A Heart Most Worthy (14 page)

20

Julietta had been daydreaming about kissing Angelo, but she’d never imagined that his touch would fill her with fear. He didn’t have a family? But then . . . that meant that she was hidden away with him, in a house that was his alone
? Oddio, sono finita!
That wasn’t good. That wasn’t at all what she had intended! Sneaking out into an alley with a boy was one thing, but going off somewhere alone with one was another thing entirely!

She had to get out. Now!

“What’s the matter?” He’d drawn her close, against his chest.

“I think I should – ”

He nuzzled her ear.

Oh. My. That felt rather . . .

“You think you should . . . ?”

“I think . . . I should.” What was he doing to her neck? Whatever it was, it felt divine.

“Should what?”

“What?”

He laughed as he rubbed a hand up and down her back.

Oh! Now she remembered. She put a hand to his chest and pushed him away. “I think I should leave.” But there was a hint of regret in her eyes. He was rather good at kissing. . . .

He caught up that hand, tugging her forward until he felt his knees hit the edge of the mattress. Then, embracing her, he brought her with him as he fell onto the bed.

“Angelo!”

The springs squeaked alarmingly as she tried to roll off him. And the mattress sagged under his weight. So much so that she couldn’t scramble away from him; the pitch of the mattress kept tumbling her back to his side.

He stretched out an arm and pulled her to him. Nipped at her ear. Her neck. His hand crept up her ribs.

She shoved at him. Hard. “Don’t – !”

“What’s wrong?” He eased away, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her.

She used the opportunity to push herself to sitting. And then to stand. Her heart was racing, and it wasn’t with ardor or passion.

“You can’t – I don’t – ”

He sat up too and held up his hands as if he were innocent. “I’m sorry. This place isn’t very big. I tripped. I didn’t mean . . .” He shrugged. Held out one of his hands to her. “Come here.”

She straightened her dress, put a hand up to her hair. Then Julietta glanced around the room before finally looking down at him.

He was sitting there so . . . forlorn.

She reached out a hand toward him.

He grasped it and immediately pulled her close. Clasped his arms about her waist and leaned his head against her chest.

She put out a hand and stroked his hair.

“I’m sorry, Julietta. I should know better.”

Sì, he should!

“But you’re just so . . . beautiful.” He felt her relax. Heard her sigh. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She kissed the top of his head.

“Are we friends again?”

He was looking up at her with such hope, such regret, that she couldn’t help herself from leaning down for a kiss.

That first kiss led to a second and the second one to a third. And, really, what is there to say about such things? Except that Mama Giordano would not have been happy. At all. She might have even gone at Angelo Moretti with her spoon. She knew Julietta kissed boys. Of course she did. And though it might shock you to know it, Mama didn’t have anything against a little fun. But Julietta had never kissed any boy with such passion and abandon. And she’d never once before this day lost control. Always before she’d been able to stop things from going too far. With a laugh or a sigh she’d been able to end a kiss and send a boy away with a wink and a smile.

But Angelo Moretti was different.

And if he’d kept his hands to himself just a while longer, there was no telling what might have happened. But he didn’t. So minutes later, Julietta sprang from his lap, straightening her dress once more. She marched to the door, more angry with herself than she was with him. She yanked it open, but stopped short of walking out. Because there was no place to go.

A cold sweat broke out behind her ears in spite of the heat of the day. She couldn’t walk back to the city. Not by herself. It must have taken them an hour to get to this farm, and she had to admit to herself that she hadn’t paid much attention to how they had gotten there. She couldn’t stay – she wouldn’t – but what was she going to do?

“Julietta. Come back. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, not knowing whether she ought to believe him. He seemed like he meant it. And his kisses! Her scalp tingled with the memory of them.

“Honest. I don’t know what happened. It’s like . . . you’ve bewitched me.” He’d pushed to his feet and came to stand beside her.

Whether she believed him or not, one thing was certain. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

He held his hands up, palms out. “It wasn’t my idea.”

That’s right. It hadn’t been. It was her idea. The realization caused her to flush in shame.

“I’ll take you home. If that’s what you want.”

What she wanted didn’t matter much. What mattered was getting home before anyone noticed that she’d been gone.

Angelo put a hand to her back as she left the shack. He climbed into the truck on the driver’s side, then leaned across to push her door open.

She climbed into the truck and soon they were bumping back down the lane. But there was an awkwardness, a tension between them that hadn’t existed before. And despite the unease she felt for what had transpired between them, she couldn’t bear to think that he was angry with her. Or worse: disappointed. He must think her nothing but a child. She frantically searched for something to say.

“Is your family still back in the old country, Angelo?”

He scowled. “I grew up in an orphanage.”

Maybe she hadn’t chosen the best of subjects.

“Not from birth. My pa left when I was three. And then Ma dropped me off when I was eight. She decided it was time to move on.”

Julietta’s brows rose. She’d decided it was time to move on?

To where? From what? “I’m so sorry.”

“So was I. They whip you there, soon as look at you.”

She smiled, intent upon lifting his spirits with a tease. “I suppose you were very bad.”

Angelo, thinking about that horrific place, missed her cue. “No. I tried to be good.” If he had looked at her face, he would have known it was the wrong answer, but the past was painful to Angelo, and he had shared it with very few people. Each time he had, when he had taken that risk, he found it easiest to do while he was distracted. He didn’t want to see the revulsion, the disgust he was sure would be revealed in their eyes. So he concentrated on driving instead, keeping his eyes on the road. “Kept thinking if I was, Ma would come and get me out. You know?”

She didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine her own mother, or anyone else’s, abandoning any of her children. What kind of mother would do that?

He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Finding one, he put it between his lips and then put his hand to his trouser pocket to search for a match. “Steer for me.”

“What?”

He pointed to the steering wheel. “Drive.”

Drive? What did she know about driving? She grabbed hold of the steering wheel as he let go of it in order to light his match. He swore as she jerked the truck toward the right and then back to the left. After lighting his cigarette, he took control once more.

“Eventually, I ran away. I mean, who needs it, you know?” He took a draw on the cigarette. “Who needs people telling you what to do all the time? Like they’re so much better than you are? Why should anyone tell me what to think or what to believe?” He paused to take a drag. “Who needs rules anyway? And why should a government tell me what to do? A religion, what to believe?”

“You aren’t Catholic?”

“No.”

How could someone from Rome not be a Catholic? “If you aren’t Catholic, then what are you?”

“I’m nothing.”

Nothing? Was that even possible? “You don’t believe in God?”

He snorted. “Why should I? When I don’t have any proof that He’s ever believed in me.”

“Then you don’t . . . go to confession?” Imagine that!

“What do I have to confess? And why should I confess to breaking someone else’s rules? I’m a smart person. Can’t I decide for myself what’s right? And wrong?”

“But if you don’t believe in God and you don’t believe in . . . the government . . . then what do you believe in?”

“I believe in myself. And the capacity of man to determine his own fate. To decide for himself what he should do and where he should go.”

She’d never heard of such a thing! How could anyone live without papas and mamas telling them what to do and where to go? “How do you decide? And what kind of rules do you make?”

“Rules? There are only two. I do what I want. And when I do, I make no apologies for it.” He punctuated his points with a brandishing of his cigarette. He could have added that he changed the rules whenever he felt like it, but he didn’t. And in any case, he didn’t actually see it as a changing of the rules; he would have described it in much more philosophical terms best left to academic discussions and term papers.

No apologies? “You must not have many friends, then.”

She was hoping for a laugh. What she got was a scowl. “I don’t need anybody. Who really needs anybody? Sentiment hinders change. Change can only be had through revolution. And sacrifices must be made in order that revolution be achieved.”

Revolution? Sacrifices? It sounded rather . . . sinister. And she couldn’t keep herself from shuddering. But she didn’t want to end their day with talk of sacrifices and revolutions. And she didn’t like seeing him look so unhappy. So she slid closer to him. Kissed him on the cheek.

And was rewarded with a smile. And a wink.

Once Angelo dropped Julietta off near Zanfini’s, she ran through the North End to her street, into her building, and up four flights of stairs before skidding to a halt in front of her apartment door. She smoothed her gown, pushed the pins further into her hair. Prayed to God that no one would notice her. That no one would ask her any questions.

But Mama Giordano caught her coming through the door. “There you are! Grab the beans and bring them to the table.”

Julietta froze and then moved toward the sideboard, eyes wide. That was it? That was all the attention she would be paid? The only remark that would be made? She felt her shoulders go slack with relief. Her gaze traveled the room. Everyone was there. Including Salvatore and Little Matteo.

And Mauro.

Her cheeks were lit by the scorching flames of guilt.

Mama bustled by with a serving spoon. “So where were you anyway?”

“Where was I? I was at the . . . um . . . the . . .”

Mama Giordano glanced over at Julietta, took in the dusty hem of her skirt. Her disheveled hair. The shadow that seemed to have fallen on her neck. Something . . . no,
everything
. . . about Julietta seemed somehow askew. Mama planted a fist on her hip and leveled a gaze at her daughter. “Where have you been?”

She shrugged, not willing to lie to Mama. At least not blatantly.

Mama’s mind was furiously working through the list of eligible Avellinesi boys in the neighborhood, trying to come up with a pairing that made some sort of sense. But the Basso boy was after the Celentano girl and the baker’s son was courting the fish-seller’s daughter. So who had Julietta been with?

Everyone at the table looked on with great interest. No one more so than Mauro. Julietta hadn’t been at the festa, and he knew it. He’d been down every street and alley looking for her. But where
had
she been? And who had she been with? He could see Mama’s eyes getting dangerously narrow. He could tell Julietta’s knees were beginning to quake. And so he did something he’d never done before in his life. He lied to Mama Giordano. “She was with me. For most of the day.”

Julietta followed Mauro out into the hall as he left that night. She wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she settled on the simplest, most expedient word. “Grazie.”

He’d lied to Mama Rossi on her behalf and all she said was
grazie
?! As if he’d done her some kind of favor? He turned around to face her head-on. “Thanks for what? For lying for you? I should have let your mama find you out.”