From Sand and Ash(81)

“I love you, Eva,” he whispered, needing to explain his sudden fervor. “I love you so much. And I’ve wasted so much time.” He suddenly felt close to tears, as if the admission had unlocked something inside of him, letting it free. The ache was suddenly gone, and in its place was a swollen heart.

“And when the war is over, will you still love me?” she whispered in his ear, her voice thick with passion, heavy with need.

He knew what she was asking, and his mind tripped and went down, unable to move beyond the moment, this second, where he had her in his arms, the only thing in the whole world that he really wanted.

He closed his eyes, trying to find an answer, trying to make sense of it all, trying to hear God’s voice. Instead, he felt Eva’s fingers tracing his lips, his closed lids, the line of his cheekbone, the point of his chin. Instead of God’s voice, he heard Eva’s.

When the war is over, will you still love me?

In that moment, the realization crystallized, and his focus narrowed to the one truth that had come so plainly to his mind. She was the only thing in the world he really wanted. And not in the way most men want women. He didn’t want to assuage a need. He didn’t want to lose himself temporarily in her body. He wanted to live for her. Beyond the moment, beyond the war. Always.

He’d entered a place, or maybe he’d been walking toward it, or around it, all his life, but the dragons he’d once sought to slay were not the same. The dragons of lust and vanity and greed. The dragons of selfishness and ambition. The dragons of mortality and the need for power. Those dragons were gone, and in their place was unconditional love and a desire to sacrifice and submit, to lay down every need and ambition, for someone else. For Eva. The gospel of love and peace he’d suffered to impart and the God he’d struggled to serve were still the same. The difference was in Angelo.

He didn’t have to be immortal. He didn’t need to be a hero. He didn’t even want to be a saint. He simply wanted to be a good man worthy of Eva Rosselli. He just wanted Eva. He wanted her kisses and her eyes, her smiles and her laughter. He wanted his children in her womb and his mouth on her breasts. He wanted her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms cradling his head as he made love to her. He wanted her promises, her affection and her trust, her years and her secrets. He wanted her prayers and her pride, her tears and her troubles. He wanted Eva. And that was all.

He opened his eyes, and for a moment he could only breathe, sucking in the certainty that no longer eluded him.

Some things didn’t have to be hard.

“When this war is over, I will be yours, first, last, and always. And you will be mine.”

“Eva Bianco?” She smiled with trembling lips.

“Eva Bianco. In truth.”



“Are you awake?” Eva whispered.

Angelo’s eyes were closed, his breathing deep, and he didn’t answer. He was lying on his stomach, and Eva traced the line of his back but made herself stop at the dip of his waist. If she kept touching him, he would wake up, and he needed to sleep. The sheet clung to his hips and his arms were folded beneath his head in place of a pillow. His skin was dark against the white sheet, making her think of the pale sand and warm days on Maremma when he used to sleep on the beach in exactly the same way. She kissed his shoulder and laid her head against his back.

She was too happy to sleep. Too full. Too alive. Had she ever felt this alive? It was like a humming beneath her skin. Angelo had made love to her. Angelo loved her.

“Angelo loves me,” she said softly, wanting to hear the words, to make them known, if only to the silent walls. There were no sweeter words in the whole wide world.

“Yes. He does,” a groggy voice answered from above her head.

“Eva loves Angelo too,” she added, her lips curving around the words. She pressed another kiss to his skin.

“You should sleep a little. It will be morning soon,” he said gently.

The thought was like a pinprick to her balloon of joy. She closed her eyes and tried to push reality away, but it penetrated the cracks between her lids and found its way to her mouth, and before she knew it, she was giving voice to the sad truth.

“It will. And life will go on. We will have to leave this room. And we will be afraid again.”

Angelo rolled to his side carefully, and her head slid from his back to the bed. He pulled her up and into him, skin against skin, chest against chest, and Eva’s breath hitched in time with his.

“Are you afraid right now? Right this minute?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you hurting?” His eyes clung to hers, light eyes heavy with fatigue.

“No. My body is fine.” That wasn’t quite what he’d asked, but she knew what he meant. She was not in any physical pain.

“Are you warm?” His voice was soft.

She nodded. She was deliciously warm.

“Are you alone?”

“No. Are you . . . scolding me, Angelo?” she asked faintly.

“No.” He shook his head, eyes still searching hers. “No,” he repeated softly. “I just want, more than anything, to give you peace. To give you rest. To keep you safe.” He hadn’t told her if Santa Cecilia was safe or if his refugees had survived the night, but she knew he wouldn’t be with her now if they hadn’t.

“Will there ever be a time when people aren’t afraid? The whole world is groaning in agony, Angelo. Can you hear it? I can hear it. I can’t stop hearing it, and I’m so afraid. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”