Luciano ran his thumb over the rim of the cup and inhaled the concentrated scent of roasting meat with delicate spices. He looked into Fatima’s wide eyes. “How did you get to be so wise, cara?”
She grinned. “You taught me, Maestro.”
Magda slapped the damp newspaper on the bar, prompting the two officers to flinch. “Chiara! I told you! I told you the developers were coming!”
Chiara sighed inwardly, before checking herself. Magda was like a shark. She couldn’t control her combative tone. “What’s happened now?”
“The developers! Did you not read this?” Magda pushed the paper toward Chiara with the edges of her fingers, as if she couldn’t bear to be contaminated with this filth.
“I didn’t read the giornale yet, not today. What does it say?”
Magda rolled her eyes at the ceiling and grumbled. “Jesus, Chiara. I have a busy vacation rental and many people who require my expertise, and I somehow managed to read the paper by evening. What’s wrong with you?”
“Just lazy, I suppose.”
Magda glared at Chiara, wondering if she was mocking her. The corners of Chiara’s lips twitched. Magda tried to hold her glower, but it was impossible in the face of Chiara’s determined cheer. At the seal-like barking laugh that finally got the better of Magda, Edo looked over curiously. He returned to buffing the water spots out of the glassware.
“Okay, okay, Chiara. So let me tell you what the article says. A developer is coming from Rome to scope out the swamp land where the falls meet the river. To pour concrete over the marsh and build a shopping center! A shopping center!”
Chiara’s face fell. “Let me see that.” She reached for the paper with her left hand while she pulled her glasses suspended on a chain around her neck to the bridge of her nose with her right. Snapping the paper open, she read quietly, her lips moving. After a few minutes while Magda loudly stirred the sugar into her coffee and sniped at Edoardo for not making hers with enough foam, Chiara smoothed the paper back on the bar and dropped her glasses back to rest top of her ample chest. “I don’t see a reason for panic.”
“What? Did you read the right article?” Magda snatched back the paper and scanned the headlines to see if it was possible that Chiara had read the wrong one.
“Yes, yes, I read the right one. But it says it’s a proposal. You should know by now, this idea comes up every three or four years. Someone realizes that there is a beautiful space for building, within walking distance of the station in Girona and surrounded by picturesque mountains. But once people start investigating, they realize it won’t work.”
“Won’t work? Why won’t work? It could work! It’s a special piece of land! Those falls are famous!”
Chiara leaned forward and spoke softly, looking earnestly into Magda’s eyes, which were darting from the paper to Chiara’s face. “Of course they are,” Chiara soothed. “But every time the engineers come and start poking about in the swamp, all of a sudden, everyone disappears, and the idea is abandoned for another couple of years.”
Edoardo, whose attention was caught, brought his espresso over to stand by Chiara. “Why is that, Zia?”
Chiara smiled at her nephew, he so rarely called her “aunt.”
“I’m not sure. But there are townspeople, I won’t say which ones, who speculate that it’s because of all the dead bodies in the swamp.”
Magda let out an involuntary shriek of alarm and then covered her mouth quickly while furtively gawking at the officers. She leaned toward Chiara, while Edoardo smiled and thoughtfully sipped his coffee, one thumb hooked on his apron.
In a strangled whisper, Magda said, “Chiara. You can’t be serious.”
“Well, I’m not saying I believe there are bodies in there. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Seems as good a reason as any, and far more interesting than there’s a rare kind of frog in the marsh. You must have heard that one.”
“Frog? What are you talking about? You go from dead bodies to frogs?”
Chiara laughed easily and began wiping the fingerprints from the bar with the towel looped through the apron around her waist.
At the sound of the bell over the door, all heads turned. Luciano stood planted, twisting his hat in his hands. At the assembled blank looks, Luciano sagged and retreated into the dusk.
Edo and Chiara communicated wordlessly, was Luciano drunk? He didn’t seem so, what with the lack of bellowing that usually accompanied his wine consumption.
Magda caught the eye of one of the officers. “You should put that man away. He’s a disgrace.”
The taller officer shrugged. “He’s not hurting anyone. Not illegal to be drunk. I checked before joining.” He smiled at Chiara and gestured toward the case displaying a lone piece of bread threaded with wine must and raisins. “Can I have that last piece of pane di mosto, Chiara?”
Chiara replied, “Con piacere, Marcello. How is Laura?” She plucked the aromatic bread out of the case and placed it on a saucer, settling it in front of the officer.
Marcello smiled, “Much better. She’ll be home soon.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
Magda shook her head. “Still. I mean, he’s threatening.”
Chiara was confused, and then realized Magda was still talking about Luciano, “To whom? Massimo? You can hardly blame him.”
Magda leaned forward, pleased to have engaged Chiara in debate, “What? Because of Giulia? You think Luciano blames Massimo for Giulia’s death.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I didn’t say that.” Chiara traded a knowing look with Edo, who offered her a smile of support. How did she get embroiled in this conversation? “Just . . . losing his daughter was heartbreaking for Luciano. I’m sure the sight of her husband is a constant irritant. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Doesn’t he?”
The shorter officer, Alessandro, chimed in, “Plus, Luciano’s wife dying so soon afterward. Of course he hasn’t recovered.”
Magda harrumphed, “Well, he’s never going to recover if he drowns his sorrows in drink all the time. People should at least stop selling it to him. Luciano needs to face reality.”
Wiping his mouth with the napkin, Marcello offered, “I’m not actually sure how he gets by. A retired school teacher, right? He can’t get that much pension, and with the amount of wine I’ve seen him drink.”
Magda shook her finger in triumph, “See? Someone needs to stop him.”
Chiara bit her lip before returning to buffing the bar to a high gleam. “Let him be, Magda. No one can imagine what that kind of devastation can do to a person.”
Magda face stiffened. Her eyes were hooded and suspicious as she stared at Chiara.
Edoardo shook his head and stepped away from Magda and Chiara. He didn’t understand their relationship. His aunt was the only person he knew who could endure Magda. Yet somehow, with Chiara, Magda was . . . tolerable. Chiara knew how to throw Magda off just enough to keep her need to criticize and micromanage at bay. Usually. Tonight, though, she was in rare form. You will unquestionably consider it a blessing to focus on the newcomer sauntering into the bar.
Edo moved to the open end of the counter to greet the man as the police officers strolled out into the evening. “Buona sera,” he offered, “What can I get you?”
The man wasn’t dressed like a local. His muscled legs were wrapped in tight black jeans, and his black t-shirt strained across his powerfully built chest. His styled-to-the-point-of-shine hair was cut short, and his almond-shaped eyes shone brightly in his tanned face. He fanned his fingers over the bar, considering, while pursing his lips. He leaned toward Edoardo to ask, “What do you recommend?”
“A caffè? A glass of wine? What are you in the mood for?”
The man’s eyes widened briefly before he smiled and replied, “I’m in the mood for something different.”
<
br /> Edoardo, unsure of his meaning, decided to take him at the literal. “Like a martini? I’m afraid this bar is a bit too old school for modern cocktails. I can make you a negroni.”
Chuckling, the man said, “Why would I want a martini? But yes, a negroni sounds perfect.” He held onto the bar and leaned back, unaware of how the tension made his biceps pop into full relief. Or perhaps he was very aware. In any case, he looked around the bar appreciatively, as Edoardo reached for the bottles of Campari, vermouth, and gin. His back to the man in black, he began mixing the negroni.
The hair on Edoardo’s neck began to tingle, and he wondered if the stranger was watching him. He could practically feel the heat of the man’s gaze. Briefly his eyes flitted to the mirrored wall in front of him. Indeed, those almond-eyes were contemplating his back. Unapologetically. In fact, when Edoardo caught his eye in the mirror, the man smiled a slow smile.
Edoardo’s lips tightened into a thin line, before he turned with the finished aperitivo, efficiently taking a cocktail napkin to slide under the glass as he set it down. The man reached for the drink and allowed his finger to run along Edoardo’s as he smiled that same slow smile.
Edoardo snatched his hand back and shot a look at Chiara laughing and wagging a finger at Magda. Magda was holding her hands up as if claiming innocence. He stepped beside Chiara and put a hand on her arm. She turned to him, still laughing, “Sì?”
“Chiara. Can I take off? It’s dead and I need to go.”
“Sure, of course.” She noticed the unknown man for the first time and asked, “What did he have?”
“Um. A negroni. Oh, he still needs peanuts and chips. I . . . didn’t get to it.”
“Didn’t get to it?” A shadow passed over Chiara’s face, and she looked back at the man for a moment. She turned back to Edoardo with a firm smile. “Okay, no problem, I’ll take care of it. Go. Have fun.”
Edoardo nodded in thanks before striding to the door that led upstairs, avoiding eye contact with the man.
Once the door was closed firmly behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Leaning against the wall of the stairwell, he listened to the sound of Chiara rustling in the bins of snacks and prattling with the stranger. After a few beats, Edo climbed the stairs to his room.
He showered, sudsing a day’s worth of espresso off his lean body. He toweled off, and with the towel tucked around his waist, he blow dried his hair, carefully arranging each glossy lock. Once satisfied, he selected a purple silk shirt from his closet and pulled it on, delighting in the way the material slid over his skin with fingertip softness. He pulled on his dark blue jeans with carefully ripped patches, and turned to the mirror to admire the effect. He checked the time. There was no way the man could still be in the bar. Just to be safe, he stepped down the steps on tiptoe, and pushed the door open just a hair. Chiara was humming to the radio while she washed dishes, and the bar was empty.
Edoardo flung the door open. “Ciao, Chiara! Don’t wait up.”
“Ciao, Edo. I never do,” Chiara smiled.
Edoardo walked out the door, and inhaled the breeze’s subtle spice of rosemary before slipping into the night.
Elisa walked slowly, her eyes raking the ground weakly lit by the mid-afternoon sun. Her head cocked at a flash of light winking between cobblestones. Pouncing, she came up with a coin pinched between her fingers. Her face fell into a scowl. It was only a five cent coin, not the 50 cent coin it had appeared to be while glittering in the street.
She didn’t have near enough. Still.
And Luciano tutoring her was not going to work. Fatima had been forced to admit that though she’d tried to talk to him, he was too foggy to understand. So that was a dead end. As were the couch cushions, the fountain, and the tourists’ pockets that she’d dared to reach into. There were no coins, and she wasn’t going to get her grades up, even with Fatima’s daily efforts to plan Elisa’s evenings. She was doing better at not losing and forgetting things, but no better at understanding. And time was running out.
Elisa spied movement ahead at the park. Stefano. Stefano and his friends. She wanted to run, but she knew that would only delay what was bound to happen.
The one-eyed dog brushed past her. She wished she could dash here and there, without a care in the world. It would be worth having one eye and salami rinds in her fur to be able to avoid this.
Walking in a slow serpentine fashion, she approached Stefano, who leaned against the battered metal slide, smoking with his friends.
“Stefano?”
“Ah, Elisa! My favorite and youngest customer. Got the money?”
Elisa’s eyes flew from one teenage boy face to another. Stefano nodded and said, “Hey, I’m conducting business here! You all, scram!”
The boys drifted to the other end of the playground, sitting on the ciambella, donut, shaped spinning wheel that always made Elisa feel like throwing up.
“Now, Elisa. Having trouble in school again?”
Elisa chewed her lip and nodded.
“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve raised my price, but I’m giving you the pretty girl discount. Because you are, you know. A pretty girl.” Stefano lifted Elisa’s face up to pass his eyes over her face and down her body. “A little on the scrawny side, but not too bad.”
Elisa backed away from Stefano, her breath torn with anxiety. “So, twenty euros? And you’ll do it like before?”
Stefano laughed easily, “Relax, cara. I wouldn’t take anything not offered to me. To be honest, I prefer my girls to beg.”
“Twenty? Like before?”
“Sure, cara, sure. Twenty. Fork it over.”
“I don’t have it.”
“You don’t have it? What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t have it!” Elisa said, wildly.
Stefano’s eyes narrowed, “Then what are you doing here? Are you spying? Going to rat me out?”
“No! Never! I have some of it. I can give you some of it. I just need more time to get all of it.”
“So you think you can come here with less than my price, and I’ll just, what? Fix your report card for nothing?”
“No! I’ll pay for all of it, I promise! I’ll work harder to get it all.”
Stefano pressed closer to Elisa, until she could smell the stale smoke on his breath. “You better have it all by report card time, Elisa. Otherwise, you’ll be begging me. Just like I like.”
Isotta blinked at the burnished copper air as Massimo’s car pulled into the parking lot outside the walls of Santa Lucia. “Is the light always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So . . . full. Like . . . like . . . the crescendo of an opera.”
Massimo laughed. “I think you were on that dark train for too long. But I like how poetical you are. You’ll fit right into Santa Lucia.”
Stopping the car, he leapt out and jogged around the car while Isotta gathered her purse and sunglasses. He opened her door with a small bow. Isotta smiled into his eyes, charmed. Massimo held out his hand, and when she took it, he guided her out of the car, where he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her head against his chest. “I’m so glad you are here,” he said softly. “It’s felt like months since I’ve seen you. I almost started to believe I made up that smell of orange flower where your hair meets your neck. But no,” he inhaled dramatically, “here you stand, sweet and lovely.” Gently he dropped his face until he was almost kissing her, almost. He gazed searchingly into her eyes, and Isotta lips tingled at the anticipated touch. He whispered, “Aren’t you glad you came?”
“Yes, oh, yes. Massimo. I was stupid to hesitate.” She stretched to kiss him. Massimo pulled back, teasingly, before slowly bringing his lips to hers. Isotta trembled at his touch, warm and full. Massimo brushed her hair behind her back and kissed her exposed neck.
“It’s always foolish to question me, Isotta.”
He kissed the other side of her neck softly, and then burrowed a little, tasting the salt on her skin. His lips moved back to her mouth, where Isotta met him with a quiver. He kissed her as a thirsty man drinks from a street fountain. His hands drifted down her back, resting in the curve of her hips, lifting her up slightly. Isotta wound her arms around him and kissed him deeply. Massimo’s hands traveled back up, brushing the sides of her chest, before they cupped her chin as he pulled away and then rested his forehead against hers.
“Sei pronta, Isotta? Are you ready?” At her silent nod, eyes naked with longing, Massimo smiled and said, “Then let’s go.” He plucked Isotta’s purse out of her seat, and then popped open the trunk to heft out her overnight bag. All the while, Isotta stood transfixed. Hardly able to believe she was here, with him, in his town with its saturated light.
Massimo laughed and reached for her hand to tug her out of the parking lot. “I think you’ll like Santa Lucia. It’s not Florence, of course, but it doesn’t pretend to be. Do you know about the falls?”
She shook her head.
“Ah, you can’t see them from this side of the mountain, but I’ll take you to see them later. They are spectacular,” a note of pride rang in his words.
Isotta nodded and gestured toward the olive groves flanking the town’s entrance. “Those trees are enormous. They look like they are going to twist right out of the ground.”
Massimo smiled again at Isotta’s phrasing. “Yes, they are ancient, planted long before the Romans thought to put a town at this outpost. Not all of those old trees are still here.” Massimo’s sweeping gesture took in the trees stretching into the hill above the street. “But just about all of us have at least one ancient tree in our plots. We believe that’s what makes our olive oil so particular.”
“Plots?”
“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t have this in Florence. Here, most of us own a section of the groves. Soon we’ll all harvest and send our olives to the mill we passed on the way up the road. Then we each get a bit of the oil and sell the rest to tourists. I’ll send you home with a bottle. No offense, but Tuscan olive oil leaves much to be desired. Too gentle and Americanized. Ours is strong, like these Apennine mountains.”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 10