Fatima hesitated. “Maybe.”
Elisa smiled. “It’s easy! Bring a shirt tomorrow, and we can cut it together!”
Fatima repeated, “Maybe.”
Elisa bounced a little at the prospect of a project. “That would be fun. Actually I have a bunch of shirts my brothers don’t wear anymore. We can cut one of those. So you don’t have to spoil one of your shirts.”
Fatima nodded slowly. “We could try.”
Elisa said, “I’ll look for a good one when I get home. Also, after school, can you do that thing where we make a list of all my homework so I don’t forget any?”
Fatima smiled, “Certo!”
Elisa smiled, “Thanks. That really helped.”
“No more zeroes.”
“No more zeroes!”
Fatima tore her focaccia offered half to Elisa. “Want some?”
“Oh, thanks,” said Elisa. “I forgot to pack mine.”
Fatima didn’t look like she believed her. But she smiled and said nothing.
Chiara stepped down the final step, opened the door to the bar, and rubbed the tops of her arms. Yes, it was definitely autumn. She slipped on the sweater she kept downstairs.
She switched on the radio and hummed as she put away the dishes from the small round dishwasher. She stopped, listening as the pipes squeaked to life. Was that Edo? He’d gotten home so late she figured he would lag getting up.
At the rumble of the Ape, she unlocked the door and accepted her box of pastries and tramezzini, scrawling her signature across the form. She unpacked the delivery then stacked the last of the cups and saucers next to the La Pavoni. Switching it on to make herself a coffee, she wrapped her sweater more fully across her chest.
As the bell over the door chimed, she started to say hello to her neighbor until she realized it wasn’t a neighbor. It was a stranger. A stranger with a full head of salt and pepper hair brushed back from his forehead to fall in soft waves to below his ears. Longer than men in Santa Lucia wore their hair. She wasn’t totally convinced he was Italian until his voice lilted in a fluid, “Buongiorno signora, un caffè lungo, per favore.” He had an accent, difficult to place. It had the blurriness of the east of Italy, with some of the bitten-off quality of the south and the muted cadence of the north. Chiara realized she had yet to respond to his request, so she nodded and stepped to the La Pavoni to pull the shot that she’d intended as her own.
The stranger tucked his newspaper under his arm as he flipped through the sugar packets, pulling out the tan raw sugar. He silently watched Chiara as she turned the handle of the espresso cup and set the saucer in front of him. She smiled at him curiously, but he said nothing as he carried his coffee to the table.
This was unusual. Italians never sat down in the bar. Unless they were tourists, in which case they always sat on the terrazza. The price of sitting was only worth it for a view. The man smoothed his fingers across his eyebrows before sitting back, dropping his newspaper on the table. Chiara got the sense that he was waiting.
But waiting for what?
Normally she would strike up conversation, but she was uncharacteristically tongue-tied in the face of this stranger. Yes, he was attractive, with his deep-set eyes and square jaw. But that wasn’t it. Something about him made her want to check in the mirror to assure herself that she didn’t carry the vestiges of her restless night.
The bell over the door chimed again and Stella rushed in, trailing the scent of woodsmoke curled into fog. Before Chiara could alert her friend to the presence of the newcomer, Stella was overflowing with words.
“Chiara, you are not going to believe this. Last night, not only did Dante not say a single word to me—what? What is it?”
Chiara was raising her eyebrows and gesturing with her chin toward the table, where the stranger was watching, jaw cocked to the side. Stella turned quickly to stare at him. He tipped his head in greeting before assuming a sleepy expression and snapping his paper open. Stella turned back to Chiara, a questioning expression on her face. Chiara shrugged.
“Well,” Stella stammered. “Anyway, um. Oh! There’s Vale, I needed to talk to him about something. I’ll see you later, Chiara.”
As she hurried out, Stella shot a final accusatory glance at the stranger. He blithely turned the page of the newspaper while taking an infinitesimal sip of his coffee.
Chiara watched Stella catch up with Vale, the town handyman. She started to prepare her own coffee when her attention was caught by the warm smile creasing Vale’s thin, sun-lined face. Stella was gesturing up the street, her hands fluttering even more than usual, and Vale followed her movements, nodding once in awhile. Finally he put his hand on Stella’s shoulder and her hands fell to her side. He leaned down and spoke, softly it seemed. Stella nodded seriously. Vale’s hand fell from her shoulder and they spoke for a few moments before turning toward the piazza, walking in step, arms almost brushing.
Chiara peered after them, chewing her cheek. Vale seemed the same age as Stella, but he must be closer to Chiara’s age. He had always been quiet, a bit detached. Perhaps it was this that made him seem older. Chiara turned to pull her coffee and noticed that the stranger’s eyes darted quickly down to his paper.
Elisa and Fatima held hands as they walked out of school. “Do you want to come over?” Elisa impulsively asked.
“Right now?”
“Or another time.”
“Oh, Elisa, I’d love to, but my parents would not let me.”
“They don’t like me?”
Fatima smiled at her friend’s ludicrousness. “I can’t go to houses that they don’t know.”
“Oh.”
Fatima stopped walking and rubbed her bottom lip with her teeth.
“I have an idea.”
“For what?”
“So we can see
