Isotta thought about the oil her family got each year from their distant cousins. How its fruity butteriness perfumed the air when sprinkled on hot vegetables or meat or pasta. Instead of answering, she pointed her chin toward the long-hair white cat sleeping in a flowerpot. “How sweet.”
“Yes, Santa Lucia is lousy with cats. During the summer when everyone escapes to the water, some joke there are more cats in Santa Lucia than people.” He grinned at Isotta as they walked and she beamed in return.
“I like cats.”
“So do I. Or at least I like how rat-free they keep the town. We never need traps.”
“So do they belong to anyone?”
“Some, but they’re mostly strays that the old ladies have taken to feeding. The town pays for almost all of them to be fixed so we don’t replace a rat problem with a cat problem. Now, look! Through this break in the buildings you can see across the valley.”
Isotta lifted her hand to her eyes to shield her vision from the glare, and squinted down at what at first blush appeared to be another alley. But this one was framed not just by buildings, but an arch made of single stones draped between the creamy, rough-hewn walls. The effect reminded Isotta of the photo she’d seen of a landscape as viewed through a keyhole. A black cat picked its way to the top of the arch, turned once, and curled into itself. “It’s beautiful.” And it was. Olive trees glimmered, sending a confetti of light into the top of the mountain covered with trees so deeply green they appeared indigo. Behind the mountain, the sky sighed overhead, the blue of an angel’s eyes.
Chiara checked her watch. If Edo wasn’t down in the next thirty minutes, she’d have to go up and look in on him. She wondered if she should dash upstairs in the next break between customers. Just a real quick check. He’d gotten home later than usual last night, and seemed to struggle to put the key in the lock. She hoped he remembered that she needed to go to the park later with Patrizia. There wasn’t anything she could do for her friend, she knew, but she looked forward to sitting together in the park with gelato, letting the last of the summer sunshine warm their faces while Marco went around and around the spinning disk like he liked to do. It would be restorative for both of them.
She was dragged from her imagining by the entrance of the mayor.
“Ciao, Dante, un caffè?”
“Sì, grazie.”
Dante paraded to the bar and repeatedly turned a business card over on the bar. Each click of card on stone was a small explosion.
Chiara’s eyes flickered toward him, thinking about Stella.
Placing the cup on the saucer, Chiara handed the coffee to Dante. “Would you like anything to eat?”
Dante was staring outside the door and still turning the business card to rap each edge on the bar.
“Dante? Vuoi qualcosa da mangiare?” Chiara repeated.
The mayor startled. “Oh! No. I apologize, Chiara. I was thinking.”
“You seem distracted.”
He sighed importantly. “Yes, it appears I am. Sometimes I wish this town would run itself for a little while.”
It seemed to Chiara that he hitched his shoulders back a touch as he made his pronouncement.
Chiara answered with a smile, “The demands of the wooden-spoon-waving grandmothers and gelato-eating children a bit too much for you?”
“You’re mocking me, Chiara. It’s hardly appreciated.”
The grin disappeared from Chiara’s face. “I apologize, Dante.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t snap at you, it’s not your fault. But it seems like no one is ever happy. Half the town wants me to preserve their old ways of living. Subsidize the oil mill so they can press their oil as they have for generations. While the other half of the town wants to modernize. ‘Why can’t we get faster Wi-Fi? Recycling? Email at school?’ I swear, Chiara. There is no way of pleasing them all.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true, I hear all of that here.”
“Yes, but no one expects you to do anything about it.”
This was also true.
“Whereas for me, people are always angry because I’m not fixing their exact problem. Like I’m God as well as mayor! I swear, every time I see that German, Magda, I duck into an alley. She’s the worst! ‘Why don’t you make a city website that features my special rentals? The Del Fiacco family moved to Lazio, why can’t I have their uliveto? Why can’t you change the angle of the sunrise so my rooms don’t get so hot in the morning?’ Jesus.”
“Now, Dante, that’s unfair.”
“Maybe a little,” he conceded. “She doesn’t actually order me to fix the sunrise. Just complains about it.” He smiled, wearily.
An idea bubbled into Chiara’s consciousness. “Have you thought of stepping down? Let someone else be mayor? Might be nice for you to have a break. And I’m sure it would do you and Stella good to have time together without the children or the town making demands.”
“Stella? What does she have to do with this?”
“Nothing really. I was just thinking, if it’s hard to be mayor, it’s probably hard to be the mayor’s wife. You two can’t have much time together. Maybe a vacation?”
Dante waved off her words. “Stella’s fine. She knew what she was getting into when she married me. I’m civic minded. When I’m no longer mayor, you know I’ll still be involved.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice—”
“I’m fine, Chiara. Thank you for the coffee and for listening to me carp, but I just needed to blow off steam. Everything is fine.”
Chiara wished she could believe it.
The walk through Santa Lucia passed in a blur. Sooner than Isotta expected, Massimo stopped at a wooden door set into a rock arch, bushes of hydrangeas under the adjacent windows. When they burst forth in a riot of blue and purple, they would be spectacular.
The door was apparently kept unlocked because Massimo turned the handle and it immediately gave. Isotta brushed her hair with her hands, worried that the drive and the parking lot embrace made her look less than presentable to Massimo’s mother. Massimo grinned and leaned to kiss her. “You look perfect. They’ll love you.”
Isotta wondered who the “they” could refer to. Perhaps there was more family in Santa Lucia to meet? She attempted a smile and then followed Massimo into the house. “Ciao!” he called, “I brought my visitor!”
The sound of an oven door closing preceded the appearance of what could only be Massimo’s mother. As the woman walked out of the kitchen wiping her hands, Isotta noted that Massimo had inherited his mother’s height. And also the proud expression, which creased into a forced smile as she moved to greet Isotta. Other than that, Massimo and his mother didn’t really resemble each other. Massimo must have gotten his strong and chiseled features from his father.
Before Anna was halfway across the room, Isotta was startled by the sound of fluttering footsteps. A child, no more than two years old, careened around the corner and flung her arms around Massimo’s legs. Massimo ran his fingers through the child’s tangled black curls. “Isotta,” he began, “This is Margherita.” Isotta waited to hear him explain the relationship. Was this a visiting niece, daughter to a sibling waiting in the kitchen? The child herself was far too young to be Massimo’s sister. Besides, his mother’s dyed black hair did nothing to disguise the fact that her childbearing days ended before Berlusconi was prime minister. Isotta looked at Massimo, waiting.
His lip nudged upward into a smile as he softly added, “Margherita is my daughter.”
Isotta took an involuntary step away. Massimo’s eyes narrowed before he hooked his hands under Margherita’s arms and pulled her up against him. The child curled against her father and her thumb crept into her mouth. Instantly, her eyelids started to droop.
“Your . . . daughter?”
“Yes, my daughter. And this is my mother, Anna.” The acidity in Massi
mo’s voice pushed Isotta out of her confused stupor.
“Ah, yes. Anna, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Anna’s face lost some of its stiffness. “And I you. Massimo has told me much about you. It seems the connection between you was lightening fast. Like fate.” Isotta couldn’t tell if Anna’s tone was bemused or sardonic.
Isotta tried to smile. She looked at Massimo, who was swaying a bit while whispering what sounded like a lullaby to his daughter. The image was beautiful, and Isotta lost some of her panic in the very domesticity of the scene. She moved a little closer to Massimo and touched Margherita lightly on the arm. The child’s drowsy eyes flew open, but then she smiled around her thumb still lodged in her mouth. “Ciao, Margherita, come sei bella. How beautiful you are.”
Margherita lunged her head forward to rest on Isotta’s shoulder and Isotta was surprised by the sudden rush of affection she felt for this little person.
Massimo looked over the top of his daughter’s head, resting on his lover’s shoulder and shot a look at his mother as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you?”
Anna imperceptibly tensed, but she nodded, with a scrape of a smile. “I have coffee ready, and I baked a torta. Come into the kitchen.”
At the mention of sweets, Margherita’s head bolted upright. “Torta?”
Anna said, “Yes, torta, you sure love your dolci. Put her in her seat, Massimo, I’ll serve. Sit down, Isotta, sit down! You will be part of this family, you mustn’t wait to be invited in.”
Massimo put his hand on the small of Isotta’s back and guided her ahead of him into the kitchen. Isotta attempted a level of cheeriness that her awkwardness scrambled. “What a lovely kitchen! Do you share it?”
Isotta felt silly asking the question, sure that given the fact that she and Massimo were presumed to be getting married, she should know about the structure and function of his household. No one else seemed to find the question odd, though. Massimo nodded as he settled Margherita into her high chair, and said, “Yes, a few years ago I toyed with the idea of moving into Girona. But with Mamma’s intermittent heart condition, we decided instead to make the family home more comfortable for sharing.”
Anna’s voice was laced with flint. “Massimo, you make me sound like an old woman. I’m hardly falling apart.”
Massimo soothed, “Of course you’re not, Mamma.” He turned to Isotta, “Mamma is very strong and healthy. I just didn’t want to take any chances. Plus, there are many advantages to sharing a home.”
Anna chimed in, “My quarters are on one side of the house, my son’s are on the other. They connect through Margherita’s room and the kitchen. Since Massimo can hardly boil water for pasta, and I spend my days with Margherita, it has been a good arrangement.” She poured thick coffee from the aged silver moka into three identical white cups rimmed with bold navy stripes, and then set the coffees in front of each adult.
Isotta ventured, “Is there anything I can help with?”
Anna said, “Absolutely not.” She waved Isotta toward an empty chair before turning back to the range. Anna peered into the oven while reaching for a pot-holder hung in arm’s reach. Nodding in satisfaction, Anna pulled the cake from the oven and rested it on the stovetop. Deftly, Anna plucked the cake server out of the jug of gleaming cooking implements and brought the plum-spangled torta to the table.
Margherita banged her high chair in approval and then ducked her head and looked over at Isotta through lowered lashes. At Isotta’s smile, Margherita banged again and chortled.
The adults laughed in unison, which broke the remaining tension. Isotta let her confusion about why Massimo didn’t tell her about his daughter fade into the auburn light streaming into the kitchen. He probably had a good reason. Maybe his behavior wasn’t typical, but he had yet to be wrong. He was clearly one of those people whose hands were on the reins, utterly in control of his life. As a person who constantly felt like her own life was on the edges of slipping out from underneath her, it was probably good that she had this steady and clear-eyed man beside he. So why not get married? It’s not like waiting years would change what Massimo seemed to know was inevitable. Plus, she had to admit to herself, she was eager to slip into bed beside Massimo every night. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and then flushed further when she realized that Massimo and Anna were both looking at her.
“Isotta?” prompted Massimo.
“Oh, yes, sorry!” Isotta tried to laugh off her distraction.
“Mamma was asking you a question. It’s rude not to pay attention.”
Isotta flushed in shame. Her mother often said the same thing when Isotta’s thoughts wavered.
Anna said, “Oh, Massimo, lighten up. The poor child spent the day traveling, she just met your family. Give her a moment to take it in.” Isotta sucked in her breath, sure that Massimo would bark at his mother. Instead his face relaxed into its softer lines and he took his mother’s hand and then her own and said, “Of course. I apologize, Isotta.”
Isotta smiled weakly.
Massimo went on. “So, darling, mother and I were just wondering about timing for the wedding. I would love to do it next month, but that’s probably not enough time. What about November?”
Isotta’s smile shook briefly, but then steadied. “Of course. Whatever you think, Massimo.”
Massimo shot Anna a triumphant smile. Anna gave a begrudging nod before clasping Massimo’s hand in hers. Isotta, touched that her agreement would mean so much to Massimo, beamed.
It was as if her life—her family, her schooling, her career, her understanding of the serpentine streets that spiraled out from the Duomo—were being erased. It felt scary, but at the same time, Isotta wasn’t sure why she’d hang onto that life, when life here included Massimo, his solicitous mother, and little Margherita. A family ready to love her.
Glancing at the clock, Edo calculated he’d be able to duck out in an hour. Less than that, if the bar continued to be this quiet. His pulse quickened.
“Got an appointment?” Chiara asked with a smile.
“What?” Edo startled.
“You’ve been checking the clock just about every minute and a half.”
“Oh,” Edo tried to laugh casually, but he felt too irritable. Instead he turned away to refill the cocoa container.
“So, you heading out again tonight?”
Edo bit his lip and considered. It wasn’t any of her business. He could just sneak out when she was sleeping, save the questions. It worked with his parents. Only, upon further reflection, it didn’t. Not really. Just put more space between them.
“I was planning to.”
“That’s fine, Edo. You’re a big boy.” Chiara fought down the mix of innate curiosity and concern to avoid asking where he was going. She was worried about how brittle he’d been lately, and started wondering if maybe her brother had been right about Edo’s need for a “firm hand.” But, she had seen Edo when people asked him even innocent questions. His expressive eyes turned stony, and his full lips grew taught. Too much of that and he became unreachable. She wanted to simply enjoy his gentle presence. You can debate whether or not Chiara should exert some authority—certainly the villagers found much to discuss here—but ultimately, Chiara couldn’t be other than what she was. She added, “But maybe if you come in late, watch the third step? The creaking wouldn’t normally bother me, but I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Not sleeping? Why?” Was she staying up to monitor him? That seemed unlikely, but maybe his father was putting her up to it. Not for the first time, he wondered if they’d bugged his phone.
Chiara wondered how to answer her nephew. She couldn’t tell him about the loneliness that crept in, the feeling that her days were slipping by and she was unable to hold onto them. “Oh, the usual. The bar, the apartments, the customers. I think we may need to buy more cups before the festival. Last year we almost ran out during the ru
sh, and I know we’ve broken some since.”
Edo didn’t look like he believed her, but he nodded and looked back at the clock.
“Go,” Chiara prompted.
“What?”
“It’s quiet. You’re young. Go. Have fun. You deserve it.”
Edo stopped himself from impulsively saying that Chiara deserved fun too. He couldn’t figure out what would prompt him to say such a thing. She seemed perfectly content with her life of running the bar and occasionally playing cards in the evening at a table pushed into the center of the room, or walking with her friends. He hated it when people pried into his personal life, so he avoided doing the same. Instead, he stifled his irritation and gave Chiara a quick hug on his way up the stairs. “Look, Zia! I’m practicing! Skipped the third step!”
Chiara laughed and then, as the bell above the door tinkled, she called out, “Buona sera, come stai, Stella?”
The women’s chattering and laughing nagged at Edo as he rounded the top of the steps and entered his room. Not quite his, yet, perhaps. He had yet to unpack his CD collection, and some of his socks were still in the suitcase.
As he pulled off his vest and green shirt, he noticed a headache forming behind his eyes. Now that he stopped to pay attention to it, his stomach was also upset. He felt almost motion sick, and a little dizzy. Deciding it was nothing, he started the water running for his shower. That would perk him up.
Toweling off, Edo shrugged on the crisp plum-colored shirt he’d ironed last night and added a dab of product to revive the angle in his hair. His mind was already buzzing in anticipation. So was his heart. In fact it was beating sort of erratically. Probably just excitement. Hurriedly, he swept up his wallet, his leather jacket, and with one nod at his reflection he bounded out of the room and down the stairs.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 11