Even before inhaling the combo of rich leather and woodsy aftershave that accompanies him everywhere, I know Julian is here. I need to swivel in order to watch him sink into a chair with the grace of a panther. The chair creaks under his weight and his face stays impassive as he arranges his long legs.
How did he manage to get hotter since yesterday?
Julian’s grey shirt has been exchanged for a similar style in midnight blue. I could spend a solid hour hungrily memorizing the planes of his broad shoulders and the shape of his big hands. His powerful forearms are dusted with dark hair and embellished with thick veins.
Desire pulses between my legs and I feel compelled to press my thighs together in an effort to crush it.
I’m not impulsive when it comes to men. There’s nothing even close to a one night stand in my romantic history. And I don’t want to feel this kind of consuming physical pull toward Julian. It’s thorny and perilous.
“My angel,” says Cass Tempesta. His voice has completely changed, becoming gentle and hushed.
A terrifying second passes when I believe he’s speaking to me. Then I realize his eyes are trained elsewhere, above my head.
He stands up, keeping his eyes glued to something behind me. I turn around and see a stacked stone fireplace, all black. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a woman.
It’s a very large painting, stretching from the mantle nearly to the high ceiling. The painted woman wears a white wedding gown and a delicate veil has been pulled back from her face to reveal a cloud of dark brown hair and a happy smile that makes me believe in another time and place the two of us might have been friends.
I’ve never even seen a photo of Teresa Tempesta but I know I’m looking at her.
Her four sons have all risen from their chairs. Louisa decides the energy in the room is too intense and flees in a furry flash.
I copy the Tempesta men and stand, facing the painting and wondering what the hell is going on and what will happen next.
“Cecilia is here to pay her respects,” booms Cass. “She’s going to marry one of our boys.”
I lift my eyes to Teresa’s painting. The certainty in her husband’s words shreds all hope that I’ll find some creative solution to this predicament.
But the somber shift in here distracts from my own misery. I look around and see the four brothers have all removed their hats. They are looking up, each one intently focused on the portrait of their lost mother. There are no smiles, no laughter, not even a sarcastic smirk among them.
There is only grief. And I know grief very well. We are old companions.
Teresa Tempesta smiles at us, immortalized as a young bride who probably had every reason to believe she’d enjoy a long and happy future. She deserved this and it was taken from her, from all of them.
Everyone in this room knows what it means to be shattered by a single day.
My chest gets tight with wrath over the fucking unfairness of it all. Teresa was probably my age in this portrait, maybe even younger.
Why was she stolen from the people who loved her, who desperately needed her?
Unbidden stray notes of the whimsical tarantella echo between my ears. The chop of propellers interrupts. An internal defense mechanism smothers the memory before it can surface.
“Don’t look at it. Look at me.”
Julian is on my right, visible from the corner of my vision. I breathe a little easier at the sight of his tall, imposing body standing in solemn silence.
The memory mercifully retreats and I gaze at Julian’s mother, trying to detect hints of her sons in her smile.
“Hello, Teresa,” I say, the words rippled with sorrow.
Yes, I’m talking to a painting.
And yet the act feels entirely appropriate.
A gesture from Julian catches my attention. He’s making the sign of the cross. My grandfather was not a fan of the church and I haven’t set foot in one since my parents’ funeral.
But Julian’s brothers are also crossing themselves. I feel rather conspicuous when I do the same. I look to the right and find I’m being watched by Julian.
He says nothing but there’s a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. I’m not sure of the cause. He might be silently thanking me for participating in their family’s solemn ritual. Or I might have just passed another test.
