Sempre: Redemption

42

Life was a whirlwind, each day rapidly morphing into the next. Haven stayed with Carmine, things between them relaxed as she made herself at home. It was platonic, except for the occasional kiss and gentle touch.

Exhausted, Carmine grew wearier every day. Nightmares plagued his sleep and he tried his best to stay sober, but the liquor seemed to call to him. Haven never said a word about it, but he could see the concern in her eyes whenever she saw him take a drink. The looks got to Carmine, guilt chipping away at him every time he swallowed the harsh liquid.

But it wasn’t enough to make him stop.

Despite that, things were going well—almost too well, in fact. Carmine was waiting for everything to cave in around them. It felt too good to be true, like he had missed the fine print listing an expiration date.

People left them alone, though, much to his surprise. He thought for sure his brother would be knocking the door down to see Haven, or Corrado would be calling to deal with business, but there was nothing.

No visits, no phone calls, not a goddamn thing.

It was almost a week later when there was finally a knock on the door. Carmine begrudgingly opened it, surprised to see a mailman standing on the porch. He glanced down at an envelope in his hand, squinting as he read the name. “Carmine DeMarco?”

“That’s me.”

“Certified mail,” he replied, handing a small card to Carmine to sign. He scribbled down his name before giving it back, and he handed Carmine the letter. He thanked him before shutting the door, strolling to the living room and plopping down on the couch beside Haven. He saw it was from the lawyer and tore the envelope open, pulling out a piece of paper.

“What’s that?” Haven asked.

His eyes scanned the letter. “They’re reading my father’s will on Monday. Apparently he left me something.”

“Why do you sound surprised?” she asked. “You’re his son.”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging as he set the paper down. “It still doesn’t feel real. I mean, I know it is—I know he’s gone. I fucking saw it. But it’s still hard to believe it really happened.”

“I bet,” she replied. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “That’s the last thing I even want to think about right now.”

“Okay,” she said, leaning over and pushing Carmine backward on the couch. She wrapped her arms around him and settled her head onto his chest as he grabbed the remote, turning on the TV and flipping through channels. They stayed that way the rest of the evening, forgetting about everything except what was happening within the walls of the house.

Once again, it didn’t last. The next day, at the same exact time, there was another knock on the door. Carmine grumbled as he walked over to it, pulling the door open. The same mailman was standing on the porch, holding a familiar-looking envelope in his hand. “Fucking déjà vu. Weren’t you just here for this shit?”

He nodded and looked down at the envelope in his hand. “Haven Antonelli?”

“Oh, yeah,” he responded, opening the door farther and yelling for Haven. She appeared, looking between Carmine and the mailman in confusion. He motioned toward the letter. “It’s for you, tesoro.”

“Me?” she asked with surprise, taking the card from the man. She signed her name to the bottom of it, her handwriting precise and perfect cursive. He smiled watching her, knowing how hard she fought to learn to do that. She handed the card back and he gave her the envelope, telling her to have a good day before departing. She didn’t respond, just stood at the door staring at it.

“Why are you surprised?” he asked, playfully repeating her words from the day before. “You’re his son’s girlfriend.”

She glanced up at Carmine and raised her eyebrows. “Am I?”

“Are you what?”

“Am I your girlfriend?”

He hesitated at her question. “I don’t know, are you?”

She smiled. “I asked you first.”

“Do you think it’s too soon?”

“I don’t know, do you?”

He stared at her as he tried to make sense of their conversation. “I don’t know. This is fucking ridiculous, Haven.”

“It is,” she said, turning her attention back to the envelope in her hand. “I wonder what he left for me.”

“Could be anything,” he replied as she opened it and read the paper giving her the time and date to appear. “Money, property . . . who knows.”

“But why?” she asked. “None of that matters to me.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out on Monday.”

They spent the weekend together, catching movies and having dinner as he showed her around Chicago. Monday approached quickly and he dressed around noon, putting on some black slacks and a white button-down shirt, trying to look halfway decent since Corrado would be there. He slipped on a pair of black and white Nike’s and headed downstairs while Haven was in the shower, opening the freezer and pulling out the bottle of Grey Goose. He took the top off the bottle and brought it to his lips, taking a big swig. It burned his throat but soothed his nerves, his anxiety lessening almost immediately.

They made it to the lawyer’s office at exactly a quarter after one, right when the will reading was set to start. Haven sat in a large black office chair around the long wooden table, and Carmine pulled out the chair beside her to sit down. She smiled and reached under the table, taking his hand. The family surrounded them—Celia and Corrado, Dominic and Tess. Even Carmine’s grandmother was present, although she looked less than happy to be there with them.

Mr. Borza cleared his throat to get started. “Everyone here knew Vincent well, so I think we can all agree that he wouldn’t mind if we kept it informal. He left a letter with his wishes, so I’m just going to read it.”

Haven fidgeted in her chair, looking at Carmine anxiously. He squeezed her hand, hoping she would relax as Mr. Borza started reading.

It’s with a heavy heart that I write this. I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you all. Everything I’ve done has been with you in mind, and I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve always tried to do what I felt was best. I don’t expect you all to understand, but I hope with time you’ll find peace with my decision. I assure you I have.

During the next twenty minutes, property was divided and personal items were bequeathed. The house in Durante went to Dominic, while the place in Chicago was officially turned over to Carmine. Tess was given a vast savings bond—as was Dia, who couldn’t be there—while he left his mother enough money to sustain her.

Celia was left a bunch of mementos, while Corrado was given the key to a storage unit. The rest of his assets, his stocks and bank accounts, were to be split equally between Carmine and Dominic.

The reading was winding down when Haven’s name was finally read. The eyes of everyone in the room darted to her. She fidgeted from the attention, the apprehension clear on her face.

“I’m leaving you an envelope,” Mr. Borza read. “It seems petty in comparison to what the others have been given, but I don’t think you’ll mind. What’s inside is selfishly as much for me as it is for you, and I wish I would have delivered it in person like I originally planned, but this will have to do.”

Mr. Borza held a white envelope out to Haven and she took it carefully. Curiosity burned inside of Carmine but he knew it was none of his business, so he turned his focus back to the lawyer.

“I have one last request,” Mr. Borza read, “a favor to ask of my son, Carmine.”

Carmine rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

Everyone laughed as Mr. Borza continued. “I ask that he go to Saint Mary’s Catholic Church and meet with Father Alberto. I left something there, something I think he’ll someday need.”

Mr. Borza set the letter down on the table. “That’s it.”

Carmine glanced at Haven, fighting back the emotion flooding him, and tensed when he saw tears streaming from her eyes. She had torn the envelope open and it sat on the table in front of her, her hand clutching a piece of paper she had pulled from it.

“Tesoro, what’s wrong?” he asked quietly, reaching over and wiping the tears from her cheeks. She looked at him and shook her head before hesitantly holding the paper out to him. He took it carefully, smiling as he read the words scribbled in the middle.

You were worth it.

“We should celebrate,” Celia said. “Have a family dinner in honor of Vincent. We can go out somewhere, or I can cook.”

“I’ll do it,” Haven chimed in, shoving the paper back in the envelope.

“You don’t have to, dear.”

“I know,” she said. “I haven’t really cooked a meal in so long, since I was on my own. It’ll be nice to do it again.”

Celia smiled. “Would you like to borrow my kitchen?”

“No, I can do it at home.” Almost instantly her eyes widened and she started stammering. “I mean, you know, at Carmine’s.”

A smile tugged the corner of Carmine’s lips. Home.

“I know what you mean, sweetheart.” Celia winked. “And I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’d love to have your cooking again.”

“Hell yeah,” Dominic declared. “I’ve missed it.”

A few hours later, Carmine stood near the doorway of his kitchen, watching as Haven fluttered around, humming to herself. Groceries covered every inch of his counter, more food than had been brought into his house in over a year.

“So what do you need me to do?” He knew enough to make a sandwich, but starting from scratch was something he had never had to do. “I should do something.”

He hoped Haven didn’t have high expectations, because he was probably going to fuck things up . . . as usual.

“Uh, can you start the chicken?” she asked.

He eyed the whole chicken wrapped in packaging on the counter. “Start it, like, put it in the oven?”

“No, I need you to clean it.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘clean it’? I’m not plucking a fucking chicken.”

She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have feathers, but you have to wash it out.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “Do I just wash it in the sink or what?”

She nodded and grabbed a cutting board, setting it on the counter beside the sink. “Pull the insides out and run cold water over it.”

He grabbed the chicken and set it down on the cutting board, grabbing a knife and slicing open the packaging. Grabbing one of its legs, Carmine turned it around so the opening faced him. He stared at it for a moment with disgust before glancing at Haven. She was busy cracking raw eggs into a bowl of torn bread to make stuffing.

“I’m supposed to stick my hand up there?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her when she nodded. He took a deep breath and thrust his hand inside, cringing at the feel of the cold poultry against his skin. He came upon a package of some sort and grabbed it. “What is this, anyway?”

“It’s the giblets,” she said, shrugging. “Neck, liver, gizzard, heart.”

Carmine’s eyes widened as he yanked his hand out, taking a step back in disgust. “What the fuck? Why is that in there, Haven? Who wants a chicken heart?”

Haven grabbed the package and tossed it in the trash. “People make gravy and stuff with them or just eat them whole.”

“People eat the chicken’s heart?” he asked, repulsed. “Please tell me you’ve never fed me that shit.”

She shook her head, laughing. “No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else did and you never knew it, though.” She grabbed the chicken and set it in the sink. “Can you wash it out, please?”

“Sure thing.”

He turned on the water and attempted to hold the chicken under the faucet, giving up after a moment and instead grabbing the spray hose. He pressed the trigger, water firing out of it like a gun, and hosed the chicken down. “Is that it?”

Haven wasn’t paying attention to him, wrist deep in a bowl of stuffing, the gooey bread sticking to her fingers.

“Haven.”

“What?”

He pointed the hose at her when she looked his way, on a whim pressing the trigger at close range. She gasped as a blast of water shot her neck, instinctively flicking her hands as she tried to shield herself. Raw stuffing flew in his direction, a clump of it smacking him in the face.

“You bi—” He cut himself off abruptly as her eyes widened, choosing to shoot her again instead of finishing.

Chaos erupted as she dodged toward him, trying to pry the hose from his hands. They wrestled for it, shoving and grabbing, as water from the spray soaked both of them. Haven managed to wiggle past him and got her hand on the faucet, turning the water off as laughter erupted from her chest. “I can’t believe you. I’m soaked!”

“You started it.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You ignored me.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Same difference.”

Wiggling out of his grasp, she grabbed the bowl of stuffing and pushed it toward him. “Can you handle the rest?”

He considered her question. “As long as it doesn’t involve any fucking voodoo shit with chicken hearts.”

She laughed. “Forget about it.”

“No, tell me what to do. Just gimme a job that doesn’t deal with organs.”

“Or water,” she mumbled, looking around. “Can you, uh, chop vegetables?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” He smirked. He could work a knife, at least.

Haven pulled out some carrots, celery, potatoes, and onions, and she gave Carmine instructions, but all he heard was that he needed to cut them up.

They were vegetables—how hard could it be?

Haven shoved her mixture in the chicken, instructing Carmine to throw the vegetables in the pan with it. He chopped the celery and carrots with no problem but the potatoes were trickier because she didn’t tell him to peel them first.

Or did she? He hadn’t been listening.

Carmine got to the onion and eyed it suspiciously. Haven looked at him as he removed the skin, but she stopped him before he could cut into it.

“Do you want me to do that?” she asked. He shook his head and she reached past him, grabbing some vinegar and rubbing it on the cutting board. “Vinegar messes with the chemical process so it doesn’t burn as much.”

He raised his eyebrows curiously. “Jeopardy?”

“Just a trick I picked up along the way. Open flames help, too. I can get you a candle.”

“I don’t need a candle, Haven. I can handle an onion.”

She smiled but didn’t respond. Carmine took his knife, cutting the ends off of the onion before slicing it down the center. The moment it came apart, the gases hit Carmine and he blinked rapidly as his eyes started to burn.

Every cut seemed to intensify the sting. He squinted, his eyes welling with tears. It got so bad after a few minutes that his vision blurred, and he blinked to clear it, only succeeding in pushing the tears over the edge. He groaned and cut faster, turning his head to the side to brush the tears away with his arm. He lost focus, cutting blindly, and cursed as pain shot through his finger.

He dropped the knife and pulled his hand away in shock, seeing the spot of blood form. It was a small cut, barely anything at all, but the juices from the onion made it burn. He stuck his finger in his mouth as a natural reaction and cringed at the rusty onion taste.

Haven pulled his hands away from his face, frowning. “Are you okay?”

He nodded and she pulled him to the sink, placing his hands under a stream of cold water, washing his cut.

“Look at you, fixing me up,” he said. “When did we change places?”

“When you decided to try to cook.”

Carmine splashed some water on his face before turning off the faucet and grabbed a towel as he leaned back against the counter. He watched Haven as she finished cutting the onion, feeling inadequate when it didn’t seem to affect her. She preheated the oven and worked quickly, throwing together their food with ease.

Once she had it all in the pan, she turned to Carmine with a smile. “When the oven’s ready, can you put the chicken in? I need to go change.”

“Sure.”

He stood there for a minute after she left until a string of beeps sounded through the kitchen. Carmine grabbed the pan and stepped toward the stove, oblivious to the puddle of water on the floor. His foot skidded in it as he slipped, absentmindedly letting go of the pan as he caught himself. He managed to stay on his feet but the pan hit the floor, the chicken and vegetables scattering around the kitchen.

He scrambled, grabbing the ingredients and shoving them back in the pan, as footsteps quickly descended the stairs. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the chicken just as Haven walked back in.

She gasped, freezing in the doorway as she surveyed the mess.

“Five-second rule?” he suggested, holding the chicken up by its leg.

“When’s the last time the floor was washed?”

“Does this count?” he asked, motioning toward the puddles.

“No.”

“Then, uh . . .” He paused, calculating. “. . . Eleven years ago when my mother lived here.”

She just stared at him, blinking. He dropped the chicken, letting it hit the floor with a splat, and reached into his pocket for his phone. He dialed Celia’s number and waited as it rang. “Yeah, uh, can we reschedule dinner for tomorrow night? Great. Thanks.”

He hung up with a sigh and looked over at Haven. “How do you feel about Chinese?”

“Chinese is great,” she said, sliding her eyes to the chicken on the floor. “Salmonella? Not so much.”

The church pew felt like steel beneath Carmine, his entire bottom half numb and tingling. Restless, he tapped his foot, trying to pay attention to the service, but it all sounded like blah, blah, blah to him.

“Why’s he fidgeting?” Gia asked, her voice a mock whisper that seemed to echo through the church. Worshipers in the surrounding rows turned to look, scowling. “He looks like he’s possessed! There’s a demon in that boy!”

Celia quietly scolded her mother while Corrado let out a low, bitter laugh. “It’s called addiction. He hasn’t had a drink today.”

Gia sneered. “Don’t let him take communion then. He’ll steal all the wine.”

Carmine rolled his eyes, relaxing back into the seat, but his leg steadily bounced as Haven grabbed his hand. What made him decide to tag along for Sunday Mass, he wasn’t sure, but he certainly regretted it now. Sweat formed along his brow as anxiety crept through his veins, bubbling up under the surface of his flushed skin.

The rest of the service dragged by slowly. He sat in the pew during communion, ignoring the snide comments that slipped from his grandmother’s lips as she moved past to join the procession to the altar. Haven remained right beside him, silently absorbing everything, her eyes wide with innocent fascination.

She had never been inside a church before.

After Mass ended, Carmine pulled Haven into the main aisle. He made it only a few steps before stopping, hesitating as he glanced at her. “Can you ride home with Celia and Corrado?”

Her brow furrowed with confusion, but she nodded, not questioning him. He gave her a quick kiss, making sure they would get her home safely, before he headed toward the front of the church. Father Alberto stood at the altar, talking to a few parishioners. He noticed Carmine’s presence and excused himself, making his way over to him. “Ah, Mr. DeMarco, do you need to use my telephone again?”

Carmine chuckled, pulling out his cell phone. “No, I’m covered today.”

“A ride?”

He pulled out his keys. “All set there, too.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Father Alberto smiled. “Absolutely.”

The priest led Carmine into the back office, the same one the two of them had sat in before, and motioned for him to take a seat. Carmine nervously ran his hand through his hair as he sat down, remaining quiet as the priest settled into his chair.

“It’s good to see you,” Father Alberto said. “I wanted to catch you at the cemetery after Vincenzo’s funeral, but you were preoccupied with the young woman. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Yeah, that’s Haven. She, uh . . . she’s . . .”

“I know who she is,” Father Alberto said. “I’ve heard quite a bit about her.”

“From my father?”

“Oh, that I cannot say.” The priest smirked, a twinkle in his eye. Definitely his father. “Confessions are confidential.”

“Even after the person’s dead?”

“Definitely. Your relationship with God doesn’t end with death, son.”

“I’m not surprised,” Carmine muttered, gazing across the desk at the priest. “That’s sorta why I wanted to talk to you. When they read my father’s will, he asked me to do him a favor. He wanted me to come here . . . said he left something.”

The priest nodded, not an ounce of surprise registering in his expression. He had been expecting him. “That he did. But before I give it to you, tell me something.”

“What?”

“How do you feel?”

Sighing, Carmine shook his head. “How does it look like I feel?”

“You seem to be holding it together pretty well.”

“Yeah, well, looks are deceiving.”

“Nonsense. Maybe you’re the one who can’t see.”

Carmine paused, hesitating for a fraction of a second, but the weight of his grief became too heavy to hold back. The dam broke, the words gushing out in a furious unyielding wave of emotion. It flooded the office, nearly drowning Carmine as he choked on the confession of his sins.

Father Alberto gazed at him, silently taking in his rant, and didn’t speak until Carmine finished. There was nothing formal about it, no asking for forgiveness from God or man. It was just Carmine and his truth, and the one person who could hear it without looking at him differently.

The one person who could hear it and never tell a living soul.

“How do you feel now?” the priest asked when the office grew silent again.

“I feel like I need a drink,” he muttered.

The priest laughed lightly. “I’ll tell you what you can do instead.”

“I don’t need Catholic penitence,” Carmine said. “I’m not fasting or repeating Hail Mary a dozen times. That’s bullshit.”

“Ah, I wasn’t going to tell you to,” he said. “I was merely going to suggest you make a list. Write down the names of everyone you feel you’ve wronged and find a way to make it right again someday.”

“That would take the rest of my life.”

Father Alberto shrugged. “You have something better to do? I once knew a man who tried to drink his pain away. He drank to forget his family, he drank to dull the loss of a life, and when he finally sobered up, he had to make up for it somehow. He was righting his wrongs until the day he died.”

Carmine gaped at him. His father?

“Speaking of which, this was left here.” Father Alberto reached into his desk, pulling out a long gold chain and holding it up. A simple gold band swung from it, Carmine’s chest aching at the sight. He recognized it, had seen it thousands of times, on the finger of the first woman he ever loved and later around the neck of the first man he revered.

His mother’s wedding band.

“I’m sure you know what to do with it,” the priest said, handing it to him.

Carmine carefully put the chain around his neck and concealed it in his shirt. The metal felt cold against his bare chest. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I also noticed you didn’t take communion. Would you like to do it now?”

Carmine shook his head as he stood. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” the priest mused as Carmine headed for the door. “I’ll take that. It means you might be back some day.”

Twenty-four hours later, the six of them met at the Moretti home—Haven and Carmine, Celia and Corrado, Tess and Dominic—for a family dinner to honor Vincent’s life. It had been moved from Carmine’s house, since he didn’t even have a dining room table, and Haven and Celia went in together on cooking the meal.

They gathered around, plates piled high with food, and shared laughs as they ate to their hearts content. Dia was the only one missing, having returned to her life in Charlotte. That weighed heavily on Haven’s mind during dinner as she thought about the life waiting for her back in New York. Kelsey had called her dozens of times, but Haven had been too conflicted to return any of those calls.

“This is nice, having us all here,” Celia said. “I tried to get Mom to join us, but she wouldn’t.”

“Meno male,” Corrado muttered.

“Hey, she’s not that horrible.” Celia paused as everyone cast her skeptical looks. “Okay, so she’s a handful. But she’s relied on Vincent a lot the past few years, so the rest of us are going to have to step up now that he’s gone.”

“I hardly know her,” Dominic said.

“Same here,” Carmine replied. “And what little I do know says she doesn’t want shit to do with any of us.”

“Not true,” Celia interjected. “She’s just stubborn.”

Corrado scoffed. “I mean no disrespect, bellissima, but your mother’s issues reach far beyond sheer tenacity. We both know she has a deliberate cruel streak.”

“Maybe so, but she’s family.”

“True, which is why I’ll do what’s expected of me,” Corrado replied. “Doesn’t mean I’ll like it, though. I have no idea how Antonio dealt with her all those years. The man was a saint.”

“My father?” Celia asked. “Did we even know the same man?”

“Every man sins, Celia. Even the saints.”

Dinner wore on, as did the conversation. It was well past nightfall when they separated, Tess and Dominic heading back to Indiana, while Carmine and Haven made their way down the block. All was silent between them, their fingers loosely entwined as they strolled along. Carmine seemed content, his shoulders relaxed, but something brewed in his expression. He stopped abruptly a few feet from the blue door, his hand slipping from Haven’s as she continued on.

She turned to him at the loss of connection, seeing the furrow of his brow and the hard line of his lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me about New York.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“But I already told you.”

“You told me what was wrong about it, what you were missing, but I wanna hear the good. You know, the dream. Your dream.”

He didn’t say it, but she saw it in his eyes: He wanted to know if leaving her had really been a mistake.

“Well, New York was busy, just like you said the city would be,” she started. “There was always something going on. People everywhere.”

It all spilled out of her, every detail of her life there, as the two of them stood along the street in the darkness. She held nothing back, wanting him to know she had had a good life. It may not have been perfect, but things rarely were.

Carmine listened intently, drinking in every word, and didn’t speak until she was done. “You love it there,” he said quietly.

“I do.” She smiled. “I really love it.”

They stared at each other again as that truth hung in the air between them. Haven watched his expression slowly shift, another question forming in his eyes. She didn’t address it, not acknowledging its existence, instead waiting for him to be the one. She waited for him to ask, for him to gather up the courage to say the words.

Love me more, his eyes said.

“Do you, uh . . . ?” He ran his hands down his face as he let out a deep sigh. “Would you stay?”

“Stay?”

He nodded. “Stay here.”

“I would.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he restrained a smile. “Will you?”

“Stay?”

“With me.” He cleared his throat nervously. “You know, stay with me?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words didn’t have time to escape her lips. Something in Carmine snapped, his anxiety getting the best of him.

“Christ, I can’t believe I just asked you that. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s not right! I can’t ask you to choose me!”

She grabbed his arm, stopping him as he started pacing. “You’re not asking me to choose you. There’s no choice about it. It’s always been you. Your father once told me that we always have a choice, but I think he was wrong. I think sometimes things choose us. It’s like with breathing. It’s natural. It’s a part of us. It just happens. We can hold our breath and try not to breathe anymore, and it’ll work for a few minutes, but we’ll eventually pass out and nature takes over. We can’t just not breathe, just like I can’t just not love you.”

“But New York,” he said. “Your life.”

“The best parts of life have nothing to do with a place. Love, friendship, happiness . . . I don’t need to be in New York to have those things. I have it all here.”

“But school? Painting? What about that?”

“I can do those things anywhere, Carmine. But you . . . you’re in Chicago.”

The hopeful smile twisted his lips, held back no more. “Clean slate?”

“As clean as our slate can get.”

“Which is still pretty fucking dirty.”

She laughed, watching him for a moment before extending her hand. A nervous blush warmed her cheeks. Clean slate. “I’m Haven.”

“Carmine.” He took her hand. “You have an interesting name, Haven.”

“It means a safe place,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, entwining their fingers again. “And something tells me it fits you perfectly.”