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“It’s plain for anyone to see.” She goes on tiptoes to put a packet of tea in the cupboard. “Mrs. Russo—Teresa—would’ve been happy, I think. She never spoke about her family. But who could’ve blamed her?”
I’m still battling to understand their family relations, but I’m starting to get a better idea. The late Mr. Russo might have doted on his obedient wife, but they weren’t enemies from the onset. At least that advantage counted in their favor.
Once Heidi is gone, I wrap Sophie and myself up in our coats and go out for a walk.
“Let’s go down here,” Sophie says, pulling me toward the cliff.
“No, sweetheart.” I hold her back. “You’re never allowed to go near the cliffs. Remember what I said? It’s too dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t.” She tugs on my hand. “Over there. See? There’s a path. It goes all the way to the beach.”
I crane my neck for a better view. She’s right. Stone steps zigzag to the small half moon of white sand that borders the turquoise water.
“See?” she says again. “My brothers and I used that path to go to the village. It’s better to go this way if you don’t want anyone to see you.”
“It runs all the way to the village?”
“No, silly.” She turns her eyes toward the sky in a dramatic gesture that reminds me a lot of Johan. “It runs to the river, but you have to climb up a bit to get there. There’s another path we take from the river to the village. It goes all the way along the stream.” Taking on an important air, she adds, “If you walk straight down the valley, people can see you coming from far.”
This is how they managed to stay out of sight. They must’ve used the path when they slipped to the village to steal food.
“Who built the steps?” I ask. “Your great-grandfather?”
“No,” she says, dragging out the word. “Angelo did. He told the men to make them so that we could go down to the beach to swim in the summer.” She bobs her head as she says, “It gets very hot in summer. Angelo didn’t know Beatrice is afraid of water and that my brothers can’t swim. He needn’t have gone to so much trouble telling the men to make the stairs. Grandpa is too old to climb them anyway. Do you want to go down?”
The water pulls me with a force as strong as ever. A sudden pang of nostalgia hits me hard when an image of the beach and the surf in Great Brak River springs into my mind. The memory of swimming for miles into the sea and drifting on my back while the clouds made pictures in the sky leaves me homesick. The ocean has always been my safe haven. Water is the element in which I feel the most at home. I’m afraid if I go down there now, I’ll be swamped with longing and drowning in sadness.
“Let’s go up the road today,” I suggest.
“Okay,” she says, skipping ahead of me.
We follow the dirt road up the hill. Where the tracks disappear over rolling mountain tops, we cut toward a rocky outcrop dotted with bushes. Sophie falls into step next to me. She talks about the birds and the plants, but I’m ashamed to admit that I’m not fully paying attention. I’m worried about her and her brothers’ future. I’m also concerned that I can’t get a message to Mrs. Paoli and Mr. Martin, who’ll wonder what happened to me. I don’t want them to think I let them down, but I can’t risk going to the village today, not if there’s a chance that my husband may return. With everything that’s happening with the boys, our predictable routine is disrupted. Plus, I don’t entirely believe that Angelo showing up at the same time as Johan was a coincidence. What if he’s having me watched? He used to have men following me in South Africa. What’s preventing him from doing so again?
I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t realize how far we walked until Sophie cries out, “Look, a cross.”
I turn my head in the direction she’s pointing, and then I still. Three crosses stand on top of the highest hill, their shapes forming stark black lines against the winter blue of the sky. A picket fence encloses them, marking the patch of tamed earth that isolates the crosses from the rest of the wilderness.
My heart skips a beat. Those crosses and the fence can only signify one thing—a graveyard. And I already know who were put to rest there before Sophie pulls on my hand and says, “Let’s go look.”
I want to object, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Together, Sophie and I make our way to the top. The gate isn’t locked. It works with a latch, which only purpose is to prevent the wind from blowing the gate open. I lift the latch and push the gate. It swings inward without a squeak. The hinges are oiled. The coat of varnish that covers the wooden spikes of the fence is shiny. The sun and wind haven’t damaged it yet. The distinct smell of the varnish still hangs in the air. Except for those three crosses, there are no other gravestones. The graveyard is new.
Sophie trots in carefully. Just in case, I hold onto her hand. I don’t want her to step on the nurslings growing next to the path and around the graves. We stop in front of the crosses. They’re massive, cut from granite with carvings of roses. Names and dates are engraved in the centers of the flower artwork, intertwined with the leaves and the thorns.
Teresa Maria Russo.
Adeline Sofia Russo.
Santino Romeo Russo.
As if on cue, a cloud drifts in front of the sun. The mild winter heat on my back vanishes. A shiver runs through my body. I take in the browning flowers at the foot of each grave. Roses. The blooms must’ve been a pristine white, their petals thick and velvety. Now, they’re the nondescript color of decay and withering around the edges.
Did my husband leave those flowers?
An incredible sadness invades my senses. The sentiment is deep and profound like a smell that’s pulled into the woodworks and that you can never wash out, the kind that clings to a soul. I imagine his loss and his pain as he laid the beautiful, perfect flowers on each grave. I try to put myself in my husband’s shoes, to imagine what he must’ve suffered when his mother and his twin were ripped from him in such a violent way, both on the same day. And as compassion and the echo of his anguish rip through me, I experience an intense urge to soothe him.
I lost a dad, but Angelo lost so much more. I heard his father when he gave the order, when he told his son to kill me. An eye for an eye. My father for his mother. Me for his sister. Only, he didn’t. He didn’t pull the trigger. How much self-control did it take to defy and disappoint his father? How much did he risk letting me live? For the first time, I also consider that his motives involved more than vengeance, that he kept me alive for selfish reasons. That he spared me not only for the useful purpose of my name or for extracting punishment but because he wanted me.
A deep, furious voice cuts into my melancholic thoughts. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
