Home > From Sand and Ash(10)

From Sand and Ash(10)
Author: Amy Harmon

“Are you calling me a little irritant?”

He laughed, unable to help himself. She had always made him laugh.

“Yes. I am. A beautiful irritant.”

“Keep it up, and I will steal your fake leg and you will have to hop back to the house.”

“You’re so heartless,” he said in mock horror.

“A heartless irritant.” She swiped at him and he blocked her easily, stealing her shell in the process.

Thunder belched through the sky once more, not nearly as polite and distant as it had been before. Eva and Angelo, still bickering good-naturedly, quickly dressed and gathered their few things. They weren’t quick enough, though, and with a solid crack, the swollen skies suddenly split above them. Rain peppered the sand, and Eva squealed. Angelo couldn’t run very well, and Eva wasn’t inclined to let him get drenched alone, so they looked around for immediate shelter.

Hand in hand they struggled across the sand toward the trees and the little fisherman’s shack that sat back from the shore. The lock was broken and the shack abandoned, though an old net and a rusty fishing pole still remained among the dust and the cobwebs.

Clothes clung to limbs, black hair to burnished cheeks, and they tumbled, laughing, into the shack, the damp walls and the earthy darkness making the space feel more like a medieval dungeon used for torture than a respite from the storm.

Eva picked up the pole in one hand and tossed Angelo the net, and within moments they were quarreling once more as they fenced, saying things like “En garde,” and “Feel my wrath,” and “Take that, fool!”

Eva made the mistake of lunging too deep and Angelo easily swiped her “sword” away.

“Surrender, knave!” he said with a sneering twist of his lips. His black curls were clinging to his forehead and his blue eyes danced with Eva as she sashayed around him, pretending she was a skilled swordsman. She was laughing and relaxed, the old Eva, and his heart softened as he looked into her grinning face.

She sensed the shift in his attention and she feinted, as if to kneel, only to step forward and grab at his arm, pivoting as if to throw him over her shoulder in a move that was more ancient wrestling than fencing. He dropped his net and pulled her against him aggressively, her back to his chest, his forearm resting firmly beneath her breasts, one large hand wrapped around her rib cage.

He had meant for it to be part of the game. Clearly, he hadn’t thought. His body hugged hers from his chest to his thighs, her hair brushed his face, her female scent tickled his nose, and his mouth was poised at the silky whorl of her ear, ready to demand her surrender.

They stood frozen for several long seconds, locked in the strange embrace, eyes closed, mouths slightly open, trying to breathe without movement, without sound, and growing lightheaded in the attempt. Eva’s hands had risen to Angelo’s arm when he pulled her to him, and she stood motionless against him, her hands gripping the hard length that held her hostage. She didn’t dare say his name, didn’t dare utter a sound. Surely, it would break the spell. Then she felt his lips move ever-so-softly against the lobe of her ear, skim the uppermost edge of her jaw, then travel back again. Eva resisted the sweet shudder that slid down her spine, but Angelo felt the tremor and his lips left her skin. But he didn’t pull away or loosen his arm.

Eva slowly turned her head, feeling his breath mark a path across her cheek as she raised her face and lifted her chin. Then it was her breath tickling his cheek and warming his lips. Again they paused, muscles tensed, straining to feel everything, to miss nothing, and still not cross any lines. Their eyes stayed closed as they neared that line, stood toe-to-toe, and then stepped over it, into each other.

Mouths touched. Pressed. Retreated. Brushed, retreated. Pressed, sought, then slid away. And still their eyes remained closed. Denying everything.

Eva turned as Angelo shifted, and the dance began again, the angle different, more direct, less accidental. Accidental. Innocent. Sweet. The words slipped through Angelo’s foggy mind, and he nodded slightly. Yes. That was it. Innocent.

With his mouth pressed against Eva’s, that slight nod lifted Eva’s full top lip, separating it from the lower one, and Angelo explored the space between them with an unintentional touch of his tongue. Unintentional. Innocent. Sweet. So incredibly sweet. Just like that kiss so long ago.

But the sweetness pulled him under like Camillo’s wine. Then he was drinking deeply, pulling every last drop from Eva’s mouth, unable to stop. It was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, and she cradled his face, letting him sip away, slip away, lost in the flavor, the texture, the heady heat of her mouth on his.

Then they opened their eyes.

Dark and heavy met blue and blazing, and Angelo ached to close his eyes again, even as he lifted his mouth and dropped his hands from her body.

“Eva,” he whispered, and his torment made her tremble.

“Again,” she pleaded, and her eyes begged. “Again, Angelo.”

“Madonna,” he breathed. “Madonna,” he pleaded. But the lovely Madonna, mother of his precious Jesus, couldn’t hold a candle to the madonna before him.

They moved as one, bodies coming back together, the renewed contact so welcome and wondrous that their sighs slid around them like a hushed hallelujah chorus. Then there was only pleasure and pressure, mouths and momentum, as one kiss grew and multiplied and became something new, something neither of them had known before.

Outside the storm abated, welcoming a rainbow of soft pastels reflected in silvery puddles that neither of them saw. Outside, Fabia called for them, telling them to come in for supper. But neither of them heard. Outside, the air chilled with the evening, but neither of them felt the cold. Outside, Camillo Rosselli worried, puffing on his pipe, wondering what the future would hold for the two young people who had always loved the other but didn’t belong together. And as their fires were banked, they both smelled the smoke.

They left the fisherman’s shack with their virginities intact, but they didn’t go inside to safety and sanity. Instead, they drifted up into the fragrant, rain-damp evergreen forest that stood sentry on one side of the vacation home, unwilling to part, unable to stop touching, to stop kissing, to walk away from each other and into the place where separation would surely invite guilt and regret, at least for Angelo.

When they finally parted and Eva tiptoed up to her room, drunk on love and dizzy with desire, smiling against the palm she pressed to her lips to keep from giggling, Angelo sat on the veranda and tried not to think at all. He too kept his hand pressed to his mouth, but it was not to keep from laughing. He could smell Eva on his fingers.

His body tightened all over again and his breaths grew painful. He was in exquisite agony. He had never known such pleasure, and not just in her body and her skin. Not just in her mouth and her sweetness. Not just in the way she touched him and made him tremble. It was more than that. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was joy.

He’d been warned about the dangers of the flesh. Seminarians were counseled extensively, cautioned endlessly, and threatened with their very souls when it came to bridling passions and denying every carnal impulse. But no one had told him he would be filled with this immeasurable joy. He felt close to tears, and it wasn’t simply because he’d just fallen into the snare every seminarian secretly dreads and simultaneously dreams about. It was love that made each touch feel like redemption and each kiss feel like rebirth. Not lust. Not pleasure. It was love that created joy.

He’d known for a long time that he loved Eva, but he had never admitted to himself that he loved her the way a man loves a woman. He had never allowed himself to ruminate on the idea. He’d locked it away the moment he’d decided to marry the church and forsake all others.

“Angelo?”

Angelo dropped his fingers from his mouth as if he’d been caught with his hand in a cash register. Camillo stepped out onto the veranda and looked around, obviously expecting Eva to be out there too. When he saw that she wasn’t, he eased himself into a chair to the right of Angelo and filled his pipe as if he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t late, though Angelo and Eva had missed dinner. Everyone else was still awake inside the house, and low murmurs and tinkling laughter filtered out into the loamy air. Angelo hoped no one had noticed the length of time he and Eva had spent alone.

Camillo puffed and purred, smoke billowing from his mouth in fragrant clouds. Angelo had always loved the smell of his pipe, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting the scent mingle with the salt and the sea, the evergreens and the rain, before he exhaled and then breathed in deeply once more, savoring the aroma.

“You might be our only hope, Angelo,” Camillo said after a time. Angelo had grown drowsy in the comfortable darkness, the inevitable adrenaline crash leaving him weak and loose-limbed.

“What do you mean, Camillo?” Camillo had never allowed Angelo to call him anything else.

“You know, you could marry Eva and take her to America. You are an American citizen. And if she were your wife, you could get her out of Italy. Out of Europe. You could make sure she is safe from what is coming.”

Angelo was so stunned he could only sit, staring off into the darkness like it held a forest full of jesters, waiting to laugh at Camillo’s incredible suggestion. He sat still for so long, with his face so blank, that Camillo leaned forward and peered into his eyes.

“She would never leave you,” Angelo said finally, offering the only response that came to his mind.

“Ha!” Camillo barked softly, and puffed again, slumping back in his chair. “I knew it.”

“You knew what, Babbo?” Angelo said, slipping and calling him by Eva’s pet name.

“I knew you wouldn’t pretend with me,” he said. “You love Eva. And she loves you. You are a priest and she is a Jew.”

“And you are a poet,” Angelo said mildly, though his heart was galloping.

Camillo laughed softly. “That I am. A great poet and philosopher. That is why I smoke this pipe. It gives me the look I desire.”

“I am not a priest yet,” Angelo murmured. It was a silly thing to say. He had spent nine years in the seminary. Nine years. And now, he was in the final months of his training. His ordination had been scheduled.

   
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