Wasn’t this gift proof of his adoration, though perhaps mercurial, had not evaporated? Her relief had wilted the tension in her shoulders.
“What is it?” Massimo asked, frowning.
“Nothing! Nothing! Just . . . I’m really touched.”
Massimo had grinned. “Well, open it then, darling.”
Isotta had carefully unwrapped the box, taking as long as she could to savor the feeling of expectation. She’d lifted the lid of the box, folded back the sheer tissue paper to reveal a black negligee.
Unsure of how to respond, Isotta simply took it out of the box and held it up by the straps. The style was dated and the color was wrong. When did she ever, ever wear black? Hadn’t she even told Massimo, during one of their voluble conversations over heady wine at l’Ora Dorata that her mother, who always wore black, was so dour, that as a child, Isotta had decided that her mother’s bitterness was a direct result of wearing black? And that she’d resolved to never wear it herself? Yes, she had told him that because then he’d asked how she’d gotten a job, never wearing black, and she’d grinned and told him that that’s why God made brown tweed. They’d laughed, she remembered, and she’d admitted that even after she learned about superstition and realized that nothing bad would happen to her if she wore black, she just couldn’t bring herself to wear it.
Isotta had wondered what to say, as she’d continued holding up the negligee. It even smelled odd. Musty. Scrabbling to find a place to land her voice, she ventured, “Massimo, I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s beautiful isn’t it? I thought it would really shape your body. Put it on, I want to see it on you.”
Without meaning to, Isotta quickly shook her head.
Massimo narrowed his eyes. “What’s the problem? Margherita is sound asleep. I checked on her myself.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it, pray tell.” Massimo’s voice hardened.
Isottta grabbed his hand and brought it to her chest. “Don’t be mad, please. I just . . . It’s just . . . it’s black.”
“So? Black is sexy.”
“Not to me.” The words had shot out of her, and instantly Isotta wished she could recall them.
“If black is good enough for other women, why shouldn’t it be good enough for you?”
Isotta whispered, “I told you why. Remember?”
Massimo shook his hand free of Isotta’s and waved her off. “Oh, come off it, Isotta. Don’t be so neurotic.”
The tears sprang to Isotta’s eyes. Massimo sneered, “And being a crybaby won’t help. Jesus.”
Isotta’s breath constricted and she stumbled to answer, “I don’t like it.”
Massimo let loose a string of invectives, and soon Isotta found herself apologizing, crying, kissing his hands, and promising that she’d wear it. Just not that night. It was too late. Massimo claimed not to care, she was too blotchy and sniffly.
Now here she was, all decked out in this garment that didn’t feel like it could ever belong to her. And he was absorbed in his magazine.
Isotta wriggled a little.
Nothing.
Finally, she noticed her lotion on his nightstand. She leaned over him, muttering an apology for reaching. She moved back to her side of the bed, lotion in hand. Without looking to see if he’d noticed, Isotta uncapped the bottle and poured a little of the lotion onto her hands. She rubbed her hands together to warm the cream before bringing her knee up to her chin and smoothing it over her calf in sure, solid strokes. Noticing that Massimo hadn’t turned the page, Isotta dared a glance at him from below her lashes. He was staring at her, immobile. She grinned slightly before offering Massimo the bottle, “Would you mind putting some on my shoulders?”
Massimo took the bottle and put a dab on his palm. He moved her hair off of her back with one hand, and started etching the lotion along her shoulder blades with the other. Soon both hands were sliding down her arms, his fingers brushing the sides of her breasts. He kissed the back of her neck and breathed, “You’re wearing it.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never looked lovelier. Turn around.”
Isotta got on her knees and pivoted toward Massimo, feeling suddenly exposed. He ran a finger down the plunging neckline, loitering at the deepest part. He placed his hands on either side of her face and pulled her toward him, kissing her gently on the lips. But before Isotta could lean into the kiss, Massimo pulled back slightly. Smiling he said, “There’s one more thing.”
November Begins
Midnight, and the gibbous moon bloomed over Santa Lucia. The air was flush with pearly light from millions of olive leaves. A soft pad-pad-pad echoed as Carosello jogged up the hill, trailing the scent of mint, dust, and pine.
Passing underneath the arch that marked the entry into the village, the dog ignored the ancient stonework stretching high above him. Instead, his steps propelled him onward, past the row of homes standing between the cobblestone street and the valley spread below. He barely glanced at Degas, asleep in a neighbor’s pot of hosta. The cat had missed Luciano’s call for dinner, and would produce the most wounded of wails in the morning when summoned for breakfast. Pitiful bawling could on occasion produce mortadella. Poor Degas would stalk out the door when Luciano, spent from a night of tossing and turning—didn’t Isotta deserve more than to be cast as an understudy for a ghost? Was it his job to tell her the truth? Or could he in good conscience stay away from the inevitable debacle—irritably reminded Degas that without electricity, there was no mortadella chilling in the refrigerator.
After a few more minutes of languid jogging, Carosello slowed his step at the opening into an alley. He paused, seeming to weigh the advantage of continuing straight or turning right into the narrow lane that led to Via Romana. A sudden peal of laughter pulled him into the alley, where a few old ladies remained on their white plastic chairs, crocheting as they gossiped about romantic beginnings and sensational endings. Their talk stilled for a moment as the dog passed, sniffing for abandoned food leavings. The walls above the old women were checkered with blue windows, where husbands dozed in front of televisions, and dark windows, where grandchildren slept, their thumbs falling out of gaping mouths with gentle overbites.
Carosello exited the alley and turned left down Via Romana. He trotted past classrooms, festooned with drawings of olive trees and wildflowers and grapes taped carefully to the windows. He passed the art studio, shuttered against the night. He passed the butcher shop. Here, the dog snuffled the ground, as Giuseppe often left a little bit of this or that in a styrofoam dish outside the door as an evening treat for the aged dog. There! A tasty morsel. Or what was left after Santa Lucia’s wandering cat population had enjoyed their share.
The dog licked his chops, hoping for more down the road. The rosticceria often offered a nice variety of delicacies—a bit of mozzarella or even breaded meat cutlets that had gone a bit off.
There was a right hand turn just past the macelleria, but Carosello ignored it and kept trotting forward. Had he gone down that cobblestone lane that wound around to shoulder the terraced groves, he would have passed Massimo and Isotta’s home. Where Margherita slept the sleep of the blameless, Anna slept the sleep of the vicious, Massimo slept the sleep of the twisted, and Isotta slept not at all. She sat in bed, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, staring out at the sky. Staring without seeing, her turbulent thoughts more magnetic than the moon.
The dog rejected the next turn as well. Those steps led to the deserted castle, where there was so rarely anything to eat. Instead, Carosello pressed on past the comune’s salmon-colored walls, bleached now to gray in the starlight. Within those walls stacks of paper, some which had been shuttled from one desk to another for fifty years, patiently waited to be ignored for one day more.
Just past the comune, Carosello approached the Madonna, tucked high and out of sight of the on
e-eyed dog. Even so, as he passed her outstretched hand his steps slowed and his fur prickled. The Madonna’s eyes gazed past and through and beyond the dog’s journey, radiating an expression of deep love and boundless adoration.
Chiara observed Carosello’s stride slow from her window in the apartment above Bar Birbo. She wiped her eyes with a soft handkerchief fringed with threads loosened by years of washing. She sniffed and choked back a sob. By the time she peered back out the window, the dog had jogged out of sight.
He loped through the piazza with its trees standing sentinel behind each bench. The rustling leaves of those trees shaded the faces of the old men who gathered here daily to discuss the same things they discussed yesterday. The dog scarcely spared a head turn for the mini-excavator parked at the edge of the piazza, finally quiet after a day of sending the sound of breaking concrete throughout the town.
Almost to the edge of Santa Lucia now, Carosello picked up speed. The streets were narrower on this side of town. They stretched and tangled into a warren of pathways. One such stone-lined alley hosted yet another group of old women clustered under a tall arbor of drying grape branches. A larger alley wound back past Bea’s chicken yard to the gates that lead up into the terraced uliveti, the olive groves, and the walking paths around Santa Lucia.
Another piazza, this one smaller, more of a bit of breathing space within the hodgepodge of lanes. At one end stood the Church of San Nicola, where a lone organ player practiced music for Sunday’s service before a fresco of the archangel Gabriele kneeling before Mary. His entire audience comprising one grey kitten curled tightly on the front pew. The music swelled, drifting out into the street, where it hushed in reverence.
Carosello arrived at the rosticceria, where a tart chalk scent signaled the rising pizza dough. He nosed along the wall until he met with a windfall—a styrofoam tray of meat-stuffed olives, breaded and fried. The dog practically inhaled the Ascolana olives. They were a bit stale perhaps, but for his canine sensibilities the aging process enhanced the treat. He licked the tray clean and stood straight, his single eye bright.
He cocked his head toward the groves and without a backward glance, he wound his way through the playground encircled by umbrella pines. The swings danced to unknown music as, down the hill, Elisa counted and recounted her coins. Almost enough. Almost.
Carosello loped through the opening in the playground wall, skirting the cemetery perched in a crevice of the mountain where the wind sings to the ancestors that once walked the streets of Santa Lucia.
As for him, his day had drawn to a close. Nose to the ground, he sniffed until he found his favorite tree. So old the roots lifted out of the soil, creating a hideaway perfect for a satiated, if filthy, dog. Carosello crawled on his belly until he exactly fit his den of root and earth. Turning tightly, he rested his black snout on the stringy buff-colored fur of his haunches.
Lulled by the playful wind murmuring between the leaves and ripening fruit of the olive tree, Carosello drifted to sleep.
Though it was undoubtedly going to be a long day, Isotta was pleased Massimo had suggested heading to the Tuscan coast after their visit with her family. It would decrease the time she had to cope with the prying eyes and cutting remarks of her parents and sisters, and anyway, she was eager to have a jaunt for just her, Massimo, and Margherita.
Anna had been perfectly civil since her callous words in the kitchen, yet Isotta still felt tentative around her. Besides, Isotta hoped, irrelevantly, if this foreshadowing is any indication, that some bonding time might encourage Massimo to forget his unsettling request from the other night. She had told him she would think about it, afraid to spur his displeasure, but she’d spent an alarming amount of time trying not to think about it.
Isotta took heart in watching how Massimo relished this day together. He had turned up the charm with her family, and it seemed to have lingered. While Margherita slumbered strapped into her carseat, he reached for Isotta’s hand each time he finished shifting. His thumb ran over her knuckles, smoothing away the anxiety from the last few hours.
As it turned out, nobody had actually criticized her, even tacitly, but she had grown tense waiting for a remark about how worn she looked or how unstylish her dress was or how Margherita didn’t respect her as a mother. Well, there they had nothing to remark on. Margherita had her father’s capacity for charm and had made the rounds, pausing at each knee in turn, to lean in and babble seriously. Plus, her love for Isotta was readily apparent. In fact, the most satisfying moment from the interminably long lunch was when Isotta returned to the dining room after escaping to catch her breath in the bathroom, and Margherita, shouting in wonder and glee, ran to throw her thin arms around Isotta’s knees. Isotta had lifted Margherita up and tucked her into her chest, nuzzling those silky curls. Looking up, she’d seen the surprised faces of her family, and Massimo beaming.
It still caught her off guard, how easily Margherita accepted her as if Isotta were really her mother. But it surprised Isotta just as much how thoroughly the child had melded into her heart—as if they belonged to each other.
Isotta peered back to check on the child.
“She’s fine,” said Massimo, with a smile.
“I know. It’s been a long day, I want her to get a good nap.”
“She will. Listen to her breathe, that’s a deep sleep.”
Isotta placed her right hand over Massimo’s, and used her hands to bring his fingers to her lips to kiss them. He grinned, easily.
Isotta impulsively shared her thoughts, “I can’t believe how much I love her.”
Massimo stiffened. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you?”
Isotta, suddenly wary at Massimo’s change in tone, affected a laugh to sound more casual than she felt. “Well, a few months ago I didn’t know she existed and now I can’t picture my life without her.”
Massimo gritted his teeth before placing his hand back on the gearshift.
Isotta looked out the window and watched the familiar scenery flash by, wondering what she had said to make Massimo withdraw. Wondering how to fix it.
He seemed to recover his spirits as they pulled into the parking lot. Margherita stretched and murmured, “Eccoci!” here we are. She held out her arms for Massimo to unstrap her and once he pulled her out of the car, she lunged at Isotta. Isotta moved swiftly, until the three of them were huddled together, locked in place by the force of Margherita’s love. “Mmm,” breathed Margherita before shouting at the sight of the ocean and squirming to get down.
Massimo leaned down to let his daughter toddle to the low wall. Though they had no schedule, he drew his arm up to check the time before reaching for Isotta and pulling her to his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he ran his hand up and down her back. He kissed her ear and then lifted her chin with his forefinger to force her to look at him. Her eyes searched his, looking for a key to understand if he’d forgiven her for her inadvertent transgression. Maybe it was reminding him of the loss of Margherita’s mother? He smiled and kissed her nose, before taking her hand and moving to help Margherita, who was struggling to throw her little leg over the wall.
Massimo guided his daughter back down and walked her to the opening in the wall that lead to the rustling sea. Yelping, the child chased a lizard into the sea grasses that bordered the wall.
Isotta wanted to ask how long it had been since Margherita had been to the sea, but then realized the last time could well have been the day her mother died, and she loathed to raise the memory. Anyway, she wasn’t clear enough on the story to be sure if Margherita was even there that day.
She leaned into Massimo as they followed the child’s tiny footprints. He put his arm around her, and let his hand fall to her hip. Isotta felt her heart sink into a place of warmth, the way her body always reacted to her husband’s touch. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder, allowing herself to forget the strangeness in the car, and instead focused
on the pleasure of his hand sliding up and down her side, his fingers floating to the places he knew made her tremble.
A shriek from Margherita as her feet touched the cold water startled her into alertness.
She rushed to Margherita, urging her to step back from the water, but Massimo pulled her back. “So her shoes get wet. Come here.”
Isotta cast one more worried glance at Margherita. Was she fine? The ocean looked calm, and damp shoes could be remedied, as long as Anna never saw them. Her mother-in-law rankled at the oddest things. Like last week, when Isotta wondered aloud if essential oils might soothe Margherita’s bug bites. Isotta had spent an hour cleaning up the dry beans Anna had dropped as a spasm seemed to grip her. Isotta hadn’t bothered telling Massimo about the incident. She had learned that he did not like to talk about his mother, unless it was to praise her exemplary cooking or grandmotherly skills.
Margherita apparently decided that the water was unpleasant, as she raced back into the bleached grass to search for more lizards.
Massimo drew Isotta down onto the sand beside him, breaking her reverie. “Off season is nice because was have the beach to ourselves, though I do miss the chairs.”
“But, Margherita . . .”
“She’s fine,” Massimo said firmly. He pulled her face toward his own, kissing her lightly, then more firmly. Isotta fought a rising sense of panic. Her mind screamed, “Watch the child!” but Massimo’s tongue was nudging her lips open to receive him, and she knew he’d be livid if she didn’t allow him to exert his authority. Still, she couldn’t quell the feeling that any child needed to be watched near water, especially this one.
Though her thoughts scratched at her heart like a mouse clawing at a wall, her fear of Massimo’s reaction kept her silent. He pressed her back against the sand, his hand roaming over her shirt, before sliding underneath it.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 25