Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  But the thoughts hadn’t left.

  And what was dim was now clear.

  He was gay.

  Gay . . . gay . . . gay . . . gay.

  Of course he’d known that. Not always clearly, perhaps, but he’d always known. So had everyone else. He could duck his head in the sand and pretend he didn’t know why he was always the last kid picked for sports teams and why he was held at a distance from other men. But he knew. That part of him that he let out only in low-light conditions was always there, humming its knowledge that he was damaged. Sinful.

  He didn’t need the church to tell him. He had only to see how people looked at him suspiciously. He hated that separation and had tried to be normal. Hadn’t he taken out that girl in high school? Somehow he had managed to have sex with her, by both invoking and rejecting the image of a man underneath him. He broke up with her soon after, and she had frankly seemed relieved. He supposed it hadn’t been all that good for her.

  After high school, he continued to date, sure. There was that girl he had met through his cousin. He remembered her with some affection now. She was more experienced, more forward, and had come onto him from the moment she met him in a way that he, who didn’t get women, perfectly understood. She had been demanding in bed, which was at first freeing, as it kept his mind from wandering into images of broader chests and different appendages. Though after awhile, she tired of the work it took to arouse him and called it off with a jovial boxing of his shoulder. She was married now, with a child. He was glad she was happy.

  The clubs. Those began as a joke, a dare by his friends. Then, it was an addiction. An addiction far stronger than the liquor and drugs that were in constant supply on the edge of the dance floor.

  All those nights. How could he have denied the truth? No matter how many substances clouded his judgment and memory?

  He supposed it was willful self-delusion. He didn’t want to be what he feared he was. Being gay meant resigning to residing in liminal space, where he never wanted to be. He wanted to be in the thick of life, not on the margins.

  For a day or two after the revelation on the top of the mountain, Edoardo toyed with the idea of trying to find Arnaldo. He got the feeling that Armando saw the demons and the desire in Edoardo, and didn’t judge either.

  In spare moments, Edo allowed himself to relive the electricity of that kiss. He treasured the memory of getting lost in a man’s eyes. He preserved the image of Arnaldo’s smiling face lit by the sun. That dimple, unbridled.

  Edoardo felt the shame seep from him, like the last of the toxins he’d been harboring.

  Chiara tensed as the door opened. She wanted to close the bar and be done with this damnable day.

  “Ciao, Chiara,” she heard the modulated voice of Patrizia.

  With a sigh of relief, Chiara turned and smiled at her friend. “Ciao, Patrizia. What will you have this evening?”

  “Il solito.”

  Chiara tucked a fall of hair behind her ear and turned to prepare the latte caldo.

  Patrizia shook out her coat, damp from the intensifying mist filling the streets. “Tutto bene, Chiara?”

  “Sì, sì, everything is fine.” Chiara flicked the wand down into the metal pitcher. The homey sound of frothing milk filled the quiet bar.

  Chiara set the warm milk in front of her friend, sprinkled it with a blur of cocoa powder, then leaned forward. “How is everything, Patrizia? How are Filamena and Marco?”

  Patrizia reached for a sugar packet and, shaking it, said, “Piano, piano . . . things seem to be improving. Maybe slower than we’d like, but still . . . improving. The school switched Marco’s teacher to someone that has experience with kids like Marco.”

  “Hmm. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Someone who can help him with his work, I suppose. I think they said they’re going to try lots of rewards when he does what he’s asked to do. Anyway, it is helping. Some.” Her eyes welled with tears and her voice shook.

  “That must be a relief.”

  “It is. It really is.”

  Patrizia sipped her milk, and Chiara reached into the refrigerator for a green glass bottle of frizzante. She poured the bubbly mineral water and added a splash of orange juice. Stirring with a long-handled spoon, she enjoyed the moment of quiet, and the noticeably more relaxed features of her friend.

  Chiara took a sip and then said, “And how is Giuseppe?”

  “Good, good. Gearing up for the sagra. It’s so strange to think of not celebrating in the piazza.”

  “Well, it’s a change, but I think it—” her voice cut off at the sound of the door opening.

  Fabrizio stepped in and nodded to the women before holding his finger aloft and asking, “Un caffè lungo, per favore.”

  Chiara’s cheeks flushed as she turned to grind the beans.

  Patrizia looked from Chiara to the man, now standing at the edge of the bar, examining the display of candy. She turned back to Chiara with one eyebrow raised in question. Chiara avoided her eye contact as she plunked the coffee on the counter. Fabrizio nodded his thanks and carried his coffee to the table.

  Patrizia ran her tongue over her teeth, before staring into her latte caldo. She swallowed the rest in one gulp, coughed, and moved to get her purse. Placing some coins in the tray next to the register, she said goodbye. Chiara waved, and placed the cup into the sink.

  Fabrizio followed Patrizia’s exit with his eyes and then stood and crossed the bar to the counter. “Chiara?”

  Chiara turned up the water and began humming.

  Fabrizio stood up and moved to the bar. “Chiara?”

  Chiara stiffened and washed the cup more thoroughly than was strictly necessary given that she’d overspent for a dishwasher with scouring capabilities.

  “Chiara!”

  She jumped and turned off the water. Chiara dried her hands on the towel before facing Fabrizio. “Yes? Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No. But something is bothering you. I’d like to know what it is.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Chiara.”

  “Really! It’s nothing, I just got in a fight with a friend earlier, and I guess I’m not really feeling right since then.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  Chiara flushed and concentrated on drying the counter.

  Fabrizio went on. “I know it’s not my place. But something is clearly bothering you, and I thought it might help to talk about it.”

  Chiara shook out the towel and then, tucking it back into her apron, she blurted, “Okay, if you must know, you, actually.”

  Fabrizio rubbed his thumbnail. “Me?”

  Biting her lip, Chiara said, “Look, you know people are suspicious, and you aren’t exactly candid, plus we haven’t even talked since—”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It seems that perhaps that’s the problem.”

  “Well, maybe. I mean, it’s not exactly normal. We had that one night talking and . . . well, mostly talking. And since then, you’ve been closed tight as an Adriatic clam. Maybe you regret it, or—”

  “Regret it? Chiara, why would you think that? We agreed to take it slow. I was respecting that. Respecting you.”

  “I know. But I guess when we’re not talking, and then there’s all these wild theories about why you’re here, it makes me second guess everything.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  Chiara smiled. “It doesn’t feel like me either, but there you have it.”

  Fabrizio leaned across the bar and said, “If it helps, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

  Chiara closed her eyes and focused on catching her breath. “You haven’t?”

  “Mmm . . . At night, I’ve had the most delicious dre
ams. I even came by at one in the morning the other night, hoping I’d see a light on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t want to scare you off. That night, Chiara. It was beautiful . . . magical. I was afraid if I was too close to you you’d see my hunger to be with you again and you’d feel pressured. I won’t break this delicate thing between us.”

  Chiara swallowed, her skin prickling in anticipation of his touch.

  As if in answer, Fabrizio ran his finger over her cheek and pulled her chin across the bar to softly press his lips against hers.

  He pulled back and smiled. “Besides, there’s always some blasted person in here. Getting you alone takes actual stalking.”

  Chiara shivered at the word, but shook it off. She looked around the empty bar. “I’m alone now.”

  “I see that.”

  “It’s a little cold for a walk though.”

  Fabrizio flushed, saying “Could we go upstairs?”

  “Edo. I’m not ready yet to explain . . .”

  “Understood. Well, I’ve always enjoyed the brisk night air. At least it’s clear. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get a blanket.”

  Fatima did a double take. Was that someone huddled on the playground bench? It was too drizzly and cold to be sitting outside. In fact, she had her umbrella fixed over her head as she hurried home with a bag of mandarini and a head of lettuce. Wait, was that Elisa? The hat looked familiar.

  Fatima ventured closer. “Elisa?”

  Elisa’s head jerked up. She gasped before registering that the person standing in front of her in the half-light was Fatima. “Oh, Fatima. You scared me.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Elisa drew her knees up to under her chin and her chin trembled. “I can’t go home.”

  Fatima thought about asking why, but she knew why. Instead she sat down on the bench and drew her arm through Elisa’s, holding the umbrella above them both. She said, “He’s in a bad mood?”

  Elisa thought about expressing surprise at Fatima’s question, but she also didn’t have the energy to pretend. “Yes.”

  “Worse than usual?”

  “Yes.” She leaned her head on Fatima’s.

  “Oh, Elisa, I’m so sorry.”

  Elisa nodded, then said, “It had gotten better. Or, not better exactly, but easier because my brothers have let me go with them when they leave. We talk about other things, and I’ve shown them my drawings. It would be a nice time if we didn’t have to wonder . . .”

  Fatima nodded, then asked, “But tonight?”

  “Oh, right. No, my brothers are both at a soccer tournament. It’s just me. I tried to get out like I do when I’m with them, but it doesn’t work alone. I hate it, Fatima. I hate him.”

  “I know.”

  Elisa drew in a shaky breath. “And this time, when my father was yelling at her, he kept saying my name. Like I am her fault.” Elisa’s voice shook and the tears she’d been choking back sprung free.

  Fatima wrapped her arms around her friend, “Hey, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  “How?”

  Fatima stroked Elisa’s hair and thought about the question. “I have no idea.”

  Elisa moaned. “And what’s going to happen when my brothers go to university?”

  Shaking her head, Fatima said, “I don’t know. But by then, you’ll be in high school. So you’ll be gone more. And maybe you can come to my house.”

  “Your house?”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about this. With Maestro the way he is nowadays, and the weather not so good. I can’t go to your house unless my parents meet your parents—”

  Elisa said, “Which can’t ever happen.”

  Fatima nodded, “Right. But you can come to mine. I hadn’t thought of it before, because we never have guests. My parents are suspicious about locals looking down on us because we’re stranieri, and not just any foreigners, but from Morocco. Anyway, it might be awkward. At least at first. But we always had a houseful of people in Morocco. It would be good to bring people into our quiet house.”

  “I can’t even imagine what a quiet house is like.”

  Fatima unwound her arm from Elisa’s shoulder and squeezed her hand.

  “Anyway, maybe you coming can change our habit. Of being only us.”

  “But what if I do something wrong?”

  “Don’t worry. Just don’t say anything about my eating pork or the shirts you made me or the . . . oh, you know. All the stuff they can’t know. They’ll worry too much. Ascolta, why don’t you come home with me now?”

  “Really?”

  “Really. At least to come in out of the rain. Stay for a few minutes to dry, which will get my mother used to the idea.”

  Elisa wiped her eyes. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

  The girls rose and Fatima situated the umbrella over their heads. Their shoulders adhered together, they dashed through the streets, giggling. They moved through the town, into the edge of Santa Lucia. “Here we are,” Fatima said as they stood in front of a blue front door, the streetlight full and resonant as it reflected the sheer raindrops. Fatima shook out her umbrella and then opened the door. Elisa grabbed her hand, “Fatima! I’m scared.”

  “It’ll be okay. I promise. Better than being out in the rain, right?”

  Fatima pulled Elisa into the house and took off her shoes, gesturing for Elisa to do the same. Elisa cocked her head in question, but then followed suit. Calling out in a language Elisa couldn’t understand, Fatima took off her coat. An answering voice echoed from what must be the kitchen, given the sizzling noises and curious smells. Fatima whispered, “Good so far, Mamma seems to be in a good mood.” She held out her hand to take Elisa’s thin, sodden jacket. Elisa was pulling her arms out of the sleeves, when she remembered the Moroccan coin, still in the inside pocket. She hadn’t yet found a way to get it back, and if Fatima noticed it . . . if Fatima took her friendship away . . .

  Fatima grinned and snatched the coat away. “Slowpoke! I’ll take it.”

  Elisa held her breath, watching Fatima’s hands as they brushed over the coat to remove the raindrops and hang it straight. Her hands paused momentarily at the lining, and Elisa thought she might faint. Fatima hung the coat and looked at her friend with concern. “Elisa? Are you okay?”

  Elisa nodded, her stomach pinched. Fatima led her friend into the kitchen. In slow Italian, she said to her mother, a short stocky woman with her black frizzy hair escaping from its bun, “I brought my friend here to meet you. This is Elisa.”

  Fatima’s mother looked up from grinding spices. Her gaze raked over the thin girl. Elisa’s overlarge eyes were still red-rimmed and drops of water fell from the ends of her hair. “Buona sera, Elisa. Piacere. I’m Salma.”

  “Piacere,” Elisa managed to say, and gave a hesitant smile and what may have been a slight curtsy.

  “Mamma, can Elisa stay for a little bit?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Can she peel carrots?”

  Chiara ran her thumb along the edges of the envelope in her pocket. The hum in her fingers skipped up her arm until she was smiling again. She seemed to be unable to stop smiling.

  As Arturo and Sauro entered the bar, she called out merrily, “Buongiorno, signori! Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  Arturo and Sauro glanced at each other before squinting back out over their shoulder at the sodden sky. Arturo answered, “Actually, we were just saying how brutto it is. Last night’s rain has left everything slippery.”

  “Yes, well, the clouds are leaving now. The sky is clearing. You can tell today will be glorious.”

  Arturo narrowed his eyes at Chiara and smiled, “Okay, Chiara whatever you say. Un cappuccino, please.”


  Sauro raised his index finger, “For me, too, Chiara.”

  Edo opened the landing door and stepped into the bar, greeting Arturo and Sauro before dropping a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. “Sleep well?” he asked her.

  “I did, actually.”

  Was she blushing?

  Chiara turned away to grind the beans.

  The bell chimed again and Ava entered, smiling her shy smile at Edo, who welcomed her warmly. “Ciao, Ava. I hear you’ve been working hard at the castle.”

  Ava nodded, clearly pleased at the notice. “Yes. It’s looking good, though the hedges aren’t cooperating.”

  She rested her hands on the bar, and everyone gathered to cluck over the scratches lining her arms.

  “You should’ve worn a long-sleeve shirt,” Edo chided with a frown, as he picked up Ava’s hand to peer more closely at the scrapes on her wrist.

  Ava took a shuddering breath. “I did. Ruined the shirt. Those thorns . . .”

  Arturo said, “Rub olive oil into the cuts. That’ll clear it right up.”

  Sauro nodded, “Yes, that’s a good idea. I got a burn from the bread oven last week, rubbed olive oil into it after the pain subsided, and the mark healed in no time.”

  Ava and Edo rolled their eyes lightly. Smiling, Ava said, “Sure, I’ll try that. My Mamma said the same.”

  Chiara shook her head and turned away, dipping her hand into her apron pocket to touch the letter again. “My dear, Chiara . . .” She had memorized it already.

  She calculated when she could see Fabrizio again. Tonight, maybe? Edo had offered to help her with a make-over, to get her style out of the dark ages, as he’d said with a teasing smile. He was still unaccountably quiet lately, but he was smiling more. Yes, maybe tonight, after the makeover. Fabrizio might come by late, as he’d been doing lately. She’d have on that sweater he said he liked, just in case—

  The door flew open.

  Luciano stood, feet planted wide and pointed at Edo. “You! You think you can come around with your nice words and your offers to . . . to . . . purify my house. I don’t need you! I don’t need any of you! Just stay away! All you lousy blights. Stay . . . away!” Luciano thrust his finger at each person standing, open-mouthed, at the bar before he took a deep intake of breath and shouted, “None of this is normal! You act like it’s normal, but it’s not! You’re not! You’re not normal!” He glared at Edo and then grumbled and turned, stumbling a little, and then shambled down the street.