That child. She was amazed how smitten she was with a child not of her blood. Isotta would never say it aloud, but she marveled at how Margherita resembled a more attractive version of herself. Like all her traits and been smudged and redrawn just a hair to make them more appealing. She wondered what Giulia had looked like, but her perfunctory efforts at snooping hadn’t revealed any photographs. Which, she supposed, made sense. Massimo would not choose to be reminded of the tragedy of his wife’s loss. Or maybe it was in deference to her? The thought softened Isotta’s resentment. She leaned back into the couch.
Looking around, Isotta realized that there was actually only one framed photograph in the house, of Massimo as a toddler in his mother’s arms. In the photo, Anna smiled at her son, only a sliver of her face turned toward the camera. Even with her features only partially revealed, Isotta could see how besotted Anna was with her little boy. Isotta plucked the photo off the side table and examined it more carefully.
Interesting.
Anna had the same rounded chin that Isotta did. And Margherita. Well, that explained why Margherita looked a little like her, she and Anna both had small chins. It wasn’t exactly an unusual feature, Isotta was embarrassed that she had internally relished the vague similarity between her and Margherita, when the resemblance came down to something as basic as one kind of chin over another just as common. Isotta suddenly understood that she had been looking for a similarity between her and Margherita, to match the increasing bond she felt with the child.
Isotta peered more closely at the photograph in her hands. Anna’s eye shape was round, like her own. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before, but she supposed age and gravity shifted a face’s edges.
Not for the first time, Isotta wondered about Massimo’s father. Massimo and Anna never mentioned him, and when Isotta asked when he’d died, they both grew tight lipped. Anna finally said that he’d had a heart attack during Massimo’s final year at university. The response didn’t encourage Isotta to ask further questions, though she couldn’t contain her curiosity. She gathered from the tenor of that one conversation that he wasn’t a well-loved man, at least in this household. Did he know that? Did he regret it? Did he deserve it?
She wished at least one photograph remained so she could chart the family resemblance. Massimo looked so little like his mother beyond height and expression, Isotta wondered how much he took after his father. As an aside, if Isotta could have seen a photograph of Massimo’s father, she would have been gobsmacked by the resemblance. It is unfortunate that Isotta never found the photograph that revealed the father-and-son likeness. Well, to be more precise, she did find it, but by that point, she was far too frantic to note something as mundane as the inheritance of intense eyelashes. But one mustn’t get ahead of oneself.
Isotta rested the picture back on the table. Funny that that was the only photo on display. Isotta made a mental note to charge her camera battery overnight. If tomorrow was a pretty day, maybe she could take photos of Margherita in the groves. Framed, they would make charming gifts for Massimo and Anna. And frankly a few whimsical photographs would cheer up a house that was a bit prone toward dark stuffiness.
Massimo cheered at the TV, breaking through Isotta’s rambling thoughts. She startled, and he looked over at her and laughed. A loud voice and tinny jingle began, signaling the start of the halftime commercial break. Massimo came and sat on the couch next to her, pulling her close. “Are you going to watch the game with me?”
“Yes, of course, if you’d like me to.”
“I would. And then after the game . . .” Massimo leaned over and kissed the base of her neck. Once, twice, and then nibbling a little before sliding his lips up to kiss the place where her ear met her jawbone. Isotta felt the familiar flutter at her core, which irritated her for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
Bang, bang, bang!
Magda stirred under her heavy blankets.
Bang, bang, bang!
Groaning, she reached a hand out to grab her aged clock with its cheerful round face and brass cap, but inadvertently shoved it off the nightstand. Its clattering surprised her into sitting up.
Bang, bang, bang!
“Gottverdammt,” Magda muttered. She cleared her throat and then called out, “Arrivo!”
The banging continued.
Magda found her robe in a heap on the floor and clumsily worked it over her arms and shoulders, tying it around her waist while she called out, more loudly this time, “Arrivo!”
The banging stopped. Magda located her slippers and shoved her feet into them, wondering who could be at the door this early. Or was it early? She seemed to remember collapsing into bed, just last night. Or was it last night? Now that she thought about it, she remembered waking up to both sun and starlight, punctuated with trips to the bathroom. How long had it been? Her eyes were at least dry now, though a quick pass with her hand told her they were crusted with sleep. She wondered if she had time to wash her face and teeth.
The thought of the banging propelled her to the door. She flung it open to see Chiara glowing in the sunlight. Chiara smiled broadly. “There you are!”
“Yes. Where else would I be?” Magda gestured faintly toward the living room, and walked backward, allowing Chiara in.
“Permesso,” Chiara murmured as she stepped through the doorway.
Magda noticed that Chiara carried a cesta, which she heaved onto the dining room table. As Chiara opened the basket and took out baked goods and what looked like a small styrofoam cup of coffee, she chattered brightly, “I can’t remember the last time I went a few days without seeing you. I asked around, and nobody had seen you anywhere. And anyway, it wouldn’t be like you to go away this close to the sagra. I started worrying that you were ill.”
“I’m not ill,” though the way she slumped into the tall back chair belied her words.
“Hmm. I can’t say you look well.”
“Well, Chiara. That’s awfully rude.”
“Not rude. Just honest. Can I air this place out? It’s . . . well, it’s none too fresh smelling in here.”
Magda nodded mutely while Chiara threw open the shutters and opened the windows, allowing the air, scented with mint that grew close to the ground in Magda’s yard, to enter the dimness of the room. Turning to Magda, Chiara asked, “What’s going on? You left the bar all in a huff, and then Luciano said you almost collided with him in the piazza before racing down an alley, and then you seem to have not left the house in days. Days which, by the look of it, have not found you deep in kitchen projects.” Or hygiene, Chiara added to herself, silently.
“Luciano said that? I’m surprised he’d noticed. Drunk as a monkey, that one.”
Chiara rolled her eyes as she turned her back to Magda to flutter open a cloth to lay the food on.
“Yes well, it’s been a trying time for him.”
“You mean because of Isotta and how she’s a dead ringer for Giulia?” Magda’s eyes brightened, and she leaned forward eagerly.
“Mmm,” Chiara answered noncommittally. “In any case, he’s been sober when he’s come in the bar the past couple of days.”
Magda waved the words away with sound of impatience. “Come on, Chiara, we’ve seen him fall on and off the wagon with dizzying speed.”
“Yes, well, as far as I can see, the best predictor of success is how many times one tries. If that’s true, this time may well stick.”
Magda rolled her eyes. “Oh, Chiara, you really do insist on seeing the best in people don’t you?”
Chiara smiled and put the basket away without comment.
Magda seemed to recollect herself and tightened her robe around her, lifting her chin. It is challenging to be haughty in a bathrobe, but Magda was doing an admirable job.
Chiara sighed. “Anyway, I was worried about you. When you ran out—”
“I was fine.” Magda answ
ered, tightly.
Chiara narrowed her eyes. Then, food set out, she sat down.
Magda mumbled, “Well, I was.”
“Magda. Seriously. I’ve known you for a lot of years. I don’t think I have ever seen you lose your composure, even when your husband disappeared. You bolted out of my bar like someone set your hair on fire.”
Magda shuddered, the smell of burning hair suddenly filling her nostrils. She shook her head, forcing herself to stay present.
“Well, Chiara, we may not be what you’d call ‘close’ but I’d say you know me better than anyone in this closed up backwater of a town.”
Chiara stiffened involuntarily. “Ma dai, Magda. Santa Lucia is no bustling metropolis, but really . . .”
“There’s certainly no value in welcoming strangers, you have to admit that.”
Chiara pushed a cornetto towards Magda and then took one for herself, pulling off the tip with a satisfying stretch. “Well, that may be true,” she conceded. “But you haven’t exactly embraced the townspeople either.”
“What? How can you say that? You know how hard I work to get people to better themselves and their businesses!”
Chiara pulled off another piece of cornetto, revealing the cream within. “I’m not sure I’d exactly call that ingratiating yourself with the townspeople. In any case, my point is, something rattled you in my bar, and I want to make sure there’s nothing I can do.”
“Oh, yes. Well.” Magda cleared her throat. “The amulet, and what you said about mothers. It brought back some memories.”
“Where is the amulet? I thought it would be on a chain around your neck or something. You didn’t lose it again, did you?”
“No, it’s right here.” Magda opened her hand to lay the amulet on the table.
Chiara’s sharp intake of breath drew Magda’s notice to her own hand. The amulet was stuck to her hand by a series of cuts. The blood had welded the metal to her palm and she shook her hand irritably.
“Magda. What is it about that amulet?”
Isotta walked out of the alimentari. Luciano breathed to gentle his instinctual stutter at the sight of the woman who looked so like the child he lost. But he had noticed, in watching her, that her eyes, unlike Giulia’s, were constantly wary.
He had so wanted to hate her.
Hate the woman who took the place of his daughter. How could she have slid into the spot once reserved for his beautiful girl? Living in the house she once tidied, bedding the man she once cherished, mothering the child she once coddled. It was this last that was the most painful. Every time he saw Isotta with Margherita, a pain clawed his chest so furiously it took all of his prayers for intercession, all of his self-command, to keep from turning toward a bottle of wine for solace.
Margherita herself didn’t remember him. The last time he’d held her had been at her mother’s funeral, when she’d been barely a year old. She hadn’t understood what was happening. She had kept turning toward the back of the church, no doubt waiting for her mother. But her mother was gone. Along with the baby brother or sister that had just taken hold in this world.
He remembered Giulia’s face when she told him and his wife about the pregnancy. If her mother hadn’t been so ill, Giulia probably would have guarded her secret a bit longer. There had been so many disappointments. But that was Giulia. She wanted to give her mother a lift, and so she shared the news of the pregnancy earlier than she otherwise would have.
She’d been wan with morning sickness and a little daunted at the prospect of mothering a toddler and a newborn, but two children was far more than she had dared hope for just a few years before, so she waved off her discomfort with her usual grace and cheer. He’d wanted to make her a bowl of pasta with olive oil to help with the nausea, but she’d laughed that Anna had forced her to keep a cup of tea in her hand for the same purpose. Luciano had startled at this. To own the truth, he’d always suspected Massimo’s mother resented the presence of another woman in her home.
Massimo had at times seemed to harbor that same resentment, but when the couple sat on the sofa, hands clasped, and shared their news, he, too, had been thrilled. Massimo treated Giulia like she was the Madonna herself. Careful, tender, his hand always on her to steady her. Her first pregnancy he’d been the same, but this time seemed more striking.
Boy or girl, they never found out. Giulia drowned the very afternoon she shared the news with her parents.
Now there was this stranger walking through Santa Lucia with Margherita on her hip and a proprietary smile of affection for Luciano’s granddaughter.
Yes, Luciano wanted to hate her.
But watching her as he had, soberly, he’d realized that she wasn’t a bad person. She had a ready, if shy, smile for everyone. When Margherita misbehaved, she didn’t lose her temper; rather she got on her knees and spoke firmly but lovingly to the child. When they went to the park, Isotta’s laughter as she pushed Margherita on the swing was as light and joyous as his granddaughter’s. Luciano had seen Isotta rush to catch up with Bea stumbling on the cobblestones. He’d watched her hand over money for her groceries, down to the cent, even before Giovanni had finished ringing up her purchases. He’d seen her pause and smile in pleasure at the sight of Edo strolling beside his student Kamal, pointing out objects and naming them slowly in Italian.
Through all this watching, he learned enough about Isotta to wonder—did she have any idea at all about the role she had slipped into?
Their lingering goodnight kiss was interrupted when Chiara realized they were being watched.
She jerked back and looked down the alley with a gasp.
Fabrizio startled, “What is it?”
Laughing Chiara said, “Sorry, nothing, it’s just Carosello.”
“Carosello?”
“You haven’t met Carosello? I’d call him over to introduce you, but he’s either deaf or utterly unbiddable. See? Down there?” Chiara pointed and Fabrizio peered into the darkness and saw a dim beige shape.
“That dog?”
“Yes, sorry. I guess I felt his stare. It’s okay, look he’s leaving now.” With a resigned wave of his tail, the dog was trotting into the darkness.
Fabrizio turned her head with his fingertips, “Hey, so, as we were?” He leaned toward her.
Chiara ducked her chin and said, “No, I actually better get back. I open tomorrow early and there’s a lot to do before the sagra on Friday.”
Fabrizio pulled her closer, “At the sagra, do you think we can take this thing—you and me—out for a spin in the open?”
Chiara shifted her weight, “You mean—”
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“C’mon, Chiara, I know you don’t care what people think about us. And anyway, we’re not doing anything wrong.”
Chiara looked away.
“Chiara?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t feel like inviting a lot of conversation.”
“Chiara, if you feel even a little bit of what I feel when we’re together, you know this is going to have to come out sooner or later.”
“Look, you have to know what people say about you. Nobody knows who you are. I don’t even know who you are.”
“Yes. You do.”
“Fabrizio, what are you doing here? Why the secrecy?”
“I’m not ready—”
“Well, then, neither am I.”
“Listen, I could lie about it, Chiara, but I don’t want to do that. And what I’m doing here has nothing to do with who I am. Not really.”
Chiara laughed mirthlessly. “Look, there’s no sense in being open about our relationship or whatever you want to call it—”
“Relationship works for me.”
“—If we can
’t be open about who we are to each other.”
“I promise, there’s not much I haven’t told you.”
“Well, maybe there are things I haven’t told you.”
“Like what?” Fabrizio asked, frowning.
“Never mind. Forget it.”
“No, tell me.”
“You tell me. Why are you here?”
Fabrizio stared at the wall above Chiara’s head.
She sighed. “Look, this was futile. I never should have pretended I could do this. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Chiara stepped away from the wall under the Madonna, nestled in her blue niche. Chiara’s hand instinctively reached to touch the hem of the stone gown, but she focused on walking away, into the darkened bar. Prayers would wait until tomorrow.
“Chiara, please. What are you doing?”
“Not this, I can’t do this anymore. It was fun, it was. But it’s not going to work. I knew it wouldn’t. I was a fool to try.”
“Chiara!”
She walked into Bar Birbo and locked the door.
Isotta entered the bedroom, and paused to ask Massimo, “Shall I turn off the lights?”
Massimo didn’t look up from the magazine he was flipping through. “No, I want to read a bit longer.”
Isotta bit her lip, her hand hesitating around the light switch, before climbing into the bed. She lay on top of the covers and darted a look at Massimo.
He turned the page with a crackling sound.
Isotta considered getting under the covers. After all, the room was chilly and her arms were speckled with goosebumps (hardly sexy). But she needed Massimo to see her.
Or at least what she was wearing.
How they had fought about that negligee.
He had given it to her a few days ago, wrapped with a large bow. The grin when he handed it to her had made her hopes soar.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“I saw it and thought of you.” Massimo answered.
Isotta felt a rush of warmth released in her chest, and the tears she hadn’t even known were building rise to behind her eyes. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she had begun to doubt Massimo’s love for her. When she spoke, she often noticed him gritting his teeth, as if he found her voice grating.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 24