Venice in the Moonlight Read Free

shifted in their seats and craned their necks to see what would happen next, while the others studied their hymnals in earnest.
    A low murmur rippled through the other mourners. Marietta’s cheeks burned in embarrassment, but she held her ground. She would attend her husband’s funeral from the aisle if need be. An elderly woman three rows back took pity on Marietta—or perhaps vengeance on La Signora. She tapped the man next to her with her fan and then beckoned to Marietta. With a final bitter look at her mother-in-law, Marietta grasped her soiled skirt and slid in beside the elderly woman and her family.
    A few moments later, the priest and his boys filed in, while a trio of young castrati, dressed as cherubs, sang a hymn in their high soprano voices. Marietta shut out the rest of the funeral mass. Dario had sinned so often, whatever kind words Father Calvino spoke couldn’t save her husband’s soul. If anyone needed help now, it was she.
    When it was time to say their final goodbyes, La Signora was first in line and Marietta last after the cousins. Staring down at her husband’s serene face, the strength in her legs threatened to fail. Night after night during their first year of marriage, she had lain shaking in her bed. Her heart stopped at every sound. Her ears strained to hear his footfalls at her door. Eventually, her fear turned to numbness and then apathy. She gripped the sides of Dario’s coffin to reassure herself that he was truly dead. Then, she lowered her face and pretended to kiss him but instead let a drop of spittle fall from her lips. As it trickled down his gray cheek, she allowed herself a small smile. Her loathsome husband would never again raise a hand to her.
    The pallbearers hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders, signaling to more than a dozen paid mourners to keen and pull at their hair. The spectacle befitted someone who had lived a righteous life, yet it was all a charade. The family money could buy almost anything—anything except a place in heaven. Her husband roasted in hell.

    n the fresh morning air, Marietta stood on the terrace and stared out at the villa’s meticulous gardens. Two weeks had passed since Dario’s burial, and she had spent the majority of the time in her bedroom waiting for some indication of what her future held. Today, La Signora broke the uneasy silence and summoned her to the salon.
    She clutched her black crepe shawl tighter as the autumn wind tasted her exposed skin. Soon the brilliant orange, red, and green of the late blooming flowers and sculptured bushes would turn a lifeless brown that matched how she felt. With a sigh, she rubbed at the dull throb in her temples.
    “What are you doing out here? You were told the salon.”
    The voice chilled her more than the wind. When she turned, her mother-in-law stood in the doorway, her mouth set in its usual scowl, and her clothes colored black from head to toe. Zeta had remarked that La Signora’s appearance now resembled her heart. Over the years, the woman had provided plenty of evidence to support the sentiment.
    “I was only . . .” Marietta waved a hand at the late September landscape.
    “Inside.” The staccato beat of La Signora’s march echoed across the marble floor.
    Marietta’s head bowed in submission. She took a few steps into the salon but left the French doors open to the cool air. Across the room, the older woman sat on a damask-covered settee with her ankles crossed and feet dangling above the floor. La Signora pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, even though no actual tears had fallen since her son’s unexpected passing.
    Finally, her mother-in-law spoke. “It was no secret that I was against Dario marrying you, but I’ve never been able to deny him what he wanted. I lived with the disappointment of such a lowly match all these years, doing my best to give you a good home despite your ungratefulness.”
    Marietta clenched her teeth to keep silent. Her life was much