She paused, opened her jewelry box, and fished out the engagement ring. She slipped the diamond on her finger and turned her hand this way and that, watching the facets catch the light. It was lovely, and even more than the ring, she felt moved by Marco leaving her the notebook, this morning. That simple act showed her that he truly understood her.
Elisabetta made a decision. She picked up her purse and slipped the ring inside, just as she heard knocking downstairs on the front door. She flew from the bedroom and downstairs, hurried through the living room, and opened the door to find Marco in his uniform, smiling and holding a single red rose.
“Happy birthday, cara!” Marco presented her with the rose.
“Thank you, it’s lovely!”
“As are you!” Marco kissed her on both cheeks, then embraced her, and Elisabetta loved the warm sensation of being in his arms again, breathing in the smell of his familiar aftershave.
“Thank you for the notebook, too. That was very sweet of you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. There will be another gift with dessert, too. Shall we go?”
“Yes,” Elisabetta answered, setting her rose down, and they left together, walking hand in hand. She felt so happy, and Via Fiorata had never looked prettier, with jasmine, pink-and-white oleander, and red geraniums blooming in windowboxes. The air was refreshing, and the late-day sun bronzed the small houses of mint green and melon stucco.
On impulse, Elisabetta stopped under a fragrant bower of wisteria at the end of the street. “Marco, I have something to say.”
“What?” Marco turned to her with a smile.
“I love you, and I’m ready to get married.” Elisabetta heard the words coming out of her mouth, and they sounded exactly right. She dipped her hand into her purse, withdrew the ring, and handed it to him. “Will you put this on my finger?”
“Of course!” Marco’s dark eyes filmed, and he broke into a huge grin. He accepted the ring and slid it onto her finger. “Elisabetta, will you marry me?”
“Yes, I will!” Elisabetta laughed, giddy, and Marco embraced her and kissed her gently.
“Now we can celebrate your birthday and our engagement. I’m so happy!”
“Me, too!” Elisabetta slid her hand around Marco’s back, and he slid his around hers, as they resumed walking.
“Hold up the ring. Let me see it.”
Elisabetta extended her hand, wiggling her finger, and the little diamond twinkled in the sunshine. “It looks like a star, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
Suddenly their attention was drawn by an older, ginger-haired man weaving toward them. She recognized him as one of her father’s old drinking buddies, who had been at his funeral. He was obviously inebriated and his unfocused gaze kept shifting from her to Marco and back again. He was poorly dressed, with coarse features and a nose marked by broken capillaries.
“You!” The ginger pointed at Elisabetta, his brow furrowing. “You’re Ludovico D’Orfeo’s daughter, aren’t you? You look like him!”
“Why, yes,” Elisabetta answered, surprised. She had no idea why the ginger seemed angry at her. “Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t recall your name.”
“But I know yours! Your father called you Betta. Look at you now!” The ginger scowled. “If your father were alive, he would be ashamed of you!”
“What? Excuse me, sir. Who are you?”
Marco frowned. “Don’t talk to her that way, friend.”
The ginger snorted. “I’m not your friend. I don’t want you to know me, and I don’t want to know you. I know all I need to know by your uniform.”
“Then you should call me brother, if you’re loyal to Italy and Il Duce.”
“Those are two very different matters! Dare I say more? Will you beat me? Ludovico hated your ilk for what you’ve done to our country!” The ginger turned to Elisabetta, his eyes blazing with drunken intensity. “The Fascists beat your father without mercy! They stomped on his hands! They broke all his fingers! Yet today you’re with a filthy Blackshirt!”
Elisabetta recoiled, appalled. “No, no, that’s not right. That’s not how he broke his hands. He was in a bicycle accident—”
“Yes, it is! I knew him then. The Fascists did it, but he didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want you in danger from those thugs! Now you’re in bed with one!”
Elisabetta gasped.
Marco stepped to the ginger. “Sir, move along and I’ll forget you insulted my fiancée.”