Brushing chestnut-colored bangs off her forehead, she walked to the door to greet Roberto, arriving in his three-wheeled truck with a box of pastries, focaccia, and tramezzini, little crustless sandwiches so popular at lunch time. Chiara checked to make sure the tuna and artichoke tramezzini were included, since she had just changed her order from tuna and olive, once Edo confessed a fondness for artichokes. Yes, all good, she nodded, signed the proffered form, and bid Roberto goodbye. He leapt back into his Ape to deliver a box to Luigi, the owner of l’Ora Dorata, Santa Lucia’s lone trattoria. Chiara’s ears briefly filled with the rattling engine noise, before quiet again descended over the gleaming surfaces of the bar. The song playing was one of her favorites from her youth, and she swayed and hummed as she filled her display case with the freshly arrived baked goods. Every once in a while, a piece of the song bubbled out and she sang, sending her resonant alto across the still air.
It was her favorite time of day. The empty bar spoke of possibility. The light washed away the difficult feelings that often slithered in at night. She was alone with her morning thoughts, and those thoughts were simple, manageable. Edo was moving in today, and she was already looking forward to sharing dinner with him. There was a clean, new-day smell in the air.
Chiara looked up when the door opened, and Stella, the mayor’s wife, entered.
“Un cappuccino, Stella?”
“Sì, grazie.”
“Why the long face?”
Stella bit her lip and waved her hand, as if batting away irritating insects.
Chiara chewed her cheek and continued preparing the coffee, waiting for Stella to gather herself.
“Eccolo.”
Stella nodded, then burst out, “It’s Dante.”
Chiara nodded, “Sì?”
“Well, I just don’t think he’s into me anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Chiara tried not to laugh at the phrasing. Stella must’ve been watching American romantic comedies again.
“I don’t know. He ignores me. I make him dinner, he takes it to eat in front of the TV. Says after a day of hobnobbing with big and important people and being the big and important mayor,” Stella puffed our her chest and mimed swaggering with her shoulders before collapsing over the cup and stirring disconsolately, “he just wants to be entertained in peace. I cut my hair, he doesn’t notice. If I point it out, he’ll nod, but it’s almost like he resents my making him look at me.”
At Chiara’s skeptical expression, Stella added, “Seriously, Chiara! It’s like it’s painful to look at me.” Stella drew her face up like a prune to demonstrate. Chiara reached for Stella’s hand and held it.
Stella blinked back tears. “And I can hardly blame him. Look at me! Who has seven children anymore? Nobody! And this is why! Look what it does to a woman’s body! I don’t know why I had to be the only woman who obeyed the church’s teachings on birth control. Damn church.” Stella looked aghast at her own words. “Oh, I didn’t mean that Chiara, you know I love the church.”
“I know, cara, I know.”
“And I love my children.”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t love what seven births have done to my body.” Stella held out her hands and stepped back from the bar, looking down at herself with revulsion. She shivered and whispered, “Well, it can’t be helped. What sags can’t be made tight. It’s no wonder Dante won’t sleep with me. I’m hideous.”
“Stella! That’s enough! You are absolutely not hideous. No, you aren’t a nubile young girl anymore, but who among us is?” Chiara held out her own arms, forcing Stella to regard her rounded figure.
“Oh, Chiara, you’ll always be beautiful. You have those grey eyes everyone is bewitched by.”
Chiara snorted with laughter. “Now you are just being ridiculous. I’m fairly certain I haven’t bewitched anybody in at least, oh, 20 or 30 years.”
“Well, you could, you know. If you were interested.”
“Maybe,” Chiara mused. “It feels like I’m related to everyone in Santa Lucia, whether I actually am or not, and when do I ever leave?”
The women stood silent on either side of the bar, Stella sipping her cappuccino, Chiara with her elbow on the bar to rest her chin in thought.
She broke free of her ruminations. “Anyway, this isn’t about me. What I meant to say is that you are still an attractive woman. Striking. I can’t imagine Dante finds you repulsive.”
“Well, you could have fooled me. When I was young, I thought men were so desperate for constant sex that I’d have to beat my husband back with a wooden spoon at my time of the month. Now? I’d give anything to have him touch me. I don’t know, Chiara. Maybe he looks at dirty magazines or that pornography on the computer, and who am I to compete with that?”
“You think he does that?”
“Maybe. How would I know? I’m not allowed in his office. All I know is he barely acknowledges me now that the children are out of the house and there is nothing to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, Stella.”
“Me too.” Stella spooned up the last of the sugar in her cup and licked it from her spoon like a lollipop. “But thanks for listening.”
Chiara reached again to hold Stella’s hand for a moment.
“No problem. And the coffee is on me.”
“What? Marriage?” a strangled cry escaped Isotta’s lips. “You can’t be serious.”
Massimo’s expression darkened. “Oh, I’m very serious. I thought you were, too. Otherwise what was all this for?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the elegant hotel behind them. Suddenly Isotta was conscious of the people hurrying past them with briefcases and luggage. She felt an ironic spotlight around her conversation with Massimo. Like they each had the wrong part in a play. What was happening? Was this how relationships progressed? She’d never heard of anything like this, but her sphere of experience was admittedly limited.
She did not know how to answer the man who suddenly felt
