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Sistine

D ark clouds moved over us the day of Gramp’s funeral.

A storm was brewing, and the humidity felt as if it was making the atmosphere weep. However, once the storm finally broke, I was still not sure if the sogginess would lessen.

My simple black crochet dress, a tan slip underneath, felt as if it had absorbed the water in the air, and I was soaked to the bone. I ran a hand along my slicked hair, pulled back into a low bun, to make sure none of the pieces had escaped and were rising with the tide of the tropical atmosphere.

My heels sank into lush grass as Mariano led me away from the grave, where his grandfather would be placed into a tomb the size of a small house.

The grandchildren were setting roses on Gramp’s coffin before the line moved to allow his daughters and their husbands to say their final goodbyes. His wife would be last in line.

I expected a man like Mariano’s maternal grandfather to have hundreds of mourners at the graveside.

At the funeral home and church there were, mostly men in suits who reminded me of Everett Poésy.

Some of these men seemed stricken, as if they had lost a good friend.

When I had mentioned this to Mariano, he had made one of those dubious noises from his chest.

“More like lost a lucrative business deal.” He had told me that his grandfather was a very wealthy “oil man.” His mamma had come from “old money.” I presumed this meant Scarlett’s father’s family had always been rich.

I could believe this about those men who only came to mourn lost opportunities.

I caught a few of these men eyeing my sister-in-law.

Papà Brando had shaken his head at Matteo, as if to say, not here, not now .

He did the same to Mariano. If eyes had been on me, I did not notice.

My husband and his family had my sole focus.

The entire situation felt as it should to me—solemn and lonely, the weather seeming to reflect the morose tone of the day. Papà Brando and his sons added to this picture—strong men in suits who stood tall and as stoic as statues.

However, I felt the tremble in my husband’s bones when his sister cried; when his mamma said her last goodbyes to her father, sending him off with two roses, one for her brother, who would finally be reunited in the tomb with his father; and when he looked at his grandmother, who we all called Babica , who seemed to be keeping strong, but I had a feeling underneath the surface, so much had to be going on inside of her.

I could not stop crying. A slow leak of tears continued to fall at the reminder of how precious life was. How short it could be, even when a person lived to be a hundred.

Prozio Tito had once said, “It happens so fast. Just yesterday, I was running free in the fields of my home, and today…I can barely walk. Ah.” He had shrugged, holding up his hands. “This is life.”

This is life …this summarization of life seemed to bring new meaning to mine.

Perhaps when life was not going our way, I would think back on Prozio Tito’s words, and they would bring me peace. This is life , I would say to myself, in the good times and in the bad. This is life , and nothing ever stays the same—in the good times and in the bad, except for the man next to me.

During all seasons, stormy weather or perfect, we had found a home in each other—a home that could not even be taken away by death. Our life together was linked, as Hannah would say, woven into the fabric of our DNA, the blanket that would warm our shoulders.

Mariano led me away from the scene altogether when his mamma set her hand on the tomb and tears streamed down her face. She was crying over her brother, it seemed, perhaps telling him she was glad he and his father had been reunited, but she was also deeply saddened by the loss.

Scarlett Fausti was a complicated woman with many facets.

I was not entirely sure what she was feeling, but I knew that my heart broke for her.

I tried to find the same sympathy for her sister, who stood next to Pnina, whispering in her mamma’s ear.

Pnina was still holding her rose. Her eyes were turned forward.

She did not respond to Charlotte, who seemed to be persistent about whatever she was saying to her mamma.

Pnina walked away from her, standing near the coffin, setting a kiss on the rose and then lying it down on the dark wood.

The sky released a tear—one fat raindrop from above, landing on the rose, sliding off onto the wood, where it ran and dropped to the ground, exploding.

On our way to the SUV, I stopped in my tracks. A familiar figure gave me a warm smile, although I could tell it was laced with sadness. Sicilia, from the House of Sicilia, waited by a car of her own. The outline of her parents could be seen inside.

It was no surprise that she would attend.

Pnina was a world-famous designer in her own right.

She had designed my gown for the maze. Perhaps the two families were friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.

Sicilia and I had worked together on a project between my family and hers involving the Fausti family as our muse.

I loved working with her. She was extremely talented and just as stylish.

Fashion was her realm, and she ruled it, as she once told me I ruled the jewelry level. This was why her family had chosen me to design and create the pieces her family would pair with their luxury brand of clothing.

Sicilia pulled me in, and I automatically felt warmed by her.

It was as if the island of Sicily during summertime lingered on her skin.

She smelled of anise, figs, cinnamon, and…

oranges. The scent reminded me of freshly baked…

cuccidati . Yes. This was it. Sicilian fig cookies .

Her light brown skin was flawless. Her glistening brown eyes were as warm as her hugs.

Her smile was bright, made even brighter by the darkness that surrounded us.

Her hair was onyx black, which enhanced… all of her.

She looked at my husband after she released me. “I am so sorry about your grandfather.”

He nodded, his hand lightly jingling mine. “My brother will appreciate you being here.”

Translated: Therefore, I appreciate you being here.

She nodded, then rubbed my arm. We held hands for a second before we let go.

A sigh escaped from her lips, and then her eyes brightened. I turned and looked at what had her glowing.

Marciano was making his way toward us with Maestro. Marciano’s eyes lit up when they found her, as if a great fire had come to life somewhere deep inside of him. It was almost a physical representation of the attraction between them—his fire had lit her up.

I almost breathed out, whoa , Nelly , but I kept quiet.

Matteo was standing only a few paces before us, monitoring the situation, and I did not want to give him any reason to think I was being disrespectful. Perhaps if he made a face at me, that awful thing I would do when stress took hold of me would suddenly control me: I would laugh.

Perhaps my husband had sensed this. He nodded at Sicilia, who barely noticed him, as we began to walk off.

“See you later, Sicilia.” I squeezed her hand.

“See you, Sistine,” she barely got out as Marciano drew closer to her.

My husband opened the door to the SUV, helping me inside, before he strode to the other side and slid in the driver’s seat. We drove alone, which was…different.

We usually had men surrounding us. I brought it up to break the tension some. My husband was quieter than usual, almost lost to a reflective nature that had begun on the plane from our tropical paradise honeymoon to the chilled countryside of Toscana.

He cleared his throat before he told me I was safe in his hometown.

This was it.

Conversation over.

I sighed as I gazed out the window, lost to my own thoughts.

“Death is an awakening,” I remembered my grandfather saying once.

I did not always take his advice to heart, especially after the way he raised my father to believe he was the end-all of society if he did not get his way, like the way my father raised my sister, but I always listened to him.

I had always known Adone to be a wise man with foolish ways.

Meaning, he had experienced life and turned his experiences into life lessons, but he chose not to act on what he had learned if it had to do with my father and his wants.

However, Adone was right that death is an awakening. It wakes the survivors left in its wake from the slumber of life, and it forces us to take notice of the small things we might take advantage of.

Mariano Fausti had taught me what it meant to take notice of all the small things, such as the way he commanded a car when he drove it, the same as he did a horse, or a soccer field, or any room he walked into.

Or the way his scent filled the air, and I did not seem to want air unless it did.

Or the way he opened my door no matter where we were, or pulled out my chair, yet at the same time gave me the freedom to make my own choices when it came down to the career I wanted, if I wanted one.

Or how he would take my hand even if we were not seeing eye to eye, letting me know that I was safe within his love.

Just because we were not agreeing, he would not manipulate me to give in because he was holding himself from me.

He was there. We would work it out. This was why he had locked me in our bedroom in Grosseto until we worked out our differences.

Death, however, woke me up and forced me out of the trees, rising above them.

I could see our life in that second, spread out before us, and every second of it, I wanted to keep close.

I wanted to count every scar on my husband’s body, every breath he took, absorb his warmth into my skin—holding it in such a deep part of me that someday, when the world looked at us, all they could see was one instead of two.