Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  Patrizia demurred, “All Italian men are like that. If I had a euro for each time Giuseppe grieved that my ragù wasn’t as good as his mother’s . . .” Patrizia chuckled. “It’s true though. I don’t know what she puts in it, but mine has yet to come close,” she mused, stirring the dregs of her coffee thoughtfully.

  Stella shook her head emphatically. “Of course Italian men are all more or less mammoni, that’s no surprise. But please, Massimo? Those apron strings tie like a noose. Anna resented Giulia, you can’t deny it. And Massimo always followed his mother.”

  Chiara had heard this before, of course. Massimo and Anna’s entangled relationship was a source of some whispered hilarity, but Chiara herself had never found it particularly amusing. In fact, whenever she witnessed Anna trying to hold hands with her young adult son, or saw the naked longing in Anna’s eyes as she droned on and on about what a perfect father and husband Massimo was, Chiara just felt queasy. Perhaps you feel the same.

  Patrizia wondered aloud, “I always thought that was the stress of trying to have a baby for so long. That can make people irritable and anxious. I mean, it took Giuseppe and me a year, and it was the hardest year of our marriage.”

  Stella conceded, “Once Giulia got pregnant with Margherita, it’s true Massimo treated her like a queen. For awhile anyway.”

  Patrizia reminisced, “Being a mother brought her so much joy. Remember? She and Margherita were always together. Poor little dove, losing her Mamma so young. What was she, a year old? Less?”

  Stella nodded, “And the way she died . . .”

  The eyes of all three women looked over at Fabrizio who studiously turned the page of the paper while taking a noisy sip of his coffee. Stella ducked her head closer to her friends. “I mean, really. Suddenly dying in the shallow waters of the Adriatic? That never happens.”

  Patrizia looked horrified. “Stella, what are you implying?”

  “Nothing I haven’t said before. And I’m not alone, loads of people agree with me. The match was always a strange one. Everyone seemed unhappy, and then poof! She’s dead. Dead from drowning in two feet of calm water. Don’t tell me that’s not bizarre.”

  Chiara couldn’t help herself, “But remember right before they left for the sea? Massimo was so tender toward Giulia. The two of them were happy, really happy. Always touching each other like they shared a secret. Stella, I remember you yourself said that it looked like Massimo’s restless youth was over and he was finally settling down as a husband and father.”

  Stella scowled, but nodded in agreement. She did remember Giulia and Massimo walking down the street, hand in hand like newlyweds, Margherita perched high on her father’s shoulder. That was only a week or two before Giulia’s death, but it had been such a change, seeing Giulia radiant after months of her growing more and more ashen. She hadn’t been able to forget it.

  Chiara went on, “Anyway, seriously think about what you’re saying. A husband killing his wife? For what? A world where that can happen—I can’t stomach it. Massimo has always been a bit . . . aloof, it’s true, but we’ve known him since he was a child. He’s not a villain. It’s much easier to believe that there was some sort of freak accident than to assume he had a hand in Giulia’s death.”

  Stella looked chastened. “You could be right. But it doesn’t change the fact that he found a new wife a year from his old wife’s death who looks just like her, down to the worshipful infatuation.”

  Patrizia reluctantly murmured agreement.

  The door opened.

  Vale entered, jingling his keys. “Buongiorno!” He caught sight of Stella, and his face split into a grin that reminded Chiara of a child being offered his first cioccolata calda of the season. Stella blushed and stammered a good morning before turning to hunch over her coffee. Vale took up a spot beside her and leaned over the counter to ask for un cappuccino. Chiara nodded.

  Patrizia watched with curiosity as the red in her friend’s cheeks flushed and receded. “Tutto a posto, Stella?”

  “Sì, sì, why shouldn’t everything be okay? Oh! Chiara! What do you think about holding the sagra up at the castle?”

  Vale and Patrizia looked at her quizzically. Patrizia said, “Is it? How do you know?”

  Stella began, “Dante, last night, told . . .” but her voice trailed off. Vale flinched and leaned a hair away. He focused on his right thumb rubbing the area of his left hand between his thumb and forefinger.

  Chiara broke in, feeling Fabrizio’s eyes on her, “Yes, I heard. At first I thought it was a terrible idea, but it’s growing on me. It’s about time we reclaim that castle. It’s been sitting there in disrepair since before I was born.” She watched Fabrizio lean back to peer out the window at the steps of the castle. He ran his tongue over his teeth as he pondered the street, before returning his attention to the newspaper.

  Stella added in a rush, “Yes, Magda’s idea. Which means, of course, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  They all chuckled, but Chiara was glad to note that the tenor wasn’t mean spirited. Stella braved a glance at Vale, who caught her gaze and held it, his thumb momentarily pausing its worrying path over his hand. Stella leaned against Vale, almost imperceptibly. Chiara’s eyebrows flew up. She turned to wash the dishes.

  Isotta hesitated before stepping into the alimentari. It couldn’t be her imagination that every single time she’d entered the shop, the voices had stopped like a TV suddenly switched off. And heads had turned suddenly away as if the packaged biscotti were suddenly deeply intriguing. She knew small towns were known for being closed to outsiders, but this sort of scrutiny and awkwardness was unlike anything she’d imagined.

  This time, she’d brought Margherita, her first outing with the child. She hoped that the presence of the little girl would soften the silence, or at the very least give her something to focus on rather than how long her arms suddenly felt.

  Margherita sprinted in her funny, rolling gait toward the shop’s entrance. Obviously she’d learned to equate the shop with a treat. Indeed she ran into the dimly lit shop, rounded the shelves, and stopped in front of the candy. Isotta followed, smiling bravely at the customers that, as expected, had grown stiff.

  She murmured to Margherita, grateful to have discovered that small town notions of health food were not the same as Florentine ones. She had initially been shocked at the snack cakes that her husband (husband!) and mother-in-law (mother-in-law!) gave Margherita for breakfast. Just this morning, she had bit her lip before suggesting maybe some pane with marmellata. But she hadn’t spoken loudly, and it was easy for everyone to ignore her. Everyone except Margherita who had toddled over to her and rested her hand on Isotta’s knee before patting her face softly and tottering to fetch her snack cake. So she didn’t fear crossing a line by treating Margherita to some candy. At least there was one aspect of her new life that didn’t feel like she was teetering on a precipice.

  Isotta sank to her knees next to Margherita and pulled her close. Margherita selected a Lion bar and clutched it to her chest before taking another and trying to feed it to Isotta, wrapper and all. Isotta laughed, “Not for me darling. You’re all the sweet I need.” Isotta stood up and brushed off her knees to find the cashier, his friend, and an old lady with her hand gripping an orange staring at her.

  You might empathize with the villagers, certainly, but it would have been nice if they had adopted a bit of artifice. This was an awful lot for Isotta to take.

  Pressing her lips into a smile, she guided Margherita through the rest of the shop, picking out a pack of yogurt, a box of ditalini pasta for the soup Anna was making for lunch, and a bottle of pureed tomatoes. Placing the items on the counter, she looked the cashier directly in the eyes before saying with more firmness than she planned, “Buongiorno.”

  “Buongiorno, signora,” he answered, his voice laced with softness.

  Unexpected softness. Isotta looked a
round, and noticed for the first time, that the people in the shop weren’t holding themselves distant in the way of people unaccustomed to strangers. They looked like they were in mourning.

  But why? She felt like there was a puzzle in front of her, missing too many pieces for her to make sense of the whole design. She pushed the money to the cashier who returned her change with a sorrowful smile. Isotta smiled back, more confused than ever.

  She followed Margherita’s tiny, pumping legs back up the hill and into the alley that led to her new home.

  It still felt strange to open the door and barge in. But of course, she couldn’t exactly knock either. She split the difference and allowed Margherita to proceed her, and called out, “We’re home!”

  Anna called from the kitchen. “Ah, you’re back.”

  Margherita barreled into her grandmother’s legs, and Anna hoisted her up as she continued to stir the soup. Isotta dropped the bag on the kitchen table and started unloading. She wanted to help cook, but she knew from experience that Anna might trust her with Margherita, but she definitely didn’t trust her with lunch.

  “Anna?”

  “Sì,” Anna answered, blowing on a spoonful of soup before tipping it into her granddaughter’s mouth.

  “I want to ask you something difficult but I’m not sure how.”

  Anna blanched. Isotta wondered if her mother-in-law feared being asked something bedroom-related. The fear of making Anna uncomfortable propelled Isotta to blurt out her question. “People keep looking at me like I’m a deformed animal. Like they pity me and find me disturbing at the same time. Is that normally how locals treat a newcomer? Or could I be doing something wrong, wearing something wrong?”

  Isotta gazed down at her cream sweater. It was a little form-fitting perhaps, but didn’t seem provocative. At least not by Florentine standards. She missed the look of relief that flashed across her mother-in-law’s face. By the time Isotta looked back up, Anna had turned back to her soup, hitching Margherita higher as the child tried to stick her finger into the burbling liquid. “Wrong? What can you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Like just now, I handed money to the guy at the alimentari, and he looked like his pet rabbit had been mauled by a fox.”

  A quick intake of breath, and then Anna answered, eyes firmly on the broth, “You are reading into things. People here are not like they are in Florence. They are just trying to figure out if they should invest time getting to know you if you’ll just be doing your shopping in Girona.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. Anyway, I happen to know that Giovanni, the man who owns the alimentari, is in love with his first cousin, so he always looks depressed. Stop worrying so much.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “I’m telling you, Chiara. That stranger is up to something.”

  “What do you mean, Stella?”

  “Look, the other day when I was walking with Vale—”

  “You were walking with Vale? Stella—”

  “Nice try, Chiara, but this isn’t the time to talk about my relationship with Vale. No time is the right time, actually. I’m a grown woman and I can do what I want. Anyway, that’s beside the point. We saw him following the vigili . . . taking notes.”

  Chiara tried not to laugh aloud. “Taking notes? Really, Stella, that’s hardly a behavior worthy of all this cloak and dagger, sottovoce suspicion.”

  Stella blinked theatrically. “Chiara, don’t be dense. Why is he taking notes? In fact, every time I see the man, he’s taking notes. What is he up to?”

  Chiara pushed back the memory of Fabrizio’s hands tracing the neckline of her shirt, his cheek nuzzled against her neck inhaling her scent. Why hadn’t he acknowledged that night? Not once, beyond that unreadable expression. Wasn’t that odd? Yes, it definitely seemed odd. She answered Stella lightly, “Okay, I’ll play along. What do you think he’s up to?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. But a man doesn’t just move to an out-of-the-way place like Santa Lucia without a reason, and I think that reason has something to do with why he’s always writing in that damn notebook. And why you seem to be the only person he speaks to.”

  “Can’t a man just move here for a change of scenery? We get plenty of tourists this time of year—”

  “Tourists! He’s not a tourist, and you know it.”

  “Stella, what in the world do you think he’s doing?”

  “To tell you the truth? I think he’s a spy.”

  This time Chiara couldn’t keep from laughing. “A spy? For whom? Who cares what the vigili in Santa Lucia are talking about? Or the coffee drinkers?”

  Stella sniffed, “You know as well as I do that this country was founded on layers upon layers of ruthlessness. For all I know he’s a spy for the mafia, and there is someone in Santa Lucia who has crossed them. There are definitely shifty characters in town. Magda for one. Hasn’t she been acting strangely lately? Or! Maybe he’s spying for a development company. Maybe they are trying to develop the swamp again. Chiara, you know that would ruin Santa Lucia.”

  Chiara opened a drawer and took out a fresh white cloth. Reaching below the counter she grabbed a spray bottle, and began spritzing the counter. Silently, she buffed the stone.

  “Chiara? What is it?”

  “I don’t know what to say. Now, not only is Fabrizio—”

  “Oh, you know his name?”

  Chiara sighed and said, “Yes, I know his name. Not only is Fabrizio guilty of some vague crime, but Magda is too?”

  “I didn’t say that for sure, I just said it was possible.”

  “Please. She’s guilty of nothing more than being different. Doesn’t mean she’s in league with the mafia.”

  “I never said she was in league with them.”

  “Hiding from them, then. Or that there is some catastrophe around the corner. I happen to think that Magda has a good heart, she’s just . . . complicated.”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “I’ll say.”

  “I don’t understand your desire to manufacture danger. Aren’t our lives full enough as it is? Especially you, Stella.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Chiara put down the spray. “You know what I mean. You’re so busy assuming Magda is wrapped up with the mafia or Fabrizio is spying for some nefarious corporation or that Massimo killed his first wife and has designs on doing in his second, that you can’t see the mess that’s brewing at your feet.”

  Stella’s voice was chilly, “Don’t say it, Chiara. Don’t say what can’t be unsaid.”

  “I will say it, because it’s time to attend to the fact that your own house is on fire. You are married to the mayor. Do you think you can have an affair with the town handyman and not have it blow up in your face?”

  Stella plucked her coat from the chair and began putting it on, glaring at Chiara. “I won’t stay here to be schooled like a child.”

  “You’re blinded! I love you, and if you get branded as an adulteress, you won’t be able to show your face around here. I can’t have that happen to you. Because I love you.” She repeated, lamely.

  “This isn’t love, Chiara. This is nosiness. You think just because you’re privy to everyone else’s secrets and gossip, you’re entitled to know about my life. Nosy, yes. Nosy and vindictive. Trying to ruin the first bit of happiness I’ve had in a good long while. Vale makes me happy, okay? He makes me feel alive. He makes me feel important. He wants to know what I’m thinking and pays attention when I speak. How dare you take that and stomp all over it?”

  Chiara’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you felt all that about him, Stella. Even so, can’t you see? Can’t you see what’ll happen?”

  Stella snatched up her purse and hitched it over her shoulder. “All I see is that you’re jealous. Yes! Jealous. I have someone to love me and you . . . well, th
e less said about that the better. You’re lonely and spiteful and just want to spit on my relationship. Instead of warning me of my house on fire, Chiara, maybe you should look to your own.”

  Chiara drew back as if slapped.

  Stella went on, “Yes! Your own house! You’re a lonely aging woman who seems to have a crush on a suspicious man and your nephew isn’t . . . right. He isn’t right, Chiara! So maybe you should deal with that instead of stirring up dirt in other people’s gardens!”

  And with that, she swirled her coat around her shoulders and swept out the door. A little melodramatic, perhaps, but it had the desired effect. Chiara slumped against the counter and pressed her hands against her eyes.

  It was a week since Edoardo met the group of gay cyclists. He tried not to think about it. But it was hard. Much harder since the interaction hadn’t been hazed over with liquor and drugs. He realized now—all those nights of firm hands moving over his hips, all those nights plunging his own hands down the muscular stomachs of men whose faces were obscured in darkness. All those nights were in a venomous shade. Coated with confusion, they were easy to push aside, to forget.

  But the way he felt when Arnaldo had put his hand on his arm and leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. The way Edo’s heart had dropped. The way he’d felt a hook around his navel that propelled him closer to Arnaldo, while at the same time he had yearned for the ride home. How he’d needed the escape of a punishing hill to block out the echoing thoughts that reverberated in his head.

  “Gay . . . gay . . . gay . . .”

  The problem with starting at the top of the hill was that down was the only recourse. Edoardo had forced his eyes to watch the terrain, his brain to make sense of every curve to keep his memory from wandering back to that sunlit hill, surrounded by those cyclists, so comfortable and relaxed, leaning back on each other’s legs, sharing bottles of water.

  Somehow, he’d made it home.