Omerta - Mario Puzo [123]
“I think you know why I’m here,” Astorre replied.
Grazziella smiled. “A strong young man like yourself? Of course! And I will take you to her right away. She is a joy to behold, this Rose of yours. And she has brought pleasure to everyone she has met.”
Knowing of Rosie’s sexual appetite, Astorre wondered for just a moment if Grazziella was trying to tell him something. But he quickly caught himself. Grazziella was far too proper to say such a thing, and too Sicilian to allow such impropriety to occur under his watchful eye.
Her villa was only minutes away. When they reached it, Grazziella called out, “Rose, my dear, you have a visitor.”
She was wearing a simple blue sundress with her blond hair tied back at the neck. Without her makeup, she looked younger and more innocent than he remembered.
She stopped when she saw him, surprised. But then she cried out, “Astorre!” She ran to him, kissed him, and began talking excitedly. “I’ve already learned to speak the Sicilian dialect fluently. And I’ve learned some famous recipes, too. Do you like spinach gnocchi?”
He took her to Castellammare del Golfo and spent the next week showing her around his village and the countryside. Each day they swam, talked for hours, and made love to each other with the comfort that only comes with time.
Astorre watched Rosie carefully to see if she was getting bored with him or restless with the simple life. But she seemed truly at peace. He wondered if, after all they’d been through together, he could ever really trust her. And then he wondered whether it was smart to love any woman so much that you would trust her completely. He and Rosie both had secrets to protect—things he did not wish to remember or share. But Rosie knew him and still loved him. She would keep his secrets, and he would keep hers.
There was only one thing that still troubled him. Rosie had a weakness for money and fancy gifts. Astorre wondered if she would ever be satisfied with what any one man could offer her. He needed to know.
On their last day together in Corleone, Astorre and Rosie rode their horses through the hills, flying over the countryside until dusk. Then they stopped in a vineyard, where they picked grapes and fed each other.
“I can’t believe I’ve stayed so long,” Rosie said as they rested together in the grass.
Astorre’s green eyes glistened intensely. “Do you think you could stay a little longer?”
Rosie looked surprised. “What did you have in mind?”
Astorre got down on one knee and extended his hand. “Maybe fifty or sixty years,” he said with a sincere smile. In his palm was a simple bronze ring.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
Astorre looked for some sign of hesitation in Rosie’s eyes, some mild disappointment with the quality of the ring, but her response was immediate. She threw her arms around his neck and showered him with kisses. Then they fell to the ground and rolled together in the hills.
One month later, Astorre and Rosie were married in one of his citrus groves. Father Del Vecchio performed the ceremony. Everyone from both villages attended. The hill was carpeted with purple wisteria, and the smell of lemons and oranges perfumed the air. Astorre was dressed in a white peasant suit, and Rosie wore a pink gown of silk.
There was a pig on a spit roasting over red coals and warm ripe tomatoes from the fields. There were hot loaves of bread and freshly made cheese. Homemade wine ran like a river.
When the ceremony was over and they had exchanged vows, Astorre serenaded his bride with his favorite ballads. There was so much drinking and dancing that the festivities lasted until sunrise.
The following morning, when Rosie awakened, she saw Astorre readying their horses. “Ride with me?” he asked.
They journeyed all day until Astorre found what he was looking for—Villa Grazia. “My uncle’s secret paradise. I spent my happiest times here as a child.”
He walked behind the house to the garden, with Rosie following. And finally they came upon his olive tree, the one that had grown from the pits he planted as a young boy. The tree