Page 65 of The Man with a Treasure

Shiver. I told her, “He, uh, looked to be about twelve.” Angelo paled, so I asked, “What is it?”

He held his stomach. “That means she delivered him by thirteen or fourteen. Could have been pregnant by twelve.”

“Are you praying again?”

We both looked to Scarlett.

Almost everything we did, even the tiniest of things, was going to be a learning experience for Scarlett. It was remarkable how much she didn’t know.

“No,” I explained, “Angelo and I are speaking a different language. It is called Italian. It is the language we speak in Italy. Our home country.”

Her expression showed a fascination for all I had to say. “Were you saved from your home, too?”

Hating that her first home was so tragic, I remorsefully answered, “No, we left our home to find you.”

Her surprised eyes raced to Angelo’s.

He gazed at the ground. His voice held more remorse than mine. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.”

Scarlett didn’t try to take away his guilt. She lacked those skills, but, truthfully, I hoped she never learned that one. It was as if she merely felt Angelo had a right to his opinion.

She moved the conversation along, “Mamma saw you in the clouds.”

No matter my thoughts on the matter, Angelo was affected by her words. I think he sensed what was coming. His dark eyes slowly rose to see hers.

Scarlett told him, “She said you were waiting to swoop down to take me away.”

His deep voice barely registered. “Me?”

“Yes, Angel of the Night.”

Now, we knew why that phrase had triggered memories of Scarlett for Isabella. She had told her daughter of the Italian tale. In a way, that tale that kept reminding women of Angelo was a miracle. He may have refused to believe it was him, and it may have been written centuries before he was born, but none of that mattered. It was their beliefs that gave the tale true life. It was their beliefs that gave them hope.

It was Scarlett’s belief that had a hand reaching out to touch his brooding face, not even realizing that hand was free for the first time in years. The girl without hands, finally, had hands, once more.

The blood, dripping within the water… may well have been baptizing it. As Scarlett touched Angelo’s face, he gazed at her as if she were holy.

Little wrists were dry and bandaged, and a naked body was now covered, when Scarlett followed me into the kitchen. A large Italian man moved closely behind her. This was a new Angelo for me. He hadn’t ever been this persistent with Noemi, nor with Isabella. It was as if Scarlett had some sort of silent call that Angelo was adamant about answering.

In front of the refrigerator, I asked her, “Are you hungry?”

She nodded, but when I offered food, she seemed utterly confused.

Angelo and I watched as she turned from us and walked to the large sink. She studied it carefully, then lifted the handle toward Hot, using both hands, even though they were no longer tethered. Long delicate fingers let the water trickle over them for a moment. My head tilted when Scarlett suddenly started slurping from the faucet, wetting her fresh bandages.

To hide another Angelo Snarl because all the signs of her abuse were infuriating him, I asked, “Scarlett, would you like a glass?”

Bent over, Scarlett peered over her shoulder. “Really?”

Angelo and I started opening all the cabinets, searching. We were going to offer this sweet woman any glass she wanted.

When she chose a yellow leftover plastic cup from some mountain fair, that a previous renter must have left behind, Angelo and I blinked. Of all the glasses to choose from, that was the last one we expected to be her choice.

Because Angelo and I had been raised with so many more amenities than I have ever realized, I was humbled, yet again.

Scarlett filled the cup with warm water, then drank. When the cup was empty, she moaned as if she had just drunk the best beverage in the world.

Angelo’s eye began to twitch as if a time bomb about to explode. This executioner was hungering for a kill.