46. Ofelia #3
“Oh.” She accepts this with the disinterest of a girl who is long accustomed to the violent tendencies of her younger brothers. “They should just buy him one,” she says pragmatically. “Aleksander is never happy unless he’s shooting at something.”
Might as well start early, I think dryly.
Masha wrinkles up her nose as the cacophony on the other end of the phone increases. “I’m going to practice,” she announces and leaves. A moment later I hear her feet rapping out the steps on the wooden board she brought with her for training.
It’s another half hour before Darya recovers from the phone call, aided by several glasses of wine, and I finally muster up the courage to mention the wedding.
Her drink pauses halfway to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. “Get married here?” Her eyes drop immediately to my stomach. “Ofelia, are you—?”
“No,” I say immediately. “It was Alexei’s idea. He says he’s allergic to the word fiancé.” I give her a weak smile that Darya doesn’t return.
“Roman hasn’t said anything about this to me.” She looks worried. “And if Alexei hasn’t even discussed it with him, I don’t know how comfortable I feel planning something like this behind his back.”
I feel the familiar irritation of family suffocation creeping up. “You don’t need to get involved,” I say stiffly. “It’s our wedding. You can be there or not, but either way, this is happening.”
“I see.” Darya tries to force a smile, which frankly, only makes me feel worse.
“Benny’s expecting me back at the hospital.” I stand up. “I’m not asking you to tell Papa for me, Darya. I just wanted you to know so you could be prepared.”
I leave her on the terrace with a fast-disappearing bottle of wine and an extremely anxious expression that makes me feel guilty as hell.
“The hospital?” Jack queries, looking at me in the rearview mirror when we get into the car.
“Yes, please.” I pause. “Slowly,” I add. “And take the long way, if there is one.”
I need a hot minute to calm down.
After a few extremely slow, very circuitous kilometers, Jack meets my eyes in the rearview mirror again. “Family?”
“Family,” I affirm heavily.
He casts his eyes skyward. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em without starting a war.”
That makes me laugh. “To family,” I say, raising my water bottle to him. “Because sometimes, the safest thing for everyone is having an ocean between you and them.”
“Oh, I’d drink to that,” Jack says feelingly.
“My father over in New Orleans was so excited to hear I was back in the family fold, albeit the Sicilian branch, that he’s apparently started writing me back into his will.
And no”—he gives me a dry look in the mirror—“that isn’t a good thing. Trust me.”
“So you keep your distance then, too?” I ask. It’s almost a relief to know other people’s families are just as fucked-up as mine.
“Very much so, since my mother died.” Jack’s smile fades.
“I have a stepbrother who is a gigantic pain in the ass, four younger brothers I barely know, and a stack of uncles and cousins who can’t wait for my father to die so they can start fighting over the family business.
Frankly, the farther I stay away from that bullshit, the better. ”
“Wow. That’s a lot of brothers.”
“Uh-huh.” He glances at me again. “You have a few yourself, don’t you?”
“I do, but the younger ones are so much younger than me that they’re kind of like a whole other family. I adore them, but they’re growing up in a life that is totally different than the one Mickey and I grew up in. Masha is somewhere in between, I guess, which can’t be easy for her.”
“Your younger sister strikes me as someone who is very capable of creating space for herself.” Jack chuckles.
“On her second day here, she ordered me to take her to a specific fabric merchant in the Ballarò market because, and I quote, ‘He makes a carmine silk that is famous among flamencas, and like this, I will have a dress like no other.’ I’m not sure how many teenage girls have even heard of Sicilian silk, let alone know exactly where to go to buy a specific shade of it. ”
I laugh. “That definitely sounds like Masha.”
His eyes meet mine. “You’re all very special, Ofelia,” he says quietly. “You and your siblings. If you’ll forgive the observation of an outsider who is a long way from home, it’s also very special to see how much your family loves one another. Not everyone is so lucky—believe me.”
I know he’s right. And I do love my family.
But the truth is the only family I truly crave right now is Alexei—and I crave him with a hunger that is far more than sexual.
I crave that peace that I only ever find when we are together. The place of mutual understanding that soothes my soul and makes my fingers ripple over the keys.
I’ve barely practiced since he left Sicily, despite the fact that there’s a perfectly good piano in the villa.
Partly it’s been the constant strain of Lars’s hospitalization and the uncertainty of whatever is taking place in Miami.
But beyond that, it’s Alexei’s absence. Despite our phone call several days ago, and the promise of a wedding, I feel like a balloon floating untethered through the sky. It’s like he took part of my soul with him when he left.
I’m beginning to understand that this is what love is.
Or maybe, I think, it’s what love is for us.
A merging of souls, some part of each lost forever to the other.
I need him here to anchor me. I want to be his safe harbor.
I dream that we will sail forth together, into the gleaming horizon that for so long seemed like an impossible dream—and which now feels so tantalisingly close I can almost taste it.