Promises Promises

Chapter 5

After an unseasonably cold spring, summer had come in with a vengeance, and the sun was shining bright on that afternoon at my mother's house in late June.

We were out back, sitting on patio chairs that were built with appearance in mind over comfort. It wasn't bothering me, but I could tell the wiry metal was taking a toll on Mom as she shifted around here and there, trying to get comfortable in her constant state of exhaustion. The heat wasn't helping either.

"Mom, let's go inside," I suggested, reaching for her hand and hoping for the best.

I would have no such luck.

"Sto bene," she mumbled, shooing me away to reach into her apron pocket.

She pulled out the apple she'd brought from the kitchen, along with a paring knife that had me holding my breath as the silver metal glinted in the sunshine.

It always made me nervous when she did that, carrying a knife around in her damn pocket. But her favorite way to eat apples was to cut slivers and eat them straight off the blade, and she'd hear no slander on something she'd been doing since she was a little girl. Wandering between her family's apple trees in the Italian countryside, always on the go.

I grumbled as she made the first slice. "It's hot out here and you should probably lay down for a little bit before we leave for therapy."

"I'm fine," Mom repeated, her eyes never leaving the apple in her hands. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"A few more, at least." I crossed my arms over my chest and looked out at the yard, skimming over the lush grass and along the trees. As soon as my eyes hit the hammock on the ground, I turned my attention back to my mother.

She chewed slowly, carefully, a frown sitting on her lips. It had been there since Dalton died. "The sun feels nice, Davina Grace," she said, finally sparing me a glance. "So, right now...I'm fine."

Holding her eyes for a moment, a touch of calm meandered into my chest, and I nodded. "Okay."

As we sat there in silence, a gust of summer wind blew through the trees. Mom looked at the fruit in her hands again, and I looked at her, watching as she slid the knife through the apple's flesh with expert precision.

As my mind recalled the many stories she'd told me and my brothers growing up, about the Italian village she was born in and the trees she loved so much, I imagined a younger version of her. Someone wide eyed and happy, the daughter of a reluctant baker who encouraged his daughter to do exactly as she pleased since he knew what it was like to be forced into work you didn't want to do.

Grandpa Enzo was one of three Farina brothers, born into a renowned family business that took an interesting turn when the eldest son, my great uncle Vincent, moved to America.

He found himself in Brighton, where a few deals were strung into place that would advance the small-time Farina bakery into a full fledged company. With the help of a few important people, that is.

Those people decided that Fairhaven would be the perfect place to launch their latest investment, the new and improved Farina Bread Co., and Uncle Vincent made quick work of bringing the rest of the family over.

It was the last thing Grandpa wanted to do, leave his home country and the apple orchard he tended with his wife and daughter, and just to make bread on an even larger scale? He hated the thought. But as fate would have it, he ended up not having a choice.

Mom was only ten years old when her mother died in a car accident shortly after. It was the first of many losses she'd suffer, and Grandpa Enzo couldn't raise her on his own. Since the rest of his family was spread between Brighton and Fairhaven by then, it was the only place to go that made sense.