Fatima sat at the stone table, unpacking the treats from the forno onto waxy paper napkins. Luciano appeared with a tray and three teacups. Elisa sat down with a sigh. “This is just beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it. I’m not out here as often as I should be. Some days it’s easiest to stay in the dark of the house. But you are always welcome.”
Elisa blinked back tears of surprise.
“Okay,” Luciano said gently. “Let’s talk math.”
It was late.
Chiara knew she should close the bar, but last week Fabrizio had come in for a glass of wine right at closing time. She hadn’t been able to talk to him because the bar had been full of neighbors swapping theories about Massimo. After greeting the bar patrons in his customary formal way, he’d asked for a glass of Sagrantino and taken it outside. Probably to watch the falls while enjoying his red wine and the fennel seed rings she nestled next to the glass. But maybe he had been waiting for her? To join him? To have a word in private? She couldn’t decide.
At times it seemed like Fabrizio was interested, and sometimes he seemed so remote. It was aggravating. Her impatience to know if he liked her was even more aggravating. What was she, some errant school girl with a crush on a handsome college boy? It was ridiculous. The more ridiculous because even if he did like her, it wasn’t like she was in a position to pursue a relationship. Even if he wasn’t a stranger, and Santa Lucia’s newest source of suspicion.
And yet, here she was, wiping down counters that were already clean and polishing the faucet that was already so reflective she couldn’t escape the sight of her wistful face.
She heard Edo step softly down the stairs and open the landing door. “Need help closing up, Chiara?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.”
“Okay, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, caro.”
She turned out the light.
Florence’s train station wasn’t all that hot, and yet Isotta wiped her hands on her pants. Again. Why did her body choose today of all days to start manifesting anxiety as sweat? She longed for the familiar jerking of her gut. And this wasn’t just any sweat, it was a prodigious sweat. An old woman in a blue cardigan cast Isotta a curious look as the younger woman fanned her chest with her light silk shirt. Isotta dropped her hand.
If only it were summer so she could pass off this sweat as heat related. She was betrayed by the cool October breeze. No, it wasn’t heat, but rather the threat of her secret Massimo-world colliding with her family reality. She couldn’t decide if she was more nervous about her family rejecting Massimo, or Massimo seeing her through her family’s eyes and rejecting her. She landed on the latter. Partly because she couldn’t imagine anyone rejecting Massimo, he was far too . . . “grand” was the only word that sprang to mind. But also partly because she nursed a shred of doubt about what Massimo saw in her. Isotta had enough self-awareness to know that she was intelligent and could even be witty if circumstances allowed her to feel comfortable, but with Massimo she was often tongue-tied, and spent more time listening. Maybe that was what he liked about her. Her ability to listen, which friends had often told her was a gift, though it seemed to Isotta the most basic of functions.
The train from Perugia had another ten minutes before its slated arrival. Isotta added an extra ten minutes to account for predictable delays. She was too jittery to stand on the platform for twenty minutes, or even ten, and decided to go into the station bar. The coffee was dreadful, but she didn’t think caffeine would be helpful anyway. Walking into the bar, she chose a post at the end of the counter, and in answer to the barista’s inquiring expression, ordered an orzo, a toasted barley drink. She could never decide if she liked orzo, but she couldn’t wait for tea to steep, and it would give her hands something to do. She smoothed her hair with her still-damp hands. Memories of her talk with her mother intruded into her attempts to still her nerves.
News of the engagement had not gone over well. Her mother had let out an involuntary scream, which brought the rest of the family running. Pointing at her daughter, Caterina had garbled out the words that Isotta was getting married to a man none of them knew, who wasn’t Florentine, or even Tuscan. Her sisters and father shot a look of disbelief at Isotta as they gathered around her mother. Their shock turned to outrage. Who was this man? How could he propose to her without asking her family first? She tried to explain that Massimo was a decisive person, strong and used to making decisions, after all he had a daughter to care for—bedlam.
He had been married already?
What in God’s name was she thinking accepting the advances of a strange man who had already been married?
Isotta checked the time and realized that Massimo’s train was due to arrive any minute, if it actually arrived on time. She paid at the register and tried to release the lingering memories of her family’s outrage. She tried to hope that once they met him . . . but deeper fears outpaced her nascent optimism.
She rushed to the platform, and saw the train just arriving. Isotta exhaled with relief. If she had been late, Massimo would have been justly furious. She wiped her hands on her pants again and smoothed her cream shirt over her chest, so the opening was centered, revealing what Massimo had murmured were her best assets. She toyed with opening one more button, but decided against it.
There! There he was! Stepping off the train, his crisp blue shirt stark against the black train and billowing steam. He stood on the step, surveying the assembled crowd. Isotta stood breathless, her old impulse to hide behind something taking over. It was implausible that this man was searching for her. But he was. When his eyes met hers he smiled that slow perfect smile. Lightly, he leapt down the steps. Looking neither right nor left, he kept his gaze on her as he walked purposely through the crowd. Isotta noticed that the faint lines around his eyes made him, if anything, more handsome. Suddenly, he was in front of her, his hand stroking her arm, as he leaned down and kissed her lightly, just once. Isotta smiled at him, and felt, for the first time in her life, beautiful.
Clasping her hand, they walked out of the station. Past the chaos of passengers arriving and departing, she asked, “How is Margherita, and your mother?”
“Both fine, looking forward to the wedding and having you there.”
Isotta nodded. “Me too.”
Massimo smiled and they continued walking. “Nervous?” He asked.
“Well, yes, actually. Thanks for coming earlier than we planned. The tension in my house is awful.”
“Of course. It’s right that your parents be worried. You are their precious baby, after all.”
Isotta snorted. “I think it has more to do with what the neighbors will say. My family seems certain you’ll have two heads or a putrid skin condition.”
Massimo frowned. “Why?”
Isotta licked her bottom lip before saying, lightly. “Well, because you chose me, actually. It must mean there is something wrong with you.”
Massimo stopped and took Isotta’s other hand, gazing down into her eyes. “Now why would they think that?”
“Oh, Massimo. You know.”
“I don’t. Tell me. Is there something wrong with you I should know about? Do you have a putrid skin condition?” He grinned and tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek and leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “Because you seem pretty okay to me.”
“You haven’t met my sisters.” It struck Isotta that perhaps this was the cause of her sweat. Her sisters, unbeknownst to their parents, were terrible flirts. It wouldn’t be out of the range of possibility for one of them to come on to Massimo, and the thought of him flirting back . . .
It was so painful no wonder she’d pushed that fear down so deeply. She regarded the ground, frowning. Massimo tucked his finger under her chin and lifted it until he was searching her eyes again.
“Hey,” he said. “I lo
ve you. You love me. Your family will see that, and they’ll understand why this happened so quickly. I promise.” Isotta’s lower lip twitched down, but she tried to smile at his reassurance. “Anyway, I left my second head behind in Santa Lucia, so we should be fine.” Isotta looked confused for a moment before the planes of her face relaxed, and she laughed in earnest.
Massimo squeezed her hand and started walking again. Isotta noticed that the breeze caressed her skin, which was no longer sweating. She squeezed Massimo’s hand in return. “This way, we’re just past Santa Maria Novella.”
The meeting of the parents could be an entertaining, if predictable, scene. But not nearly as compelling as what would be happening at nightfall back in Santa Lucia.
The bell over the door tinkled and Chiara turned, ready to tell the late-arriving customer that she was closing. She stalled, damp cloth clutched in her hand, when she saw it was Fabrizio.
He nodded at Chiara, swallowed, and then turned to carefully close the door behind him, even though they both knew perfectly well the door shut on its own. He turned back to Chiara and watched her silent face as he moved to stand opposite her, the gleaming bar between them.
“Chiara?”
“Sì,” she breathed.
“I am aware that it is late. You must be closing.”
“Sì . . . I am, I was.”
“But you see, I was interrupted the other day, and then, what with all the people, I’ve been unable to finish what I was saying.”
“Finish?”
Fabrizio’s sideways smile rose to his eyes.
“Finish, yes. But Chiara, without my saying anything at all, you must know . . . you must at least suspect . . .”
Chiara bit her lower lip and looked down at the counter, “I don’t know you at all. You’re a riddle.”
Fabrizio nodded, “I’m afraid it’s true, I haven’t been completely forthcoming. And yet, you must have guessed how I feel.” His words floundered into a whisper.
Chiara felt a magnet behind her heart draw her forward, she wanted to reach across the bar and lean her forehead against Fabrizio’s and drown in the gold flecks of his eyes.
Fabrizio licked his lower lip. His breath seemed to shallow. The air between them fairly hummed, tumbling the gears of Chiara’s thoughts. Hesitating for only a moment longer, Fabrizio took up Chiara’s hand and slowly drew it to his lips. The kiss was soft, and then raising his head, his other hand closed over Chiara’s and he gently pulled her closer to his chest. A jolt of energy coursed down her ribcage and loosed the tendons behind her knees. Chiara’s mind flooded with warmth and confusion. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t let this happen, but oddio, she felt drawn to Fabrizio in a way she hadn’t to anyone in years. She wanted to trace the lines on his face and talk to him about the statue newly unearthed in Rome and how she was the only person in her family to not adore snail stew. She wanted to feel his arms around her, she wanted to lean into his shoulders and feel his strength, and smell the fabric softener deep in his shirt material.
His voice thick with gravity, Fabrizio asked, “May I join you behind the counter?”
“Fabrizio, I hardly know you, I’m not sure—”
“You know enough. I know you feel it too. There is something between us. Please, Chiara, let me come back there. I want to talk to you without this bar between us.”
Chiara checked the racing of her brain. Her life had been so even for so many years, which was just how she wanted it. She’d had enough drama for a lifetime. She couldn’t, she couldn’t invite the possibility of unrest into her gently rhythmic days. And yet, she couldn’t deny the delicious fluttering in her chest. Yes, he was a stranger here for reasons unknown, but somehow, that only seemed to add to this feeling of twinkling possibility. A road had suddenly opened. She couldn’t bear the thought of turning back now.
She untied her apron, “No, you can’t come back here.”
Fabrizio sagged, “I can’t?”
She turned back with a grin, “The health department would never let me live it down. Let’s get out of here.”
Fabrizio’s eyes searched hers, looking for teasing or jest.
Chiara grinned, and stepped down and around the counter to stand in front of Fabrizio. He moved to place his hands on her shoulders, cautious as butterflies. Finally he lightly slid his hands down her arms to hold her hands. He raised them to his lips and kissed one, and then the other. Chiara’s breath grew uneven and her face tingled in an unfamiliar craving to rest against his. Gazing at Chiara, Fabrizio’s smiled rakishly. “I don’t suppose you would fancy a walk?”
Chiara nodded, “I would, as a matter of fact.” She pushed away the sirens going off in her mind, jangling that this was ridiculous and short-sighted. She concentrated instead on the warmth of Fabrizio’s crooked smile, the humming of her arm clasped in his. She wanted to feel this feeling a little longer.
He ran a finger over her cheek as she smiled, probably like an idiot, she thought, up at him. She was suddenly aware of the difference in their heights.
His brow furrowed, “But you’ll be cold.”
Still smiling, Chiara answered, “I have a coat, up on the hook.”
Fabrizio nodded and strode to the jacket rack, plucked the only covering still hanging, and held it out for Chiara to shrug on. Looking up from zipping the jacket to her neck, she asked, “Would you like a nighttime tour of the groves?”
“The groves? Won’t it be too dark to navigate?”
“I know those groves like I know the patterns in the stone of this counter. I’ll lead you.”
Fabrizio chuckled and placed a hand over Chiara’s snug in the crook of his arm. “I put my life in your hands.” As they moved to the door, Fabrizio added, “I bet those groves have quite a history.”
Chiara nodded, serious now. “They do. Those olive branches look like any others, perhaps, but I promise you, their gnarled knobs have born witness to some spectacular stories.”
“I want to hear them all.”
“Maestro!”
Luciano’s gaze broke away from the Madonna in her niche.
He smiled, “Ciao, Edoardo.” Turning back to the statue, he continued, “It’s so strange, I feel like I haven’t seen this Madonna in years. Look how the color of her niche exactly matches the color of the sky. And see here? The hem of her robe is glossy from our ancestors brushing their fingertips across it.”
He turned to Edo in time to see the young man put his hand on his forehead to ward off a dizzy spell.
“Edo? Are you quite well?”
The dizzy spells were less frequent now, but still popped up when Edo moved suddenly, as he had when he’d spotted Luciano outside the bar. “Mi dispiace, Maestro, I’m out of shape.”
“I’m familiar with the feeling.”
Edo smiled and straightened.
“I’m okay now.”
“Ah, to be young and resilient.”
“I’m not sure about that, but I wanted to ask you something.”
“Fire away.”
“Well, I was thinking about how you used to tell me about the immigrant families that you tutored. I wondered if you thought I could do something like that.”
A wide smile lit Luciano’s face. “Indeed! How marvelous!”
“Really? I wasn’t sure if you’d think I was suitable. Didn’t get past high school, and I’m not exactly a pillar of the community.”
“Neither of those matters in this work. Only patience and a willingness to reach outside your sphere of comfort.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I’m good at either of those.”
Luciano narrowed one eye and peered closely at Edoardo. Edo nervously wiped his face and fluffed his hair. It’d been two weeks since the accident. Luciano couldn’t possibly sense the darkness that lingered around Edo’s edges like a stubborn stain, could he?
&
nbsp; As if silently agreeing with himself, Luciano nodded. “You’ll do just fine.”
“Really, but I said—”
“I heard what you said. But I suspect that it is not that you fundamentally lack skills in patience and moving beyond your barriers, but you haven’t had much modeling or practice.”
“Maybe,” conceded Edo.
“Yes, I feel sure. I myself have been out of the tutoring world for some time, as perhaps you may have noticed.”
Edo, not knowing what to say, said nothing. Luciano nodded again, “But this is a good reminder. Giovanni at the alimentari was just telling me about a young man right outside of Santa Lucia, newly arrived from Morocco. He may be hard to track down, since he’s making his money in the usual newcomer way, returning carts at the Girona SuperConti for the euro deposit and selling tissue packets and tube socks door to door. But perhaps some evening you and I can pay him a visit?”
Edo shifted uncomfortably. “It would be okay for us to just drop in, unannounced?”
Luciano smiled, “I believe you’ll find that Santa Lucia’s rules about propriety are less shared than we assume.”
“Dante! Dante! Signore Sindaco!” Magda rushed to Dante, waving frantically.
Dante rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. Ignoring her was not going to work. He turned around and stretched his mouth into a smile. “Sì, Magda?”
“I’ve been calling you all down Via Romana! You really should get your hearing checked. It’s annoying to have to chase after you.” Magda leaned over and huffed, her hands on her knees.
Dante took advantage of the moment by rolling his eyes at the bracingly blue sky again. “I apologize. Deep in thought. What can I do for you?”
“Ah,” Magda announced, straightening, “It’s not what you can do for me, it is what I can do for you!”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 16