Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  “It won’t.”

  Elisa looked up. “It won’t?”

  Maestro’s mouth formed a grim line and he repeated, firmly, “It won’t.”

  “How do you know?” Both girls asked in unison, their brown eyes beseeching him in a way that pulled his heart.

  “I lit a candle.”

  The girls looked at each other, was this code for something? What did he mean?

  Luciano sighed. How could he explain it? The walks in the groves, once a day, sometimes twice. His thinking sharpening, his memories losing some of their old shame and taking on the patina of silver and sage green. His realization that there was more path open ahead of him.

  Fatima queried, “Maestro?”

  He shrugged, “I suppose I realized I’m not useless.”

  “You were never useless!” Fatima countered, hotly.

  Luciano reached to wrap her small fist in his hand. “I know that now.”

  Elisa, nose pressed to paper, asked as she returned to her drawing, carefully scribing another heavy orb, “Luciano?”

  “Yes?”

  Elisa sat up, regarded her art with a skeptical gaze before putting it down to look at Fatima, helplessly.

  Fatima rolled her eyes at her friend. “What Elisa can’t say is that we saw you with Massimo’s new wife. And we kind of worried that it would make you drink again.”

  Maestro nodded and pulled the plate toward himself, selecting his favorite cookie filled with apricot. “Yes, I’ve talked to her several times. And no, it hasn’t made me want to drink. That’s actually why I’m fairly certain I’m on the other side.”

  Fatima leaned forward. “What’s she like?”

  Luciano took a noisy sip of his hot tea, wondering how to answer.

  “Maestro?” Elisa ventured.

  “Allora, when I first saw her, I thought she was my daughter.”

  Both girls shook their heads, appalled.

  “She looks just like her. Actually, now that I know her I don’t see it quite as much, but at first . . . it was uncanny.”

  Fatima chewed a cookie thoughtfully, while Elisa began to crosshatch shadows of the persimmons against the glowing tree.

  Finally, Fatima asked, “Maestro? I hope you don’t mind my asking . . .”

  “Anything, cara.”

  “What about Margherita?”

  Elisa looked up suddenly from her drawing, amazed at her friend’s daring.

  But Maestro just selected another cookie before answering, “Well, Isotta often has Margherita with her. I was able to play with her at the park yesterday for the first time since Giulia . . . died.”

  “It’s okay,” he added in a rush at the matching set of furrowed eyebrows. “I’m okay. It’s probably better that I accept this as having happened. Talking about it as if it’s real keeps me from feeling the tug of wanting to numb away my life. Anyway, Margherita doesn’t remember me, but to play with her again, even as just another old man . . . to help her on the swing, and hear her laugh. Oh, girls, that was something.”

  Fatima broke off a corner of the cookie and tossed it to a sparrow eyeing her on the fence. “But, Maestro? Does Isotta know who you are? Who your daughter was?”

  Elisa added, “And who your granddaughter is?”

  Luciano pushed his glasses further onto his nose and took a deep breath. “No. She doesn’t. But think it’s time she found out.”

  Isotta waved merrily as Luciano approached.

  “Ciao, Luciano!”

  “Ciao, bella,” Luciano wished he’d brought his cane. His balance was better, but the uneven ground was difficult.

  Isotta placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder, “Are you okay?”

  “Sì, sì. I’ve been under the weather for some time. I’m trying to increase my stamina, but it seems like old bodies don’t rebound like young bodies do.”

  Isotta grinned, “Oh, you are still young.”

  Luciano put his hand to his heart and staggered backward, as Isotta laughed.

  Isotta slowed her footsteps to match Luciano’s slower pace, “Looks like we had the same idea. These warm days are a call to the mountains, aren’t they?”

  Luciano smiled, saving his breath.

  Brushing a stray olive branch out of their way, Isotta went on, “That’s one advantage Santa Lucia has over Firenze. In a city it is such work to breathe clean air.”

  Luciano asked, “Do you miss Firenze, cara?”

  “Only when it rains.”

  Luciano stopped walking in confusion. Isotta hooked her arm through his to continue strolling down the path, “Santa Lucia shuts down when it rains. Everyone stays indoors, there’s just nothing to do. In Firenze . . .” Isotta sighed, “the city is always humming. Rainy days are an excuse to duck into a museum or to see a show or, I don’t know—explore a cathedral. I’ve lived in Firenze all my life, and still, every day, I could find something new.”

  “How about your family. Do you miss them?”

  Isotta’s arm jerked a little. “Would you judge me terribly if I said not really?”

  Luciano clucked, and shook his head before responding, “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a family that deserves to be missed.”

  Isotta nodded. The two of them walked quietly until she said, “I miss my sisters sometimes. We started getting closer before my marriage. Before that, they were merely the meter stick my mother used to find fault with me.”

  “Hmm . . . You have a lot of sisters?”

  “Four.”

  “And you weren’t close with any of them growing up?”

  “No. There is an age difference, and anyway, my sisters are gorgeous.”

  To Luciano’s furrowed eyebrows, Isotta went on, “It’s hard to be the shy, plain one in a family of socially gifted, beautiful girls.”

  “You don’t seem plain to me. Or shy.”

  Isotta pulled his arm closer as she picked her way around a loose scattering of stones. “Well, it’s easy to talk to you.”

  Luciano snorted.

  “No, it’s true! And anyway, I’m probably less shy nowadays because of Margherita.”

  “Margherita?”

  “Yes. She is so outrageous and engaged with everyone and everything, she keeps me from hiding.”

  Luciano whispered, “She sounds wonderful.”

  Isotta grinned, “Oh, she is. I can’t believe how much I love her.”

  Noticing how pale Luciano was, Isotta gestured to a bench up ahead. Luciano nodded, grateful. He said, “I don’t mean to keep you from your exercise. You don’t need to keep pace with an old man. You are welcome to go ahead.”

  Patting his hand, Isotta said, “I’m just fine. My mother-in-law took Margherita to visit relatives for a few days. It’s nice to be able to sit for no reason.”

  The two of them surveyed the rooftops below, people passing on the street and clustered in the piazza. At the castle, workmen were building a pit for the cinghiale roast.

  Isotta tipped her face toward the sun and breathed deeply.

  Luciano bit his lip, coughed, then was quiet.

  Isotta turned to him, “You know what, I’ve been going on and on, but I don’t know anything about you. Do you have children?”

  Luciano pulled in a deep breath to quiet his racing heart. Was now the time? He looked directly into Isotta’s ethereal eyes. “I had one daughter.”

  “Had?”

  Luciano pushed his glasses back onto his nose before looking away. No, he just couldn’t do it.

  “It’s a story for another time.”

  As they picked their way along the path, Isotta trailing her fingers through the shimmering olive leaves, Luciano wondered if he could ever tell her. She seemed happy with her life. Was it really his job to ruin that for her? To lay devastation on her doorstep?

/>   Chiara stepped outside into the strengthening morning light. Thank the Madonna the weather was clear and looked to stay that way. A faint breeze brought the scent of bay leaves from a nearby garden, and the swallows were scribing invisible sonnets to the endless blue sky. She smiled. At least it was a perfect day for the sagra.

  Hefting her boxes higher onto her arms, she ran through her mental list of tasks to prepare the bar for the influx of people who would start trickling in soon, though the festival wouldn’t really begin until evening.

  As she placed her foot on the first step, she heard a clattering behind her.

  “Chiara!”

  She was afraid of this. She’d been able to successfully avoid Fabrizio since the day in the bar when she finally revealed her marital status. It had been difficult. Luckily the swelling of Santa Lucia’s population in anticipation of the festival meant that Edo didn’t wonder why she required his presence beside her so often at the bar.

  She paused. Fabrizio caught up and said, “I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “Yes, well, I have to get this box to the castle and then get back to the bar.”

  Before Fabrizio could respond, Marcello, gussied up in his dress-day police uniform, jogged down the steps with uncharacteristic lightness. He paused to narrow his eyes at Fabrizio before greeting Chiara, “Beautiful day for the sagra!”

  “It is. Is Laura well enough?”

  “Not quite yet. But I’ll fetch her a plate. The medicine must be doing something odd to her digestion, she has an insatiable craving for boar ear. Giuseppe just promised to save one for her. “

  Chiara chuckled, “How funny, I seem to remember she was always pestering Giuseppe to save the ear from the porchetta when she was pregnant with you. I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

  Marcello nodded and rocked up on the balls of his feet a few times while jingling the keys in his pocket. He looked from Chiara to Fabrizio who gazed levelly at the brass buttons on the police officer’s uniform. After a beat, Marcello leaned forward and asked in a lowered voice, “Anything I can help you with here, Chiara?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just send my regards to Laura and tell her I’ll be by to visit tomorrow.”

  “Okay, then.” After another searching pause, Marcello hurried down the stairs and turned right down Via Romana to the police station in the piazza.

  Chiara followed him with her eyes before turning to Fabrizio, “Okay, so I hope you enjoy the sagra—”

  “What? No! Chiara, we have to talk about—”

  “We don’t have to talk about anything, actually. I’ve already said too much.”

  “Here, let me carry some of the boxes. Where are we taking them?”

  “To the castle gate.”

  “Oh, they’re light. What is it?” Fabrizio asked as he fell in step beside Chiara.

  “Torta al testo. I ordered extra from my supplier to serve with the cinghiale. It’s my contribution to the sagra. Sauro at the forno can’t manage the flatbread, what with all the other bread he has to make.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  Chiara shrugged. “You can just put them here.”

  Fabrizio placed his boxes on top of hers and the two of them straightened to watch the activity in the garden. Men fussed with the fire pit, calling to Giuseppe who was supervising the placement of the cinghiale on the spit. Clutches of people bustled about setting up tables with an air of importance. Chiara smiled.

  She felt Fabrizio slip his hand into hers and she shook it off, turning away. “I have to get back to the bar. There will be a sacco di gente here before we know it.”

  Fabrizio moved his body in front of Chiara’s. Resting his hands on her shoulders he said, softly. “Please. We need to talk.”

  “So, talk, but quickly. I need to get this over with and move on.” She ignored the wounded look in Fabrizio’s eyes.

  “Chiara, how can you be married?”

  She ducked her head, “The usual way I suppose. Fall in love, go to church, say some words.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve never seen you with a man. I asked around. There hasn’t been a man around you in years.”

  “You asked around?” Chiara frowned.

  “Casually, Chiara. Not in a way to spread gossip, I promise.”

  Chiara sighed. “My husband. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Jail.”

  “Jail? What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Though I’m surprised people didn’t leap to tell you every sordid detail.”

  “This town loves you, Chiara. They want to keep you safe, from outsiders, from me particularly.” His laugh was a short bark. “But I need to know what happened.”

  “You need to know? But what gives you the right? It’s not like you’ve been so open.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I misspoke. I just want to understand.”

  “The only thing you need to understand is that there can’t be anything between us. We’re finished. So drop it. It’s not your concern. You’re just passing through anyway, and I should’ve known better than—”

  Her voice broke. Fabrizio asked softly, “Known better than what, Chiara?”

  Chiara stared at the ground.

  Gently, Fabrizio lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “Cara, what is it? Why won’t you tell me?”

  Voice cracking, Chiara said, “I can’t. I just can’t do . . . any of this. I can’t fall for . . . I can’t be with anyone, and I just can’t. It was stupid to pretend.” She pressed her hands into her eyes to push back the tears that threatened to rise.

  “Hey,” Fabrizio soothed, pulling her to him. “It’s okay. I know it’s okay. I know you well enough to know, if you are married, that marriage must be over. In your heart if not on paper. And if you feel something for me . . . you do feel something for me?”

  Chiara nodded and pressed her cheek against Fabrizio’s chest.

  “Then that feeling is good and right.”

  “But I don’t know why you are here, or for how long, and Fabrizio, I don’t want to talk about what happened with my husband, but I will tell you that I lived in the dark for too many years. I don’t want any more secrets. I want my life lived out loud.”

  Fabrizio’s arms tightened around Chiara and he breathed in her scent of earthy coffee grounds and caramelizing sugar. “I don’t want secrets either.”

  Ava and the other volunteer gardeners had clipped and primped to exhaustion. As a structure, you might find the castle a touch windswept and desolate, with the slumbering vines creeping up the walls, pockmarked with crumbling corners. But somehow the grey and somber edifice rose as a worthy backdrop to Santa Lucia’s trademark festival. It elevated the colors in the stands set up throughout the day, and the dour presence of the ancient monolith served as a foil to the musical laughter and drumming cadence of shouted greetings.

  The smoke curling into the watery blue sky carried a rich scent, with a touch of crackle. The fire beneath the turning wild pig flickered steadily, and farmers hauled more wood to light under massive black kettles, into which their wives poured wine and sautéed herbed onions and cubed cinghiale meat. As the afternoon progressed, countrymen arrived with the iron grills. They loaded the backs of the grills with dry wood that they lit to merry resonance, raking the coals forward to cook the sausages. The snap of the sausages added another layer of scent and sound to the quickening afternoon.

  Tables filled. The farmer above town arrived with toys whittled from olive wood. The couple that lived in the plains at the base of Santa Lucia set out their collection of slow-cooked apricot preserves and cherry wine. A group of laughing men arranged literature about the Santa Lucia arm of the communist party. A weathered man from nearby Abruzzo came, as he did every year, with his collection of honey from lime and chestnut trees.
A spectacled old woman with a festive shawl settled herself in her seat, her granddaughter beside her, weaving softened branches into baskets. A sprightly young man arrived with his truffle dogs and slabs of pecorino flecked with the pungent fungus.

  Table after table filled with scarves, tea-colored postcards, rusted cooking implements, baked goods splashed with red liquor and scattered with sugar, bottles of beer flavored with elderflower from the new brewery in Girona, and a display of photographs from festivals past.

  As the men and women gossiped and laughed under an amiable ultramarine sky, surrounded on one side by the ancient castle and on the other three sides by their treasured olive groves, not one of them guessed the terror that awaited them.

  Elisa sprinted down Via Romana. She couldn’t wait to tell Fatima about her math score. A ten! She’d never gotten a dieci on a math test before! She pictured her friend’s eyes widening in surprise like Luciano’s just did.

  Plus, it was uncharacteristically warm, a San Martino’s summer, and she felt so lucky, she was sure she’d finally be able to get the Moroccan coin into Fatima’s pocket when they put their coats on a bench to fetch a square of pizza. As long as she remembered this time, and she felt sure she would.

  As Elisa took off her coat in anticipation, she caught sight of the Madonna in the niche. She rushed to it and pressed her fingertips against the stone feet in thanks, breathing a small prayer.

  She noticed her heart was as light as her feet. Things were getting better, they really were. Luciano was Luciano again, with the tourists in town she’d nicked enough money to pay Stefano—and this might be last time she needed it, her brothers were talking about taking her with them to their next soccer game, and her mother had found less to criticize. Yes, her life was no longer feeling like a Sunday dress long outgrown.

  She rounded the corner to the park. Suddenly, her heart stopped. Fatima was already there. And she was talking to Stefano. Or at least, Stefano was talking to her. Would he tell her friend about their arrangement?

  Elisa ran up to Fatima and tried to avoid making eye contact with Stefano. “Ciao! Did you just get here? Are you hungry? Getting pizza maybe? Today I’ll buy.”