“Look, Isotta, I’m not the kind of man to mess around. Once I make a decision, I never vary. I’ve decided that I want to be with you. If that’s not what you want, then last night clearly didn’t mean to you what it meant to me.”
“It did! Oh, Massimo, it did! I just . . . I’m just surprised.”
“How can you be surprised? Do you imagine I do what we did together last night without thinking of marriage?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know how these things work! It’s not like I’ve been . . . it’s not like I’ve been with others,” Isotta stammered.
Massimo’s face lightened. “Really? I was your first? Oh, how sweet.” He moved closer to her until his body was so close she could feel his heat. He continued stepping forward, forcing Isotta backward until she felt the hardness of the rose-colored stucco wall behind her. Massimo pressed against her, his arm above her head, smoothing her hair. He murmured, “This does explain some things.”
“Explain some things? Bad things? You mean I wasn’t . . . good?”
“Oh, you were wonderful, but the beginning did feel a little, well, how can I say this delicately? A bit bound.”
Isotta felt her cheeks redden.
He murmured, “Tesoro, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It only makes me want you more. Again. Now.” Isotta darted a glance at his face, to see if he was mocking her. But his eyes were inviting, like they were last night. He stroked her cheek and let his hand drift down her body as he pressed more snugly against her, until she could feel him, firm and insistent. She hated herself for wanting him again. Massimo rested his warm lips against her ear and whispered, “I wish you didn’t have a train to catch.”
He pulled away. Taking her hand he led her down the street and said, “So let’s talk about the wedding.”
Magda tried to burrow back under the covers, ignoring the sunlight piling on her windowsill. But sleep eluded her, no matter how much she chased it through the blind alleys of her mind. She sighed and heaved herself up, stretching her arms above her and yawning loudly. As her feet searched for her slippers, she pushed one under the bed. Sighing in resignation, Magda got down on the floor to find her slipper, now shrouded in shadows. Her hand swept the space, and her outstretched fingers brushed against a cardboard box.
She snapped her hand away as if burned. She pressed that hand against her mouth and sat up on her knees, her body a dark smudge ensconced in a voluminous white nightgown. Gingerly she reached again under the bed and found her slipper. Not bothering to perch back on her tousled blankets, she swung her feet around and placed each in its own warm and woolly slipper.
A wave of sound began crescendoing from the base of her skull, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced down the mental static and tried to slow her heart rate.
Don’t think of the box.
Don’t think of the box.
Blast.
All she could do was think of that damned box.
She stood and strode purposely into the bathroom. She hadn’t shared a home with anyone since her husband had wandered off like an idiot during their trip to Thailand ten years ago, never to be heard from again. And yet she still locked the bathroom door with a satisfying click. Magda turned on the faucet to full capacity and hummed loudly as she ran a line of toothpaste over the bristles of her toothbrush. Vigorously she scoured her teeth, delighting in the foam and the ensuing need to concentrate on not letting a dribble of toothpaste ruin her nightgown.
She swished water as if it was full of pixies she had to stun by tossing them roughly in her mouth. Then she spat. Stepping to the shower, she turned on the water as hot as possible. If she were lucky, by the time she exited the shower the memory of the box brushing against her fingertips would have receded. She would be ready to face another day.
Fatima paused in the piazza to take in the view of the distant hills. She inhaled. The air smelled of flowers pulling into themselves, concentrating before they began to wither. She watched the burnished light leap and play across the hills. Fatima noticed all of this without joy or interest.
A grumble from her stomach reminded her that she needed to get a cornetto at the forno before school. Her mother hadn’t made their customary breakfast of fried eggs with cumin this morning. When Fatima had raised her hand to knock on her parents’ bedroom door, she’d heard hushed voices and crying. Instead of knocking, Fatima had stroked the door and offered up a prayer for her family. Then she’d taken coins out of the scuffed bowl and closed the front door softly behind her.
Outside the bakery, Fatima noticed Maestro Luciano. He was shuffling a little with his cane, staring intently at the summertime baked-dough display. Silently, Fatima sidled past him through the strings of brown and blue beads hung to keep out the flies. She waited behind the butcher, who was choosing loaves for his shop’s panini. Fatima’s eyes roamed between the shelves full of crusty loaves and the faded pictures of Italy’s coastline torn from calendars. When Sauro was finished ringing up the butcher’s bread order, Fatima stepped to the register and asked for due cornetti con crema. She realized that she had not only pointed at the cornetti, she had also lofted her thumb and forefinger high into the baker’s vision. A holdover from when she was
