Beautiful Secret

by Dana Faletti

Damn this oppressive heat. It was almost nauseating, much like the fifteen-minute drive up the mountain had been the night before.

  A treacherous climb, the route from Reggio to Valanidi featured no guardrails. The drive was full of sharp switchbacks and foolhardy drivers attempting to make three lanes out of a road that could hardly claim to be two. Michel had chuckled more than once as she’d sat, rigid, gripping the seat for dear life and gasping every time the Mercedes seemed about to slide right off the gravelly mountainside. It had been too dark to decipher much of the land’s appearance last night when they’d pulled up in front of a flat-roofed two-story home, lit only by a single naked light bulb that glared from a second-story porch.

  “Is this your grandfather’s home?”

  “Yes,” Michel had answered. “But I don’t sleep here, Tatiana,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes.

  All night, he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, spinning her around the floor, his hands taking the liberty of landing wherever they’d fallen upon her body. It had been exhilarating. Tate hadn’t wanted it to end.

  But when they’d arrived at Zio Nino’s house on the coattails of midnight, Michel had seemed colder somehow. She’d followed him into the house, through a small sitting room and to the second floor, struck by his sudden distance.

  “This is your room.” He’d indicated a white door with a bruised brass knob.

  Tatiana had stood in the doorway of the tiny room, taking in the sparseness of everything, her muscles still pulsing from dancing. “Michel,” she’d started, reaching for his hand.

  He’d placed a palm on her shoulder then, forcing the space to stay open between them. “Welcome to Valanidi, cousine,” he’d said, and kissed her cheek lightly. “Sleep well.”

  And she had slept well. Just not long enough.

  So many questions burned in her mind.

  Tate blew the hair out of her eyes and got out of bed, then made her way over to where she’d set her bags. She dug inside her purse and fingered the mysterious envelope Zia had entrusted to her. Sighing, she squeezed the package, curious as to what was inside. Maybe she would find out when she delivered it. Tomorrow, perhaps.

  Grabbing her phone for the second time that morning, she saw that it was now 5:15 a.m.

  As good a time as any for a shower.

  Ten minutes later, Tate stood shivering under what could only be described as an unhealthy sputter of lukewarm water. Even with the humidity here, she still wasn’t down with a cold shower—if this weak spray could even be considered a shower. The little pink porcelain tub was freestanding and had no shower curtain. A handheld nozzle dangled from its scratched rubber hose, leaving Tate feeling annoyed that no one had thought to install a mounting bracket. At least then, she could have stood beneath the drip without having to hold the showerhead.

  Goosebumps rose all over her wet flesh as she struggled to rinse the shampoo from her hair as quickly as possible. Upon opening her eyes, Tate noticed that not only had she sprayed the entire space of the bathroom with water, but she’d also drenched the only towel she’d been able to find.

  “Christ,” she muttered, bending to turn off the water. She grabbed the sopping wet towel and wrung it out, then wrapped it around her body so that at least she was covered. Her footsteps created a path of puddles from the bathroom back to her bedroom.

  She’d mop it up later. After the only goddamned towel in the house was dry enough to be of some use.

  * * *

  The coffee made up for the crappy shower. And the bread…the bread made up for any and all discomforts she’d experienced in the first twenty or so years of her life.

  “You like my bread, Tatiana? With pepperoncini and olive oil, a little salt.” Zio Nino curled his hand into the shape of a flower then kissed his fingers. “Perfetto.”

  “It’s so delicious,” Tate gushed, licking a glaze of rich green oil off of her fingers. “So fresh.”

  Taking a deep breath and relaxing into both the coffee and the gorgeous atmosphere, Tate let her eyes roam over the parched land of her ancestors, from Zio Nino’s run-down, whitewashed house to the mountains beyond that seemed to interrupt the sky. From where she sat on the veranda, she could look up the hill and see mountaintops or look to the left, down the hill, and see Sicily in the distance, rising like a surprise out of the azure Mediterranean. This place was so much like Nana had described, but nothing could have prepared her for the mix of beauty and rawness that this hilltop town possessed. She dipped a finger into the espresso-laced sugar that had collected at the bottom of her cup. The crunch of the crystals between her teeth paired with the coffee flavor on her tongue made her smile.

  Zio Nino grinned, seeming pleased that Tate was enjoying her espresso. He finished his off, then stood and held his hand out to Tate.

  “Tatiana,” he said. “Come with me, and I will show you the bread house.”

  Tate let Zio lead her across the stone patio and down a short gravel path that was lined with lemon trees. He stopped in front of what looked like a primitive cement shack. As they stepped through the open archway into the square, flat-roofed hut, Tate’s eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. She noticed a massive brick oven in the center of the room, black soot coating the floor beneath its opening.

  Zio pointed to the oven. “My brother Carmelo and I, we built it many years ago.”

  “Who taught you to build an oven like that?”

  Zio chuckled. “Tatiana, here we do not wait to be taught. We Calabrese men, we create what we need.”

  Tate shook her head, wide-eyed, as she ran her finger along the ashy stone table at the opening of the oven.

  “Carmelo ran the convenience store at the front of the house after our Mamma died. He sold a variety of things—lunch meats, cheeses, and of course, his wonderful bread.” Zio said.

  “My Nana told me that she baked the bread for the store when she lived here, when my father was a baby.”

  “Yes, she did, but after that, Franco, a man from town, used to arrive here every morning at four to bake the bread. People from towns further up the mountain came each day to buy it. Carmelo’s store had a reputation for having the best bread.”

  Tate looked at Zio. “I’d drive out of my way for that bread. Its reputation is well deserved.”

  “Franco used to bake about forty loaves in the mornings. They were always sold out by noon,” Zio told her. “Unfortunately, about five years ago, Carmelo’s diabetes became severe, and he went downhill fast. He lost his legs.” Zio paused. “He was my baby brother, Tatiana, did you know that?”

  “Oh, Zio,” she said, her hand flying to her lips in remorse and shock.

  “Yes, it was a hard loss,” Zio said slowly. “And, so we came and closed up the store, your Zia and I. I stayed with him here in Valanidi until he passed.”

  “Your baby brother,” Tate whispered, her uncle’s loss sliding over her, leaving a familiar heaviness at the bottom of her feet.

  Zio Nino placed his hand on Tate’s shoulder, drawing her attention back to the dim space where they stood.

  “This hut,” he said quietly, his eyes serious. “This was our home, Tatiana. My mother raised eight of us here.”

  Tate’s eyes brimmed with tears as she the surveyed the space once more. She tried to rearrange the look of it in her mind, to somehow transform this suffocatingly small cement-walled room into the picture of a happy home. She’d known the family had been poor, but this building was smaller than her living room back in Pittsburgh. How had ten people managed to live in here?

  Reining in her tears, Tate tried not to react to Zio’s disclosures. He so rarely shared anything like this voluntarily, and she wanted to tread lightly in hopes that he’d continue to talk. Discreetly, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  “Ah, Tatiana, bella,” Zio said, setting a warm hand on her back. “Do not cry for our poverty. We are not defined by our circumstances, child.”

  Tate was amazed at the deep smile that rested easy on his face. He look
ed from one side of the room to the other and sighed contentedly.

  “This is the place your Nana called home for many months,” he told her. “Your father as well, when he was just a baby.”

  Tate swallowed. “She told me she loved her work in the bread house, but she hardly spoke of the poverty—only about the people, your mother especially.” Tate wondered if Nana had purposely left out the details of her destitute living conditions here in Valanidi.

  Zio’s eyes clouded for a split second at the mention of his mother. “Yes, Tatiana, Maria and my mother were like this.” He crossed his fingers and held them up to indicate that the women were tight friends. “And your grandmother, she didn’t worry about her circumstances. Only that your father was healthy, content.” He paused and took her face into his wrinkled hands. “She was happy here, Tatiana.”

  Tate’s tears flowed freely now, and no matter how she rubbed at them with the back of her fist or attempted to plug them up with her bare arm, they just kept coming. She finally gave up and leaned into her uncle’s embrace. What an unexpected blessing this man was turning out to be. Before this trip, she’d imagined herself here with Zia Luisa, walking hand in hand on Nana’s farm and visiting the convent where her father had been born. Never once had Tate imagined a budding relationship with her uncle. A grateful warmth washed over her.

  “Thank you, Zio,” she said, her words catching on a sob.

  “Shh, bella. Va bene. Va bene.” It’s okay.

  And, as they walked out of the bread house and back into the still air of hot morning, Tate believed him. It was a small step, this faith, but it was something.

  “Now, go get your things for the beach, Tatiana,” Zio told her, pulling away and patting her shoulder. “Your young cousins will arrive soon for you.”

  Chapter 28

  Tate

  “Tatiana, you want to swim with me?” Olivia asked as she slipped her bikini top over her breasts, tying its strings in a knot at her neck.

  “Not just yet, Olivia,” Tate said, looking away.

  Tate hardly considered herself a prude, but she didn’t see the point in bringing a bathing suit to the beach and changing into it.

  On the beach.

  In front of everyone.

  But they all had done it—even young Nattina. And no one had seemed shocked in the least except for Tate herself. In truth, the onlookers didn’t really even look.

  “I’ll follow you in after a few minutes,” Tate told her bronze-haired cousin, and then watched as the girl turned and swayed her curvy, thonged bottom into the crystal clear water. Olivia reminded Tate of a mermaid with legs, all roundness and soft skin with curls that flowed over her shoulders like liquid amber.

  Like a gazelle, Nattina leaped across the pebbles after her sister, laughing as she splashed into the water. Giuliana laid a towel down next to Tate and took a seat.

  “You’re very close, the three of you,” Tate said, squinting at the horizon. “I always imagined what it would be like to have a sister.”

  “Yes, I love my sisters very much. But you have your brother, right? Alberto is his name?” Giuliana’s willowy arms hugged knobby knees as she focused all of her attention on Tate and their conversation.

  “Yes, I do have Alberto, and we’re close too. He has—”

  “Two children, yes, and their names are Jenna and Carl.”

  Tate raised her eyebrows, shocked that this distant cousin knew such details of her family in Pittsburgh.

  “We talk much about your grandmother and the family in America.” Giuliana laughed, and Tate could hear the smile in her voice. “It is important for us, you know? Near or far, family is everything.”

  Tate nodded. She’d certainly heard those words spoken from Nana’s lips many times.

  “I love it here, Giuliana,” Tate said and stared out to the sea at the steep-edged cliffs that jutted straight up from the curved shoreline. “It’s just so amazing that although we’ve never met before, I feel such a connection to everyone. My aunts, uncles, cousins.”

  Some cousins more than others.

  Giuliana reached out and squeezed Tate’s hand. “It is because we are the same, bella. We are all Domani.” Her black eyes beamed pride onto Tate. “We are all family. And nothing is more important. Not money or material things, not even romance.”

  Tate’s cheeks burned, and she knew it had nothing to do with the sun.

  * * *

  An hour later, Tate woke to the sound of conversation. When she raised her head, her eyes came into focus on Nattina, who was looking at her and giggling.

  “Your face,” the girl said, her eyes sparkling at their corners. She pointed at Tate and then rubbed her own cheeks.

  Tate brought a hand to her face and chuckled to herself. She’d fallen asleep facedown on the pebbles, and they’d left a funny trail imprinted on her cheeks. She propped herself up on both elbows and noticed that several young men had joined their party. Her cousins were unpacking the lunch cooler.

  “Are you hungry, Tatiana?” Olivia asked, biting into a sandwich that looked to be tomato, mozzarella, and basil on Zio Nino’s bread.

  “Actually, I’m not,” Tate said, sitting up and dusting a few stray pebbles from her arms. Her eyes widened as she observed the girls preparing lunch.

  Was Giuliana actually tossing a salad with oil and vinegar?

  On the beach?

  And Nattina was setting up a carafe of espresso next to a bowl of sugar cubes and tiny spoons.

  These people did not mess around when it came to food.

  Although everything looked delicious, what Tate really wanted was a drink of water and a swim. Her skin felt as dry as the land that surrounded them, and the cool blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea beckoned her.

  “I think I’ll take a dip,” Tate said to the girls, who were lost in both meal preparation and in conversation with the horde of young men who had flocked to them during her nap. She stood up and stretched her tanned limbs, digging her toes into the tiny rocks. She’d packed water shoes, thinking the rocky beaches would be painful to walk on, but it was just the opposite. Tate found she preferred the smooth pebbles massaging her feet with each step to the feel of damp, fine sand that stuck to every patch of her skin.

  When she dipped her toe into the calm water, the temperature was comfortable enough. Not too warm, but definitely cool enough to be refreshing. She listened in on the conversation of a couple that stood a few feet from her. Their accents sounded British. Until this trip, Tate thought a British accent was the sexiest sound on earth. She smirked to herself, thinking that she’d definitely changed her mind. Now, a French accent might be just a little bit more of a turn-on.

  “We should swim out to the castle cliff. I hear it’s grand,” the Brit said to the woman who Tate presumed was his wife. “Hercules was there, you know.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” the wife scolded. “That story about Hercules and the castle is a myth. Besides, I don’t know if I’m feeling quite daring enough to swim all that way.”

  “All right, then, let’s lunch.” The husband turned and left the water, followed by his wife, who was saying something about melon sandwiches.

  Whether or not wifey felt daring enough, Tate knew she did. She’d always loved to swim, and when she waded out and dove beneath the perfect water, it cleansed her of the anxiety that littered her psyche. She squinted, surveying the cliffs ahead. They looked to be about two football fields away, an easy distance for her, she thought, allowing her body to vanish beneath the surface and glide through the water until she absolutely needed to breathe.

  A few minutes later, Tate reached the rock face closest to her. Beyond it lay an opening that was only visible from her current vantage point. She hadn’t been able to see it until now, but the cliffs actually hovered over a shaded cove, right there in the middle of the sea. The scene looked like a picture from a book of Greek mythology. No wonder the British husband had mentioned Hercules.

  Gliding through the water
and into the cove, Tate noticed that the lagoon she had discovered appeared to continue through natural archways into darker, less sunlit caverns beyond.

  “Caves,” Tate whispered, remembering Michel’s words from the night before.

  With abandon, she once again splashed beneath the surface and stroked toward one of the archways. When her head popped out of the water, she rubbed her eyes, letting them adjust to the dimmer—but not completely dark—area. Beautifully quiet, the first cave was a picture of peace. The cavernous space of gray rock, accessorized by chunks of jeweled crystal that protruded randomly from its walls, surprised and awed Tate.

  After half an hour of exploring three more caves, Tate was pleasurably spent. She swam back out into the open sea, plunging deep, weighing the dangers of what might be lying in wait under the water with the sensations of release and joy that came with each dive. As she emerged from the Tyrhennian Sea, her feet once again sinking into the sleek, sun-warmed pebbles, Tate exhaled slowly, a newfound freedom on her breath. She pushed wet curls out of her face and headed back toward her now-sleeping cousins.

  Olivia lifted her head and squinted at Tate, who plopped onto a towel next to her. “How did you find the water, Tatiana?”

  “Beautiful,” she said. “The caves are amazing.”

  “You should not swim in those caves alone, Tatiana. There is danger.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said to Olivia, but she couldn’t help thinking that the lovely excursion was worth the risk. “Is there a legend about the caves?” she asked. “Something about Hercules?”

  Olivia scrunched up her face and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she said and laid her head facedown on her towel, silent for a moment. “Tonight we go to a club near Reggio to dance, okay?”

  Tate raised one eyebrow and swung her head in Olivia’s direction. A dance club? No one had mentioned anything about a dance club.

  “I’ll stay with Nattina,” she said, preferring to hang back with the underage sister.