Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  As Fatima began dipping the napkin in water and dabbing Luciano’s face, Elisa whispered, “Fatima? I don’t think he has water.”

  Fatima rounded toward her, “What? What do you mean?”

  “There’s no water.”

  “That makes sense, actually,” Fatima sighed. She dipped the napkin back in the water.

  Elisa returned to the kitchen. She found a bag of coffee in a shopping bag filled with rancid parcels of what must be meat, judging from the butcher paper. She shook the coffee into the moka, filled the bottom of the coffee maker with the rest of the bottled water, screwed the base on the top and set it to heat, grateful for the first time that her home life had necessitated learning to make coffee for her mother at an early age.

  While she waited for the water in the moka to boil, she found a garbage bag under the sink. She shook it open with a pang of worry that the noise would bother Maestro. But no sound came from the living room other than Fatima’s soothing drone as she whispered words of comfort while washing Luciano’s face and hands over and over. Elisa inspected the contents of the shopping cart and tossed all the rotting parcels into the garbage bag, setting the jar of jam on the counter. She moved through the kitchen adding the stale bread, salami rinds, and half-empty bottle of rancid milk to the growing collection of trash in the bag. Tying the top, she set the bag by the kitchen door, mindful that the water in the moka was beginning to bang against the metal sides of the coffeemaker. With a paper towel she found, she wiped down the table and counters with a cleaner she’d located behind the garbage bags.

  Elisa located a cup and filled it with dark, nutty coffee, adding a spoon of sugar before bringing it out to Fatima. As she handed it she asked, her voice pitched low, “Are you okay with him? I want to keep cleaning the kitchen, I think there must be a faucet in the alley where I can get some water.”

  Fatima bowed her head in thanks as she took the cup. “Great idea. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Elisa swallowed. “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know. He was so confused when we got here. He’s never not recognized me before. Now he’s a little better. Calmer, anyway. But he keeps talking about Giulia and Margherita.”

  “Margherita?”

  “Yes, his granddaughter. He used to talk about her all the time before Giulia died. I haven’t heard him mention her in ages.”

  Fatima blew on the surface of the coffee, sending the dots of oil swirling across the surface of the cup. Elisa studied Luciano as he moaned and tossed his head. She startled at a sudden realization. “Wait, is his daughter’s husband Massimo the same Massimo that’s getting married next week?”

  “Is there a Massimo getting married next week?”

  “Yes, I heard it announced at church.”

  “It could be.”

  “Madonna, just as he was starting to seem happy.”

  Elisa reached for Fatima’s hand. Fatima took it and squeezed, then reached for Luciano’s hand. The three of them stood in the dim living room, inhaling the warm scent of coffee, the sharp odor of cleanser that Elisa had sprayed in the kitchen, and the soft childlike sound of Luciano, beginning to weep.

  Edo’s bike skirted the edge of the dirt path as he pumped harder to the top of the mountain. Standing, he cranked the pedals with all his weight, relishing the feeling of single-mindedness. There was no space in his brain or his heart for anything other than determination. With a final groan, Edo reached the summit. He planted his feet on either side of the pedals to catch his breath. Panting heavily, he leaned the bike against a tree and walked to the drop-off, his eyes drinking in the view. The hills below him resembled a child’s finger-painting—the silvery green of the olive trees blurred with streaks of golds and reds from the grapevines turning in the autumnal chill. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful the world was, or at least his corner of it.

  Spying a stone bench, Edoardo seated himself, stretching his legs with a groan. He tipped his face up to the sun and felt the toxins stored in his body leaching out to evaporate into the crisp air. Sobriety was feeling pretty good. At least right now.

  Staying clean was a lot harder when he felt his body itch for the high of the clubs. Looking back at his last few weeks, though he definitely experienced periods of mourning for the sweet oblivion of the dance floor—fingers reaching toward him in the dark, the beat of the music thumping through his core—mostly he found himself relieved. There was so much about clubbing that felt wrong and shameful, not the least of which was how horrible the mornings-after were.

  Now, he woke up clearheaded. And that felt good. Good enough to mostly override the sense that something was missing. From his days, from his life—something was just missing. He tried filling it by throwing himself into the bar. That worked during the day. In the evenings, he tried filling the void with books. But though he enjoyed reading, particularly the memoirs that made him feel close to the writer, he still felt restless. He’d tried to center himself by tracking down the Moroccan immigrant and pushing himself past his fears of rejection to pantomime his willingness to help the man learn Italian. It was a heartwarming distraction, at least for now. But at times he still couldn’t help begrudging his two-dimensional life.

  Edoardo’s breath lost some of its scorching exhaustion, and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with clean air. As a tendril of breeze drifted across his face, he watched the leaves of the trees trip across the achingly blue sky. For right now, this was enough.

  From a distance, he heard the sound of approaching cyclists. Faster than he anticipated, the voices drew near, cheering their arrival at the tallest peak in the region’s hills. He heard the smacking of high-fives and laughter and hoots as the cyclists squirted water at each other. Edoardo closed his eyes and offered a prayer that his oasis wouldn’t be breached. The last thing he wanted was to play the smalltalk introduction game with a bunch of strangers.

  But like most of Edoardo’s fervent prayers, this one went unanswered and the group fanned out around the peak looking for resting spots. A young man in professional-looking royal-blue bike shorts and jersey startled at the sight of Edoardo sitting tensely on the bench. “Oh!” said the biker, “I didn’t see you there. Beautiful day for a ride, isn’t it?”

  Edoardo nodded.

  The biker didn’t seem to notice Edoardo’s reluctance to engage and went on, “Did you ride up from Girona?”

  Edoardo shook his head, “No. Santa Lucia.”

  “Santa Lucia?”

  Edoardo sighed lightly, “Yes, it’s a few kilometers into the hills from Girona.”

  “Ah! Right! That’s where the Sagra del Cinghiale is, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The biker nodded and then gestured to the bench.

  Edoardo sighed inwardly once again before nodding and then scooting over to make room for the cyclist.

  “I saw signs for the sagra in the Girona shops. We’re here from Rome, my friends and I, just for a weekend of biking. Is the festival worth coming back for?”

  Edoardo turned his head to look at the cyclist, trying to convey his reluctance to talk right now. He wanted to sit in the quiet and enjoy the feeling of his heart rate slowing down and his muscles shivering out of their clenched position. But the man was smiling and leaning toward him. His light brown eyes were framed with dark lashes and in those eyes Edoardo saw true interest. He warmed to the openness on the biker’s face, the dimples framing his easy smile.

  “Well, we call it the Sagra del Cinghiale, but the real star is the olive oil. We’ve been growing it from these trees for a thousand years.” Edo’s expression came to life as he told the cyclist about how the festival always opened the olive harvest season, and the subsequent pressing of the oil. The man leaned forward and asked, “Is there another sagra for the oil like in other towns?”

  “No,” Edo furrowed his brow at the question. “I never th
ought about it, but the pressing of the oil is just for us.”

  The man nodded in understanding, and asked, “So then, what happens at the Sagra del Cinghiale?”

  Surprised by how much he was enjoying a conversation he never wanted to have, Edo went on, telling him about the sagra’s giant fire, how the smell of roasting cinghiale drifted all through Santa Lucia, and how old ladies surreptitiously shoved their potatoes into the ashes for their own contorni. The biker smiled when Edoardo described how the next day’s clean up would invariably dislodge several forgotten and charred potatoes, along with small items poked into the ashes by children. The chuckles turned to laughter when Edoardo confessed that as a child he had once stuck a plastic pig in the fire, in his quest to be like the men.

  The biker held out his right hand, “I’m Arnaldo, by the way.”

  “Ciao, Arnaldo, I’m Edoardo . . . Edo. Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  A voice called out from the groves, “You alright there, Arnaldo?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Come meet a new friend.”

  Edoardo was surprised to find that his irritation at having his silence intruded on had vanished, and smiled in greeting as one by one the men stepped forward to introduce themselves.

  Two arrived holding hands, one tucking in his shirt with his free hand. This set off a titter from the assembled cyclists, one clucking, “Really, guys. You couldn’t wait till we’re back at the hotel?”

  The taller of the two raised his eyebrows and mugged, “And miss an al fresco situation? Not a chance.”

  Arnaldo turned to Edoardo and smiled, “I apologize for my friends’ lack of chasteness. They really are a stand-up group of guys. Not always entirely . . . seemly . . . but good guys.”

  Edoardo fought down a confusing mixture of panic and intrigue. “Are you all . . . together?”

  The men laughed before settling down on the ground to lean back and stretch out their legs. Arnaldo frowned in confusion, “Together? No. Just those two are together.”

  A voice from the group rang out, “He’s asking if we’re all gay, Arnaldo. How thick can you be?”

  Edo shook his head and stammered, “No, really—”

  Arnaldo smiled and touched Edo’s hand lightly, “It’s okay. We are. Well, except Silvio there, who insists he’s straight but hangs with us rather than go on dates with the girls his mother keeps flinging at him.”

  A man, presumably Silvio, tossed his head back to add, “You’ve seen the girls my mom wants me to date. Toads, all of them. I’d rather hang with you guys. At least you all are easy on the eyes.”

  Arnaldo gave Edoardo a meaningful look as if to say, “See?”

  Then he nudged Edoardo’s elbow with his own. “So where are you headed next?”

  “Me?”

  Arnoldo ducked his head and grinned, his dimples deepening. “Sure. Why don’t you join us? We can loop back to Santa Lucia this evening.”

  “Oh!” Edoardo stood up and brushed off his shorts. “Oh, that’s nice. But I can’t. I have to get back to work.”

  “That’s not what I . . .”

  “Yes, I know. I know. But I . . . can’t.”

  Arnaldo nodded, “Okay, I get it. I’ll walk you to your bike.” Edo waved goodbye to the assembled cyclists, now unpacking panini and bottles of water while unfolding a large map of the surrounding mountains. They responded with calls to stay and join them, which turned to farewells when Edo insisted he needed to leave.

  Once Edo reached his bike, he turned to find Arnaldo closer behind him than he expected. Arnaldo grinned. “Well, if you change your mind and want to join us for a glass of wine later, we’re the only biking group from Rome staying at Hotel del Lago.”

  Edo nodded, distracted by the golden streaks in Arnaldo’s wind-tousled hair, scattering light like the olive groves all around them. That maddening dimple fluttered in Arnaldo’s left cheek as he leaned forward and took Edo’s hand. Edo could smell Arnaldo’s shaving cream, like limoncello. Arnaldo pressed his cheek against Edo’s and whispered, “I’d love to see you again.”

  Arnaldo slowly pulled back and regarded Edo levelly for a moment, their faces inches apart. Arnaldo hesitated, then leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against Edo’s.

  There was an explosion in Edo’s ribcage, sending a pulse of warmth throughout his body. Arnaldo sighed into the kiss before breaking contact. Another wink of that dimple, and Arnaldo turned back to the groves.

  Edo watched him stroll away, mesmerized. Arnaldo looked over his shoulder and ran his gaze up over Edo’s lean form, lingering at his eyes. Simultaneously, the men lifted their hands in parting.

  Turning, Edo stumbled to mount his bike. He pushed off, and arced his path to head down the hill to Santa Lucia. But a whispering voice within him murmured that he’d left something behind amongst the olive trees. Something that’d he’d never be able to get back.

  “Wow, Isotta, this place is incredible.” Isotta’s sister, Isabella, murmured as they began their ascent up the hill to Santa Lucia. “Are we at a higher elevation or something? The light is vivid.”

  “Not by much. But I know what you mean, it reminds me of the light on an island, like there’s more water in the air or something. It’s always like this. I don’t think Massimo even notices.”

  “Hmm.” Isabella nodded. “Nervous?” She asked, as Isotta plucked up the creases of her lilac dress.

  “No. Yes. A little.”

  Isabella checked her rear-view mirror, “Everyone is right behind us, so we didn’t get separated like you were stressed about.”

  “I know.”

  “And Massimo seems like a great guy.”

  “He is.”

  “And so dreamy.”

  Isotta turned to glare at her sister.

  “What? What did I say? Should I say he’s painful to look at? Well he is in a way, he causes all sorts of pain in my—”

  “Basta! That’s enough.”

  “Ai, Isotta. I was only teasing. It’s good that he’s so handsome. I like them better that way.” She turned and archly raised her eyebrows.

  “Just watch the road, Isabella.”

  Isabella did just that, following the hairpin turns to the top of the mountain, where she parked.

  “Will we have to walk to the church?”

  “Yes. No cars in Santa Lucia. Unless you want to sit in the back of an Ape.”

  “Ha! That would hardly be dignified for the wedding of the first of the Fabbro girls to get hitched.”

  Isotta bit her lip.

  “Hey. What is it?”

  “Well, I hardly thought I’d be the first. I didn’t think this would ever happen for me.”

  “Oh, Isotta, you’ve always been so hard on yourself.”

  “You try being the youngest and drabbest of four beautiful sisters.”

  “Well, the implied compliment aside, Isotta, you’ve always sold yourself short. Just because you are some sort of genetic throwback with your blond hair and light eyes.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “I know . . . you don’t look like the rest of us, but on days like this, when you hold yourself up high and are blushing with excitement, well, I can see why Massimo fell for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course, really.” Isotta looked out over the valley, waiting for the rest of her family to pull into the lot. Unlike her sister who had raced up the mountain, they had slowed to a crawl at the unfamiliar turns.

  At her silence, Isabella asked, “What is it now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ma dai, the others will be here in a minute. Don’t make me have to pull it out of you.”

  You can hardly blame Isotta for being evasive. This wasn’t exactly an easy topic to broach.

  Isotta inhaled deeply and then said all
in a breath, “Sometimes I just don’t understand why Massimo is marrying me.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes. “I thought we already covered this. You’re beautiful and intelligent and blah blah blah. Stop with the insecurity already. It clashes with your wedding dress.”

  Isotta shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Well, try. And hurry. They’re almost here.”

  “Okay. And I know this sounds weird. But sometimes it feels like Massimo is looking through me, not at me. Like I’m an item on a list he needs to check off. Not all the time, sometimes when he touches me it’s like I’m the only woman in the world. But others . . .”

  “Wedding jitters. He’s smitten with you, anybody with eyes can see that.”

  “Sometimes. And then other times, he’s . . . distant. In a world of his own. And I start wondering if he’s actually over his dead wife.”

  “Oh, God, Isotta. That’s enough. Nobody invited the dead wife to the wedding.”

  “But it’s just so odd. He clams up whenever Giulia comes up. Not like he’s sad. Like . . . there’s more to it. His mom, too. She actually sounds bitter or something. And they both change the subject really quickly. It makes me think neither of them is over her death. And why would they be? It was tragic. Isn’t it too soon to start over?”

  “Seriously, Isotta. Stop it. How is a man—or his mother, even—supposed to act when he’s talking about his former wife in front of his bride? And so he’s moody. You just haven’t been with enough men to know. They are all that way. It’s like they have one gear. If they are happy, they can’t remember feeling otherwise, and when they are down, they take that on like their permanent personality. It’s enough to give a woman whiplash, and make us feel like we’re delusional for remembering all the other gears. That’s just men, Isotta. Don’t worry.”