Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances
so long. What a waste—what a terrible waste that they’d never got past their bitter feud. She thought of Rocco and Dante and the inseparable bond between them—her brothers should be like that. They really should.
She stared at the space where Rocco should be lying. Stared at the untouched glass of water on the table beside it, at his watch beside that, and beside that …
The tiny battered leather-framed photograph of the golden haired cherub. It was gone.
She stared at the space where it should be—where he’d carefully placed it earlier. She’d hardly even dared to look in his direction when he’d sat on the edge of the bed, pulled it from his pocket and set it upright. Almost ritualistic, almost reverential. She’d felt the air seize up, as if some sacred event was happening.
Of course since then she’d run her mind over all sorts of possibilities. It definitely wasn’t Dante. He’d been six years old to Rocco’s eight when Rocco had been adopted. The child in the photograph was barely two or three. She wasn’t given to flights of fancy, but she’d hazard that the child was a blood relative. Maybe they’d been separated through adoption? Maybe that was way off the mark, but there was something that ate at him from the inside—something that caused those growling black silences, that haunted glazed look, his overt aggression.
He’d been like that tonight. She’d sensed it. Sensed it in the way he’d lain in bed, holding her after they’d both lost and found themselves in one another.
After he’d poured himself into her she’d felt an instinctive need to hold him, cradle him. But he’d pulled away, closed down. Lain on his back, staring unseeing at the black blanket of air. Lost.
She knew she should encourage him to talk, the way he had encouraged her. She also knew getting past the hellhound that guarded his innermost thoughts would be a Herculean task. But it was the least a friend could do. The least a lover would do.
And that was the dilemma that she was going to have to face. What was she to him? What was he to her? And even if she worked that out, what future was there for two people who lived thousands of miles apart? He might say he wanted her to stay on, but even if she stayed a few extra days—assuming she could negotiate that with her boss—what was going to happen at the end? How horrible if he suddenly tired of her and she felt she’d overstayed her welcome, like the last guest at a party.
Distance was be the one thing that would give her clarity. Of course she wanted to stay on—he was addictive, this life was heavenly—but it was all part of the ten-year fuse that had been lit when they’d first met. And she didn’t want to be blown to pieces once it finally exploded. She’d have to have this conversation with him. And before too much longer.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. Another message from Mark … another photograph. This time there was no mistake. Bride and groom. She dragged on the photo to enlarge it. The girl was beautiful, but with Danny that was nothing new. Whoever she was, and whatever she had, she’d hooked him. Danny looked … awestruck.
Wow. She had to show this to Rocco. Had to share her news.
She swung her legs out of bed, reached for a shirt and set off to find him along the cool, tiled hallway. At the far end she could see the eerie green glow from the courtyard pool. On the other side, the TV room was lit up, the flickering glare of the television screen sending lights and shadows dancing.
She took the long way—through the house rather than across the little bridge. The glass walls reflected light and made it hard to see anything.
But what she did see wounded her more than any torn lip.
He was sitting on a low couch, facing the screen. The light licked at the naked muscled planes of his body. One arm rested on the armrest of the couch, a whiskey tumbler full of liquor caught in his hand, and the other held something small, square—it had to be the photograph. He was staring at it, unsmiling, as a sitcom she recognised played out on the screen.
Parallel to the room, across the courtyard, separated from him by the illuminated water, the bridge and all that glass, she watched him. He didn’t move. Not a single muscle flickered with life. He sat as if cast in marble.
Finally he lifted the glass to his lips and sank a gulp of whiskey.
She didn’t need any close-up to see that he was upset. Her heart ached for him.
Through the glass rooms she went until she came alongside the doorway. She stood still.
‘Rocco,’ she said softly.
He knew she was there. She felt his sigh seep out into the room. He blinked and dipped his head in acknowledgement, then finally lifted his arm in a gesture she knew was an invitation to join him.
She moved, needing no further encouragement, and slid onto the couch, under his arm. He closed it round her and she laid her head on his chest.
His body was warm. He was always warm. She rubbed her face against him, absorbing him, scenting the faint odour of his soap and his sweat. The powerful fumes from the whiskey.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and drank. Less than earlier, but still enough for her to hear the harsh gulp in his throat as he swallowed. He put the glass down on the edge of the armrest and sat back, continued to hold her in the silence of the night.
‘I woke up. My phone’s been going off.’
He took another silent sip.
She spoke into his chest. ‘Looks as though Danny got married. In Dubai. Mark sent some pictures that are in the news over there. He says no one had any idea. Mum’s in a state.’
‘He’s a big boy,’ said Rocco.
What could she say to that? He was right. There was no way anyone would have hoodwinked Danny. He was far too smart.
‘I know, but I kind of wish he’d told us.’
‘What difference would it have made? Would you have gone?’
She shrugged her shoulders, incarcerated under his arm.
‘I might.’
The silence bled again. He took another sip.
‘Are you planning on sharing that whiskey?’
‘You want to drink to the happy couple?’
It wasn’t a snarl, but it wasn’t an invitation to celebrate, either. She pushed up from him but he didn’t look at her. His face, trained now on the television screen, was harsh, blank.
She reached out her fingers, gingerly threaded them through his fringe, softly swept it back from his brow.
‘I want you to be happy, Rocco.’
It was barely audible, but it was honest. Shockingly honest. And when he turned his hurt-hazed eyes to hers she began to realise how much she meant it.
‘Come on. Come back to bed,’ she said—as much a plea as an order.
She stood, reached for the tumbler, tried to take it out of his hand. And then her eyes fell on the leather-framed photo that he held in his other hand. He turned it then. Turned it round so that the plump-cheeked infant was staring up at him. He looked at it and his bleak, wintry gaze almost felled her. Then he turned it face down, lifted the glass and tipped his head back to drain the dregs.
‘Come on, Rocco. Please.’
He held his eyes closed as he breathed in, soul deep, then opened them and stared blankly at the screen.
Frankie turned to see the characters’ slapstick antics. They were trying to move a couch up a flight of narrow stairs—a scene she’d seen countless times before and one that always made her laugh. But not this time. Not in the face of all this unnamed pain.
She turned back to see the coal-black eyes trained back on the photograph.
‘If you want to talk or tell me anything …? God, Rocco,