There was another way; someone who had brought him joy in even his darkest times. Carina. He stepped out of his mother’s kitchen and looked across the hills in the direction of the DiGratia’s house. Dottore DiGratia’s house. His chest tightened with hatred and love so intermixed he couldn’t untangle them. But then, he had always believed the two were not opposites, but only a hair’s breadth from one another. Like pain and pleasure.
He walked farther out into the morning, damp with mist but promising warmth. As he stood, the light intensified, and between the hills the yellow yolk of sun slid onto the plate of the sky. Was Carina awake to see it? “A thousand miles I wanted you to come and beg my forgiveness.” What if he had? That thought was tearing him apart.
His pride had not allowed it. He could not have run after her like some lovesick whelp. He had wanted her to come back and find him waiting. Chase after her, beg her forgiveness? Beh! But if he had . . .
He closed his eyes, let the early sunrays warm their tired lids. The night before he hurt the Chinaman and the night he learned for certain Dottore DiGratia had let his papa die had both been entirely sleepless.
His feet started toward the DiGratias’. He had left there swearing to break off with them for good. How could he face the doctor without hating him again? How could he be near Carina knowing she loved this imposter instead of her own dear Flavio? If she would only stop and see him as she once had. He must make her see. He first went to his retreat and slung his mandolin across his back.
Then he went to the stable, saddled his stallion, from Angelo DiGratia’s own stock, and started at a canter for Carina’s house. The horse was frothed when he leaped down and brought it to the trough. Its hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard brought Tony out to greet him.
“Good morning, Flavio. The old man is awake and as sensible as any Chinese. Papa is sending him back to town this morning.”
Flavio felt a keen relief, but only shrugged. “Maybe he won’t sweep when a man is making his shot.”
Tony frowned but said, “Mamma is making sausages and eggs and bread. I just came from the kitchen. You’ll stay?”
Again Flavio shrugged. “I want to see Carina.”
Tony noted the mandolin knowingly. “She’s awake. I saw her coming from the bathhouse.”
“Will you ask her to come out?” He looked around the courtyard, the small fountain barely trickling with the lack of recent rainfall, the slender almond tree almost past its bloom, the stone troughs and benches.
Too public. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Tia Franchesca, Carina’s mamma, would watch every word, every gesture. “Ask her to meet me at the gazebo.” That small circular retreat between the vineyards and the hay fields would suit his needs well.
“I’ll tell her.”
Flavio led his horse to the railed octagonal gazebo and tethered him to graze on the spring grasses shooting up around it. He climbed the three steps and circled the open wooden structure. Each side opened on beauty.
Flavio appreciated his father’s open pastures dotted with cattle and sheep. But he loved Dottore DiGratia’s groomed vineyards and fields, his gardens and orchards, the orange trees heavy with fruit all year. He wanted a stock in this farm as Nicolo had. But if that were all he wanted, he could have had Nicolo’s share.
He took the mandolin from his back and stroked the strings, then hummed a cantilena, adding his own words as he saw Carina approaching. Her face was shadowed, and it broke his heart to see it. The song took a melancholy tone as she climbed the stairs. “Tesora bella, my heart must sing in your presence. . . .”
She frowned. “Tony said you wanted to talk to me.”
His fingers lightened on the strings. How many times they had sat together in this very place as the evening stars came out and his hand made a sweet melody. “I remember your face in the star~light, the curve of your lips when you smiled. . . .”
“Stop it, Flavio. What do you want?”
He stopped strumming, caught her hand, and drew her to him. “You know what I want. Carina mia, t’amo. Ti voglio bene.” Yes, he loved her. She must know it, must hear it in his voice, his fingertips. Only her love would heal him, take away the pressure that would destroy him. He felt her shaking. She would see; she would relent. She would love him again.
She looked up into his face, but with pity. It was like a knife severing his thin restraint. “I’m sorry, Flavio. I truly am.”
The last threads that held him together snapped. “No!” He yanked the mandolin from his body and smashed it into the post, splintering wood and mother of pearl in a strident wail.
She cried out and gripped her hands together. “Please.”
But he spun and slapped her across the face. Then, hand stinging, he leaped over the stairs and yanked the stallion’s reins free. He threw himself onto its back, numb to Carina’s crying, calling out to him. She was sorry? Not so sorry as she would be. No, not so sorry yet.
He kicked the horse, driving him through the softened fields and vineyards of his neighbors to the empty hills beyond. Insult spurred him like a brand in his flesh. He had put it all into place. Hoping he would not need to follow through, he had nonetheless prepared. Giocco should have done his part; yes, certainly he would have done his part, for Flavio had paid him well. He rode harder now, the horse laboring beneath him. Flavio felt the animal’s strain as fierce as his own, but he kept kicking the flanks, eating up the ground that stood between him and his purpose. He reached the quarry but circled around, coming to it from the top of the hill behind.
Only a few men were beginning their work below. But he knew Quillan Shepard would be among them. Giocco had told him the man came early and stayed late. Flavio dismounted and searched for the bundle Giocco promised to leave for him, under the rock that looks like the Virgin. Flavio saw the tapering formation and searched its feet. Yes, there it was, a bundle in oilcloth.
Carefully he lifted and unwrapped it. A stick of dynamite. He balanced it in his hands, its fuse trailing over his fingers. He’d never held destruction before. His hands were made to create. But no longer. Nothing but the destruction of that man could satisfy him now.
And so he waited, lying at the top of the hill until he saw Quillan Shepard making his solitary climb up, his wagon pulled by two caramel-colored Clydesdale horses, a chestnut, and a black. Fine animals, a good strong wagon, clattering more with an empty bed than it would full of stone. And the driver, Carina’s lover, her husband, sitting atop it like a king.
Flavio’s heart pumped thunderously. Could he actually do it? And how? Quillan must be on the wagon, not have time to leap free and run. It must look like an accident, like a mischarge of his own explosives. He must have some with him to dislodge the face near the top where Giocco said he worked.