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Anna
Three years later…
* * *
I’m down on the beach with James. Marco is up in the house, preparing our favorite. Spaghetti with meatballs.
I watch our son tottering about at the edge of the water. It’s strange to see him giggling as the waves lap at his feet. He’s so happy. It warms my heart every single day.
To think he might not have been here at all. I find myself thinking about all the things that have led up to this point. If my father hadn’t had a hooker brought to his house, I wouldn’t be here. If my half-brother hadn’t been impotent, I might not have been part of this.
George is still out there, but he’s nothing to do with the mafia. With our father’s death, he took his chance to leave the criminal world and open up a florist in the middle of the city.
By all accounts, him and his boyfriend are perfectly happy. I’ve been to see him a couple of times. Things aren’t exactly relaxed, but they’re civil.
They both love James, but then who doesn’t? He’s adorable.
Whenever I take him into town, the old ladies coo at him and try to cram as much gelato down his throat as he can manage.
I’m wandering from the point though. If my father hadn’t killed Marco’s family, James wouldn’t be here. What an odd thought. Marco would be in the middle of a war, instead of relaxing here with me.
He asked me last year if I wanted to move back to the States. I remember my reply. “What for?”
Out here, we have everything we could want. A house, a great nursery for James. A couple of gorgeous labradors. The sea to swim in every day. Each other. I can email my cartoons into the Gazette. What else do we need?
I’m studying too. Correspondence course, but I’m trying to take the exams I missed out when I was a teenager. I want to be able to help James with his schoolwork when it comes around.
He’s learning Italian and English, speaks to us in both. Even getting some of his father’s hand gestures when he’s particularly excited or angry about something. A miniature version of Marco. Cuter though. Though with worse table manners.
He picks up a shell and dumps it at my feet. “Another one?” I ask. “How many is that now?”
“Not enough,” he replies with a grin, going searching again.
I lean back on my elbows, enjoying the sun on my skin. I’ve a deep tan now. Imagine that.
Marco’s voice calls down from the top of the steps. “Dinner’s ready, you two.”
James runs off ahead of me. His stomach is his boss, far more than I could ever be.
I follow him up, finding him already at the table when I get inside. “Did you wash your hands?” I ask him.
He nods and then shakes his head. “Nope.”
“You know what I’m going to say then, don’t you?”
He scurries off to the kitchen sink. Marco puts a bowl of meatballs in the middle of the table. “Love you,” he says, walking off to collect the rest.
“Love you too,” I call after him.
When we’re all seated, he lifts his glass. “To my family,” he says. “Especially the little limpet sitting here on the table next to my bread. How did that get there, I wonder?”
James giggles through a mouthful of spaghetti. “I put it there, Daddy,” he says.
“Really?” Marco sounds shocked. “I thought it climbed in off the beach on teeny tiny leggies.”
James giggles again.
“You know,” Marco continues. “There was a time when your mom refused to eat with me.”
