Page 115 of Bitter Poetry
My cell phone rings.Thank fuck.I answer it.
“Right behind you,”Leon says.“Tell your driver to pull over at the services.”
I give the driver my instructions.
“What’s happening?” Helena asks.
“Something’s come up,” I say. “It won’t take long. I will meet you at home.”
She protests. I shut her down. I take her hand and kiss the back, in what is hopefully a romantic gesture. It’s not. It’s merely preferable to kissing her lips.
Then I’m out of the car. The driver pulls away. Leon pulls in right behind him and picks me up.
“How did it go?” he asks.
“She put her hands on my junk. She’s lucky I didn’t break her wrist.”
He pulls back into the evening traffic. “That good, huh? Bet you’re glad I suggested this.”
“This?” He’s talking about picking me up. I’m thinking about being married. I’m thinking about Christian with Carmela. “Why was I the one who needed to marry her, again?”
He’s fighting a smirk. “I’m keeping a low profile, remember? And I was talking about faking a problem so you could ride over with me.”
“That, at least, was a good suggestion. One of us wouldn’t have survived the two-hour drive. And when I say one of us, I don’t mean me.”
He chuckles and cuts me a side glance. “So, you were upstairs a long time… and then Christian followed you up. Were my instructions about not doing stupid shit in some way confusing.”
“Not going there, buddy.” Murderous thoughts toward my brother are still front and center, even though I can’t blame him for falling for her. Assuming he has fallen for her, and she isn’t just a hot fuck to him.
Why does the thought of him using her and having no feelings piss me off? Shouldn’t that make me glad?
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Leon shakes his head and switches the radio on.
CARMELA
The wedding is over. It’s a relief when the final guest leaves.
Unfortunately, Peony has gotten overexcited and commences a screaming session that the long-suffering Lillete is clearly at an impasse on how to deal with. Ettore is already in a foul mood with Helena for her rudeness to me. Unbeknownst to me, while I was upstairs with Dante… and Christian, he took her aside and had blunt words. I loathe my husband with every fiber of my being, but I appreciate him for that.
“I’ll help Lillete,” I offer.
Ettore announces he’s going over to his club and waves me to go ahead. He takes Jero and Peter with him and orders Christian to remain in the house. I feel much like the sacrificial lamb being locked up with a wolf.
I can’t think about Christian, or Dante for that matter, right now. If I do, I might have the breakdown that has been waiting on the wings for the last year. But putting aside that violent scene between the two brothers, the one where Christian blithely announced— amid a carefully curated deluge—that Dante loves me, is a challenge.
One that Peony wins as she tosses the cushions from the couch onto the floor. She stomps on them with her small feet and screeches like a banshee.
Christian grimaces as Peony searches for a higher decibel. He’s standing in the doorway beside Brigida, who is wringing her hands.
“I’m so sorry,” Lillete apologizes over the screaming child, trying to return some of the cushions to the couch in a hopeless attempt to restore order.
“No need to apologize,” I say, helping her with the cushions. I’m almost grateful for the tantrum that would send my husband away and give me a distraction.
“Maybe she would like hot milk and a cookie?” Brigida offers.
“I’m sure you must be tired after such a long day,” Lillete begins, but Peony has finally stopped screaming at the mention of a cookie.
“I will get them ready right away,” Brigida says, leaving the room before Lillete can build up an argument.
