“Live with you? What do you know about being a mother?”
A pause. “Uncalled for, Filippo.”
Another pause. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not pretending to be his mother. There’s no part of me that wants to be his mother. But I am his aunt, and your sister. You all need some space from each other, and I have all this room.”
“I don’t know, Chiara. You’re all heart, but I don’t see you taking a firm hand, making sure he keeps to curfew and stays away from those derelicts.”
Chiara stifled a snort, and said, “Mmhmm. Filippo, how is your ‘firm hand’ working?”
“Not well,” Filippo admitted.
“Look, I’m not saying I have the answer. Like you so kindly remind me, it’s not like I’ve done this before.” Chiara fought to keep the resentment out of her voice. It was hard to ignore the quills that only family could hurl. “Maybe it’s time for a different strategy. Maybe we should let Edo find his own way through the groves.”
“Maybe. But what would I tell his mother?”
Chiara rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Filippo, that’s up to you. Tell her that Edo is staying here for a bit to save on gas, and we can see how it goes.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
Chiara straightened as she watched one of the scopa-playing old men standing outside the bar, counting his coins. “I have to go, brother. I’ll have Edo call you about details.”
“All right. And Chiara? Tell him I love him.
“I will.”
“And . . . thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Lunch in Rome passed in a blur of talking. Mostly Massimo talking and Isotta watching his face transform with his mood. She listened to the cadence of his voice ebb and flow like the movement of shifting sunlight across a forest floor. The gnocchi were probably delicious but not half as delicious as watching this man’s eyes move from snapping in anger at a remembered affront at the last meeting to lilting with humor as he made a self-deprecating comment about his often-misguided need to be right.
Not until he reached for the olive oil to dress his salad did she notice the ring. She wondered how she could’ve missed it given the number of times he had taken her hand in his and stroked her fingers. The air seemed to go out of the room, and Isotta sagged in her seat. She knew it was too good to be true. No man like this, perhaps any man ever, would want her as more than a lunchtime dalliance. She had been an idiot to imagine a chemistry between them.
Massimo noticed Isotta’s face lose its animated watchfulness. “Is anything the matter?” He asked, frowning. He certainly hoped Isotta wasn’t moody. He couldn’t abide moodiness.
Isotta didn’t answer, but Massimo noticed her eyes pulling away from his wedding ring to gaze up at him with an expression of mute betrayal. Well, at least she didn’t yell and make a scene. That was an excellent sign. In fact, he couldn’t have designed a better test of her temperament.
“I see you’ve noticed my wedding band.”
Isotta’s eyes widened.
“I was married. I’m not anymore.”
The sentence hung in the air between them. Isotta tried to decide if this could be a ploy of some kind. She’d never been the victim of a ploy, of course, but she’d read about them. And her sisters would often gossip about the tricks men used to lure women into bed.
The silence stretched into uncomfortable shapes, prompting Isotta to finally whisper, “What happened?”
A darkness troubled Massimo’s features. He rubbed his jaw before continuing. “She died.”
“She died?” Isotta breathed, pulled between the hope that this was true and Massimo hadn’t been toying with her, and the fear that he’d really lost his wife at such a young age. “Can I ask . . .”
Massimo studied her for a moment, and continued to run his thumb along his jawbone. “Yes, okay. It’s right that I tell you. We were on the Adriatic, at Numana, swimming, and all of a sudden she wasn’t there. I ran all over the coastline calling her. People came, the police boats. A helicopter found her, 500 meters from the shoreline.” His voice broke and he stared at the tablecloth, brushing the crumbs distractedly across the red tablecloth.
“Oh, Massimo. I am so, so sorry.”
Massimo nodded, absently making a pile with the crumbs.
Isotta ventured, “But . . . Numana, it’s so mild, isn’t it? Shallow? How . . .”
Massimo’s voice hardened. “It just happened.”
Reaching for his hand, Isotta whispered, sadness heavy in her voice, “When?”
“About a year ago. I know I should take off the ring, but . . .”
“Of course you haven’t taken off the ring. You must miss her terribly.”
“I do. Particularly since I assumed I’d never want to be with another woman. But Isotta, with you—”
Isotta’s heart dropped.
Massimo continued, “With you, for the first time in a long time, I feel happy. I know we met only this morning. I know I seem like a complete jerk even talking like this.” Massimo smiled easily before fluttering his eyes down to the table. “It may be ridiculous. But it’s the truth.”
He spread his fingers wide on the tablecloth and then gazed levelly at Isotta. “Sitting here, with you, I am happy. And I feel like if I could touch you, your hand, your, cheek, I would feel happier still.”
Isotta could hardly believe his words. And yet she could not deny the melting she felt in her chest. Didn’t that mean that there was something real between them? Despite this tragedy he carried, and despite the fact that they had only known each other for a few hours and despite the fact that he was far out of her league? This must be something worth pursuing.
She leaned across the table and turned her face toward him, offering him her cheek. It was a bold move, far more daring than she would ever have dreamed of being. Far more
