What was Massimo thinking? He couldn’t possibly be thinking of having sex here? Outside? With his daughter so near the water’s edge?
As if hearing her thoughts, Massimo murmured, “Relax, I’m not going to take you here. I just want a taste.” Massimo began enumerating where he was going to touch her and where he wanted her hands, his breath getting short and his hands sliding under the waistband of Isotta’s jeans until she was worried that he wouldn’t wait until they got home.
She ventured, kissing him along the cords of his neck, “Oh, darling, I want you too . . . but Margherita . . . let’s just check if she’s okay.”
Massimo pulled back and said, sharply, “I said she’s fine!” He leaned forward again and began to kiss the swell of her breasts, “Now, please, just stop worrying.” His mouth became more insistent as his hands moved from stroking her to cupping and practically pinching her, as if he wanted to prove she was real. Isotta opened her eyes, unable to feel aroused. Massimo’s face was roving over and under her shirt, oblivious to her lack of response. He shuddered, moaning, as his hands became frenzied and he murmured, “It’ll be okay. Let me. Let me make it right, Giulia.”
Isotta leapt to her feet. She sputtered, unable to form thoughts, let alone sentences. Massimo scowled and then as the reality of his words hit him, his face collapsed and he turned away from her. Isotta stormed away, scanning the shore. Margherita was no longer among the grasses. Isotta ordered herself to stay focused, to stay upright, as her knees began buckling and her heart skidded recklessly in her ribcage. Margherita, where was Margherita? Isotta forced her jumpy eyes to smoothly scan the water.
There! Margherita’s head, surrounded by her favorite pink sweater billowing around her. She’d wandered too far in, or perhaps stumbled on trying to escape the cold water, and unable to find her footing was growing frantic, her mouth filling with water. Isotta rushed into the sea, her eyes fixed on the bobbing splash of rose. The icy coldness of the November Mediterranean created merely a momentary sensation of curiosity as she flung herself forward. A few more leaps and she snatched Margherita out of the water, clutching her firmly against her chest.
Margherita clung to Isotta, the two of them crying as they left a dripping trail out of the water.
Massimo ran to them, his mouth a dark O, his forehead creased with worry. He reached for his daughter, but Isotta twisted her body away from him, holding her more tightly. She whipped her head around to give Massimo a glare of pure steel.
Massimo, for perhaps the first time in his life, blanched.
Magda bustled into Bar Birbo, ignoring Chiara’s searching expression.
She’d already admitted too much to that bar-owning busybody. The final straw was Chiara pressing her on the amulet. Next she’d be asking about the box under the bed! No, this was far enough by half. Magda was only glad she had been able to plead a headache and get Chiara out of the house that day. If only the woman would stop looking at her like she was damaged. She wasn’t! If anyone was damaged, it was Chiara.
Magda’s husband may have gotten himself declared missing in Thailand, but at least the shame wasn’t directed at her. No matter what the whispers suggested. No, she was fine. Gustav was an idiot. It was that simple.
Steadfastly examining the bottles of liquor lining the wall, Magda successfully avoided making eye contact with Chiara. Who, frankly, looked distracted anyway. Probably brooding over that gangster. He didn’t look like a gangster to her, he moved far too dreamily through town to be a mafioso. If he was really involved in organized crime, shouldn’t he swagger or at least strut? Then again, who knew? Germans were too civilized a lot to have to wrestle with such questions, and she was no different.
The espresso cup clattered down to the saucer and Magda pushed back from the bar to drop a euro onto the copper plate before hustling out and to the macelleria.
She pushed the door open with a whoosh, practically colliding with Stella, who was walking out with her bag of paper-wrapped meat. Irritably, Magda waited for Ava, who was asking far too many questions about the provenance of the pork chops. Then the annoying woman—she didn’t even have a husband did she? Who was she cooking for?—had the consummate gall to equivocate for a staggeringly long time between the ages of pecorino. It was all Magda could do not to push forward and order for Ava. Finally Ava left, tremulously offering an apologetic smile to Magda who rolled her eyes in response. Come to think of it, why was Ava single? She was attractive enough, at least for an Italian.
No mind, there was work to do.
She sailed up to the counter. “Giuseppe!”
The butcher, who had been rinsing his hands, turned slowly, carefully drying each finger on the towel hung around his waist. Magda could sense him gathering his reserve before he smiled kindly and asked what he could do for her.
Collecting herself, Magda stretched her lips over her teeth in an approximation of a smile before demanding two chicken sausages, a container of tartufata sauce, and her favorite shaved beef mixed with fresh arugula. “Is it fresh?” she asked, as always.
“Of course,” Giuseppe answered, as always.
Lifting her jacket from the post by the door, Isotta whispered to Anna, who was washing the lunch dishes, “I’m going to go get those light bulbs before the ferramenta closes for pranzo. Anything else we need?”
Anna turned off the water, “Margherita’s sleeping?”
“Yes, that’s why I thought I’d go now. She’s hard to follow in the store.”
Anna nodded, “Yes, she’s become quite a climber. I’ll have to get Massimo to bolt back that bookcase.” She thought for a moment, “Can you pick up cookies for when she wakes up? The chocolate kind with stars?”
“Sure,” Isotta nodded and slipped out the door. She was grateful that the stiff patch between them had dissolved.
You’re wondering, of course, how in the world that happened, how the fight between Isotta and Massimo resolved, or if it resolved at all.
Massimo had spent the drive to Santa Lucia apologizing, attempting his native charm by rakishly owning that he couldn’t help himself when she was near. Isotta ignored his justification. He added that maybe she shouldn’t have worn that green shirt with the plunging neckline. It wasn’t all that appropriate for a family lunch anyway.
At this, she’d grown only stonier and kept her vision fixed to the horizon the rest of the drive home. Once they returned to Santa Lucia, and Margherita was bathed and fed and tucked snug into her bed, Massimo had pulled Isotta into the bedroom, ignoring Anna’s quizzical stares at the prickliness between the couple. He’d held her hands and apologized in earnest for letting himself get distracted at the water’s edge.
Isotta’s removed her hands from his. “I heard what you said.”
“What did I say?” he smiled weakly.
“You called me Giulia.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“That’s not true, you misheard.”
“You were the one unhinged, not me. I heard you quite clearly.”
Massimo silently rubbed his eyes with his fists. He looked so forlorn and childlike, Isotta felt something like pity for him. She turned her head away, staring out the window.
Massimo began speaking slowly. “Okay, you’re right, I probably did. There have been many times I have almost said her name and caught myself, so I suppose it should not be a surprise that her name came out when I was least guarded.”
Isotta bit her lip and stared at the floor.
Massimo went on, “Look, it’s not easy to suddenly have her name be forbidden, when she was part of my life since I was a child. The harder I try not to say her name, the stronger the impulse is to say it. As today would indicate.”
Massimo tentatively reached for Isotta’s hand. She offered no resistance and he threaded her fingers through his.
Softly, she asked, “Wh
y did you think you couldn’t talk about her?”
Massimo thought for a moment. “I judged that it would be in poor taste. That you would be offended.”
Isotta sighed. “Why would I be offended? I’m not your first love, it would be ridiculous to pretend I am. She was a huge part of your life. Huge. It actually concerned me that you never mentioned her.”
“I thought that was the right thing to do.”
“No, being honest is the right thing to do.”
“Okay. I’ll remember that.”
They hadn’t spoken any more about it, but he’d held her tenderly the whole night through, like she was made of glass, and when she rose in the morning, Massimo had left her a love note on her pillow. When she had come downstairs for breakfast, Anna, too, had been particularly conciliatory.
She supposed these were the hurdles people had to overcome in any marriage, and her marriage was no doubt complicated by Massimo’s loss and their impetuous union. There was bound to be a rocky adjustment period. The air felt so much clearer between them now that she couldn’t help an upswell in optimism. It would all be okay. Better than okay.
Door closed gently behind her, Isotta faced the olive groves rising to her right and breathed for a moment, before turning around and walking to Via Romana. Now that the townspeople had grown accustomed to her, Isotta looked forward to her daily outings. Yes, there was still a bit of awkwardness at times, but for the most part, she found the warmth of people whose names she was still learning to be charming. She knew that Fabio, the friendly man who owned the ferramenta where she bought oil for the squeaky door and today’s light bulbs played the tuba in the local band, and she planned to ask him if there were any upcoming performances she could bring Margherita to. The child loved music.
“Ciao, micio!” She greeted a calico cat who yawned and stretched on the neighboring step. The cat purred at the notice and trotted to lunge his head at Isotta’s knee. Isotta laughed and scratched him behind his ears. The cat looked up at her with dewy eyes. “Such a sweet kitty,” Isotta murmured, before straightening.
“Okay, micio, I have to go now.’
The cat meowed, as if in assent.
Isotta walked down the alley to Via Romana, the cat trotting at her heels. As she turned the corner, the one-eyed dog loped down the street. The cat hissed and tore away, darting between the legs of an old man Isotta recognized as the one who often sat alone in the piazza. Knocked off center, the man lost his balance, and Isotta reached to steady him. He began to thank her and then catching sight of her face, he gasped and pushed her hand off of his arm.
As he backed away, he tripped over an uneven spot in the street, and Isotta once again tried to offer her hand. He regained his balance, but was still staring at her, eyes wide.
“Are you okay, signore?”
Th man’s mouth worked like a fish gasping for breath.
“Signore?”
The man’s breath slowed and his face eased. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. You just startled me there for a moment. That and the cat. And the dog.”
“Yes, that was a lot of commotion.”
“Well, not just that, but . . . I mean, allora, just a temporary startle. I’m fine. I’m more worried about the cat. Yours?”
“No, my neighbor’s. But don’t worry, he’s fine. See there? He’s cleaning himself in the piazza.” Isotta gestured down the street.
The man followed her finger to locate the cat, who was indeed furiously cleaning his tail while steadfastly glaring at the dog who turned down an alley as if on a mission. The man laughed, coughing a little.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m an old man, but my heart is good.” He thumped on his chest for emphasis.
Isotta studied his eyes, warm and alive, and nodded.
“I’m Isotta,” she announced, offering her hand, then instantly regretting this big city gesture in a town where cheek kissing was a more customary first time greeting.
But the man smiled without suspicion and reached easily for her hand.
“I’m Luciano.”
Chiara watched as Fabrizio peered into Bar Birbo before nodding in approval at its emptiness. Her mouth compressed into a faltering line as she turned toward the glasses marching predictably across the shelf. She willed him to keep walking.
The door opened. “Chiara, can I speak with you? Privately?”
She sighed. “Edo could back any minute. And I have work to do, besides.”
“As I can’t ever get you alone, I’ll have to take my chances.”
Chiara turned away and started unloading clean cups from the dishwasher.
“Chiara? Why can’t you look at me?”
“What do you mean?” she answered, carefully stacking the saucers.
Fabrizio grinned despite himself. “Well, for starters. You aren’t looking at me.”
Chiara sighed and turned around. “What do you want, Fabrizio?” She chided herself for the way her heart skipped a bit as she looked levelly at Fabrizio’s face, his eyes pleasantly creased with years spent finding humor in dark corners.
Before she could turn back, Fabrizio clasped her hand. Chiara felt betrayed by the catch in her breath. Why couldn’t her body get the message? This was over.
This was over before it started.
“Please, Chiara. Talk to me. How did I offend you? Let me make it up to you?”
“You didn’t offend me. But it’s no use pretending we can be something when we can’t.”
Fabrizio absently stroked her clasped hand. “Your words say we can’t be something, but your eyes say otherwise.”
Chiara breathed deeply, letting her fingers untangle from Fabrizio’s before resting them lightly on his chest and returning them to the counter. “There’s something I should have told you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess I just thought somebody else would, and I wouldn’t have to say the words aloud. Every time you walked in, I searched your face, wondering, does he know? I guess we can thank your natural standoffishness for the little time we had. But it’s not fair to you. Whatever secrets you’re keeping from me, I should have been honest with you about mine.”
“Hey, you’re scaring me. You don’t have a dead body back there do you?”
Chiara smiled wanly at Fabrizio’s attempt to lighten the mood. “No. But, in some ways that would be easier to explain. And I know I need to—”
The stillness was broken by the opening of the door. Stella strolled in.
Chiara was pleased to see her. Maybe she was as ready as Chiara was to forgive and forget? All the same, Stella’s timing couldn’t be worse. She approached the bar and stood beside Fabrizio. “Salve,” she said to him with a languid smile.
Fabrizio startled a bit at this unexpected bit of friendliness, but hesitated for only a moment before he said, “Salve, signora, come sta?”
“Oh, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Stella assured him before leaning toward Chiara, elbows resting on the bar. “I can’t stay, Chiara, Dante needs me. You know, a mayor’s wife has so many duties for the sagra. I just wanted to pop in and ask if you’ve heard from your husband lately?”
The door was shoved open again, as Dante ushered in a delegation of visitors. He waved his hand over the group and called to Chiara, “Coffee for everyone, Chiara. Siamo in fretta, please hurry, we have a castle garden to organize!”
Elisa slipped the paper underneath her math at the sound of Maestro’s footsteps.
He chuckled, “Elisa, you know you are welcome to draw here.”
Elisa startled, and then giggled. “Sorry, Maestro. I forgot. It’s been awhile since I was here and . . .”
Her voice trailed off, afraid she’d offended her teacher.
Luciano patted her shoulder before sliding the tray of biscotti onto the table. “It’s okay, Elisa. I know I hav
en’t been—goodness, this is a challenge. I haven’t been exactly reasonable lately.” Luciano shook his head in mute annoyance at his inability to express himself. “Oh, hang it. I was drinking, and I know that made your life challenging, and I’m sorry.”
Elisa blinked, unable to respond.
“Elisa?”
“Oh, yes, sorry Maestro. It’s just . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard an adult apologize before.”
Luciano regarded her for a moment before shaking his head. “That, my dear, is a shame. None of us is perfect. We all transgress, no matter our age.”
Elisa nodded and dared to add, “It was harder on Fatima than me.”
Elisa paused as Fatima herself stepped into the garden, carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups. A beam of light played across the shine of her hair.
“I suspect it was challenging on each of you in your own way. Fatima certainly feels some responsibility for me. But you, I think, need this time even more than she does?”
Luciano didn’t elaborate, as Elisa’s chewing her lower lip alerted him that he was treading dangerous waters. Instead he called out, “Fatima, dear! Thank you for bringing the tea.”
“No trouble.”
“I was just apologizing to Elisa for my absence in the last month or so. I imagine it must’ve been very difficult.”
Fatima looked over at Elisa who was nibbling a cookie and crosshatching a drawing of a persimmon tree, heavy with fruit. Fatima sighed, like a world-weary old woman. Then she began pouring the tea. “Yes, that wasn’t so good.”
Luciano nodded, chastened. “I really am sorry.”
“I know. I’m glad you are better now. I hope . . .”
“You hope, what?”
Fatima handed out the cups and then sat down across from Elisa and Maestro. “I don’t want it to happen again.”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 26