“Man,” he muttered, and she didn’t know why, but it made her feel better. He pulled her into a hug.

  SHE’D BEEN ASSIGNED to sleep in the study on the pull-out couch. There were picture books and stuffed animals on it, and she knocked them off, too exhausted to care. Tezza picked up a laundry basket to move it. One part of it came away in her hands, and the clothes spilled out the side as her mother walked in with sheets and towels for her.

  “Mama. What’s happening with this basket?”

  Flor tsked. “You didn’t get both parts.”

  “Why does a laundry basket have two parts?”

  Her mother adopted a patronizing tone. “They are the same kind of basket, you see? This one is broken, on the side.” She pointed to the basket still on the ground. “This one is also broken at the bottom. But if I put them together, since they are broken differently, the clothes stay in.”

  She didn’t know if the metaphor was really that profound, or if she was just insanely tired and jet-lagged, but Tezza started to laugh. If I put them together, since they are broken differently . . . That was just it. Between her depression and his social struggles, they were different, but both a mess sometimes. But together . . . Together, they could be okay. He’d hold her when she was sad. She’d remind him not to ask probing questions if he’d just met someone. He’d help her reclaim her relationship with magic. She’d buy him shirts with flat seams that wouldn’t bother his skin. It could work. She just knew. She felt it deep down, this calm, wordless assurance that together, their struggles wouldn’t matter so much.

  Her mother was watching her with alarm, and Tezza covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking, and let her laughter turn to tears.

  “Yes, Tezzarina, yes, cry,” Flor said, gathering her into a tight hold. “Cry for your husband. This is good, this is good.” Her mother rubbed her back, and Tezza felt shame flood her heart. She should be crying for Rocco and not because she was falling for her coworker. She wanted to tell her mom the truth . . . but right then, it felt good to just be held. She’d correct the misunderstanding later. Possibly from a different country, where she wouldn’t have to dodge blows to her face.

  The next morning, she did cry for Rocco. She cried when she saw the beautiful flowers people had sent to the church for the service. She cried when she saw his parents. They looked so much older; she hadn’t seen them or his siblings in over a year. She cried when the military presented her with a flag. She cried when they did a ten-gun salute due to his Special Forces status; she was touched by that. She cried when they served lunch, because it was all Rocco’s favorites: spicy sausage, thin-cut french fries, coleslaw. It was totally unseasonal, and no one seemed to care. She cried as she went through his clothes and possessions. I don’t want to give all this away. I want to keep some of it, somehow.

  “Papa.” Her father looked up from the book he was reading to the gang of grandchildren he’d attracted. “When you’re done, I need to ask you something.”

  She went back to the boxes of old music recordings and books and sharp shooter awards from his school days. Their fading love letters, which he’d printed out from emails “for posterity.” His were always more romantic. Words had never come easily to her.

  Her father’s hand on her shoulder startled her. She wiped her face again.

  “Papa, I want to bury these things in the woods.” She swallowed as his eyes went shiny, too. Her dad had always been a softie. More like Sam, she realized. “I didn’t get to bury Rocco, but I still need . . . closure.”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll have the boys dig a hole.”

  “No,” she said. “Just point me to a shovel. I’ll do it myself.”

  He frowned. “There will be roots, rocks. Let them help. Let them . . .” Something in her expression stopped him, apparently. Without another word, he turned to the wall and pulled off a spade and a pickax. “When you are finished, please call us. We will come stand with you.”

  She nodded. She didn’t bother changing; she was already going to throw this dress away. It was filthy from going through the boxes in the attic, anyway.

  At one foot deep, her shoulders began to burn. At two feet deep, blisters bloomed on the pads of her palms. The roots were as thick as her wrist in places; she brought the spade high and plunged it into the hole with all her strength over and over, raging at it. How could you leave me alone? How dare you go on without me? You were supposed to come home. You promised me, promised me, promised me, her heart chanted as she struggled to see the hole through tears, her muscles shouting with the strain. Tezza sang the funeral dirge with the motion of her body. She hadn’t had a depth in mind for the hole, but at three feet, she felt calm again. Spent. The tears had stopped. It was big enough. She could feel her family members hovering at the edge of the lawn where the wild wood took over, drinking, chatting to cover the fact that they were keeping watch over her. When she motioned them over, they left the children inside with the television.

  She set the box of favorite things in the hole. She wiped her sweaty brow with her shoulder.

  “Would anyone like to say anything?” her father asked.

  Javier raised his hand, stepped forward shyly. “Thanks for teaching me about girls,” he muttered, and everyone smiled.

  His wife, Bianca, piped up. “Yes, thanks, Rocco. Before you? Hopeless.”

  Javier laughed with them, blushing, then stopped. “Seriously, though. You gave great advice. You were more than a brother-in-law. You were a brother. Thanks.”

  Tezza’s tears came back. How was she not a withered husk right now from dehydration? As if she were wondering the same thing, her mother pressed a glass of ice water into her hand. She took it gratefully.

  “He cooked a mean frittata,” said Alba. “Remember that? When I had Valentia? Tezza was off training, so he brought me frittatas, made sure we were fed. I think he even did laundry.”

  “Glad he tried it at least once,” Tezza muttered, and everyone chuckled. “No, he helped out when he was home. I shouldn’t say that. I’ve missed that.” She turned to the box. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much, Roc. I love you. I hope you’ve found peace.”

  They stood in silence, listening to the wind in the tops of the trees, shushing them. Her father started to sing an old spiritual; she hadn’t thought of it in years.

  Who knows where the wind comes from, or where the wind goes?

  When I leave here, I’ll follow wherever it blows.

  For where it blows leads to the one my heart knows.

  Where it blows, surely, the one my heart chose.

  She closed her eyes. They sang it again, and she heard someone pick up the shovel and start moving the dirt back in.

  HER PARENTS’ HOUSE had been quiet after the funeral. Her siblings mostly went back to their normal jobs and routines, except Nic and Alba and their kids, who were staying in the house. So it was a bit of a surprise when on her last full day in Op’Ho’Lonia, Tezza came downstairs to find all five of her siblings sitting around the kitchen table. All the conversation stopped abruptly when she came into the room.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” they all mumbled, drinking their coffee, picking at croissants. She poured herself a cup and leaned against the counter to glare at them.

  “Are you having an intervention?”

  They gave half-hearted laughs and shrugs. No one met her gaze.

  “Who’s it for?” She suddenly heard the quiet in the house; no wonder she’d slept in. She looked around. “Where are all the kids?”

  “Out to breakfast with Yaya and Yayo.”

  Javier nudged Marcos, her oldest brother, and he cleared his throat.

  “First of all, we love you, sis . . .”

  Tezza choked on her coffee. “I’m sorry; the intervention is for me?” She dabbed pointlessly at the brown speckles on her white T-shirt.

  “It’s not an intervention, more like . . . encouragement. Solidarity.”

  “Yes, solidarity,” Alba echoed, and they all bobbed their heads like pigeons. “Come sit down.”

  Making her face stony, Tezza sat stiffly between Miquel and Alba on the bench.

  “We love you, sis,” Marcos started again. “We loved him, too. But there’s nothing to wait for anymore. It’s time to move on with your life. You’re our baby sister, but you’re not so young anymore. It’s not about a romance, necessarily, but . . . just, find a life that pleases you. Makes you happy. And if you find somebody else, somebody new, that’s great, too.”

  She sat back, her arms crossed.

  “We would’ve taken longer to let you grieve, but we’re so rarely all together . . . It seemed like an opportunity to talk to you as a family.”

  And you were all too chicken to do it alone.

  Tezza nodded, slowly. She understood what they were trying to say. It still felt too soon—in some ways, her grief was just starting—but she appreciated how much they cared, even if they didn’t understand. They knew they were risking her wrath.

  She leaned forward and took the croissant off Marcos’s plate as punishment for making her feel things, shoving the whole thing into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk. Alba looked like she was about to explode, her lips pinched together.

  “What?” Tezza asked around her stolen croissant.

  “Can we talk about Sam? Please say yes, I’ve wanted to say something since we got here.”

  Her brothers perked up in unison.

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “Is she seeing someone?”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  Tezza felt her pulse pounding; it was one thing to share this information with Alba, her big sister who would keep her secrets, and quite another to share it with all her brothers. She looked around for a quick reason to leave.

  Antonio crossed his arms in playful perturbation. “How come Alba’s met this Sam and we haven’t?”

  Tezza lifted her chin. “If you ever visited . . .”

  Her brothers launched into loud protests about their work responsibilities, and she shushed them.

  “Sam is my coworker.” There. That should be enough information for them.

  “What’s he like?” The brothers had turned to Alba, who appeared more than willing to dish.

  “He’s kind of shy, but very sweet. A little unusual. Rather handsome, very good-hearted. He takes her to coffee, he fixes things in her house.”

  “A competent man,” Miquel said, and the others nodded. “What else?”

  “She calls him ‘petunia,’ which annoys him.” Alba cast a sidelong glance at her, smirking.

  “You know,” Marcos said, spinning his empty coffee cup, “in our history, petunias were thought to keep away evil spirits. When given as a gift, they can symbolize being comfortable with a person . . . Did you know that, Tezzarina?”

  Tezza ignored him, taking Antonio’s croissant this time.

  Alba went on. “And he brought her presents when he heard about Rocco.”

  “What kind of presents?” Javier asked, leaning closer. They waited for Tezza to answer this time.

  “Coffee gelato, chocolate, a plant and a book.”

  “What kind of book? Sexy?”

  Tezza scowled. “It’s a book on how to injure a man without touching him. And once I’ve read it, I’m going to roll a dice to decide which of you I’ll use it on first.”

  Miquel threw one arm around her shoulders before she could storm off in a huff. “Tezzarina, you’re our baby sister. We want you to be happy. If this guy makes you happy and he’s got Alba’s approval, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s too soon,” she whispered. And he didn’t kiss me back.

  “Love is so inconvenient,” Alba said, shaking her head.

  “He doesn’t love me,” Tezza protested. “We’re just friends.”

  “For now,” Antonio said, grinning. “But any man who brings you coffee gelato can’t stay a friend for long, can he?”

  Much to Tezza’s relief, the conversation shifted to the upcoming holidays and the need for a planned family reunion in the near future, and she slipped away from the table unnoticed.

  Chapter Ten

  TEZZA

  THE NEXT DAY, AROUND midnight, Tezza unlocked her front door and dragged her duffel and rolling suitcase into the house. She’d left it a disaster area, and she’d need to spend most of the morning working on it. Since it was her house and she was tired just thinking about the cleaning in store for her, it never occurred to her to be quiet about her entrance. She heard a decidedly male noise and looked up. Sam was asleep on her couch, the front curtains shut tightly. He’d thrown a flat sheet over the couch, and that giant denim quilt from his apartment was cast over him haphazardly. What is he doing here?

  The place was immaculate; her laundry was folded in orderly piles on the coffee table, organized by type. Clean dishes sat dripping in the strainer. More than that, he’d obviously vacuumed and dusted, and when she peeked into the fridge, it was mostly full from three casseroles, six jar salads, and a pot of soup.

  Should I let him sleep? He’s probably late enough for work that it doesn’t matter . . . Her suitcase, however, had other feelings on the matter and tipped over with a klomp that had him sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

  “Hey.” He turned on a lamp by the couch.

  “Hey,” she replied softly.

  “You’re back.”

  “Yes.” She sat in the modern color-block chair across from the couch to keep her distance—because she wanted to sit on the edge of the couch, pull him toward her by his unshaven chin and kiss him all the way awake. His sleepy face is so irresistible.

  “What time is it?”

  “Around midnight. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  He shook his head, stretching. “Edward is out of town unexpectedly. They took alternates because I was already committed to watch your place.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah.” He got up the rest of the way, pushing off the quilt, which from the look of it was very heavy. “Can I make you lunch? How was your trip?” Turning on the lights, he went into the kitchen, pulling out pans and plates.

  “Sam. Chill.”

  “But you’ve been traveling, you’re tired. I got to sleep in. Your house is quieter than my apartment. I’m good.” He opened the fridge and stuck his head in it to look for something, then stood up suddenly. “Do you want me to go? Are you tired?”

  “No. I need to stay up so I’m awake tomorrow night. I’ll sleep at five.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “Cheese toasties okay? It’s not healthy, but I can’t cook much.”

  “Who did the salads?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I did, but that’s just chopping.”

  “And the casseroles?”

  “Grand duchess. She insisted. She said she needs to put that very expensive kitchen to good use or she feels guilty.”

  Tezza shook her head, smiling despite her fatigue. Abbie was a strange royal, but she couldn’t imagine working for anyone else.

  “Are you going to move?” He was staring at the counter, slowly grating the cheddar onto the cutting board.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to move back to Op’Ho’Lonia?”

  For a split second, Tezza considered being straight with him. But it wasn’t in her nature; she’d always played with her food. And besides, he’d given her nothing since her impulsive kiss but a “did you get there okay?” text when her flight landed. He owed her a little more information about what he was thinking, and he wasn’t the kind to come out and just say it.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He was quiet, and she thought for a moment that he was going to actually look at her. He didn’t.

  “There’s a lot of factors to consider,” she said solemnly, sidling over to him to press herself against his arm. “A lot of them.” If his gaze on her chest was any indication, he liked that, but he was nervous. Putting people at ease was not her specialty; she was far better at frightening the truth out of them.

  She took the cheese out of his hand and set it on the counter. “For instance, I own a house here. That’s a reason to stay. I have a good job that I like, and my sister is here.”

  “Any other reasons to stay?” he muttered.

  “One or two. One in particular.” She flicked her wrist and turned off the smoking cast-iron pan he’d forgotten about, unwilling to break contact with him. “There’s some relationships I’d like to pursue now that I’m single.”

  His head snapped toward her. “Relationships? Plural?”

  She nodded soberly, covering his hand with hers. “I’ve been wanting to get to know my yoga instructor better. She seems nice. We’re going to go out for tea next week. And I haven’t spent a lot of time outside of work with Addington. I’d like to develop that friendship.”

  He nodded, visibly relieved.

  “And then Alba has a few guys she wants to set me up with.”

  “What?” His voice was sharper than the grater he was gripping, his knuckles white. “Are you going to go?”

  She shrugged with one shoulder. “Can you give me a reason not to?” Fight, Sam. Fight for us. Don’t just let me go. Stand up and take what you want for once instead of going with the flow.

  He sidestepped away from her and went back to making her sandwich, adding avocado and tomato to the cheddar. “I guess not,” he said quietly, buttering the top of the bread, balancing the sandwich carefully on a spatula and carrying it across the kitchen to slide it into the still-hot pan.

  She pursed her lips. “Not surprising that I’ve lost my touch after three years, I guess.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, still holding the spatula.

  “What?”

  “You must not have liked my kiss.”

  He shook his head, leaning back to look at the ceiling, as if beseeching an unseen deity for strength. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

 

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