Silence Is Golden (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s early on a sunny September morning, and I throw open the windows to let in some fresh air. I found a mop and bucket here, so today I’m going to clean the house and make it shine. I start by shaking out the two rugs in the courtyard and then sweep the floors. I clean the furniture with a rag and some soap, then carefully wash the bathroom. I pay special attention to the beautiful enamel bathtub, because a long, hot bath awaits when I’m done cleaning. I vigorously scrub the kitchen table and the oven. Then I empty the cabinets and clean each of them thoroughly. I wash all the dishes and pots and even clean the cans of tea and sugar. I then set to the windows with a big bucket of soapy water. The large window in the living room proves a challenge at first, but in the end, even that is shining. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s cleaning a house.

Eventually I find myself wandering through the rooms, breathing in their clean scent. But instead of feeling satisfied, I feel as though none of this makes sense. What am I doing here by myself? What am I doing in this house that isn’t mine, far from the only city I’ve ever known, far from my family, or at least what’s left of it? I fill the bathtub with hot water, then climb in, sinking into the water until it’s up to my chin. I tell myself that I had no choice, that without my mother, it didn’t make any sense to stay in that house. I had to save myself, and I was right to escape. This last thought finally appeases me. My mother’s face fades back into the swirling fog in my mind, and the knot in my throat melts. I think about the blond carpenter and imagine having the courage to enter his shop and ask him to build me a bookshelf, and I slowly relax.

After finishing my bath and getting dressed, I wander through my spotless house and realize that I have nothing more to do. I’m losing time. Should the ineffable Ms. Kohler decide that she can use her computer without me, I’ll have to find another solution to my job problem, but that won’t be easy. I feel like a foreigner here, and I get the feeling that people are wary of me. But what other choice do I have? I must at least try. I decide to wait until the afternoon since it’s almost midday and the shops will be closing for lunch. So after having something to eat, I go for a walk in the woods.

By now I know the way, and I head straight for my stream. It’s silly, I know, but it seems as if the water is talking to me, telling me that everything will be fine, one way or another. I decide to believe the water’s message. Lost in thought, I somehow find myself back in front of my house. Instead of taking the path that leads to the main road, however, I walk along a tree-lined path leading into the woods. It’s so beautiful that I decide to continue following it, even though it’s leading me farther away from home. By the time I consider where I am, I catch a glimpse of the end of the path. It has taken me directly into the village, practically across from the church. I’ve stumbled upon another way to get here, and now even this seems like a sign.

By now I’m determined to find a job. I traipse up and down the streets in search of shops where I could make myself useful. I’m again struck by the realization that I don’t know anyone here, but I summon my courage and do my best to ignore the negative thoughts that threaten to bring me down. My red hair, which I see reflected in a shop window, certainly isn’t helping me to blend in. Maybe I should dye it, or let it grow so I can tie it up in a manner that screams “I’m a good girl just looking for a husband.” Perhaps it would be easier to find a husband than a job. But I’m not looking for a husband. I don’t want one, ever. I don’t want to become a slave like my mother.

The sudden flash of anger that overwhelms me at the thought of my mother’s lot in life makes me pick up my pace, and I almost miss the last shop on the street corner, a florist. I stop. I love flowers, but only when they’re growing out of the earth. I can’t stand that cut flowers are destined to die prematurely. Even houseplants bother me, with their roots trapped inside cramped pots. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I am in desperate need of an income. Determined, I enter the store. There’s no help-wanted sign, but I decide to try anyway.

Inside, the scent of flowers is almost suffocating. It’s expansive inside despite the modest entryway. The room is dotted with potted plants and bouquets of flowers in big iron buckets. On the far side of the room, a woman in her thirties is arranging a bouquet behind a counter. I smile, and she gives me the famous Bren nod. There are three bouquets of different-colored roses on the counter, and she seems to be deciding which of the three would go best with the blue flowers she’s holding. I think the flowers in her hand are gentians, but I’m not really sure. My late aunt was obsessed with flowers and knew them all, and she told me once that the blue flowers on her dining room table were gentians. They’re pretty much the only flowers, besides roses and daisies, whose name I remember.

“Those gentians are beautiful,” I venture. “I think they’d look great with the red roses. Two bold colors.”

Much to my disbelief, the woman smiles.

“I never thought of that. I usually complement dark colors with light tones. Blue flowers and white roses, for example.”

“That’s what is most commonly seen.” I agree. “Want to try something new?”

She looks at the flowers in her hands and replies, “Sure, let’s try it.”

She quickly gathers together a bunch of blue gentians and red roses, then assesses the bouquet.

“What do you know. You’re right,” she says finally.

Bingo!

“It’s an odd combination, but it’s eye-catching,” she adds. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I say, trying to figure out how to ask if I could work here.

In the meantime, another woman enters the store and approaches the counter.

“Emma, I need a bouquet of flowers.”

“What for, Teresa?”

“I’m having my knitting club over, and I want something to put on the dining room table. Something that’s ready to go.”

I look around the shop, and without even glancing at the customer, I know that I’ve seen her before. She’s the other woman from the supermarket, the one who was chatting with the woman from the carpenter’s. Middle-aged, dyed hair, old-fashioned clothes. I take a few steps away from the counter, pretending to be interested in a potted plant. I don’t want the woman to remember me.

“How about this one?” Emma proposes, offering her
my
bouquet.

“That looks ridiculous! What an eyesore.”

“You said you wanted a prearranged bouquet. You can’t help but notice this.”

“Do you think so? Perhaps . . .”

“And it’s an original,” the florist adds. “You’d be the first to do something so bold,” she says, winking at me.

Pairing blue and red flowers is their idea of bold?

The woman giggles in delight. “All right, I’m sold. I’ll take it!”

Emma is pretty smart. Finally, some liveliness in this sleepy town.

While she wraps the bouquet, Emma shoots me a knowing look, and I smile. After paying and gathering up her strange bouquet, the other woman leaves, but not before giving me a look that makes it clear that she remembers me too. Damn it.

“Okay,” Emma says. “Now you can tell me what you want.”

I can’t help but admire her frankness.

“I’m looking for a job,” I answer.

“What do you know about flowers?”

I take a moment to answer. “Practically nothing, but I have a real knack for art.”

She laughs. “You’re spunky, aren’t you?”

“Well, you did sell that bouquet I helped you with,” I brag.

“My business sense made that sale, thank you very much.”

“Okay, you’re right,” I admit. “But could we figure something out? I’ll do whatever you need. I’m used to hard work.”

She remains silent, tidying up the counter.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says finally. “Help me out today. Then tomorrow I’ll tell you if you can stay. All right?”

“Sure!”

We spend the rest of the afternoon creating bouquets. I move plants from one part of the store to another. And I clean and remove cobwebs. When Emma finally sends me home, I’m exhausted.

On my way home, I reflect on my day and realize that Emma doesn’t need any help at the store. What she needs is some company, someone to chat with during the day. I’d be a great choice, in my opinion. I’m not from around here, so I won’t go around spilling her secrets. We’re almost the same age. And as everyone in Bren probably already knows, I’m from a city, so I seem a bit more cosmopolitan than Emma, which she might appreciate.

It’s almost dark, but I decide to take the forest path instead of the main road. I already know that this path will become my favorite. The sky is clear today, so I enjoy the walk and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Autumn is fast approaching, though it’s not really cold yet. I realize I’m not used to cold weather. Lost in my thoughts, a sudden noise makes me jump. It’s the sound of a twig breaking under someone’s foot. I spin around, but I don’t see anyone.

I’m not a coward, but all the same, I walk faster. As soon as I spot my house, I rush to unlock the door. Once I’m safely inside, I peek out into the woods, and I see a flash of blond hair disappear behind a grove of trees. I can’t help but hope to meet the owner of that hair. Smiling to myself, I close the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

I’m starting to get used to my new bed and the sounds of the house, and I slept really well last night. Perhaps it’s because Emma gave me hope for a job, which, for the moment, is all I really need. So today I woke up full of joy, and I make sure I arrive at the flower shop early.

Once I’m inside, I find two cups, a teapot, and a tray with muffins on the counter. Emma soon appears.

“Good thing you showed up before the tea got cold,” she says with a smile. “This can be our morning ritual, now that you’ll be working here.”

“Thanks!” I start pouring the tea. “I’ll take care of lunch, housekeeping, even deliveries if you want. Thank you. Really,” I say sincerely.

“What are you thinking for lunch? There’s a café nearby that makes great sandwiches.” Emma smiles at me. “But I won’t be paying you much, seeing as you don’t know anything about flowers. Consider yourself lucky to be my apprentice.”

“I won’t let you down.”

We both have a productive morning. Emma teaches me some basic flower arranging, and I end up selling four of my bouquets. Around noon, my new employer asks me to go pick up lunch, as I had promised I would. She gives me money and says that I should just tell Benedetto that Emma will have her usual. She recommends the prosciutto and cucumber on rye for me.

“All the sandwiches are excellent, though, thanks to Linda, Benedetto’s wife,” she adds.

I realize that the café Emma’s mentioning must be the one I saw the other day and that Benedetto must be the guy with the nice smile. I’m happy to go. I’m looking forward to meeting him. It takes me five minutes to get to the café, and when I arrive, it’s full of customers. A young woman with a red apron is taking orders.

Several heads turn to look at me, and I glance around to see if I recognize anyone. I see the guy from the tobacco store and the woman who works at the post office, but I’m glad I don’t see Teresa or her friend. I hopefully look for the blond man, but no such luck.

Emma told me to grab sandwiches, but I also see dishes filled with what looks like a delicious soup on some of the tables. The room is so full of chatter and laughter that I wonder where all these people have been hiding until now. As I make my way to the counter, the smell of food makes my stomach grumble. I didn’t know I was so hungry. I pause in front of the sandwiches lined up in the glass case, fascinated by the incredible assortment before me. There’s a wide range of types and colors of bread, with combinations such as red tomatoes peeking out from white mozzarella in between two slices of dark bread and green lettuce leaves protruding from a sandwich like flower petals. They’re almost too pretty to eat.

“Well, my dear, are you going to choose one, or just look at them?” a voice asks.

I raise my head and meet the eyes of the nice man who smiled at me two days before, and the smile he gives me now is equally warm and cheerful.

“Hi,” I say, smiling back. “I’m Emma the florist’s new assistant.”

“There’s no need to specify which Emma—there’s only one in this town. The best one!”

I laugh. This must be Benedetto, the café owner. No one would dare speak so loudly unless they were the ruler of their kingdom.

“I already know what Emma wants, but what would you like?”

All the delectable things in front of me make me want to try everything, but I decide to follow Emma’s advice. I ask Benedetto for a prosciutto and cucumber sandwich on rye.

“Emma recommended that, eh? It’s her second favorite, after the corned beef. We’ll make one for you because we’ve already sold out of our premade ones.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll choose another one.”

“Don’t be silly. My wife, Linda, will be happy to prepare her famous sandwich for a new friend. We need some young people around here. Welcome!”

“Thank you,” I say, blushing.

I notice that the people around us have lowered their voices, perhaps so they don’t miss any of my conversation with Benedetto. I don’t mind if they eavesdrop, as I hope it will help lessen their distrust. Benedetto disappears into the back room and returns a few moments later, accompanied by a blond woman with streaks of gray in her hair and beautiful blue eyes. She hands me two sandwiches rolled up in brown paper, and her smile warms my heart.

“What’s your name, dear?” she asks.

“Emilia.”

“A beautiful name. I’m Linda. Welcome to Bren.”

“Thank you so much. Really.”

“And I’m Benedetto,” her husband says, holding out a huge hand to shake.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“I do hope you’ll come back,” Linda responds.

“Absolutely. Thanks again.”

The other customers part to allow me to leave. It seems more like a gesture of courtesy rather than isolation. Benedetto is clearly an important guy around town. Just as I’m about to leave, I almost bump into the woman from the carpenter’s. She stares at me contemptuously. What on earth could I have done to deserve such a dirty look? I learn from Benedetto’s booming greeting that her name is Dora. I don’t like her name, and I don’t like her.

I walk home through the forest tonight, hoping to again glimpse that flash of blond hair, but I don’t hear any noises behind me. It was probably just a coincidence that I saw him. I’ve got to stop imagining things. I’m alone in this village with almost no money, and practically everyone seems to view me with suspicion. I’ve got to focus on the things that really matter and stop fantasizing.

Today Emma teaches me how to repot a grown plant and how to make cut flowers last longer. We chat while we work, and I learn that Emma is separated and has a thirteen-year-old daughter named Giorgia who has no intention of staying in Bren for the rest of her life.

“Does she know what she wants to do?” I ask.

“Right now she just studies a little, listens to music at full blast, and obsesses over Aris the carpenter.”

At the word
carpenter
, millions of lightbulbs flash in my head. It must be him. He’s just the kind of guy who could make a thirteen-year-old crazy. The fact that he has the same effect on a twenty-six-year-old is a detail that is probably best kept to myself.

“Aris . . . That’s an unusual name.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty unusual,” she says, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t noticed yet? Well, I guess I’m not surprised. He’s always in his shop, and if he comes out, it’s only to go into the forest to draw. He’s a very unique guy. The silent type. But the girls go crazy for him with his blond hair and blue eyes and his air of mystery.”

“Doesn’t he have any friends?”

“Not that I know of. He goes to the bookstore sometimes, but I doubt that he’s friends with Helga. Even she’s more sociable than him.”

I’m about to ask her more about Aris, but a customer enters, and I decide not to bring it up again after he leaves. I don’t really want Emma to know that I’m a member of the Aris fan club.

Later, Giorgia stops by after school. She’s a very pretty girl, with long, curly brown hair and green eyes. She immediately greets me, without a hint of shyness.

“Hey! You must be Emilia.”

“And you must be Giorgia,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, and she squeezes it, clearly flattered by such an adult gesture. She looks like she can’t wait to grow up.

“Where are you from, Emilia?”

“From the South. Abruzzo.”

“Then what are you doing here? I’d run away if I could.” She giggles and casts a sideways glance at her mother.

“Well,” I say, turning to look at the mountains through the window. “It’s a beautiful place.”

“Yeah, but it’s so boring,” she replies. “Nothing ever happens around here.”

“And that’s just as well.” Emma intervenes. “Don’t you know the saying that no news is good news?”

Giorgia rolls her eyes and then winks at me.

“Anyway, where would you go if you left, huh?” Emma continues.

“Nowhere, Mom. Relax. I was joking.”

“Besides, you’re not going anywhere as long as Aris is here.”

Giorgia doesn’t argue. “You’re right, he’s the
only
reason I’m still here,” she laughingly shouts, and quickly escapes Emma’s playful swat. At thirteen, she already has the ease of a woman. At twenty-six, I still have all the insecurities of a teenager.

The last few days, I’ve done nothing but work and wander around the village, secretly hoping to run into Aris. I’ve occasionally thought I heard the sound of footsteps following me in the forest, but whenever I turned around, no one was there. Perhaps I’m starting to imagine things because I so desperately want to run into him again. In the meantime, Emma and I continue to confide in each other, although I’m careful to listen more than I talk. She tells me about her former husband, whom she married because she was pregnant with Giorgia, and how he left her to go live in the city when Giorgia was very young.

“I don’t miss him one bit,” she says. “I don’t need a man. They just boss you around, take advantage of your work, and have fun in bed like there’s nothing better to do.”

Oh God, I hope that’s not true.