Bella Cigna

by Wendi Dass

  Sarah considered Anna. Wasn’t this situation an odd reversal of how it should be? Anna was the novice teacher, the one who looked more like a student. Sarah was the one with years of classroom experience. She released her lip and shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Thanks, Anna. I owe you.”

  Anna headed for the stairwell and paused on the first step. “Drinks at Al Forno’s after?”

  “Sure.” Sarah bit her tongue. She’d fill in Anna on her evening drink of choice, chamomile tea, later.

  Smiling, Anna scampered up the stairs.

  Her thoughts on a warm cup of a tea, Sarah reached for the door to her classroom and gave it a push. The door swung inward. She fell against the person on the other side, plowing into a broad chest. “Oh!” She jumped back.

  Strong hands gripped her upper arms, steadying her.

  She raised her gaze, and the apologetic gaze of a man stared down through black plastic glasses; he was the same man who had startled her at Sister Maria’s office.

  He stepped back, Italian pouring from his mouth.

  Gasping, she squeezed past him and entered the classroom. His thick lips fluttered, the r’s tumbling off his tongue like a purring cat. Sarah tried to slow down the words in her mind. Signore Rossini and mi dispiace emerged from the jumble.

  He pointed to one of the bulletin boards.

  All the while, he continued his foreign soliloquy. Sarah tensed her shoulders, and they crept higher with each word. Should she interrupt? Tell him she had no idea what he was saying?

  He turned back. “Staie bene?”

  A question. He was asking a question.

  “Signorina Miller?” Mr. Rossini’s eyebrows pressed together.

  Silence hovered like the steam in Sarah’s non-air-conditioned room after a shower.

  He pushed up his glasses with an index finger.

  Start with English. Always start with English. Sarah cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rossini, but I don’t speak Italian.”

  Laughing, he sent his glasses down his nose again. “Of course, you don’t,” he replied in perfect English. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I was so startled, I forgot I was in the English teacher’s room.”

  She relaxed her shoulders and smiled. “Please don’t apologize. I’m doing my best to learn Italian—though I’m failing miserably so far.”

  “It just takes practice.”

  “So they say.” She walked toward the front of the room, where she’d placed all the information packets for the parents.

  Mr. Rossini followed. “I was just explaining I was running late from work. I didn’t want to interrupt the meeting, so I came here instead.”

  Phew. At least she recognized his name from her combined class rosters of eighty students. She handed him a red folder. “You’re Lucia’s father, right?” she asked. “Primo tre?”

  “Yes. How—?”

  “Your last name, Rossini.” She tipped her head to look him in the eyes. Even in heels, she wouldn’t have matched his height. A cluster of butterflies rippled through her stomach, and she softened her voice. “Any relation to the composer?”

  “Me? No, no relation. Rossini is a very common surname, you know?”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.” The fluttering in her belly vanished as fast as it appeared. He probably thought she was a complete moron. Rossini was likely as common as Baker or Miller. She always had to make a fool of herself in front of handsome men, didn’t she? She dropped her gaze.

  “But I do have a cousin in Seville that makes his living as a barber.”

  “Oh really?” She looked back at him. His lips ticked upward, and his round eyes fixed on hers. Sarah smiled back, and the fluttering in her stomach returned. “His name wouldn’t happen to be Figaro?”

  He widened his smile. “I do believe it is.”

  As he spoke, his baritone voice deepened. A multitude of questions swarmed Sarah’s thoughts. Did Mr. Rossini really enjoy opera? Or was he just joking? Would he look more handsome with or without the clunky glasses? Either way, she wanted to keep the conversation going. Sarah opened her mouth.

  But at the same moment the door swung open again, and the other parents streamed inside.

  Mr. Rossini tipped his head and huddled in the back of the room.

  Surely, he wanted to continue their conversation, too, because as she greeted the parents—each time careful to extend her hand first and introduce herself in English—she caught his gaze. He stayed in the back of the room, perhaps waiting for another chance to speak with her, for at least a dozen parent introductions. Not until Sarah explained to Mr. and Mrs. Giordano the importance of the assigned reading log did he slip out the door.

  The next hour passed without incident. Had the evening ended there, Sarah would have clapped her hands and strutted back to her room. But at quarter ’til eight, she encountered an obstacle—Mr. Moretti.

  A short, stout man with thinning brown hair, Mr. Moretti spoke as much English as Sarah did Italian. He pointed a pudgy index finger at the sheet in his hand and spoke.

  As he jabbered in a terse tone, Sarah shifted on her feet and chewed her lip, searching her limited Italian vocabulary for words that matched his. She found none.

  His hand gripping the paper, Mr. Moretti raised the Learning Through Immersion handout and repeated his question.

  He practically shoved the handout in her face, and his words made as much sense as a pig’s grunts. Sarah stepped back. She felt the gaze of several parents on them, but none came to her aid. They quietly exited the room as Sarah stood by helplessly. If only Anna were there to translate—or to shut him up with a sharp-witted comment. “Mi dispiace.” Sarah stumbled on the phrase.

  Mr. Moretti lowered the paper just enough to reveal a glare.

  Her heart raced. If she didn’t calm him before another parent arrived—or worse, Sister Maria—she’d be out of a job faster than Anna could gel her hair. She took the paper from his hand. “Signore Moretti.” She summoned Italian words to her numb lips. “Questo articolo—” Her limited Italian vocabulary deserted her, and she switched to English. “The paper, it explains—”

  His nasal voice squealed, and his face reddened. Sarah’s stomach dropped.

  “Vito, come va?” Mr. Rossini strode up to them, slapping a hand on Mr. Moretti’s back.

  Mr. Moretti turned to Mr. Rossini, and the two men exchanged a few words in Italian before Mr. Rossini gestured to the paper in Sarah’s hand. “May I?”

  Relief washed over her. “Please.”

  The two men conversed for no more than a minute before Mr. Moretti calmly extended a hand to Mr. Rossini as if a disagreement never occurred, “Grazie, Eduardo.” He turned to Sarah and nodded. “Grazie, Signorina Miller.” Then he shuffled out the door.

  Sarah stared in awe at Mr. Rossini’s handsome face. Did he look like Henry Cavill? Antonio Banderas? She stifled an urge to hug him, because, of course, that response would have been entirely inappropriate. Instead, she beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Rossini. I wasn’t—”

  “Eduardo.” He smiled.

  “Oh…yes. Eduardo. I didn’t think he would ever let up. What did he want?” Warmth crept up her neck, and she pulled at the collar of her blouse.

  “He didn’t understand the papers. They’re in English.”

  Sarah frowned. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought to have them translated?

  “He doesn’t grasp the immersion process either,” Eduardo continued. “He’s worried his daughter will fail to communicate with you.”

  Sarah bit her lip. “Oh, dear. I was hoping the handout would explain, but I guess he can’t—”

  “Read English?” Eduardo finished her sentence.

  A dry laugh escaped her lips.

  “Don’t worry. I explained what the paper said. Vito is easily excitable.”

  She released her collar. “Well, I hope his daughter isn’t.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll let you be the judge. Just don’t seat her next to Lucia, ok
ay?”

  “Sounds like she’ll be spending most of her time in the corner,” Sarah joked.

  Eduardo laughed again.

  His laugh wasn’t loud or overbearing but a genuine expression of amusement. His eyes, so rich with warmth, smiled, too. For a moment, she lost herself gazing into them, even after his laughter subsided. She cleared her throat and stepped toward the table, where she pretended to busy herself with collecting the folders and handouts. “So, did you have a question?” She kept her gaze on the papers in front of her.

  “Question?”

  She stole a glance at him and nearly gasped. With his eyebrows pressed together and his glasses dipping to the edge of his nose, she knew where she had seen his face before. Michelangelo’s David. His eyes, his nose, and his mouth were all strikingly similar to the image she’d studied in college. And she’d studied the David closely: the toned biceps, the chiseled abdomen, and the intricately carved genitals…

  A deep blush rushed her face, and she shifted her gaze to the desk. Why was she so embarrassed? She wasn’t undressing him with her eyes. Even if she had paid attention to the wide shoulders and narrow hips that now caught her eye, she needn’t be ashamed.

  How long had passed since she had felt the warmth of desire for a man? Sarah swallowed hard and fanned her face. Apparently, long enough that even an innocent attraction burned her cheeks bright.

  He relaxed his brows. “Are you all right?”

  Sarah froze her fanning hand in mid-flap. “Oh… yes. I’m still getting used to the temperature here.” She pivoted to the table, careful to keep her back toward him as she moved papers back to her desk. “You never did explain why you returned. Did you have a question on the materials?”

  “Oh, no. I found them quite thorough. Very well written. I…”

  Sarah spun to find him staring at the floor as one hand massaged the back of his neck. Was he nervous, too? Eduardo looked back, a measure of doubt in his eyes.

  “Actually, I was looking for Roberta. Did you meet her yet?”

  “Roberta?” Sarah widened her eyes.

  “Yes. She’s my—”

  The classroom door flung open, and a petite woman, wearing bright red lipstick and a dress that accentuated her tiny waist, entered the room.

  “Roberta!” Eduardo took a step toward the woman. “We were just talking about you.”

  Roberta laid into Eduardo in an Italian rant, halting his introduction.

  But she needed no introduction—her upticked eyebrow and fluttering lips spoke for themselves.

  Sarah stumbled back and struggled against the flush creeping to her cheeks.

  The woman was his wife.

  ****

  Darkness had fallen by the time Sarah and Anna arrived at Al Forno’s. Sarah sat beside Anna on the restaurant’s patio, where draped strings of lights reflected off the damp cobblestones. Servers paraded by with trays full of steaming dishes. Locals lounged in metal chairs, a glass of wine or fork in one hand, leaving the other free for grandiose gestures.

  “Buonasera,” a server greeted them.

  Anna ordered a beer and a slice of pizza—the same thing she’d ordered the last time they’d dined there.

  “Do you have any tea?” She handed the menu to the server, who stared at her like she’d grown a third eye. “Té?”

  He nodded.

  “Chamomile?”

  Anna rolled her eyes.

  The server scribbled on his pad and walked away.

  “And some honey?” Sarah called after him.

  He turned, scrunched his brow, and crinkled his nose.

  “Miele,” Anna said. “It’s called miele.”

  “Oh.” Sarah repeated the word to the server.

  He scratched his head and shuffled inside.

  “You don’t want any lemon?” Anna cocked a brow.

  Miss smarty-pants was also sassy. Sarah poked out her tongue.

  “You really are hopeless.”

  Frowning, Sarah placed her napkin in her lap. “We have to work tomorrow.”

  “One drink won’t do anything, except maybe relax you.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Usually does more than that for me.”

  “Then you need to drink more often.”

  Sarah arched her brow. Right. That suggestion would be as helpful as replacing peanut butter with Choctella—as her scale could attest.

  The server returned with their drinks.

  Sarah eyed the paper wrapper of the teabag. Chai. Ah well. Chamomile was too much to have hoped for.

  “So, the parent visits went well?” Anna took a swig of her beer.

  “As well as to be expected. One father gave me a hard time, but then Edua—”

  The server returned with Anna’s pizza.

  Anna didn’t dab at the cheese with a napkin. She just peeled off a slice of salami, gobbled it, and followed it with another throwback of the bottle.

  Sarah’s stomach growled. If only she could snack at night and not look like a beached whale the next day. She turned her attention to the table next to them. A petite woman with lustrous brunette waves leaned forward on an elbow. Across from the olive-skinned beauty, a man, casually dressed in an open-collared muslin shirt, reached for the woman’s hand. “What were you saying?” Anna said through a mouthful of pizza.

  “Me?”

  Anna drained her beer. “Yeah, something about a parent.”

  “Oh, right.” The couple beside them stared at each other with goo-goo eyes. Sarah choked on a laugh; an hour ago, she’d stared at Mr. Rossini that way. She shifted her gaze to Anna. “Nothing important.”

  Shrugging, Anna stood. “I’m gonna snag another beer. You want anything?”

  “Milk.” She tilted the coffee-colored tea toward Anna. “Not that milk will salvage this lackluster tea.”

  Anna rolled her eyes again and headed for the bar.

  Alone at their table for two, Sarah replayed the night’s events in her mind: Sister Maria’s smile, Mr. Moretti’s piggish interrogation, and the carefree banter—hell, maybe some would classify it as flirting—with Eduardo. Then the clickety-clack of Roberta’s heels as she left on his arm.

  As she let the memory fade, Sarah sighed and scanned the patio. The clientele were strictly couples. Some snuggled on one side of a table, and others ogled their partners, gazes fixated and mouths practically drooling. Rome was the city for lovers. Rome was the city Sarah found herself in when love was farthest from her reach.

  Sarah winced. She threw down her napkin, stood, and walked to the edge of the patio. The shimmering lights of Rome sparkled behind the dim, rolling hills of Balduina. The basilica, the castle, and the Pantheon were all hidden in shadow.

  A breeze rustled Sarah’s hair. Her flesh prickled, and she wrapped her hands over her bare arms as she gazed toward the city. Light and dark. Shadow and luminance. She danced her fingers on her skin, and her right hand grasped an imaginary pencil. Could she capture it?

  Her mind steadfast on the image, she hurried back to the table and withdrew a sketchpad and a stick of graphite from her purse. Flipping to the first empty page, which was close to the bottom of the pad, she sat, hunched over, and clutched the graphite in her fingers. She outlined the hills, and then the horizon. Then she shaded—shaded until her fingers ached and until a cool shade of gray tinted her hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sarah didn’t look up at Anna. “Sketching.”

  “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  Sarah smudged the lines with her thumb then lifted her gaze. “I wouldn’t call myself an artist.” She stood, putting distance between herself and the sketch.

  Anna walked around and joined her.

  “Definitely not a masterpiece,” Sarah said.

  “Are you kidding? It’s amazing.” Anna returned to her seat and slid a small cup of milk across the table.

  Retaking her seat, Sarah flipped the sketchpad closed and reached for her tea. She added a splash of milk before r
aising the cup to her lips.

  “Wait a minute!” Anna snatched up the notebook.

  Sarah jerked back her hand, and tea spilled over the tablecloth. “What?” She dabbed at the stain with her napkin.

  “You’re helping me with the school play.”

  “The what?” Sarah jerked upright. “No, no, no. I don’t do acting.”

  “You won’t be on the stage, stupid.” Anna opened the sketchpad to the most recent sketch and plopped it in the middle of the table. “You’ll be designing the backdrops.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes.

  But Anna just grinned and nodded.

  Heaving a sigh, she agreed. Why shouldn’t she add another impossible task to her list? She could design the backdrops…as well as she could speak Italian and control a gaggle of parents. She dropped her head in her hands. This year was panning out to be a walk in the park. Or perhaps, maybe this year would be the biggest mistake of her life.

  Chapter 8

  The following week, Sarah handed each of the primo tre students a copy of Charlotte’s Web. “Girls, please turn your desks in a circle. Today, we’ll begin reading our first chapter book.” As the desks scraped against the floor, Sarah sandwiched her adult-sized chair between Siena and Cira as the clock on the wall ticked past twelve thirty. “Since we have a shortened class, we’ll spend today reading aloud.”

  Thursdays were early dismissal, which should have meant an afternoon of grading vocabulary quizzes and drafting the weekly email to parents. But now, thanks to Anna, Sarah’s Thursday afternoons between now and Christmas would be spent in play rehearsal. What exactly had she gotten herself roped into?

  She flipped to the opening of the book. She’d worry about the play later; she had to get through the next half hour first. “We’ll each read a paragraph. I’ll start.” Sarah switched to her storyteller voice and read. She paused at commas, animated the characters, and cadenced at periods. She read the words the same way she would have read them to her class back in Virginia, without slowing her pace. Over the last week and a half, she’d learned that even the youngest students spoke English far better than she did Italian. Not that she set a very high bar.