Out of the Dark (12 page)

Get up
.

But I can’t. I’m languishing in the throes of my orgasm, and my smile covers my face. I catch my breath, sit up, and I’m mortified to see Bianca standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Savano sent me to clean up.” Her voice is hoarse.

I pull my skirt into place and start to ask how long she’s been there when I notice her red, swollen face. I can only assume it’s from hours of inconsolable crying. She has thick, purple bags beneath her eyes, and her uniform is wrinkled. I don’t know what to say. I walk toward her, prepared to comfort her.

“They’re both gone now.” She grabs the broom handle. Her face is like stone.

“What do you mean
both
?”

“Both my loves. Both are gone,” she answers in a dead voice.

“Oh, Bianca. I’m so sorry. I know Fabrizio was fired. Did Rocco leave, too?”

She laughs. It’s like a horror movie laugh, unexpected and ominous. “Rocco? I
never
loved him. And he will never leave me.”

“Then what do you mean?”

An expression of clarity comes over her as if she was sleeping and she suddenly woke up, and then her face contorts and she begins to wail. “My Roman! And now Fabrizio! Both my loves have been taken from me!” She cries and begins to pull at her hair, crazed with grief.

I rush to her to try to calm her hysterics. “I feel terrible for you, Bianca, but maybe you’ll see him again. Maybe he’ll come back for you.”

She looks at my face, studying me almost as though she has never seen me before. “Come back? Come
back
? He was murdered! He is
dead
, Carina! How can he come back?”

Bianca drops to her knees before me, and I struggle to process what she has just said while I ignore the tickling inside my mind. “That’s
not
true. That can’t be true.”

All the traveling Stefan does as a vintner. Why? Why must Rocco always go with him?
Why does his business weigh so heavily on him?

“He’s dead, and your
fiancé
killed him! That bastard killed my loves!” She’s splayed out on the floor at my feet, covering her own mouth in an effort to stop the traitorous things she is saying.

She has gone insane. No one is dead. Stefan could never do something like that.

I try to reason with her, to calm her. “I know you’re upset, but think about what you’re saying. Stefan was in bed with me last night. He would never—
could
never do that.”

She rolls into a seated position, leaning against the cupboards. She sobs and nods with a crazed grin on her face. “Oh, you’re right. Of course you’re right. He would never with his own hands! He just gives his
permission
. He uses his henchman to do his dirty work, and that is who
I
will wake up to for the rest of my life. I will have to look at Rocco’s bloody hands forever. My loves! They are gone.” She covers her face and sobs.

How can she say these things? Grief stricken or not . . . Stefan could never be the man she thinks he is.

“Stefan has been nothing but good to you, you’ve admitted that yourself, Bianca. I feel bad about what’s happened, but you need to get yourself together. You’re not thinking straight.”

She looks into my eyes as if she’s searching for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem to find it. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her cries become soft. She wipes her eyes, and it seems a shred of clarity crosses her face.

“I want you to get this cleaned up, Bianca. I need to make dinner.”

Chapter Eight

A thought burns in my brain like a little droplet of acid. There’s a gnawing twinge, deep in the back of my mind, in a place I don’t visit often. I attempt to counteract this awful thought with sense, but it refuses to go away. Each time I look at my fiancé, I hear Bianca’s cutting words.

Is there really so much I don’t know? Could he—no. It’s not possible. Bianca’s accusations can’t be true. I don’t believe her.

Each time I see her, her perception of my fiancé is reflected back at me, and it makes me feel ill. Nothing remains of the friend I once had.

She doesn’t speak to me unless necessary. There’s a chill between us where there once was warmth, and I miss our camaraderie. I miss her poignant wisdom and her rare, but striking smile. She’s like a ghost now. There is no laughter in the house. Whether Fabrizio is dead or alive, Bianca is clearly in mourning.

Each morning I bring her flowers, fresh from the garden, and place them beside her bed. She often sleeps until the middle of the day. When she does leave her bed, she does nothing but mope about and often claims to be sick. Stefan has let her be, but I’ve heard Rocco arguing with her behind closed doors. He seems to expect her to go back to normal, for their marriage to go back to normal, whatever that means. Rocco’s typical, abrasive ways have deteriorated, and I see a man softened by the desire to possess something that will never be his—Bianca’s heart.

Things have been tough with Fabrizio’s absence. Although Stefan promised to make finding a new chef his priority, he’s been distracted with other things. Work dominates his time, and new family troubles have also arisen.

I’ve heard him on the phone with Enzo when he called for reports on his mother’s health. Between worrying for her and the stress of his work, Stefan is aggravated most of the time and more gray hairs have appeared. He’s been distant.

With each day that passes, I fear it’ll be bad news, not good, that will bring us to Ravine Creek.

Sure enough, late one evening Stefan answers the bedside phone, and I hear Enzo on the other end of the line. “Nonna isn’t doing well. We need you to come home.”

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hangs up the phone and a few tears escape as he asks me to pack some things. “We’re going to be moving to Ravine Creek for a while. We’re leaving in the morning.”

The next morning, I rise and drink my coffee on the veranda for the last time, looking out on the treasured vineyard that has become such a part of my soul that it hurts to say goodbye. This beautiful place has become my home.

Stefan puts Rocco in charge of the affairs of the estate and the vineyard while we’re gone since he and Bianca won’t be joining us on our journey to America.

I leave with a much larger, more expensive suitcase than when I arrived. It’s filled with frivolous purchases and lavish gifts given to me by my fiancé.

After the car is loaded, I look up at the enormous golden house. To my surprise, Bianca is standing on the stairs. She waves and I wave back. I don’t see a lying, cheating wife standing there. I see the only friend that I made in Italy, and I remember the good times we shared. I feel my affection for her rise inside me until it settles as a lump in my throat.

Stefan rests his hand gently on my waist and nudges me forward. “Go and say goodbye.”

I nod and walk toward her. “I don’t know what to say, Bianca. Things will get better.”

“My sadness is not special, Carina. Everyone has a cross to bear. Mr. Savano has one now. It will not be easy for him, or for you. I’ll miss you.” She kisses me on both cheeks. “
Ciao
, Carina.
Buona fortuna
.”

“Goodbye, Bianca.”

We drive away, and I look back one last time at the estate and the lonely figure standing still on the steps of a now empty home.

***

On the flight over, Stefan is not his usual self. With no documents to get lost in and not constantly checking his cell phone, it’s as if the veil of stress he was forced to wear in Italy has been lifted. He’s more like the vibrant man I first met, and I find myself wondering if this change in mood could be permanent.

He pushes the armrest back so I can snuggle next to him as he tells me stories about his family, mostly about his mother.

“When we were kids, she used to put lawn chairs out at night when there was a full moon. She still loves to look at it. She and my father would bring the three of us out into the yard at night with them. We would sit there for hours—looking at the night sky, the moon, the stars—just talking and being together. She knew the name of every constellation. She used to bring out sandwiches for us, and we would have a midnight picnic, watching fireflies and eating cold chicken.”

His memories are beautiful. The only time I’ve ever heard something different is the night he spoke of the loss of his sister. He’s never mentioned it again and I don’t ask, but it’s the only time I ever heard pain in his memories.

We’re served a meal of pasta with mushrooms, which I decline. Although I love trying different foods, mushrooms are the one item I’ve never had a taste for. Even the smell of them sickens me.

Stefan signals the flight attendant. “She’ll have the pasta.”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t like mushrooms, Stefan. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Just try them.”

“I don’t want it.”

“They’re delicious.”

He insists and I concede, but when our meals arrive, I pick off every single disgusting mushroom.

***

We walk through the airport with Stefan carrying my bag.

I stare at him, lost in memories of when we met. He seems different to me now—always under stress and preoccupied. I hope Stefan’s workload will slow down enough for us both to concentrate on our families.

It’s been months since I’ve seen my parents. I’ve missed them terribly and need to see them as soon as I can. I think of how much my they will love Stefan . . . at least I hope they will.

It’s a long drive from the airport to Ravine Creek and being back in the States floods me with a feeling of homecoming. I loved being in Tuscany and grew so accustomed to it, but in this moment, I realize how much I love this country and how much I’ve missed it.

It’s the end of September. There’s sweet warmth in the sun but a bold chill in the shade. The hues of the changing leaves are subtle, but green still dominates the landscape. The air is tinged with the fragrance of things that are beginning to decay.

On our journey upstate to the Finger Lakes, we pass signs for Hyde Park. I feel like a different person since my graduation.

I wonder if Mom and Dad will recognize me.

For one, I’m wearing a two thousand dollar dress, and I have an enormous rock on my finger. I’m also holding hands with a man who has been nothing but good to me, yet he’s triggered accusations of murder from someone I once considered a trusted friend.

As we drive on, the haunting ache of missing my parents takes root in my chest.

“Stefan, I’d like to invite my parents out to visit us, if that’s all right.

“It’s more than all right. I was going to suggest it myself. My sister has decided she wants to throw us a little engagement party. That would be the perfect time for them to come and see us, don’t you think?”

“That
would
be perfect. Thank you.” I begin to daydream about seeing their faces, feeling their arms embrace me.

As we get closer to his home, Stefan points out landmarks that are dear to him—places he went fishing with his dad, the diner his family went for breakfast on Sundays.

The only signal we’ve reached our destination is a faded, hand-painted, wooden sign hammered to a tree on the side of the road. It reads Ravine Creek Winery in script letters. We pull onto a gravel driveway that seems to go on forever, and we drive through the cool, shaded wilderness until we emerge to the familiar sight of tangled grapevines. Beyond them, a stark white Victorian style house awaits us.

Ravine Creek Vineyard doesn’t feel ancient and extravagant the way Savano Vineyard does. There’s an aged feeling to the land, but it’s nothing compared to the centuries of history that ooze from every crevice of the Tuscany estate. Still, there is a sense of history here, and I’m elated to be meeting Stefan’s family.

We get out of the car and Stefan grabs our bags—no servants run to greet us here.

I stretch my muscles, sore from the long drive, and admire the house. Grapevines, a grass yard, and a wooden fence in dire need of repair surround the property. Turrets and windows punctuate the peaked roof. It’s large enough to hold several families, and I notice that there are two entrances. Out of one, I see the figure of a little girl, running and laughing, a brown Labrador following close behind her.

“That’s my great niece, Lucy. She’s five or six years old now. She’s Nora’s daughter.” He waves to her, and she waves back but doesn’t approach us.

She jumps up and down as though she’s waiting for someone to come and catch her.

We step onto the porch, and I’m almost knocked over by a man bursting through the screen door.

Enzo
.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, and smiling as he runs right past us and down the steps.

As soon as Lucy sees him, she squeals and begins to run again.

The dog barks and follows her.

“You can’t get me, Uncle Lorenzo. You can’t get
meee
!”

Enzo runs intentionally slow, and it gives me plenty of time to see the tattoo across his collarbone, something I hadn’t noticed when we’d spent time together in Tuscany.

After several exaggerated attempts, he traps Lucy in his embrace and throws her tiny body over his shoulder. He walks toward us while tickling the little girl. When he whistles, the dog obediently follows him. “Say ‘uncle.’ ”