Bella Cigna

by Wendi Dass

Sarah kept her hand extended and her smile steady.

  Finally, Lucia gave a swift exhale, lifted her hand, and looped her pinky around Sarah’s.

  “We’ll do this. Together.” Sarah pulled Lucia into her chest and stroked her hair—thick, brunette waves not so different than Eduardo’s curls. The sensation brought back all the feelings she’d harbored when she’d left Sister Maria’s office: longing, loss, and maybe even regret.

  She passed a hand over the smooth strands one last time before letting go. That’s what she needed to do─let go. And not just let go of Lucia but also the feelings trapped inside her. She needed to let go of her past, not confront it.

  She patted Lucia’s back. “You’d better go. I expect your mom’s waiting.”

  Lucia nodded. “Yes, Ms. Miller.”

  “We’ll start practicing tomorrow. Lunch.”

  Lucia exited the bathroom.

  Sarah pulled out her phone. One person did need to be confronted—Mom.

  “Sarah, my God! I’ve been so worried. How are you?”

  Her mom’s voice was dramatic enough for the stage, shrill and shaky. “I’m…” Sarah paused. The truth. Nothing more, nothing less. “I’m good, Mom. Not great, but much better than I was when I heard the news.”

  Chapter 19

  As October turned to November, Sarah met Lucia for lunch three times a week. Sarah spoke entirely in Italian—except for those times when she became so frustrated that she could feel heat rushing her cheeks. Then Lucia switched to English to explain. Sarah also helped Lucia make progress with her own struggles. After weeks of Sarah reading aloud with her in class, Lucia managed that on her own. Speaking her lines in the play was a more difficult challenge, but—well, she hadn’t thrown up again.

  The final Thursday in November was Lucia’s next big test. Her scene would run during rehearsal, and Sarah decided a little extra practice beforehand wouldn’t hurt. “Come on! We only have a few minutes.” Sarah rushed down the hall, weaving through the oncoming students heading for dismissal.

  “Slow down! My legs aren’t as long as yours.”

  Sarah stopped and turned back to Lucia, who bobbed through the hall in her light-up shoes. If Lucia took after her father, in a short time her legs would be the same length as Sarah’s. Sarah winced at the thought of Eduardo, as she always did, ever since ending things with him a month ago. She hadn’t seen him since, except during drop-off and pick-up, and even then he always stared straight ahead through his windshield, never her way. But her thoughts of him hadn’t lessened. How could they? His face haunted her sketchpad. She saw his eyes in Lucia’s. And Sarah certainly would never put on her fuzzy, teddy bear slippers again without thinking of him.

  Lucia caught up.

  Sarah snuffed the thoughts as best she could, a temporary dulling of the longing that never subsided. She grabbed Lucia’s hand and guided her into the auditorium.

  Mr. Moretti stood on a ladder on the stage.

  Sarah ushered Lucia up.

  He started down, calling something in his hasty, squeaky Italian.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti,” Sarah said automatically, in Italian. “Speak slower so I can understand you.”

  On the third rung from the bottom Mr. Moretti paused, staring with his beady eyes. “I said,” he began, “rehearsal doesn’t start for fifteen minutes. I’m changing the lights.”

  He looked at her as if she’d uttered a prophecy. “We won’t bother you,” Sarah answered back in Italian so clear she surprised herself. “Lucia needs to practice her lines.”

  “Ah.” He climbed back up the ladder.

  “Splendido!” Lucia pulled at Sarah’s hand. “That was great!”

  Sarah rubbed Lucia’s dark hair. “Thanks. As they say, ‘practice makes perfect.’” She stepped to the edge of the stage. “Now, for your practice.”

  “But…” Lucia motioned toward Mr. Moretti with her gaze. “Not with him here.”

  “He’ll be here during rehearsal, along with fifteen others.”

  “I don’t know, Ms. Miller.” Lucia tugged a pigtail.

  “You just read out loud in class. The stage is the same. Just a bigger room.”

  Lucia kicked at an imaginary object. “All right.”

  The girl spoke in the labored tone Sarah was accustomed to hearing from the girls whenever they lost an argument. She jumped down from the stage. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”

  As she spoke, Lucia stared at the floor.

  Her voice was so soft Sarah couldn’t make out a single word. “Louder!” she called.

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “What?” Sarah scooped her hand around her ear, pantomiming she couldn’t hear.

  “I said, I’m not sure I can,” Lucia answered in a clear voice.

  Sarah flashed a thumbs-up. “Great! Just like that.”

  “There’s no room for you here,” Lucia said in Italian.

  Sarah could actually hear her. “Yes! Now say it like you mean it.”

  “There’s no room for you here,” Lucia said again.

  She spoke the phrase exactly as before. Sarah frowned. “Why don’t you pretend I’m someone you don’t like? Anyone you can think of?”

  “Maybe my stepdad.”

  Go figure. “Excellent. I mean, fine. Pretend he’s asking to stay with you and Eduar—” She caught herself. “I mean, your father.”

  Mr. Moretti raised a fuzzy brow. Sarah flushed.

  “Okay.” Lucia stepped forward and placed a hand on her hip. “There’s no room for you here!”

  Her voice was loud and confident. She actually projected. Sarah gave a little hop and clapped. “Perfect, Lucia!”

  “Magnifico.” Mr. Moretti called from the ladder.

  Lucia jumped down from the stage, a smile on her face. “I don’t think I can do it with everyone else here.”

  “Of course, you can.” Sarah squeezed Lucia’s shoulders. “You’ll do great.” While the children rehearsed, Sarah brushed stars of varying sizes, leaving room for the North Star in the center. But she kept an eye on the rehearsal as she worked, and as they neared the scene with Lucia’s line, she put down her brush and parked herself at the back of the auditorium.

  “Excuse me, do you have a room to spare?” said the upper school female who would play the role of Joseph.

  “Come on, Lucia,” Sarah said under her breath.

  But from the stage came only silence. Lucia stared out at the auditorium, and her gaze found Sarah.

  A paleness painted Lucia’s face, and she stared out with widened eyes. Sneering whispers cut the dead air.

  Sarah felt Anna’s gaze on her, but she didn’t let go of Lucia’s gaze. In a split-second decision, she stepped forward and made her best Mr. De Luca impersonation. She rubbed her chin and gave a flagrant wink.

  Lucia squeezed a smile. Then she narrowed her eyes, cleared her throat, and said her line.

  No, she performed her line. Sarah broke into applause.

  Anna flashed a glare.

  Sarah silenced her clapping and straightened her smile. But as she returned to the backdrops, the memory of Lucia’s cheeky grin fueled her enthusiasm. That grin stayed with her all through dinner, and even warmed her as she trotted across the courtyard from the dining hall, the fierce autumn wind whipping her hair.

  ****

  Thanksgiving was unusual for Sarah. The Italians acknowledged the uniquely American holiday but didn’t celebrate it. So, Sarah didn’t enjoy traditional cranberry sauce or sage-spiced stuffing, but the school kitchen did make an effort, serving sliced turkey with roasted potatoes. Although Sarah didn’t spend the morning watching the parades on TV with her mom, she did speak to her on the phone. Sarah even discussed with her mom the sites they’d visit when she arrived in a few short weeks.

  But Sarah gave thanks. What she was most thankful for, as she huddled under a blanket in her room, preparing for another evening filled with sketching and reading a good book, was her friends: for Anna’s const
ant friendship, even though she’d abandoned Sarah for a proper Thanksgiving dinner with some ex-pats in downtown Rome, for Lucia, as young as she was, who always brightened her day with her unending persistence and smiling eyes, and for Meredith—

  I haven’t called Meredith. Sarah sat up in her bed and checked the time—seven p.m. One p.m. back home. Steven should be going down for his afternoon nap. Sarah picked up the phone and found Meredith’s contact.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” Meredith exclaimed.

  “How are things? Your in-laws there?”

  “Yeah. Helen’s scrutinizing my pie crust as we speak.”

  Remembering Meredith’s failed attempt at apple pie a few summers ago, Sarah chuckled. Pies never were her strong suit. “Sorry I’m not there to help.”

  Since Sarah’s father passed away, she, Philip, and Mom spent their recent Thanksgivings at Meredith’s. Dessert was always Sarah’s responsibility.

  “I know. You usually do the pies!”

  Sarah bit her lip at Meredith’s frazzled tone. “You know I never made my own crust, right?”

  “What? Those were store-bought?”

  “Yup.”

  “Ugh! And I’ll be picking crust from under my nails for a week. Thanksgiving isn’t the same without you, Sarah.”

  A lump formed in Sarah’s throat. “It’s not the same here, either.”

  “Oh, Sarah. I really can’t even imagine. Don’t you have anyone to celebrate with? Anna?”

  Meredith must have heard the loneliness in Sarah’s voice; hers was filled with pity. Sarah crumpled her posture.

  “Or what about Eduardo? Have you thought about calling him?”

  Sarah swallowed hard. Meredith hadn’t mentioned him in weeks. Was the fact she hadn’t stopped thinking about him that obvious? “Um, no.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “All right.” Sarah fingered the edge of the blanket. “I’ve thought about it.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “I…I don’t know. What if he finds out about my… problem?” Her heart sank.

  “So? Who cares if he finds out? You’re not marrying him. You’re coming home in six months.”

  “Yeah.” Like I have hopes of ever getting married again anyway.

  “Speaking of which, did I tell you my neighbor’s house is for sale?”

  Sarah threw off her covers. “No. Which one?”

  “The little blue house on the corner. Perfect size for you.”

  A painted, cedar-sided house with a red front door and black shutters. How wonderful would it be to live just a few steps from Meredith? She could help with the kids, go over any time for tea, and…

  Who was she kidding? She couldn’t get a loan without a proper job—one that paid far more than the measly twenty grand she would pull in this year. She’d need to secure a position back home first, and the posts for the next academic year wouldn’t be up for at least a month. She frowned. “Maybe if it’s still on the market in the summer.”

  “You know how fast things move here.”

  “I know, I know.” She slumped into the pillow.

  Shouting erupted in the background, followed by Meredith’s muffled yell. “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, Sarah, but apparently, my sweet potato casserole is burning.”

  “Of course.” Sarah didn’t bother to stifle her giggle. “Good luck with the pies.” She paced around her room. Should she really reach out to Eduardo after all this time? What had Sister Maria said? He was disappointed.

  This rumination is stupid. She paused in front of her desk and opened the drawer with Lucia’s drawing. Bella Cigna. Her heart fluttered. She could get used to that kind of flattery. But could she give it up in six months? Worse—could she bear it if he stopped offering endearments?

  She shoved back the paper and slammed shut the drawer. I’m not thirteen. So, why couldn’t she subdue her restlessness? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

  Sarah jammed her feet into her slippers, and his words ran through her mind. The slippers are a nice touch. She growled—again, she’d thought of him! She needed something to keep her hands and mind occupied; she needed to paint. After wrapping herself in a thick sweater and switching her shoes, Sarah ventured across the courtyard to the dark auditorium. The hard soles of Sister Maria’s hand-me-down shoes clicked on the wooden floor, the sound reverberating through the halls.

  The overhead lights switched on in the auditorium, and she studied the backdrops. Shades of blue blended delicately in the background. A pale-yellow hue brought the city of Bethlehem to life through stenciled windowpanes and shadowed chimneys. And in the center, the North Star glowed. The piece was technically sound…yet, something wasn’t right. Why didn’t it speak to her—breathe life into her like the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel? Or make her spine tingle like when she listened to Vissi D’arte?

  She stepped toward the backdrops. What were they missing? She studied the piece, but no solution came. Sighing, she sat on the drop cloth and called Anna. “Having fun?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “How was dinner?”

  “Same as last year. Puts my mother’s Thanksgiving roast to shame, but I’m not complaining.”

  “I would kill for some pumpkin pie right now.” Sarah cocked her head at the painting. Was the star off center?

  “I’m celebrating with a piece right now.”

  “Ugh. Not fair. Whipped cream, too?” Sarah tucked the phone against her shoulder, put out her hands so her thumbs met at the star, and measured to the edges of the backdrops with her hands. The star was centered for sure.

  Anna’s gulp muffled the line. “Mm-hmm.”

  “What’s so spectacular that you’re celebrating with pie…without me?”

  “I did invite you.”

  Right. Like Sarah would fall for that one again. Getting inebriated with kids half her age made her list of never-agains.

  “I got in,” Anna added.

  Sarah jumped to her feet. “Got in? You mean to Oxford?”

  “Yep.”

  “Holy hell.” Sarah slapped a hand over her mouth and scanned the room for any students. The auditorium was empty. Whew! She dropped her hand. “I mean, that’s great.”

  “Thanks to one completely fictionalized essay.”

  Sarah smiled. “I should’ve been a used car salesman.”

  “Right.”

  Again, Sarah considered the painting. Were too many buildings in the forefront? No. Any fewer and it wouldn’t be a town. “When will you tell Sister Maria?”

  “Not anytime soon. They want me to visit in February, and then I’ll make my decision.”

  “That’ll be fun. They pay for the trip?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure I’ll go.”

  “What?” Sarah flinched. “No sirree. I didn’t spend two hours educating myself on some coding mumbo-jumbo for you not to even consider it.”

  Silence hung on the line. “What if grad school’s not right for me?” She huffed. “And cryptography isn’t mumbo-jumbo. The stuff is legit.”

  “Well, I think that’s your answer right there.” Sarah waited for an answer.

  “Come on, Anna, isn’t that what the visit’s about? To help you figure out if Oxford’s a good fit?”

  Anna released a sigh. “I guess so.”

  “Then why pass up a free trip? You’re not obligated to attend the school afterward.”

  Anna laughed. “Since when did you get so smart?”

  A smile eased onto Sarah’s face. “Since I started passing myself off as a genius.”

  “Ha! I think you might be one, too.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Well, you at least deserve a piece of pumpkin pie. I’ll bring you a doggy bag.”

  A rumble attacked Sarah’s stomach at the thought. “I won’t say no to that.” She ended the call and returned to her dilemma. Why couldn’t she find that spark in her piece? Anna had her love of math to drive her. Michelangelo had his faith
. But what did she have? If only she could draw on something in her life—not just fuzzy memories of childhood nativity scenes.

  Sarah stood. That was the problem. Not the number of buildings or the placement of the star, but what inspired them. Her lip firmly between her teeth, she shifted her attention from the glowing city to the left and right of the North Star, the space without light. Goose pimples prickled her flesh.

  The sky.

  She stepped closer, an image emerging in her mind. The blue sky, while more vibrant than Mr. Moretti’s dim black, was too dark. It needed color. She knelt and rummaged through her tubes and cans. She dug out blue and red and squirted some into an empty drip pan, stirring until a deep violet emerged.

  Yes. The picture in her mind clarified. She returned to the pile of paints, this time finding red and orange—the colors to paint a sunset. And not just any sunset, but the one from her date with Eduardo.

  She squeezed them onto a piece of cardboard. The palette lay ready to be used. Sarah dipped her brush into the violet and reached for the backdrop. She hesitated, her hand quivering as she extended the soaked bristles. Did she really have time to transform it? The performance was only ten days away.

  The sunset consuming her thoughts, she closed her eyes.“Vissi d’arte, I lived for art.” Opening her eyes, Sarah let her brush collide with the canvas. She allowed the motion wash the darkness and breathe life into the piece—and herself.

  Chapter 20

  Purples and oranges swirled behind a twinkling North Star; the streaks of light and dark blended together like the cream in one of Anna’s lattes. The pigments electrified the canvas and recharged Sarah. The last nine days of laboring were about more than just revitalizing the painting; Sarah hadn’t felt so rejuvenated, so light on her feet, since her date with Eduardo.

  She stepped back from the artwork in place on the stage. A tingle rushed her spine, as the memory of Eduardo holding her on the couch flooded back—the warmth of his arms wrapped around her and his clean, intoxicating scent. This time, Sarah didn’t snuff the memory. Working on the painting awakened an awareness; on some level, the painting was as much for him as for her. She hugged herself. Was that such a bad thing?

  She replayed her conversations with Meredith and Anna. You’re not marrying him, Meredith said. And her own advice to Anna, Isn’t that what the trip’s about? To help you figure out if Oxford’s a good fit?