reading and writing exercises, then clean up the kitchen while he finished. He would wolf down a plate of the day’s pasta while he wrote, and tonight, nothing was left of his favorite dish, spaghetti a cacio e pepe, spaghetti with pecorino Romano cheese and pepper.
Elisabetta approached the table, and Marco’s head was bent over his practice sheet. He had on a wool sweater with his slacks, and his dark, thick hair caught the light from the fixture above the table. He concentrated mightily, squeezing the pencil and holding his tongue to the side, like he used to when he was in school.
“How’s it going?” Elisabetta asked, sitting opposite him.
“I just finished.”
“Show me.”
Marco turned his practice sheet around, so she could read it. The letters were oversized but legible:
MARCO TERRIZZI
“Bravo!” Elisabetta said, delighted. “You did it!”
Marco smiled, with obvious pride. “I took too long, didn’t I?”
“No, that doesn’t matter. It’s not a race.”
Marco snorted. “No, a race is easy. Writing is torture. I did my other practice sheet, too.”
“Already? Let me see.”
“Hold on.” Marco slid a piece of paper from his backpack, then set it down in front of her. In his oversized and imperfectly formed letters, he had written:
MARRY ME, ELISABETTA
She gasped. “Marco, what’s this?”
“Should I read it to you? I can. My mother helped me.” Marco’s expression grew serious, his dark eyes earnest. “Elisabetta, I love you and I always have. I know that Sandro was your first choice, and I loved him, too.”
Elisabetta felt a wave of grief and guilt, as if she were betraying Sandro even to listen to Marco’s proposal, but she didn’t interrupt him.
“I admit, in the old days, I used to hate being second best to anyone, even him. But that’s not true anymore. That was ego and pride, not love. None of that matters now. I don’t mind being your second choice, if in the end, I get to be your husband.”
Elisabetta felt so many emotions she couldn’t sort them. Her heart responded to his words. So much had happened since the first time he had asked her to marry him, at the orange garden. She had chosen Sandro over him, and she was carrying Sandro’s child, though she wasn’t showing yet. She felt embarrassed, having no idea how to tell him about the baby.
Elisabetta braced herself. “Listen, there’s something you don’t know—”
“I know that you’re pregnant.”
“What, how?”
“I’ve been looking at you since you were little. I see the changes. Your dress is tight around the waist, and your face looks fuller, in the cheeks and chin.” Marco reached for her hand, caressing her fingers. “You think I couldn’t tell? I can tell. I’ve been looking at you your whole life.”
Elisabetta didn’t know what to say. She felt ashamed, but also seen, and understood. “It’s Sandro’s.”
“Of course it is, cara. I remember you were with him that night. You told me.” Marco smiled softly. “I know it won’t be easy, so soon after losing him, but we can help each other. We both lost him, and we both loved him. That’s what I’ve been thinking, and it’s helping me. It gives me strength, and hope, and a future.”
Elisabetta felt her heart fill with happiness. “But would it bother you to raise Sandro’s baby?”
Marco squeezed her hand, meeting her gaze directly. “I want to raise Sandro’s baby. There’s nobody better than you and me to raise this baby.”
Elisabetta felt speechless. Marco had always been that way, surprising her, and now he seemed more mature, even insightful.
“Elisabetta, isn’t this what Sandro would have wanted? For you and me to get married, to love each other, and to raise his baby as our own?” Marco’s eyes filmed, his expression soft, but urgent. “I promise you, I will love his child as I loved Sandro. I love the baby in his honor.”
The emotion on Marco’s face was raw, and Elisabetta felt as if he were opening his heart and soul to her.
“And you know what else I think, Elisabetta? In every relationship, there’s one who waits. Once I told you that I would have waited forever for you, but I wouldn’t have, back then. I was impatient. Proud. Cocky.”
Elisabetta smiled, surprised that Marco could acknowledge as much.
“Well, I’m different now, and everything’s different now. I feel different, inside. It broke me, all of it. I lost my brother, my father, my best friend—hell, Elisabetta, I lost a war. I was wrong about Mussolini, and about so many things. It humbled me.” Marco rose, walked to her,