He stepped to the counter and reached across to her. Without meaning to, Chiara took his hand. “Fabrizio, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Because I’m also done with secrets and holding back.”
Chiara blinked, confused.
Fabrizio picked up Chiara’s hand and kissed it. “I should have told you before Chiara. I’m not just here for vacation.”
“I didn’t think so.” Chiara girded herself. A spy? A land developer? Mafia?
“I’m a writer.”
Chiara released his hand, “A writer?”
“Yes. Books. I write books,” he finished, lamely.
“What kind of books?”
“Gialli, mysteries.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? That doesn’t sound like a terrible secret.”
“Being a writer isn’t, perhaps, but well, I’m here for inspiration. My next book is set in a small town, and I needed space to breathe and concentrate and imagine a life different than mine in Bologna. I just didn’t want people acting differently because they knew I was watching them.”
“But they did act differently.”
“Yes, it took me awhile to realize that. I didn’t count on the fact that inserting myself into a small town would change the way people behave. Like a pebble dropped in the ocean may not create any rings, but a pebble dropped in a still, small pond will.”
The image struck Chiara, and she wondered—perhaps they were all pebbles, with interlocking waves creating a design beyond her imagining.
Fabrizio squeezed her hand, recalling her to their conversation. “Anyway, talking about my writing usually serves to fade it. It’s hard to explain, but the more I talk about my writing, the less I’m able to actually write. I needed to protect that.”
Chiara nodded and then startled. “Wait, how do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Given how reserved I’ve been, I figured you may not easily believe me. I know the rumors. People in Santa Lucia don’t speak as quietly as they think they do. My favorite theory was that I’m really from Rivaldo, that town in Tuscany that also is big on cinghiale, and I was here to steal secrets about what makes Santa Lucia’s sagra so popular.”
Chiara arched her eyebrows, “I hadn’t heard that one.”
“It’s less colorful that the mafia one. I admit, I’ve used these rumors about me as character development for my book. Which reminds me, I was saying—” Fabrizio released Chiara’s hand to reach into the wide pocket of his coat. Sheepishly, he pulled out a book and laid it in front of Chiara.
She picked up the book. “You wrote this?”
He nodded.
Chiara ran her hand over the embossed cover, simple, no design, just the title, “The Blade’s Edge” and a name “Fabrizio Mariani.”
Gently, Fabrizio took the book from Chiara’s hands, allowing his fingers to pause for a breath over her hands, before turning the book to the last page. Softly he said, “In case you don’t believe me . . .”
Chiara looked down, and smiled at the photograph. It was taken a few years ago, surely, but it was unmistakably Fabrizio.
She looked up and grinned, “And you write mysteries.”
He clasped her hands in his and leaned forward. “I’m tired of mysteries.”
Edo took the steps down to the bar one at a time. At the bottom, he hesitated before pushing open the door.
“Buongiorno, Zia.”
“Buongiorno, Edo. You’re up early.”
“Yes, I figured there’d be lots of business what with people heading up to the castle to clean.” Edo looked around at the empty shop and gave a wan smile, “I guess not.”
“Not yet, anyway. It was a late night, everyone may be sleeping it off. Un espresso?”
“Please.”
Chiara nodded and began grinding the beans. She hummed tunelessly and smiled at some inner thought.
Edo pulled a stool up to the other side of the bar. “Zia?”
“Sì?”
“I have something to tell you.”
Chiara switched off the La Pavoni and turned back to place the delicate white cup into her nephew’s outstretched palm. “That sounds serious.”
Edo nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Chiara rested her towel on the bar, and pushed the sugar container to Edo. “What is it?”
“I don’t know how . . . how . . . to say this,” he stammered. All in a rush he went on, “I don’t like women. Well, I like them and all, I mean, I like you and my mother and Patrizia,” Edo was stammering, now.
Chiara nodded, silently allowing him to continue without interruption.
Edo closed his eyes and took a breath, “I’m gay.”
Chiara closed her hand around Edo’s clenched fist. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Looking back it seems like I always knew. But I guess I’ve only known that I’ve known for about a month. Or two maybe.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“But . . . but . . . why should you be afraid?”
“Little person, if you weren’t ready to tell me, what good would it do to force the conversation?”
Edo blinked back tears of relief and confusion. “But if you’d told me, I wouldn’t have worried.”
“You were worried?”
“Of course!”
“About what?”
“What do you mean ‘about what’? You’ve seen how this town treats . . . gay people.”
Chiara tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yes. Santa Lucia is changing, but not quickly enough in some ways. But Edo, you couldn’t have thought I would judge you?”
Edo stood straight and frowned, “Why not? People have been judging me my whole life, even when they didn’t know, or I didn’t know. Or at least I wasn’t acknowledging it to myself.”
“They have Edo, it’s true. But not me. Not ever me.”
Relaxing his posture Edo said, “Yes, I guess so. It was just easy to lump you in with the rest of them.”
“Well, we never talked about the issue in general, so I can see why you wouldn’t know where I stood.”
“And, well . . . Zia? Where do you stand?”
Chiara sighed. “Edo, I’m in favor of more love in this world. And that’s all there is to it.”
Edo nodded, then wiped his eyes.
Chiara noted the gesture, “You okay, sweet boy?”
He nodded.
Chiara hesitated, “Edo? Have you told your parents?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone.” He paused as his thoughts skirted to Trevor and the bicyclists and the vague memory of the random mouths and hands in the clubs. “But last night, after we put the fire out and all of us were still up at the castle, some of the people were trying to figure out who started the fire—”
“What do you mean who started it? Wasn’t it just the fire catching on something? The papers or the vines? Ava’s been after us for years to clean up those vines.”
“Yes, that’s what I think too. But you know people, they always look for someone to blame. Anyway, someone thought maybe it was the group of tourists, some of whom were gay, and I just realized, by not saying anything, I’m basically allowing it to continue.”
“Edo.”
“No, it’s okay, Chiara, I needed to figure it out, and I have. Or at least I’m working on it.”
Chiara nodded. “They don’t still blame the tourists do they? That’s just absurd.”
Edo shook his head. “No, by the time I was walking away, they’d circled back to blaming the Moroccan immigrants.”
“What?”
&n
bsp; “Yes. You know how it is. With that terrorist attack in Germany, it’s easy for scared people to target them.”
Chiara reached under the register and grabbed her car keys. “Edo, get my coat,” she said, tension strangling her voice.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.”
Magda pushed on the door of Bar Birbo and startled when the door didn’t swing open. She stood there, uselessly, her eyes roaming around the front of the shop, looking for clues. Her eye caught on the “Chiuso” sign. Leaning forward to shield her eyes from the glare of the morning sun, she peered through the glass.
“She’s closed.” The baker’s voice called from across the street.
Magda straightened, frowned, and turned to Sauro, smiling genially as he leaned out from the beaded curtain.
“But . . . why? It’s not Monday.” Did Chiara go on vacation and not tell her? How could Chiara not share that with all the talking they did yesterday, warming themselves around the box burning on the rock of the waterfall before the current swirled around the fragments and swept them down into the swamp where they belonged.
The baker shrugged, “Boh.” He smiled again and slipped back into the fragrant shop as he caught sight of Bea walking toward the bakery for her morning loaf of bread.
Magda’s face creased into it’s familiar scowl. What was going on?
Luciano turned the corner and saw Magda standing in front of Bar Birbo, unsure of where to go next. He called out, “She’s closed.”
“I have eyes.” Magda spat back. She took a breath and tried again. “Yes, I see that.” Better, softer. She smiled in appreciation of her effort. She saw that Luciano didn’t look as pleased, so she added, “Did she go somewhere?” Magda couldn’t help her eyebrow furrowing down again. She consciously tried to raise it.
Luciano tried not to laugh at the battle that was raging on Magda’s face. What was happening to this woman? Her face seemed to be in the midst of some kind of gymnastic routine. He forced away the mental picture of Magda in a leotard balanced like an egret on a balance beam. “She’s at the hospital.”
“The hospital! Is she okay?” Luciano’s face softened at Magda’s panicked voice.
“Yes, she’s fine. She went to see Fatima.”
“Fatima? Who’s Fatima?”
Luciano closed his eyes and wrestled with the emotion that fought to choke him.
“The little girl they found last night at the fire.”
“The fire? Was she hurt? Was she burned in the fire?”
Luciano’s voice seemed to shrink as he said, “No, not burned. They think smoke inhalation. She was in the room under the arbor, it must have filled with smoke before she even knew. Giuseppe found her.”
Magda’s eyes flew to the butcher shop.
Luciano said, “He’s at the hospital, too.”
The tension in Magda’s body closed around her vocal cords, “How is she?”
Luciano shook his head. “They don’t know yet. She hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“And the family, are they there? Somebody needs to tell them! Their Italian is terrible, they probably don’t know what to do! We need to form a committee!”
“Magda. Yes, of course they are there. Patrizia went and told them right after Giuseppe took Fatima to the hospital.”
Magda’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know all this?”
“Because Patrizia came to see me first. She knows I worked with the family.”
“And you’re equipped to deal with this stress? Of course you’re not. I’ll take over.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, Magda. I appreciate the offer, but the family trusts me, and frankly I think it best that they have someone around them that they know, and that knows their daughter’s name.”
Magda huffed. “Well, what are you doing here then? Why aren’t you at the hospital? It doesn’t look like you’re taking your responsibility very seriously. Besides,” she said as she peered at Luciano’s cheek, “your face is bloody. You look ridiculous.”
“It was a long night. But, Magda, why this sudden interest in a girl you don’t even know?”
Magda blanched, and was silent. “I know. I’m sorry, Luciano.” As she rubbed her hand across her eyes, she missed Luciano’s eyes widening at her apology. “Look, I might as well say it. I’m sure everyone else will be saying it—the fire was my fault.”
“What? No, it was the vines. The fire chief said so this morning.”
“Whatever, it was my idea to have the sagra at the castle.”
“And was it you that held a lit match to the vines?”
Magda head swiveled up, and she blinked up at Luciano, surprised as much by the softness of his tone as his refusal to blame her.
His voice gentled further. “Unless you blazed up those vines on purpose and forced Fatima in that room,” his voice caught momentarily, struck by the image of Fatima collapsing, alone, in a space rapidly filling with smoke. “There were many people involved in that decision, Magda. It doesn’t fall on the person who first spoke the notion.”
Magda opened her mouth to argue, but Luciano held up his hand. “I can’t talk more about this, I need to get back.”
Magda nodded, rebuked. “But why are you going in this direction?”
“I need to get Elisa. Fatima’s family is asking for her.”
“Elisa Lucarelli? They’re friends? Oh, wait, yes, I remember now.”
Luciano nodded and then moved to proceed down the street.
“Luciano, please, no offense. Will they let her go with you? You know that family. Suspicious and angry, they remind me . . . well, never mind.”
Luciano paused. He hadn’t considered what would happen if the family didn’t allow Elisa to join him. They didn’t know him, or their relationship.
Seeing him hesitate, Magda rushed on, “Can I come with you? I’ll talk to them for you.”
Luciano’s eyes narrowed.
Magda went on. “Please. I want to help. I promise . . . I’ll be . . . well, I won’t be like me.”
Luciano surprised himself by laughing. “Okay, let’s go get her.”
“Maybe I should do the talking,” Magda said, hurrying so much, she was several paces ahead of Luciano.
Luciano stopped walking. Magda, realizing that she didn’t know where Elisa lived, paused. Luciano ventured forward while saying, “Magda, this is not your tragedy. This is mine. You can come and join in if I need you, but you’ll have to not be in charge, and you’ll have to restrain your combative tendencies, and God damnit, you’ll have to trust me.”
Chastened, Magda hung her head. “Okay.”
Three more turns and they were there, in front of Elisa’s door.
Magda moved to knock, but Luciano gently pulled her back with their linked arms. She bit her lip, nodded, and stepped backward with an slight squeak of passing gas. Luciano patted her shoulder and rapped authoritatively on the door.
The woman who opened the door wore a stained and shapeless dress. She brushed hair off her face that was last dyed perhaps three months ago, the brassy red at odds with the dark hair streaked with iron. “Yes?” She asked, querulously.
“Buongiorno, signora. I’m Luciano Sapienti, I used to teach at the scuola elementare, but now I am retired and have enjoyed the pleasure of tutoring your daughter in math from time to time.”
Elisa appeared out of the darkness, her face taut. Luciano smiled warmly at her, and Magda, sensing that this was a moment that called for warmth, stretched her mouth across her teeth to approximate a smile.
Elisa’s mother held the door open just a crack. “I can’t pay you.”
Magda’s turned to Luciano to gauge his response. He stiffened but said, “I assure you, madame, there is no need for payment. Your daughter has an exceptio
nal mind. It’s a joy to work with her.”
Elisa’s mother’s eyes narrowed. “Hrmph. Then what do you want?”
“Forgive me, Signora, but I wondered if I might have a word with your daughter?”
“Elisa? What for? She’s busy.”
Elisa wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s okay, Mamma. He’s my friend.”
Her mother cocked her jaw and glared at Luciano. “Fine. Come on out.”
Elisa sidled past her mother, who stayed propped in the doorway, her arm fixed fast across the entrance. Elisa stepped up to Luciano, her eyes searching his for a sign of what brought on this unexpected visit. She winced at the cuts on his cheek. He smiled sadly at her, and she registered fear behind his look of reassurance.
Luciano looked at Elisa’s mother as if to beseech her for a moment of privacy, but her posture only stiffened. He cleared his throat, “Child. I have some bad news. There was a fire at the sagra last night.”
Elisa nodded. “Io lo so . . . I know, everyone is talking about it. But everything is okay, right? Is your house okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He took a breath. “It’s Fatima.”
“Fatima!”
Elisa’s mother chimed in, “Who’s Fatima?”
Luciano’s gaze was locked on Elisa, so Magda cleared her throat. “A little girl in town. She and Elisa are good friends.”
Grumbling, Elisa’s mother muttered, “What kind of name is Fatima? They can’t be that good friends if I’ve never heard of her.”
Elisa whispered, “What happened to her?”
Luciano took a breath, “She was in a room that filled with smoke, and she is very, very sick.”
Elisa moaned and pressed her hands against her temples, “Where is she?”
“The hospital. I thought you might want to see her. And her mother thought you being there might help Fatima in some way.”
“You’re not taking my daughter anywhere,” Elisa’s mother broke in. “You think I’d let her go off with a strange man? I’ve heard about you, you know. I’m not an idiot. You’re probably drunk now, and just want to take my child to do God knows what to her.”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 33