Chiara looked up. “Oh, poor Arturo. What heartache.” She readied her warm smile and flipped the switch to pull a shot of espresso.
As Arturo entered the bar, unbuttoning his jacket, he was pushed out of the way by Luciano, lurching up to the counter. He waved his arm wildly, his voice harsh and guttural. “Let alone, pedestrian wingbats! There’s nothing—nothing!—and I don’t propagate the garden with loam or salt. No! I don’t! Whatever the chattering monkeys say. They portend evil, as everyone knows.”
The words made no sense, but Edo knew what Luciano wanted. Nodding, Edo placed a cup under the La Pavoni to catch the thick drops of espresso, while reaching for the bottle of grappa.
Arturo minced his steps to the end of the bar and shot a look of revulsion at Luciano. “Honestly, Chiara,” he whispered, “He just gets worse and worse. He was blind drunk this morning, trying to attack Massimo. Don’t shake your head, I saw it myself! Luckily, Patrizia stepped in, probably offered him food like always. Really, how much longer are we supposed to pretend this is normal?”
Chiara bit the corner of her lip and watched as Edo placed the cup on the saucer, handle pointed to his left before he poured a generous slug of the distilled liquor into the cup. Replacing the grappa, he set the cup in front of Luciano, ignoring the rumpled odor of unwashed tweed.
“Here you go, Maestro Luciano,” he said gently.
Luciano blinked at the honorific and for an instant his eyes seemed to see Edo as if through a veil. The moment passed and he grunted before setting his cane to hang on the bar while he blew delicately into his coffee.
Isotta and Massimo walked out of the hotel into Rome’s clean, early morning air. Isotta inhaled deeply. She felt different, somehow. More awake, more solid. It was because of this man. Impossible that less than 24 hours ago she had been walking to the bank meeting, nervous about her new position, nervous about meeting new people, nervous about getting lost and being late. Now her insides felt so fluid, so warm, she couldn’t imagine ever feeling nervous again. Not with Massimo beside her.
She turned toward him, craving his arm around her again. Smiling, she stretched on her tiptoes for a kiss.
Massimo squinted at his watch and patted her shoulder, “Un caffè before we head to the train station?”
Isotta’s smile dissolved. “Um, okay. Sure. Un caffè.”
“Allora, there’s a bar on the corner. I want to check the paper, see how Inter Milan did in last night’s game.” He grumbled and began walking, leaving her standing outside the hotel.
Ouch. That had to sting. The last thing you want after a night of passion is to realize that your lover sums it up by regretting not watching a soccer game.
Isotta’s legs started to give out. Was Massimo already regretting their night together? She ran her fingertips over her lips, still tender from pressing against Massimo’s, her cheek still abraded from his morning stubble rubbing against her as he breathed in her ear. She had planned to close her eyes on the train and remember every moment of their lovemaking. Her bruised lips and raw cheek were talismans she had planned to treasure. In the shower this morning, she’d even imagined bringing Massimo home to her family and seeing their looks of surprise that she could attract a such a man. Those thoughts had been interrupted by Massimo opening the steamed shower door and joining her. The next hour had been a foggy blur of sensation, of passion rising and passion spent and passion rising again.
And now.
She was still standing outside the hotel, watching Massimo’s broad shoulders recede down the street.
Was he expecting her to catch up? Did he notice she wasn’t beside him? Or was he hoping she would stay behind and let the connection between them, the memories of last night, fade away like the heat from stone walls at the end of the day?
Massimo turned, “Isotta? Are you coming? You have a train to catch and I need to get back to Santa Lucia before traffic gets heavy. If we want coffee we’d better hustle.”
Isotta’s legs moved as if pulled by marionette strings. Jerkily, and without her input.
When she was standing beside him again, he smiled down at her and touched her chin with his forefinger. Was it her imagination, or was that smile colder, almost forbidding? “I apologize for my distraction, darling. My head is already in the car, away from you, missing you. I know I should enjoy our last few moments together before we head home, but I can’t help feeling how lonely I’ll be in less than an hour.”
Relief flooded Isotta. That was it. It wasn’t that he was ready to toss her aside. Her eyes filled with tears, and she ducked her head so Massimo wouldn’t see and think her a fool. But he lifted her chin and used his thumbs to stroke the tears from her cheeks before kissing each of her eyes in turn. “Isotta? What is it, tesoro mio, my treasure?”
A cry escaped Isotta’s throat and she clapped her hand over her mouth and shook her head, finally whispering, “Nothing, nothing, Massimo. It’s just that I will miss you.” Her voice gained strength. “When can we see each other again?”
His broad smile took her breath away. “How about next weekend? When I come to Florence and ask for your hand in marriage?”
Morning dawned fresh in Santa Lucia. The edges of leaves on trees across the valley were in clear relief, and the landscape absorbed the shadows, leaving the air rinsed and pure. Chiara yawned as she flicked on the lights of Bar Birbo, switching on the radio on her way
