Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  “I don’t know, Chiara. You’re all heart, but I don’t see you taking a firm hand, making sure he keeps to curfew and stays away from those derelicts.”

  Chiara stifled a snort, and said, “Mmhmm. Filippo, how is your ‘firm hand’ working?”

  “Not well,” Filippo admitted.

  “Look, I’m not saying I have the answer. Like you so kindly remind me, it’s not like I’ve done this before.” Chiara fought to keep the resentment out of her voice. It was hard to ignore the quills that only family could hurl. “Maybe it’s time for a different strategy. Maybe we should let Edo find his own way through the groves.”

  “Maybe. But what would I tell his mother?”

  Chiara rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Filippo, that’s up to you. Tell her that Edo is staying here for a bit to save on gas, and we can see how it goes.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  Chiara straightened as she watched one of the scopa-playing old men standing outside the bar, counting his coins. “I have to go, brother. I’ll have Edo call you about details.”

  “All right. And Chiara? Tell him I love him.

  “I will.”

  “And . . . thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Lunch in Rome passed in a blur of talking. Mostly Massimo talking and Isotta watching his face transform with his mood. She listened to the cadence of his voice ebb and flow like the movement of shifting sunlight across a forest floor. The gnocchi were probably delicious but not half as delicious as watching this man’s eyes move from snapping in anger at a remembered affront at the last meeting to lilting with humor as he made a self-deprecating comment about his often-misguided need to be right.

  Not until he reached for the olive oil to dress his salad did she notice the ring. She wondered how she could’ve missed it given the number of times he had taken her hand in his and stroked her fingers. The air seemed to go out of the room, and Isotta sagged in her seat. She knew it was too good to be true. No man like this, perhaps any man ever, would want her as more than a lunchtime dalliance. She had been an idiot to imagine a chemistry between them.

  Massimo noticed Isotta’s face lose its animated watchfulness. “Is anything the matter?” He asked, frowning. He certainly hoped Isotta wasn’t moody. He couldn’t abide moodiness.

  Isotta didn’t answer, but Massimo noticed her eyes pulling away from his wedding ring to gaze up at him with an expression of mute betrayal. Well, at least she didn’t yell and make a scene. That was an excellent sign. In fact, he couldn’t have designed a better test of her temperament.

  “I see you’ve noticed my wedding band.”

  Isotta’s eyes widened.

  “I was married. I’m not anymore.”

  The sentence hung in the air between them. Isotta tried to decide if this could be a ploy of some kind. She’d never been the victim of a ploy, of course, but she’d read about them. And her sisters would often gossip about the tricks men used to lure women into bed.

  The silence stretched into uncomfortable shapes, prompting Isotta to finally whisper, “What happened?”

  A darkness troubled Massimo’s features. He rubbed his jaw before continuing. “She died.”

  “She died?” Isotta breathed, pulled between the hope that this was true and Massimo hadn’t been toying with her, and the fear that he’d really lost his wife at such a young age. “Can I ask . . .”

  Massimo studied her for a moment, and continued to run his thumb along his jawbone. “Yes, okay. It’s right that I tell you. We were on the Adriatic, at Numana, swimming, and all of a sudden she wasn’t there. I ran all over the coastline calling her. People came, the police boats. A helicopter found her, 500 meters from the shoreline.” His voice broke and he stared at the tablecloth, brushing the crumbs distractedly across the red tablecloth.

  “Oh, Massimo. I am so, so sorry.”

  Massimo nodded, absently making a pile with the crumbs.

  Isotta ventured, “But . . . Numana, it’s so mild, isn’t it? Shallow? How . . .”

  Massimo’s voice hardened. “It just happened.”

  Reaching for his hand, Isotta whispered, sadness heavy in her voice, “When?”

  “About a year ago. I know I should take off the ring, but . . .”

  “Of course you haven’t taken off the ring. You must miss her terribly.”

  “I do. Particularly since I assumed I’d never want to be with another woman. But Isotta, with you—”

  Isotta’s heart dropped.

  Massimo continued, “With you, for the first time in a long time, I feel happy. I know we met only this morning. I know I seem like a complete jerk even talking like this.” Massimo smiled easily before fluttering his eyes down to the table. “It may be ridiculous. But it’s the truth.”

  He spread his fingers wide on the tablecloth and then gazed levelly at Isotta. “Sitting here, with you, I am happy. And I feel like if I could touch you, your hand, your, cheek, I would feel happier still.”

  Isotta could hardly believe his words. And yet she could not deny the melting she felt in her chest. Didn’t that mean that there was something real between them? Despite this tragedy he carried, and despite the fact that they had only known each other for a few hours and despite the fact that he was far out of her league? This must be something worth pursuing.

  She leaned across the table and turned her face toward him, offering him her cheek. It was a bold move, far more daring than she would ever have dreamed of being. Far more daring than anybody who knew her would believe possible. No wonder that in the space of a breath, her heart tightened in her chest until it ached.

  Massimo stretched his hand across the table, and stroked a line between Isotta’s light eyes and her delicate mouth. His other hand joined the first and together they cupped her face. Impulsively Isotta took one of his hands in her own and turned her face to kiss his palm, slowly, while watching his expression, scared that she had now crossed a line.

  Instead, she heard Massimo’s breath turn ragged. He whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Isotta stood, so suddenly she surprised not only the waiter passing behind her, but also herself. “Okay.”

  Massimo tossed his napkin onto the table and rose, looking down into Isotta’s beseeching eyes. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips close to her ear before whispering, “You won’t regret this.”

  Isotta held the table to keep from falling. Massimo pulled away from her and smiled his wide and perfect smile. He took his wallet out of his pocket and dropped a handful of bills on the table.

  The sight of the money snapped Isotta out of the spell. “Wait! What about the afternoon meetings?” Massimo wound his arm around her waist and pulled her close before helping her into her coat. “We’ll call in, say that you got food poisoning and I’m taking you home.”

  “Am I going home?”

  “Oh, I can’t tolerate a two hour train ride. There’s a hotel by the train station, we’ll go there.”

  Isotta tried to think, but there seemed to be too much blood in her brain. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Massimo agreed. “Now, I’ll call the bank. While I am doing that, why don’t you pop into that shop and buy us some bottles of water?” Massimo almost held his breath, hoping. If she didn’t do it without complaint, he wasn’t sure this would work.

  But she nodded as if hypnotized and made her way through the electric doors of the grocery store. Massimo flipped open his phone and quickly dialed. “Mamma? I’m not coming home tonight.”

  “What do you mean you’re not coming home?” His mother’s voice pitched high. “What’s going on?”

  Massimo paused, not wanting to break the charm of the moment by speaking of it aloud. “I think I found her.”

  He grinned as his mother gasped and said, “Is it like the time in February in Milano?”

&
nbsp; He laughed easily. “No, it’s more like the time in July in Perugia. Only better. I was careful.”

  “Okay,” his mother answered slowly. “But, what am I supposed to tell Margherita?”

  “Tell her, tell her something. It doesn’t matter what. I’ll be home in the morning.”

  At this point, you must be wondering, “Who is Margherita? And what does he mean ‘July in Perugia’?” You are right to wonder.

  At 1:15 the end-of-day school bell clanged, echoing through the corridor. Elisa clutched her papers to her chest, hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, and bolted out of the classroom.

  “Elisa!” a girl’s voice called.

  Her steps slowed. At the doorway of the school, she took a breath and turned around.

  The Moroccan girl caught up to her and took her hand. Her face watchful, she said, “What Maestro did today? It was ugly.”

  Elisa bit her lip and tried to control the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. She nodded.

  “He was always like this?”

  Elisa paused, not sure how to answer the question she’d never considered.

  The other students eddied around them, a few stopping at this source of stalled movement. Elisa caught the gaze of Mario, one of her classmates. He’d heard the Moroccan girl’s question, and answered, “No, he wasn’t. I mean, he was never really fun. But in fourth grade—before you moved here, maybe?—he started shouting more. And remember, Elisa? When he spanked you?”

  It’s true. He did that. It is appalling, isn’t it, how adults can dehumanize children?

  The Moroccan girl’s gaze shifted from Mario to Elisa, studying her response. Elisa just nodded again, her chin trembling.

  Mario patted Elisa’s shoulder before continuing to the piedibus that would take him to his home in the hills above Santa Lucia where his mother waited with a hot lunch. Elisa watched Mario and his friend Angelo grab hands and run, no doubt racing to the alimentari for candy. Elisa ducked her head trying to force back the easy tears. As her classmates whirled past her, she felt more pats on the shoulder and squeezes of her hand.

  Finally, the crowd thinned. Elisa looked up to see the Moroccan girl, her face glowing like good caramel. Elisa mumbled, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  The girl answered “Fatima,” with a smile that revealed a row of perfect teeth. Elisa wondered if people in Morocco had more teeth than people in Italy.

  “I’m Elisa.”

  “I know.”

  Elisa ventured a smile. “I should know your name. I’m so empty headed.”

  “Oh, I don’t think your head is empty. I think you found some better spots to be.”

  Elisa laughed.

  Fatima tugged Elisa’s hand. “Come on! The fog has gone arrivederci! The sun is happy, let’s get gelato! There are so many kinds! I want to try every gelato flavor in the world. But today I’m getting gianduja. It will be hard to try every flavor because I always get gianduja. It’s my favorite. What’s yours?”

  Elisa laughed again at Fatima’s whirling, and increasingly accented, speech. “I like gianduja too. But I can’t.”

  “Your mother needs you home?”

  Elisa closed her eyes at the thought of her mother getting a phone call in her absence. “No.”

  “Then come with me. We’ll get one big one and share it.”

  “You have money?” Elisa asked, doubtfully.

  Fatima patted the right pocket of her long skirt. “Yes, from helping Mamma with the cleaning.”

  At Elisa’s lack of response, Fatima squeezed her hand and pulled her. Making sure she spoke clearly she added, “Come on! If we are going to argue, let’s have it be about which gelato is best with gianduja. I say banana.” Fatima grinned, her cheeks flushed like young persimmons.

  Elisa hesitated for barely a moment, before squeezing Fatima’s hand in return. “Banana! Che schifo!”

  Whatever awaited her at home would probably be easier to bear with a sweetened stomach.

  Edoardo rounded the doorway back into Bar Birbo. “Ciao, Chiara!”

  Chiara kept her gaze on the tin shaker she was filling with cacao powder while answering, “Ciao, Edo! Did you get gelato?”

  For a moment he was tempted to confide in his aunt, to tell her how he’d seen the boys from his school days. The ones that would make fun of everything from the color of his shoes to his awkwardness during wrestling. He’d lost his appetite. He supposed he could have gotten a gelato on his way back to the bar, but he’d gotten distracted by the sight of two girls sitting on the comune steps beside the gelateria. One was the girl who he always spotted running to and from school. He almost didn’t recognize her, Elisa he thought her name was. She’d pushed her hair off her face, behind her ears, as she leaned forward to listen to the other girl. He’d even seen a brief flash of a smile. It occurred to him that he’d never before seen that girl smile. Which was a shame, her smile was lovely, softening the hard angles of her face and bringing a golden cast to her pallid features. The other, foreign, girl was new to Santa Lucia, but he’d seen her sauntering back and forth to school, eyes often gazing upward to catch sight of the underside of the roof overhangs and the trim around the windows. Her curiosity at her surroundings always prompted him to peer into the same shadows to see what she saw.

  He’d been so charmed, he’d paused to watch the girls. Ava, who had been passing with a box of lavender seedlings, had stopped beside him. The two of them had stood there, silent, just watching. As he’d said goodbye to Ava, he’d noticed she looked wistful. He wondered if her youth had been any easier than his. It should be noted that Ava’s youth was ripe with its share of tragedy. But that’s a story for another day.

  Deciding not to burden his aunt, who was already laden with the confidences of Santa Lucia’s coffee drinkers, he smacked his stomach and declared, “Nah. I decided that a few moments of sweet bliss aren’t worth losing my girlish figure.” Here he put one hand behind his head and the other on his waist like a pinup model next to a Ferrari.

  Chiara laughed easily. “No chance of that, Edo, what with all the weights you lift and those long bike rides.”

  “Well, one never knows,” Edoardo waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Just one gelato could be the thing that sends my trim body running for the hills.”

  Chiara looked down at the substantial flesh straining a bit against her shirt and sighed. “Maybe that’s what happened to me. One too many gelati.”

  Edoardo cried in mock horror and then ran to throw his arms around his aunt. “You are beautiful. Always have been, always will be. No amount of gelato will change that.”

  Chiara squeezed her nephew, then pulled away to pat his cheek affectionately. “You are a sweet boy, Edo. Now get to work.”

  Edoardo dropped the three euros back in the register before removing a fresh apron and tying it briskly around his hips. He asked, nonchalantly, “Did you get a hold of my father?”

  “Yes. It’s all set. You should go home early today though and talk to them. Plus, you’ll need to pack.”

  “Really? He wasn’t angry?”

  “He wasn’t pleased, but he doesn’t like the tension any more than you do. He made sure to order me to tell you that he loves you.”

  Edo grinned. “I can’t believe it. When can I move in?”

  “Tonight? Tomorrow? It won’t take me long to clear out the spare room. It’s just full of boxes of water right now.”

  “I can move those, let me do it.”

  Chiara nodded.

  Edo sighed and shook his head, surprised at how expansive he felt without the weight he hadn’t realized he had been lugging. “Any action while I was gone?”

  “Let’s see. Vincenzo came in and complained that Roberta in the apartment above him is watering her plants just when he looks out the window. He’s sure it’s deliberate.
”

  “Ha! Does he think Roberta waits all day for him to put his head out of the window? Though come to think of it, I wouldn’t put it past her. That woman has the patience and tenacity of a ragno.”

  Chiara poked Edoardo on the shoulder, “Don’t let Roberta hear you compare her to a spider! But, yes, agreed. Then again, she’s a tea drinker, and they are a shifty lot.” Chiara mugged. “What else? Oh! Laura came in ostensibly for a marocchino, but really because she’s just so full of excitement that Marcello—you know her son? He’s not that much older than you, and a police officer—he passed his exams and is beginning work in Santa Lucia. She wanted to talk more about how they are overworking him already, but Dante, the mayor, not the bricklayer, dropped in for a glass of wine.”

  “It’s early for him, isn’t it? He usually drinks wine in the evening.”

  “Yes, but he needed some relaxation. He just got word from VUS that they are going to be repairing the water lines that run under the piazza through November, maybe even December.”

  “Okay. And? That’s good right? People have been grumbling about the lack of water pressure for years.”

  “Yes, but Edo—the festival. Where will the men roast the cinghiale? Or set up the tables?”

  “Madonna mia! I’d forgotten! Cavolo, Chiara, won’t that be bad for the bar, too?”

  “Certainly, unless the council figures out a place to hold the sagra. That income gets us through the winter.”

  Edo bit his lip and thought as he emptied the little round dishwasher. “I suppose our terrazza is too small.”

  “Far too small. But maybe we can do the roast out there, and set the tables throughout the streets.”

  “That might work.” Edoardo’s vision was caught by a man in mismatched pants and coat bustling down the street, checkered hat pulled low over his brow. “Oh, no. Gird yourself, Chiara. Here comes Arturo, no doubt upset again because he found yet more evidence that his Parisian wife is cheating on him.”

  Chiara looked up. “Oh, poor Arturo. What heartache.” She readied her warm smile and flipped the switch to pull a shot of espresso.