The Secret Legacy by Sara Alexander

Author:Sara Alexander
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-12-07T16:00:00+00:00

*

We slept in a knot at the center of my bed. He’d carried me upstairs after our dinner, lain me down. We’d creased the sheets with more lovemaking until the dead of night swallowed us into slumber. My head rested in the nook by his shoulder. Delirium eclipsed my guilt, until the doorbell clanged, sending a charge of panic through me.

I leapt out of the bed, dashing to the door. I was halfway down the stairs when I realized I’d run out without a single piece of clothing on me. I dashed back into the bedroom, letting the door swing open with a bang. The Major stirred. I whispered apologies and grabbed my dressing gown. The bell clanged again. I rushed downstairs, swinging open the door before asking who was there.

Paolino’s expression was one of horror.

‘Dio – what’s happened?!’

‘Buon giorno,’ I replied, sweeping my hair off my face, the sudden realization of being stood barefoot in my dressing gown in the middle of the morning seeping down like a cold trickle of water.

‘You unwell? You look . . .’

I rubbed my forehead. ‘Terrible headache.’

‘You look like you have a fever, Santi.’

‘Yes.’

I stood looking at him.

‘Can I take these into the kitchen?’

‘Oh yes, sorry, go ahead.’

He stepped in, unsure. As he reached halfway to the kitchen I remembered the debris we’d left there last night. The Major had refused to let me clean up. We’d left an adulterous dinner for two strewn upon the counters.

‘Wait!’ I yelled out.

Paolino turned. I grasped at fictions and hated myself for it.

‘It’s a terrible mess. Please, leave the box here on the front table.’

‘I really think you should rest, Santina. You want me to bring some soup for you maybe? I can bring some pasta for the soldier too, save you cooking?’

‘No need. I’ll be worse if I do nothing.’

He placed the box down and stepped toward me. He took my hands in his and lifted them to his lips. I wanted to cry.

‘Rest today, my tesoro.’

I nodded. Then he shifted, took a glance out to sea and straightened.

‘Did the English man talk to you?’

‘Talk to me?’

‘Did he . . . mention anything . . . unusual?’

My stomach tightened. I longed to be swallowed up into someone else’s reality. My mind dashed to my mountains, to the cool of the forest, to anywhere but here.

I shook my head so I didn’t have to hear myself lying.

‘We’ll talk when you’re better.’

‘Grazie, Paolino.’

He kissed my forehead. We looked at each other. I felt cruel.

He left.

I turned back toward the kitchen. Perhaps I could clear away the gnawing inside me with each dish. My guilt was wrapped up like a tumble of prickly sea thistles, thrown on the wind along the rocky bay below. The mechanical motions silenced the tide for a brief respite. When all evidence of what had happened was dried and cleared I set a pot of coffee upon the stove. I took a bowl from the cupboard. A batch of crespelline would force an escape from my awakening.

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