Chapter 9 #3
"Morning, little Stella," I said to the baby in my belly.
I dried off, threw on clean clothes. Fatigue lingered, but I couldn't stay in bed forever.
I needed to do something. For Stella.
In the tiny kitchen, I poured a glass of water, stood by the window watching Tuscany wake. The sun climbed, painting the sky in gradients of gold and pink. Vineyards glowed green in the morning light, red-tiled roofs edged in gold.
It was beautiful here. So different from New York. Maybe this could really be our home. But I had to provide for us. Marco had helped too much already—renting the place, buying food, taking me to doctor visits, handling everything. I couldn't keep depending on him like this.
I sat at the small table, grabbed paper and a pen.
"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Elena, what can you do?"
No more waitressing, at least not for long. Pregnancy was draining my energy, and once my belly got big, carrying trays would be impossible. No professional skills either—I'd dropped out of college because of money issues.
But I had one thing: artistic talent. I'd loved drawing and crafting since I was a kid. Teachers always said my work had soul, a unique aesthetic.
Jewelry? I scribbled "jewelry design," then "handicrafts."
Low cost—basic materials weren't expensive. If they turned out well, I could sell them at markets or in shops. Tuscany was a tourist spot; visitors loved handmade souvenirs. If my designs were unique and appealing enough, they might sell.
"This could work," I whispered, excitement bubbling up for the first time in ages.
I paced the living room, ideas crystallizing.
Start simple: bracelets, necklaces, earrings. Just silver wire and beads—no need for fancy tools. Make some samples, approach craft stores in town, and see if they'd take them on consignment.
If they sold, I'd have income. Income meant diapers, clothes, toys for Stella. A decent future for her.
A knock at the door.
The clock said seven a.m. I opened it, and Marco stepped in, bag in hand, still looking sleepy.
"Morning," he said, yawning. "Brought fresh bread... your eyes."
I touched them—still swollen.
"It's fine," I said, trying to sound normal. "Just a nightmare."
He set the bag on the table, studied me closely. "About him?"
I nodded, not wanting to elaborate.
His jaw tightened.
"He's not worth your tears," he said, voice low. "Elena, that bastard doesn't deserve anything from you."
"I know." I took a deep breath, changing the subject. "Marco, I've got an idea."
"What idea?"
"Jewelry." I pointed to the paper. "Handmade stuff. Silver wire and beads—simple designs to sell."
His eyes brightened. "Jewelry design?"
"Yeah." My voice gained energy. "I don't have formal training, but... I think I can do it. Remember those handmade cards I made in high school? They all sold out. I think I've got a knack for this."
Marco looked at me, his eyes holding a softness I couldn't quite place. "Of course you do. Elena, your sense of style has always been unique."
My cheeks warmed—it was a huge compliment.
"You'll need tools and materials," he said, already thinking ahead. "There's a craft shop in town. We can go there. And once you have samples, I know some shop owners—I can help promote them."
"Really?" I hadn't known about his connections.
"Absolutely." He reached out, gently touching my hair.
The gesture felt natural, but it was more intimate than something between siblings. His hand lingered a bit too long, his gaze too warm.
"Thanks," I murmured, looking away.
He withdrew his hand slowly. "Let's have breakfast first. Then this afternoon, we'll get the materials."
By three p.m., we were in the craft store in the Tuscany town, picking up pliers, scissors, engraving knives, rolls of silver wire in different gauges, and an assortment of colorful beads.
Marco got called back to the hospital for an emergency, so I returned to the apartment alone and spread everything out on the small table. The wire gleamed softly in the afternoon sun; the beads looked as tempting as candy.
I sat down, my fingers curling around a thin strand of silver.
It was soft, pliable—waiting to be shaped.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Then I began to weave.
I didn't have a plan; I just followed instinct, something deep in my soul.
The wire twisted, looped, and intertwined between my fingers. Gradually, a shape emerged.
A small, delicate ring.
Time seemed to stand still; it was just me and the wire. The bracelet took form—the pattern intricate and symmetrical, like ancient runes. I embedded a tiny blue bead in the center.
I set the tools down and examined it closely. It was beautiful—far better than I'd expected.
"Missing something," I thought.
I picked up the engraving knife and carefully etched letters on the inside: Stella.
I gazed at the little bracelet, Stella's name shimmering on the silver surface. A smile tugged at my lips. I grabbed another strand of wire, my fingers already moving, my mind racing to the next piece. Maybe a necklace? Or a pair of earrings?
It didn't matter. I had something to do now. I could create with this skill, earn money, and work toward a future for me and Stella. God willing, I'd be a good person—and a damn great mother.