Page 6 of Choosing Hope
It wasn’t until mid-July that things changed, making that summer stand outfrom the others.
When we finished dinner one evening, sitting as we always did under the shade of an old olive tree, Nonna cleared her throat. She looked directly at Carlo as she spoke in her usual brisk Italian.
“Your Papa’s coming tomorrow.”
We both groaned, and she tried her best to give us a stern stare; but we were both aware she shared our view of her son.
Alonso, Carlo’s Papa, came to stay for a week every year. It was his annual visit to spend time with his son and mother. An event that has been perpetual since Carlo was six.
“He’s bringing a girl with him this time,” she continued.
Nonna sat back to gauge our reactions closely, a smirk dancing across her thin lips.
“Who?” Carlo gruffly demanded.
“Her name is Francesca, but he calls her Chess. She’s been living with them for four years.”
Nonna spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully, aware that this news could impact Carlo negatively.
“What?” Carlo snapped in response.
Pain tinged the familiar frustration on my friend’s face. Carlo did a great job of concealing his ever-present feelings of abandonment, but I could see through his bravado, and I suspect Nonna could, too.
“Apparently, she’s had a tragic life. He found her four years ago on the streets of Palermo. She was sleeping rough, orphaned two weeks earlier.” Nonna explained.
Unused to such charitable behavior from Alonso, we both suspected there was more to the story than that. Everything about Carlo’s family had always been secretive. We strongly suspected Alonso had Mafia connections.
The Moretti family was wealthy but the previous generations hadn’t been super-elite. Yet the lifestyle Alonso affords, with a private jet, helicopter, and a couple of yachts. Just doesn’t align with his profession as an accountant.
Carlo asked him once; he told me Alonso vehemently denied any link, but there’s too much unexplained shit for anything else to make sense.
Nonna continued, explaining that Alonso intended Chess to help her with the farm.
“Why? How old is she?”
Carlo spat out his questions. The aggressiveness of his delivery was a clear indicator of the dislike he has for his father.
“Sixteen,” Nonna replied.
She made a point of sitting back in her seat pressing her lips together. Nonna cracked me up. She was certain that remark would pique our interest.
I guess it was normal for seventeen-year-old boys to have hormones raging. For me, at least, having attended an all-boys school, girls were still a mystery. However, solving this mystery fascinated me.
Later that week, we met Chess, the most stunningly beautiful girl either of us had ever seen, and we instantly fell for her calm manner. She fitted between us like a jigsaw piece, never encroaching on our relationship but enhancing it.
In the evenings her hair would tumble down her back; long, almost black, slick with shine.
She usually wore it tied up but at night she’d free it from its elastic, letting it spill over her shoulders in a smooth cascade.
Each time, Carlo and I fell silent as we watched her running her fingers through those silky strands, utterly mesmerized.
I longed to touch it. For weeks, I fantasized about running my fingers through those long tresses to stimulate the soft moans of relief she made each day.
Chess’s frame was so petite that I often wondered if the weight of all that hair didn’t strain her delicate neck.
There was a substantial difference between her frame and ours; Carlo and I were almost a foot taller and considerably broader. Perhaps for this reason, we both consciously tried to shield her from the heavy work, desperate that she didn’t strain herself.
As our confidence with our new companion grew, we invited her to join us for swimming in the evenings and occasionally took her to the beach.
