Giuseppe sat up to glare at him. “Which ones? Why would tourists want to burn Santa Lucia?”
“You know,” Fabio said. He stood and, backlit by the lantern light, he put one arm on his waist while jutting out his hip, and lifting his other hand to dangle his wrist provocatively.
“Fabio, don’t be crude,” Patrizia chided. She swiveled her head from side to side and startled, seeing Edo standing, rigid, in the moonlight reflecting off the castle wall.
Edo took a beat before pushing past his fellow impromptu fire fighters, headed for the steps. Trevor glared at the townspeople, pausing as if to consider saying something, then setting his jaw and following Edo. Marcello, changed now out of his vigili uniform, muttered to himself between gritted teeth before following Edo and Trevor down the stairs and into the bar.
One of the speakers whistled a deescalating swirl, “Nice going, Fabio.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that finocchio would be out here fighting the fire?”
The word sailed above the men and women. Innocent enough in the market, when one asks for fennel, here it was not innocent at all. The insult flew, sending shivers through the streaky moonlit air, clouded with smoke that heaved like a live beast.
Patrizia shook her head, “He was one of the first here. Maybe that’s why you missed him.”
A voice from the left, disengaged by the darkness, “Why would Edo do this, anyway, Fabio?”
“I never said Edo did it! I said those people! We all know what they’re like. No morals.”
“You have known Edo since the two of you were boys.” Patrizia countered.
“What did I just say? I’m not accusing Edo, just the other homos.”
Patrizia straightened her jacket and smoothed down her skirt. “If you ask me, that makes no sense.”
Fabio grunted. “Anyway, okay so maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe I was right the first time, and it was the Africans.”
A groan rose up from the area closest to the orchard. Giuseppe measured his voice, “It was the wind. Why borrow trouble?”
Grumbling broke out around Fabio, as he raised his voice to be heard. “We have to watch our backs. All kinds of strangers and nutcases make their way through Santa Lucia.”
Patrizia stood. “I don’t think of our neighbors as nutcases. Or strangers.” The cords of her neck tightened as gestured toward her follow villagers, “All of you? Are you listening to this? Is this okay with you?”
Murmuring voices.
Fabio laughed, “You are so naive.”
Patrizia stepped to Fabio, slamming the side of her right hand against the palm of her left. “Vaffanculo.”
She stormed off to where the arbor once stood.
Giuseppe sat open-mouthed, having never heard Patrizia swear mildly, let alone the mother of all expletives. He leapt up and followed her, hoping she would ignore the guffaws. He caught up to his wife standing at the edge of the castle. She wiped her eyes furiously, and stammered to her husband, “I can’t believe they’d say those vile things.”
Giuseppe ran his hands up and down his wife’s arms. “Hey, it’s Fabio. He’s alright, but he’s quick to anger, and quicker to accuse.”
Patrizia faced Giuseppe by the yawning castle doorway, her chin trembling, “I know. But still. When does it stop? And when do other people call him on it? Why is everyone just staying there as if he’s right? Why aren’t they moving?” She gestured angrily at the assembled people sitting, lying, or standing in the dark, continuing to mutter to each other with intermittent chortles and barks of protest.
Giuseppe considered. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re just tired. Maybe they are scared to disagree. But you know those people, Patrizia, you know them. You know there can’t be more than one or two that agree with Fabio.”
“But those one or two are rotting away the core of our town, like moldering grapes in a wine barrel.”
Giuseppe ran a soot-covered hand through his hair.
Patrizia sighed, “Come on, let’s go home. We’ll stop by Birbo on the way and see if Edo is okay.”
As she turned her body, her movement released the moonlight that had been building at her feet. It flowed into the recess of open room and her sight was caught by a blur on the floor. Patrizia stopped suddenly and pointed, her other hand stalling her husband. “Do you see that?”
Giuseppe peered in, and, unsure of what the rumpled shape on the stone floor could be, stepped closer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He swept forward, shouting over his shoulder.
“Call an ambulance!”
“Oh my God, Giuseppe. Is that a person?”
“Patrizia, go! Go now! Call an ambulance! No, wait! Get someone to meet me at the bottom of the stairs!”
“Okay, okay.” With one last quick glance into the darkness, she ran from the door of the castle.
“Quick! Someone! Help!”
The people assembled on the lawn of the castle rose in unison and turned their heads toward Patrizia.
A voice called from the center of the group, “Cos’è succede? What’s going on?”
“There’s someone. Someone hurt or, or . . .” Patrizia couldn’t say the word dead, “unconscious, not moving. We need someone to drive to the hospital!”
Sauro the baker stepped forward, “Who is it?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Someone small.”
“A child?” several voices gasped.
“I think so, I don’t know. Please, who can drive us?”
Giovanni, his alimentari apron charred in places, plunged his hands into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “I can. I left my Ape in the piazza in case we needed to haul anything from the shop. I’ll get it. Is Giuseppe here?”
“Yes! He’s with . . . Please go now! I’ll get Giuseppe to bring . . . to meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
Giovanni gave a tight nod and fled down the steps. Instantly, chatter broke out among the group. Conversation fragmented as the silhouette of Giuseppe carrying a bundle appeared at the edge of the clearing. Patrizia gasped and hurried to him. “Stay where you are!” Giuseppe called to the crowd who had begun to press in. He hooked his chin to the right to indicate that Patrizia should come closer. Before she could make out the features of the face nestled against her husband’s broad chest, he whispered, “It’s Fatima.”
Patrizia’s knees slid out from under her. She stumbled and regained her balance. “Fatima?” She breathed. “What was she doing here? Her family doesn’t come to the sagra.”
“I know. I was just talking to her mother about it yesterday. The smell of pork turns their stomach.”
“But . . .”
“The smoke must have filled the room before she knew what was happening.”
“Oh, Madonna, is she okay? Will she be okay?”
“I don’t know. She’s breathing, but she’s not gaining consciousness, even after I poured water on her forehead and hands. Somebody is coming?”
“Yes. Giovanni. He’s run to get his Ape, it’s parked in the piazza.”
“Good. I’ll meet him, get our car, and drive her to the hospital.”
“I want to come with you.”
“There won’t be room in the Ape, I’ll call you when I get to the hospital.”
“Giuseppe, what if she . . .”
“Don’t say it. Just pray.”
“I can’t tell the others. You heard them. What if they say she started it, that it’s her fault?”
“Nobody who knows Fatima would believe . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“We know that, but those people.” Patrizia gestured uselessly to the taut group of watchers straining to hear their whispers.
“I have to go. If they accuse her, we have to trust that it will blow over.”
The rattle of the Ape cut through the sound of people
milling through the town, aimless now without the sagra or the fire to pull them together.
Patrizia nodded, “Go! He’s coming.” Giuseppe pressed his cheek against his wife’s.
“I’ll call you.”
Blinking hard, Patrizia nodded again. “Sii con Dio.”
Giuseppe effortlessly hoisted Fatima a little higher. He strode to the steps, carefully picking his way down while steadying his shoulder against the stone wall. Patrizia watched him walk away and focused on bringing air into her body. She slowly turned back to the castle lawn, filled now with low voices.
Fighting the tears that threatened to overcome her, Patrizia wondered if God could see fit to kill an innocent.
Isotta handed Luciano a cup of warm camomilla. He looked up at her candlelit face gratefully, his tense fingers stretching around the warm cup.
“Grazie.”
“Of course. Luciano, that sounds horrifying.”
“It was. Thank the Madonna it was caught relatively early. When it started, it looked like it would take the groves down. L’Ora Dorata was damaged, so of course Luigi is carrying on that this will ruin him. But he’s forgetting that insurance will pay for it. Unless he’s just looking for a reason to shut down the restaurant. I know it wasn’t making him the profit he’d imagined when he moved here, and now with the prospect of repairs, perhaps he’s just out of energy.” Luciano sighed, “He may feel differently tomorrow. Maybe we all will.”
Isotta sank into the chair beside Luciano and sipped her tea. “And nobody was hurt?”
“No. I stayed out of the way, but I was at the bottom of the steps when they called down that the fire was contained, and then over, and nobody was hurt beyond minor burns. Well, a child slipped on the steps in everyone’s hurry to leave, but a skinned knee? That feels like a blessing compared to what could have happened.”
Poor Luciano. When he finds out . . .
The two of them watched the stars glimmering tentatively from behind the veil of smoke.
Luciano murmured, “It’s going to require a lot of cleanup. I’ll head over there in the morning.”
Isotta nodded, her eyes fixed on a winking star. “I’d like to help. Santa Lucia has come to feel like home. But I don’t want to run into . . .”
“No. Of course not. And Isotta, I must tell you. I ran into Massimo.”
Isotta’s breath caught. “Does he know I’m here? I heard knocking but I didn’t know . . .”
“He suspects, yes. We should have counted on the Santa Lucia gossip chain.”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I guess it was only a matter of time. I’ll need to leave in the morning.”
“If you can stay for breakfast, I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”
Isotta turned her head to Luciano. “Friends?”
“Yes, there are two little girls who come over once or twice a week. I tutor Elisa, mostly with math. She’s taken to sharing her drawings with me, I think you’d really enjoy them, she has a unique vision. I wonder if that friend of yours you mentioned who teaches at the art school in Florence might be interested in seeing Elisa’s work. And Fatima. Well, Fatima is like a dose of asparina, she has a knack for relieving tension. You’ll like them. Maybe have your send off from Santa Lucia be the kind where you know you’re always welcome back.”
Tears pricked Isotta’s eyes. “Oh, Luciano, it’s going to take me some time to figure out how all this happened. How I was so blind for so long. And Margherita. I just don’t know.”
A banging on the door swallowed Isotta’s next words.
“Isotta! I know you’re in there! Isotta! Come out!”
Isotta breathed, “Massimo.”
Luciano stood, “I’ll take care of it.”
“No. I don’t want you becoming a target. This is my fight. I guess I was stupid to think I could leave without this happening. I’ll go.”
Isotta stood, and Luciano put a hand on her arm, “Isotta! I believe there’s something wrong with him. I didn’t tell you everything about what happened earlier tonight. He’s not rational.”
“He won’t hurt me.”
To Luciano’s uncertain expression, Isotta added, “Okay, well, yes, he’s emotionally wounded me, but—“
Luciano said in a rush, “He hit me.”
“What?”
“He punched me down, kicked me. I’m telling you, I don’t think he’s in his right mind.”
“Are you hurt?”
“My face is scraped, but I’ll be okay.”
“Scraped? Luciano, give me the candle, I want to see.”
“No, it’s fine. Please don’t worry over me.”
Massimo’s voice called out again, “Isotta! Come out! Isotta!”
Isotta gave Luciano a searching look, trying to evaluate this wound through the dim light. She bit her lip before standing. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Isotta, no!”
“I know he won’t hurt me.”
“How can you be sure?”
Isotta paused and squeezed Luciano’s hand before letting go. “Because he couldn’t hurt Giulia again.”
To Luciano’s puzzled expression, Isotta added, “It’s okay. I’ll be right outside. I’ll shout if he lays a hand on me.”
Luciano nodded, reluctantly.
She smiled and said weakly, “One way or another, at least it will be done.”
She walked through Luciano’s house and opened the door, just as Massimo was beginning to pound again. Before he could sidle into the house, Isotta stepped into the street and closed the door behind her with a sharp click.
Massimo, panting heavily, whispered, “You’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay.”
“The fire. Someone was taken to the hospital, someone . . . small. I was so scared it was you.”
“Someone was hurt?” Isotta’s mind darted. “Margherita?”
“No, not her. She’s with Mamma. They never even made it to the sagra. Their train was delayed.”
Isotta sagged with relief and leaned against the door. “Grazie Dio.” She took a breath and then straightened. “Well, now you know it wasn’t me. Goodbye, Massimo.”
“Wait! Why aren’t you home? You’re supposed to be home.”
Isotta’s laughed with shards of flint, “Supposed to? Come off it, Massimo. I know. I know about Giulia. I know about your perverted game. It’s over between us.”
“No! You can’t mean that! We’re married!”
“Marriages end, Massimo. That can’t come as a shock to you.”
“Not ours, Isotta! We’re supposed to be together forever . . . till we . . . till we die.”
Isotta’s face contorted. “You’re delusional.”
“But I worked so hard, it felt so right—”
Isotta cried out, “You worked hard! I was the idiot who went along with anything you told me. Who believed you. Who let you control every bit of my life. I made it pretty easy for you Massimo. Now is where it gets challenging because you’ll have to deal with the truth that Giulia is gone.”
“I know she’s gone!”
“Well, I’m not going to be her replacement.”
“Is that what you think? That you’re her replacement?”
“It’s the truth. The truth that everyone is this town saw before I did.”
“But I didn’t . . . I never—”
“Goodbye, Massimo.”
“Wait! What about Margherita?”
Isotta turned back from the door. She asked softly, “What about her?”
“She’s asking for her mother. What am I supposed to tell her?”
Isotta reminded herself that this was Massimo’s way of manipulating her. “You should have thought of that earlier. This is not on me.”
“No! Isotta, you’re
right, I didn’t start this for the right reasons, but I love you, I love you!” Massimo dropped to his knees in front of Isotta and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed his cheek against her and sobbed,”Please, please let me prove it to you. We’ll start over. We’ll start fresh. We’ll move out! My mother. My mother pushed me into this. She was mad with grief when Giulia died. She convinced me—”
“You did this Massimo. You did. Only a weak man blames his mother.”
“Okay! Yes! It’s my fault, but I can make it right. Just tell me what you want, I’ll do anything.”
Isotta’s hands hovered above Massimo’s head as she fought the urge to thread her fingers through his hair.
Fabrizio wearily pushed open the door of Bar Birbo.
He stood in the entryway, waiting for Chiara to notice him.
“We’re closed,” she called over her shoulder, stacking the dishwasher.
“I know.”
Chiara whipped around. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry for intruding, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard . . .”
“I’m fine. Well, not fine, strictly speaking, but,” Chiara spread her arms and noted her clothes streaked with dirt and soot and charred bits of Magda’s box. She’d been up all night. “I’ll live.”
“The girl who was taken to the hospital, someone you know?”
“A little. I’ve seen her, but she doesn’t come in. Fifth graders don’t have much need for coffee,” Chiara smiled wryly. “But I’ve watched her. She came to Santa Lucia a couple of years ago, maybe? I can’t remember. Luciano took her family under his wing, as he does with immigrants. I know he’d spoken of her with admiration. A sunny child. I hope she’s okay.” Chiara bit her lower lip and turned away. She ran the water over her hands and said, “But I’m fine. It was nice of you to check.”
“Chiara, when the fire started and I couldn’t find you—”
“I was with Magda.”
“I didn’t know. I just knew you had been there, and then you were gone, and I panicked.”
Chiara’s chin ducked down to her chest. She said nothing, but reached for a towel to dry her hands before slowly turning back to Fabrizio.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 32