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I take in the shiny blue bike. They went to a lot of effort in restoring it. It looks brand-new. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You just pedal that bike,” Mr. Martin says. “That’s all the thank-yous we need.”
As I hug each of them, I can’t help but feel a little more at home in this foreign country.
An elderly lady dressed in a colorful patchwork coat and a knitted beanie hobbles toward our group. She takes my hand in her weathered one and says in a croaky voice, “Let me read your palm. I can tell your future for ten euros.”
I don’t believe in fortune telling, but I take a bill from my pocket and hand it to her.
“Go away, Josette,” Mrs. Campana says. “Don’t bother Sabella. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?”
“That’s all right,” I smile at Josette. “She’s not bothering me.”
“God bless you.” Josette shoves the money down the front of her sweater under her coat and takes my hand again. Drawing me closer, she whispers in my ear, “You’re near the end of the road.” Then she lets me go and shuffles away with a cackle before crying out, “The end of the road. The end of the road.”
“Don’t mind her.” Antoinette leans closer and lowers her voice. “The poor thing isn’t right in the head.” She taps her temple to stress the point.
“Although, my goldfish did die when she said it would,” Mrs. Campana says.
Mr. Martin waves his pipe. “All goldfish die if you keep them in a glass bowl the size of my teacup.”
Mrs. Campana lifts her chin and says in a haughty tone, “It wasn’t the size of your teacup.”
The glint in his eyes is mischievous. “Ah, but you haven’t seen my teacup.”
The group breaks out in laughter. Mr. Martin nudges me with an elbow and winks.
I’m surprised to see the grocery store owner, Mr. Luciani, appear with a tray of soft drinks. He always acts a little cool toward me.
After drinking the fizzy orange drink that Antoinette insists I finish, I head home with my new bike. Instead of hiking for two hours, it takes me under an hour to return. I’m home long before sunset. As always, I follow the path next to the river to the beach. There, I hide the bike under a bush and continue on foot.
I climb up the stone steps and reach the house without incident. I’m always nervous when I sneak out or in, worried that someone will see me.
In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water from the tap and down it. I’m on my second glass, staring at the stunning view through the window, when I hear a soft, brittle sound like when a leaf hits the ground in autumn. I look at the vase with the forever roses. I brought them from the lounge to a sunny spot on the counter where the blooms catch the morning light. One of the deep-green leaves lies on the counter.
It’s a meaningless sign. The stem of the leaf could’ve been bent or broken during the transport. I’m not superstitious, but I nevertheless feel uneasy as I pick up the perfect green leaf and rub the silky texture between my fingers. Remembering that the flowers are treated with chemicals to prevent them from aging, I gently place the leaf in the trashcan, giving it a quiet burial, and wash my hands.
With time to spare before dark, I wander down the gravel road and climb up the hill where the violets grow wild. I pick a few of the purple blooms and continue to the graveyard. The gate is secured with a chain and a combination lock. The new additions are obviously meant to keep uninvited visitors like me out.
A chill runs through me when I recall my last visit and how my husband and I left without closing the gate. Someone removed the dead flowers and placed fresh ones on the graves. They’re not wildflowers like mine but elegant shop flowers—white lilies and lilac roses. I stretch my arm over the fence and scatter my much humbler offering over the soil, feeling that same deep sense of sadness I felt the first time I came here. I experience it stronger now that I can put Adeline and Teresa’s faces to their names. They’re only vague pictures in my mind, the memory I constructed from that one time I saw their photos already fading, but it doesn’t make the sorrow less potent.
I think about Sophie, Johan, Étienne, and Guillaume. They’re so young. How are they coping with the funeral?
Someone else is dead now, and he won’t be laid to rest here. Where will Angelo bury me? In this private little graveyard? Or does he reserve a separate plot for family who aren’t blood relatives? Will he banish me even after death?
The thought haunts me all the way home, not because I give a damn about what he’ll do with my body when I’m dead. For all I care, he can throw it into the sea. It bothers me because I can’t shake off the feeling that the dead leaf on a bouquet of roses that’s supposed to last a lifetime was a sign.
Josette’s words ring in my head.
I’ve reached the end of the road.
It’s time to make a decision.
Kneeling to simply keep the peace without truly submitting is never going to cut it. Our kind of relationship doesn’t allow for sitting on the fence. Either I’m with Angelo, or I’m not. And once I’ve made my choice, I’ll have to throw myself wholeheartedly behind that decision. There’s no place for gray in Angelo’s black-and-white world.
ChapterSixteen
Angelo
