the words settle over her like a nubby old sheet, uncomfortable and prickly. She didn’t respond to Suri’s unrelenting rant. Instead, she kicked the words away.

  A buzz of white noise lit the line between them, accentuating the silence.

  “Tate, come back to me,” Suri said gently. “I’m sorry.”

  Tate took a deep breath, wishing she had the wherewithal to reach into the back of her throat and loosen the right words. She was stuck, though. “I’m not ready.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I pushed.” Suri laughed, and the sound made Tate’s shoulders relax a little. “I always push, but it’s only because I love you, Tate.”

  “I love you too, Sur.” For all thirty years of her life, Suri had been her friend. Nothing Suri said could offend or even surprise her, really. “Listen, I have to go. I can smell something delicious happening downstairs. It’s probably lunch time, and I’m sure they’re all waiting for me.”

  “Ooh, go ahead, then. But make sure you write down everything you eat, too. I want details.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

  “I might text you before then,” Suri said.

  Tate smiled. “Okay. Bye.”

  As she pressed the End button, a sense of relief fell over her. It only lasted a moment. Suddenly a question oozed its way into her already agitated thoughts. It bubbled up like lava, threatening to erupt and expose.

  Why hadn’t she mentioned Michel and her strange dream to Suri?

  She ran from the answer, desperate for its truths to remain unspoken.

  Fire began to blaze at her toes, spreading up her long, tanned legs and scorching her belly. All at once, that smoldering question melted the thick ice of her sprawling barricade. Its words made their way to the forefront of her mind, greeting her with a knowing chuckle and forcing her to ask them.

  She was not about to entertain this inquisition.

  Unwrapping her body from the light down comforter, she swiftly hopped out of the four-poster bed and onto the cool hardwood below.

  Why? Why? Why?

  Her conscience poked at her, and no matter how directly she focused on tucking in the sheets and smoothing out the wrinkles on the duvet, she could not flee from it.

  Fine.

  She was an artist when it came to pushing away the truth, even when it came down to hiding things from herself.

  Because the dream was inconsequential, that was why she hadn’t said anything about it.

  And she’d forgotten about Michel…and his needy eyes.

  Or something like that.

  * * *

  “Well, good morning, sleeping head,” Colette said as Tate shuffled into the kitchen. Colette greeted her with a rosy grin and a hearty thump on the back, while Tate chuckled inwardly at her cousin’s language mishap.

  “Ciao, bel
la Tatiana,” Zia Luisa said, sidling up to her and kissing her cheeks. Tate’s family interchanged French and Italian constantly. The Italian was easy for her to pick up because Tate had spent endless days with Nana Maria and her friends who spoke only in Italian. It was either become conversationally fluent or die of boredom just sitting there, not having a clue what the ladies were talking about. Now, as Zia Luisa’s words fell over her, she was grateful for those experiences.

  Tate peered into her aunt’s gray eyes, warm and peaceful as a slow summer creek. “Sorry I slept so late,” she told her in French. The words came more easily today. The language was sinking in.

  “You needed the sleep, cherie.” Luisa folded an arm behind Tate’s back and led her to the table. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” Tate admitted. The aromas of cheese and butter were making her mouth water and her stomach slosh and grumble. “Can I help you with lunch?”

  “No, no, Tatiana. Sit and have a coffee.” Zia handed her a demitasse half-filled with syrupy rich blackness and went back to her work at the stove. Tate scooped a spoonful of sugar into the porcelain cup and glanced out the back door.

  “Is it okay if I take a look at Zio’s gardens?” she asked Colette, who was tossing a green salad with olive oil, salt, and mustard. A cigarette hung from her lips, as usual. Tate wondered if there would be ashes in the salad.

  “Sure, sure, it is okay, Tatiana,” Colette replied. She was the only one who spoke consistently in English, Tate noticed. “You want I go with you?”

  “No, Colette. I’m fine on my own, thanks.”

  Tate squeezed past Colette, who always had laughter playing on her lips, and out through the screechy screen door to the backyard.

  Although Zia’s home was a modern combination of light orange stucco and blue tile, the space outside seemed to be transported directly from Eden itself, a wild but tended tangle of green. A copse of peach trees hung over berry bushes beyond the chicken house. Rows of vegetables, everything from endives to peppers to fava beans, dotted an impressive expanse of garden.