From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

I wake to an empty bed.

Enzo f****d me for what seemed hours, forever, until I was slick and swollen, until my c**t was plump and needy against his fingers. Until I was begging for relief, my voice hoarse from my pent up need. And I couldn’t hold anything back—not my body’s responses, not my tears. Because I had decided to say goodbye.

But he didn’t let me speak. He began it all over again and finally when the sun was stretching its fingers to caress the night, he spooned me and let me sleep.

To be f****d and wanted.

To be held.

If I thought Joseph was the dangerous one, I was wrong.

My husband was just the wind which blew me to sail here, with Salvatore’s memories pulling me onward like I weighed nothing, until I arrived on the Sicilian shores. Silly that I was not afraid of the wind, or its force, because I didn’t realize that it was pushing me against a storm.

It’s only a matter of time before it breaks and takes me down.

Rising from the bed, I quickly dress in an outfit from my luggage and pack the few things still out as I try to find a reason for not only having had s*x with Enzo when I am so close to seeing Salvatore once more but for having fallen in love with him too.

Maybe it was the deception of Salvatore being away. Maybe it was the wine. Or perhaps the familiarity, the weird sense that I knew him from somewhere else.

Or it was just meant to be.

But I am not sure what to do with it now. With him, with us.

It seemed so right. It still feels right—and at the same time wrong! Especially since I learned that Salvatore is back in Sicily and I’m going to go see him today.

I ponder leaving Enzo a note, but decide against it, and hurry downstairs.

I bide my friends a farewell for now, hoping that I will not see them until nightfall.

My hopes, my love, my future is riding on the fact that Salvatore is going to react favorably to my arrival.

Flanked by three oceans—the Ionian, Tyrrhenian, and Mediterranean—Sicily is best known for white sand beautiful beaches of the north to the pebbly, windswept shores in the south and, of course, by Mount Etna, but all I want to see is Salvatore.

The short drive to a vineyard where he’s working today is lovely but I couldn’t retain much of the gorgeous passing scenery.

But when Mario’s driver stops the black sedan in front of a very large, very big, very old rural building, I gulp down the desire to order him to turn the car around and make his way back to Mario’s villa.

Seeing Salvatore again is something I have been dreaming of for quite some time, perhaps since the moment he had said goodbye back almost four years ago in England.

But I am suddenly afraid, very, very afraid…

Now is the time. I take in a deep breath as I climb up the steps that lead to the front door of the winery—Salvatore’s winery.

My palms damp, I reach for the knocker and rap it against the wooden door.

Everything about the building and its vineyard is charming and I am already in love. Gone is the coldness of the English countryside and the cold that has settled in my heart since the day Salvatore left.

Now, however, is the tale of how the rest of my life is to be—if he so wants.

One of the huge doors opens to a cavernous dark wood ceiling and handmade Sicilian terracotta flooring. I can see it is not a house, but more like a deposit building. A mix of a place for tasting, buying and selling, and stocking wine. A teenager stands there, eyeing me suspiciously. “Posso aiutarti?”

I do not know much Italian but I know she is asking if she can help me. I fumble over my words, “Salvatore. I am here to see Salvatore.”

She gives me a once over, no doubt noting the difference between my expensive attire and her simple but colorful clothes. “Salvatore Di Luca?”

I nod, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. “Grazie.”

She points to the right, in the direction of the vineyard, to the rows upon rows of vines I saw as we drove to the building.

I thank her and walk down the small dirt path around the side of the home, each step feeling as if my shoes are made of lead.

Part of me wants to turn and run back to the car, to take me back to where I am comfortable.

The other part of me wants to run the rest of the way down to Salvatore, down to the only man I have ever truly loved.

The property is quite larger than I imagined it would be.

I cross through a lot of rows, drawing odd glances from many men and a few women working the plants.

I smile shyly at an older woman and ask again, “Salvatore?”

She launches a string of words but pauses when she sees I am not understanding her and then makes clear gestures that I am to climb the slope a bit until reaching a single white house and a row of what I distinguish as olive trees.

It’s quite a walk and I am cursing my silk blouse and long skirt—and I am sweating—before I draw up short, spying a familiar figure in the distance.

A basket is at his feet, full of leaf clippings as he snips away at what looks like a very old olive tree, his shears gliding over the trunk surface as if he is a surgeon.

I watch as he frowns at the sight of a brown leaf, pulling it away carefully before discarding it in the basket.

He’s dressed as I remember seeing him for the first time, his pants dusty from kneeling in the dirt, his naked torso shining under the sun. His not-so-white-anymore linen shirt is discarded a few feet away, over another olive tree.

His broad shoulders strain against the repetitive movements of the scissors. The sweat glistening over his arms, shoulders, and back muscles make him the perfect model for a sculptor and I feel a rush of emotions as I watch him work.

I am here and he is standing before me. All I have to do is call his name.

Though as I open my mouth to do so, fear swamps me again and robs me of my voice.

What if he tells me to go home? What if he is disgusted by the sight of me? All are true fears of mine. I have pined away for this man for so long… I think that he has moved on from our affair.

But there is only one way I will find out. “S-Salvatore.”