Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  Sitting back on her ankles, Isotta noticed that the inside base of the chest was almost a foot higher than the ancient wood floor she sat on.

  A false bottom?

  She dug her fingers in the crevice between the wood and the sides of the trunk and began to tug. The floor of the trunk lifted slightly before slamming back down. Isotta spent the next few minutes moving her fingers around the edge of the panel of wood. She mindlessly ripped off a snagged nail, and was heedless of her fingertips now scraped raw.

  Isotta panted in frustration. Each side of the panel moved, but not enough. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for a tool. The fireplace! She leapt up and raced to the kitchen, snatching up the iron poker. At first she tried to use it to lever the side of the panel upwards, but then in a fit of fury, she slammed the poker down into the wood. It splintered.

  Isotta whooped, and continued slamming the poker down into the place of give on the left hand side of the trunk. The wood split, then broke. She pulled at the pieces, snapping them where necessary, until she was able to get a hold of the panel from the sides of the hole she’d made and lift straight up. She threw the wood across the room and kneeled back down.

  What was that sound? Anna and Margherita returning? How would she explain . . .

  No, it was just neighbors passing, talking loudly. Quickly now, aware of the danger of being interrupted, Isotta brushed the debris off the top album and lifted it out of the chest. She breathed in and out, trying to slow her heart which seemed in danger of beating a path right out of her body. Isotta sat cross-legged and opened the cover. Instantly, she lost all the breath she’d fought to regain. It was a photo of Massimo and Giulia on their wedding day. The clear plastic page made a screaming sound as Isotta opened it to unstick the photo. She held it up close, staring at the woman’s features. No, not quite the same face. Not exactly. But enough to be eerie. And the look on Giulia’s face, she was sure she herself looked that besotted with Massimo on her wedding day.

  An image, a memory, loomed—of the townspeople’s faces as she walked to the church. Of course. It’s not that they were ignorant country dwellers who couldn’t tolerate a stranger. They thought the dead had risen. Isotta reached up to shove her hair back from her forehead. With her fingers on the shadow-hued lock, she started to moan. Clutching the photograph to her chest she rolled on the floor and unleashed the sobbing that had been waiting for release.

  Isotta’s stomach lurched, and she ran for the bathroom.

  At the knock on the door, Luciano looked up from the spread of papers he was using to make a worksheet for Elisa.

  He called, “Arrivo.” His limbs were creaking, probably from the stress of the day. He couldn’t get Isotta’s shattered face out of his mind—how it looked like a collapsed shell of a balloon that let go of all its air and all its color.

  He opened the door to find Isotta.

  Quickly, he held the door wider and moved to the side to allow her entry.

  She strode in, suitcase in hand. “I can’t stay there any longer, Luciano, I just can’t. Massimo will be getting home from work soon, and Anna will be back with Margherita and the thought of seeing them both after this.”

  Isotta dropped her suitcase and then let her head fall into her hands, “I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry I ran out. I just didn’t want to believe it was all a lie.”

  Luciano put his arm around Isotta and led her to the couch. He said nothing while she sobbed against his shoulder.

  Minutes passed. Finally, the sobs subsided and she sniffed, “I’m sorry.”

  “Believe me, of all the things you could be feeling right now, apologetic should not be one of them.”

  “I hate dumping my problems on you.”

  “Considering I’m the reason you are in this condition, I can think of no better place for you to ‘dump’ your problems, as you so eloquently put it.”

  Isotta pulled back and wiped her eyes. “No. You didn’t cause this. It was Massimo.” Her lip shook and she dropped her head in her hands, “Plus, of course how stupid I am. Stupid! I should have known he couldn’t love me unless there was something wrong with him.” Isotta began crying again, but this time, Luciano shook her shoulder.

  ‘”Allora. Please, listen to me. This is not about you. Massimo is charming. I happen to know, he also charmed my daughter. Many was the time I found him repugnant, the way he treated her, the way he talked to her like she was an annoying child, rather than a light on this earth . . .” Luciano shook his head to clear it of the memories, “but Giulia, she could never see anything but good in him. As you were charmed, so was she. He can be hard to resist.”

  “Luciano, do you think . . . ? Massimo always acted so strange when he talked about Giulia’s death.” Isotta’s thoughts darted back to the water’s edge. “Not just sad but . . . something else. Sometimes cold, sometimes angry, and sometimes . . . well . . . almost ashamed.” Isotta couldn’t believe she was even asking this, so she hurried forward to finish the thought. “Do you think? Could he have had anything to do with Giulia’s death?”

  It is quite probable that you, like many in Santa Lucia, have been wondering the same.

  He sighed, “Oh, dolcezza, my sweet. What a question. The thought occurred to me, I admit. I pored over the lab report that found nothing but a few elevated chemicals in her bloodstream. But I just can’t believe that of him. Even snakes have their limits. And I do think he loved her in his way. She certainly worked hard to never disappoint or anger him, it’s hard to imagine what would prompt him to violate his humanity.”

  Perhaps this quells your curiosity, and perhaps not.

  Isotta nodded. “Luciano? Can I stay here tonight? The last train to Florence has already left Girona, and anyway, I need time to figure out what to tell my parents. I don’t have a place to go.”

  “Of course. Of course. As long as you like. Does Massimo know you’re here?”

  “No. He doesn’t even know I know you, so he won’t come looking for me here. And I turned the ringer off my phone. I can’t think about him right now. He’ll figure out I left when he sees the mess of photographs all over the floor.”

  They fell silent.

  “All right then. But before you decide to stay, I’m afraid there is one little snag I must mention.” Luciano said carefully. “I should tell you that I don’t have electricity, so it will be a bit like camping, I’m afraid.”

  “No power? But why? I have my mobile, I can call the power company for you. I don’t know the name because Massimo and Anna always kept me away from the mail, but you probably have the number on an old bill.”

  “Thank you, cara. That’s very kind, but I’m afraid the loss of electricity is entirely my own doing. I . . . it’s not particularly flattering, but there was quite a period of time where I was unable, or at least, I didn’t make myself able, to pay my bills. Power, water, luckily the house has been in my family for generations, or I could have lost my home. I was able to negotiate getting the power back on last month for a bit, but understandably lost the grace of the power company when I failed to honor our agreement.”

  Luciano turned his head away from Isotta’s puzzled expression. She rested a hand on his and said, “I love camping.”

  “You do?”

  “I do. Always have. My parents never took me, but I had aunts in the country that would go several times a year. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

  Luciano’s smile spread across his face. “Va bene! One more thing, I don’t have any wine. I find it best not to keep it in the house. The only beverage I can offer you is water from the spigot in the alley.”

  Isotta waved her hand carelessly, “It’s been a trying afternoon. I don’t even think I could handle wine. Maybe just some simple pasta?”

  “That I can do. Not well, I’m afraid, but I can boil water. Unless you’d like to cook?”

 
Isotta grinned, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I would love to cook.”

  “Well?” Carlo tossed his wallet and keys to the sideboard with a loud jangle. “I’m waiting.”

  Elisa gasped like a fish, and looked from her mother to her father.

  Concetta faltered, “Elisa was just telling us about one of her teachers. It’s not important. Good day, Carlo? What did your boss say about your taking next weekend off for the boys’ soccer game?”

  Carlo unfastened the buttons on his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.

  Elisa scooted backward and ducked her head against her brother.

  Carlo’s voice was even as he asked, “Do I look like an idiot? What are you keeping from me?”

  Concetta stood and smoothed down the skirt of her dress before gesturing Carlo to follow her into the kitchen. “Here, I’ll get you something to eat. Elisa, Guido, why don’t the two of you go to the alimentari for some pancetta? The butcher will be at the sagra, but Giovanni should be open a little longer—”

  “No. They’ll stay here until I know what’s going on.”

  Concetta came back from the kitchen and stood in front of her children. “It’s not really a big deal, I just was thrown off guard for a moment right when you walked in.”

  “Tell me.” Carlo moved towards his family who winced in unison.

  Elisa took a breath and then said, louder than she meant, “It’s my fault, Papà . . . I got a bad grade on my report card, but I’m getting better—”

  Guido and Concetta rushed forward in unison, “She is!”

  “—And I won’t fail now! I figured out how, you see—”

  “Fail? You are in danger of failing? Even though you know what shame that will bring to our family?”

  Silence.

  “Where is this report card?”

  Nobody answered, but Carlo caught his wife’s defensive glance at the TV. He strode forward and plucked the folded piece of paper to his wife’s sharp intake of breath.

  “She did fail. She failed math. And her other subjects are awful.” He glared accusingly at Concetta, “You were going to keep this from me? So that I could become the laughingstock of the factory?”

  “Carlo—”

  “Quiet! I’m done with the embarrassment of this child.”

  “Carlo, please, don’t, let’s go for a walk before—”

  “I’ll do what I please, woman. You’ve had your way for far too long. If it wasn’t for your whining, we wouldn’t have had this stupid girl in the first place.”

  “No, please . . .” Concetta collapsed with her arms around her children, crying, “Please, Carlo, don’t—”

  “I said, SHUT UP! Why don’t you ever listen to me? I work all day, and then you think you can tell me when to speak and when to keep silent?”

  “I don’t, I’m sorry, please, just let the children go out, and then you can say what you want. Do what you want—”

  “What I want is this thorn out of my side.”

  “No! Please! Please, I beg you!”

  Carlo turned the report card over and over in his hands, running his fingers along its edge. Elisa tried madly to process what was happening. Her muscles strained to run out of the room. To Fatima’s—but no, Fatima wouldn’t want her after what happened. To Luciano’s. He’d accept her. She had to get out of there, anywhere, even the threshold of San Nicola chapel.

  Carlo said softly, “It’s time for her to leave.”

  Elisa recoiled. Could her father read her thoughts?

  Concetta stammered, “Leave? Leave where? This is her home, we’re her family. She’ll do better, show him your math test, Elisa, the one you got a perfect score on. He’ll be so proud of you, he will, show him, show him, your father will be so proud . . .”

  “You’ll have to find her father first. Check the sagra, he may be there. I never did learn who he was, but maybe you can find him by looking for the man with the same blank expression as this one.” He gestured at Elisa.

  More silence.

  Then a deep keening sound sprung from Concetta’s throat, a sound unlike any Elisa had ever heard. Guido pulled Elisa closer. A beat later, Elisa blinked. He . . . wasn’t her father?

  Concetta sobbed, “You promised! You promised you’d never say anything to her, to anyone . . .”

  “You promised raising a third baby would make you happy. Would make you a better wife. Promises can be broken. And I’m tired of raising someone’s bastard.”

  “She’s ours, she ours as surely as she was born to us. As surely as our sons.”

  “Our sons bring us credit.”

  Elisa pulled her brother’s arm, “I don’t understand—”

  Carlo laughed, “See? A moron. She’s an embarrassment. It’s time for her to go back where she came from.”

  “We can’t do that! You know that, her mother—”

  Guido stopped stroking Elisa’s hair away from her forehead. He shot a look at his mother.

  Carlo snickered again. “What? Did you think your mother found someone to sleep with when I was at work, and Elisa is the product of an affair? Don’t be dense, Guido, I expected more from you. Elisa isn’t your sister, not your full sister, not your half-sister. She’s nothing to us. You really never figured out why your mother had to go away to have the new baby?”

  “You said the baby was twisted and Mamma had to be on bed rest in a special hospital—”

  Carlo shook his head in disappointment. “I seriously never thought you believed that. I figured you knew. Your mother couldn’t have more children after Matteo and when a man at the factory told us about this pregnant teenage girl, your mother insisted that taking her in would fill the hole we needed in this family. Turns out, she’s been nothing but a drain.”

  Concetta pulled Elisa to her and glared up at Carlo. “Just go, Carlo. You’ve done enough damage.”

  “Don’t you think we should tell Elisa who her mother is? The father, of course, we’ll never know since her mother likely spread her legs for every man in a 100 kilometer range of Santa Lucia. But Elisa can live with her mother—”

  Concetta stood up. “Elisa does live with her mother. I am her mother, the only mother she knows. It’s you that doesn’t live here anymore. Get the hell out of this house.”

  “You can’t be serious. We’ll get rid of the girl and then we’ll have dinner and our lives will go back to normal. When my income only has to stretch to a family of four, and we only have children who bring us honor, we can finally have a happy life. You’ll have time to keep the house clean for a change. You’ll remember to brush you hair before I get home, put on some make-up. Look like someone worth coming home to. Once she’s gone, we won’t fight so much because you’ll be able to do your wifely duty.”

  “No! Elisa, Guido, go to the questura, tell the police your father is beating your mother.”

  “I haven’t laid a finger on you—”

  “Yet. But you will. Now, go Guido, take Elisa, keep her safe. Get Matteo from the playground on your way. I don’t want him here for this.”

  Guido pulled Elisa to standing and they cowered around Carlo, still gritting his teeth as he stared levelly at his wife.

  Edo skirted away from the table of jeering men. The wine had raised their voices and distorted their manners, and he wanted to stop the rush of shouted insults before it could mar the evening. Which had, up until now, been quite pleasant. It was a warmer day than could usually be counted on in November, a boon since the festival wasn’t protected by the walls of the piazza.

  Everyone appeared to be enjoying the sagra more than usual. Edo himself noticed aspects of the festival brought vividly into the foreground. Had the light always been this slanted? Was the scent of popping herb-infused fat always this pervasive? Did the laughter of the townspeople arm in arm with the tourists always ripple into the softening
twilight? He wasn’t sure, but he had to concede that a festival presided over by a crumbling castle was an inspired idea.

  In an effort to preserve this overflowing feeling of good will, Edo went the long way around the tables to refill his plate with wild, earthy, roasted cinghiale meat. As he passed a group of tourists, he slowed his steps, playing his favorite game of guessing where the guests were from. He heard one of the women call, “Scott, you’ve got to try this!” and he chuckled. English. Or Australian? He slowed his steps even more. One of the young men, clean shaven and wearing a blue and white striped sweater that fit snugly over his thin frame was glaring at the table Edo had just passed. A woman in a blue down vest leaned across the table and asked, “What are they saying, Trevor?”

  The man, Trevor apparently, shook his head. “I can’t catch all of it, the dialect is different than the Roman one, but the men at that table are making fun of someone.”

  “For what?” The woman craned her neck, looking for someone doing something ridiculous and worth mocking.

  “For being gay, as far as I can tell.”

  “What? You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, not kidding. This is why I couldn’t live in a small town like this, no matter how beautiful it is. Full of blooming idiots.”

  Edo gasped aloud.

  Trevor looked up and grinned, “Salve! Buona sera!”

  Edo looked around to be sure the man was talking to him. He blinked rapidly then muttered, “Salve.”

  Trevor continued in almost flawless Italian, “Are you from Santa Lucia? Or just passing through?”

  Edo took a step out of the darkness, closer to the table lit with candles and the smiling faces of the guests who felt lucky to have stumbled upon this one-of-a-kind traveling experience. He looked around and managed to smile, “I’ve lived here all my life.”