Кристин Ханна - The Four Winds

Rafe came down the steps and moved in beside his parents.

Standing in the glare of the headlights, the Martinelli family stared at her in what could only be described as horror.

“Your son took advantage of my daughter,” Papa said.

Mr. Martinelli frowned. “How do you know—”

“Papa,” Elsa whispered. “Please don’t…”

Rafe stepped forward. “Els,” he said. “Are you okay?”

Elsa wanted to cry at that small kindness.

“It can’t be true,” Mrs. Martinelli said. “He’s engaged to Gia Composto.”

“Engaged?” Elsa said to Rafe.

His face turned red. “Last week.”

Elsa swallowed hard and nodded matter-of-factly. “I never thought you … you know. I mean, I understand. I’ll go. This is for me to deal with.”

She took a step back.

“Oh, no, you don’t, missy.” Papa looked at Mr. Martinelli. “The Wolcotts are a good family. Respected in Dalhart. I expect your boy to make this right.” He gave Elsa one last look of disgust. “Either way, I don’t ever want to see you again, Elsinore. You’re no daughter of mine.”

On that, he strode back to his still-running roadster and drove away.

Elsa was left standing there, holding her suitcase.

“Raffaello,” Mr. Martinelli said, turning his gaze to his son. “Is it true?”

Rafe flinched, unable to quite meet his father’s gaze. “Yeah.”

“ Madonna mia, ” Mrs. Martinelli said, then rattled off something further in Italian. Angry, that was all Elsa got from it. She slapped Rafe on the back of the head, a loud crack of sound, and then began yelling: “Send her away, Antonio. Puttana. ”

Mr. Martinelli pulled his wife away from them.

“I’m sorry, Rafe,” Elsa said when they were alone. Shame was drowning her. She heard Mrs. Martinelli yell, “No,” and then, again: “ Puttana. ”

A moment later, Mr. Martinelli returned to Elsa, looking older than when he’d left. He was craggy-looking—his brow thrust out, tufted by sagebrush eyebrows; the bumpy arch of a nose that looked to have been broken more than once; a blunt plate of a chin. An old-fashioned cowcatcher mustache covered most of his upper lip. Every bit of bad Panhandle Texas weather showed on his deeply tanned face, created wrinkles along his forehead like year rings in a tree trunk. “I’m Tony,” he said, and then cocked his head toward his wife, who stood about fifteen feet away. “My wife … Rose.”

Elsa nodded. She knew he was one of the many farmers who bought supplies from her father each season on credit and paid it back after harvest. They had met at a few county gatherings, but not many. The Wolcotts didn’t socialize with people like the Martinellis.

“Rafe,” he went on, looking at his son. “Introduce your girl properly.”

Your girl.

Not your hussy, your Jezebel.

Elsa had never been anyone’s girl . And she was too long in the tooth to be a girl anyway.

“Papa, this is Elsa Wolcott,” Rafe said in a voice that cracked on the last word.

“No. No. No,” Mrs. Martinelli shouted. Her hands slammed onto her hips. “He’s going to college in three days, Tony. We’ve paid the deposit. How do we even know this woman is in the family way? It could be a lie. A baby—”

“Changes everything,” said Mr. Martinelli. He added something in Italian, and his words silenced his wife.

“You’ll marry her,” Mr. Martinelli said to Rafe.

Mrs. Martinelli cursed loudly in Italian; at least it sounded like a curse.

Rafe nodded at his father. He looked as frightened as Elsa felt.

“What about his future, Tony?” Mrs. Martinelli said. “All of our dreams for him?”

Mr. Martinelli didn’t look at his wife. “It’s the end of all that, Rose.”

ELSA STOOD SILENTLY BY. Time seemed to slow down and stretch out as Rafe stared at her. The silence around them would have been complete but for the chickens squawking from the pen and a hog rooting lazily through the dirt.

“I’ll get her settled,” Mrs. Martinelli said tightly, her face a mask of displeasure. “You boys go finish up for the night.”

Mr. Martinelli and Rafe walked away without a word.

Elsa thought, Leave. Just walk away. That was what they wanted her to do. If she walked away now, this family could go on with their lives.

But where would she go?

How would she live?

She pressed a hand to her flat belly and thought about the life growing in there.

A baby.

How was it that in all the maelstrom of shame and regret, she’d missed the only thing that mattered?

She would be a mother. A mother. There would be a baby who would love her, whom she would love.

A miracle .

She turned away from Mrs. Martinelli and began the long walk down the driveway. She heard each of her footsteps, and the cottonwoods chattering in the breeze.

“Wait!”

Elsa stopped. Turned back.

Mrs. Martinelli stood directly behind her, hands fisted, mouth set in a hard line of disapproval. She was so small a good breeze might topple her, and yet the force emanating from her was unmistakable. “Where are you going?”

“What do you care? Away.”

“Your parents will accept you back, ruined?”

“Hardly.”

“So…”

“I’m sorry,” Elsa said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your son’s life. Or dash your hopes for him. I just … it doesn’t matter now.”

Elsa felt like a giraffe looming over this petite, exotic-looking woman.

“So that’s it? You just leave?”

“Isn’t that what you want me to do?”

Mrs. Martinelli stepped closer, looked up, studying Elsa intently. Long, uncomfortable moments passed. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

Mrs. Martinelli did not look pleased by that. “Will you convert to Catholicism?”

It took Elsa a moment to understand what was happening. They were negotiating.

Catholic.

Her parents would be mortified. Her family would disown her.

They already had. You’re no daughter of mine.

“Yes,” Elsa said. Her child would need the comfort of a faith and the Martinellis would be her only family.

Mrs. Martinelli nodded crisply. “Good. Then—”

“Will you love this child?” Elsa asked. “As you would have loved one borne by Gia?”

Mrs. Martinelli looked surprised.

“Or will you just put up with this puttana ’s child?” Elsa didn’t know what the word meant, but she knew it wasn’t kind. “Because I know about growing up in a household where love is withheld. I won’t do that to my child.”

“When you are a mother, you will know how I feel right now,” Mrs. Martinelli said at last. “The dreams for your children are so … so…” She stopped, looked away as tears filled her eyes, then went on. “You cannot imagine the sacrifices we made so that Raffaello could have a better life than we’ve had.”

Elsa realized the pain she’d caused this woman, and her shame intensified. It was all she could do not to apologize again.

“The baby, I will love,” Mrs. Martinelli said into the silence. “My first grandchild.”

Elsa heard the unvoiced remainder loud and clear: You, I will not, but just that word, love, was enough to steady Elsa’s heart and shore up her fragile resolve.

She could live among these strangers unwanted; invisibility was a skill she’d learned. What mattered now was the baby.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, thinking, You, you, little one, you will be loved by me and love me in return.

Nothing else mattered.

I will be a mother.

For this child, Elsa would marry a man who didn’t love her and join a family who didn’t want her. From now on, all her choices would be thusly made.