“Rosetta. Of course you don’t remember her name, she’s only lived here for five years.” Chiara smiled.
“Well, it was after my time,” Edoardo responded airily, assuming a posture of profound exhaustion at the pace of the world.
Chiara grinned.
Edo looked down at the trinket still in his palm. “Should I put it in the left-behind box?”
Chiara shook her head. “It’ll get lost. Put it in the register, someone will come looking for it.”
Edo nodded and moved around the counter to open the register with a sprightly bing!
Chiara looked up as a man entered the bar. It was the stranger from, what was it? Yesterday? The day before? Frankly, in a town like Santa Lucia when everything and nothing always seem to be happening in concert, it can be hard to keep track.
“Buona sera,” she said, taking the gold trinket from Edoardo and dropping it into the register.
“Buona sera, signora, signore. I see you found something curious?”
“Nothing, just a trinket somebody dropped.”
The man’s forehead creased in interest.
Chiara asked, “What can I get for you?” as she firmly closed the register.
“Un caffè lungo, per favore.”
Chiara nodded and began clicking the grinds into the filter basket to prepare the shot of espresso pulled extra slowly to make a fuller cup. The newcomer sat down at the table to wait, nudging the newspaper toward himself.
Edoardo shot Chiara a confused stare mouthing, “Chi é? Who is he?” Chiara shrugged. Edoardo wiped down the bar, studying the stranger, taking in his light green button down shirt. The jeans were crisp, almost as if they had been ironed, but the leather shoes were scuffed, and one was missing a tassel. The man glanced up and caught Edoardo studying him. Edoardo assiduously rubbed a stubborn spot on the bar.
Chiara smiled. She placed the cup on the saucer and impulsively decided to walk the coffee to the table, rather than leaving it for him on the counter.
“Eccolo,” she offered.
The man looked at her, a little surprised, but a slow grin softened his expression. He looked directly into her eyes and softly said, “Grazie.” At the simple word, Chiara felt her heart lurch to the right.
“Prego,” she answered, wanting to add something, but not knowing what. She ordered herself to look away, even as she found herself fascinated by the green and gold flecks cavorting in his hazel eyes. There was an expression in them that she couldn’t read. And Chiara was used to reading everyone’s expressions. She was surprised to feel herself beginning to blush.
Edoardo’s voice asking her where she’d put the ginseng syrup fractured the delicate moment. She blinked and walked to the bar, pointing wordlessly at the bottle hidden behind the new delivery of wine. When she surreptitiously darted her eyes at the man again, he was sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper. Chiara sighed, not sure if she wanted the moment to have been a figment of her imagination, or if she wanted it to be real.
She washed dishes and hummed sporadically, debating if she could expect enough people to keep Edo at the bar, or if she should release him.
The door opened, and Dante strode in. “Un caffè, Chiara! And quickly please, sono in fretta, I’m in a hurry.”
Chiara nodded and said, “Subito, right away.”
She tapped the grinds flat into the filter basket and slipped it into the La Pavoni. Edoardo asked if Dante wanted anything to eat, but Dante just shook his head, annoyed at the question. Edoardo turned and grinned at Chiara, rolling his eyes a touch.
Chiara placed the coffee in front of Dante and couldn’t resist asking, “How is Stella?”
“Stella? She’s fine. Why wouldn’t she be?” Dante narrowed his eyes as he stirred his sugar into his espresso.
“Just wondering. I haven’t seen her lately.”
Dante waved the question away. “She’s busy. Last night she had a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
“Yes, the women’s bocce league.”
Chiara was pretty sure there wasn’t a women’s bocce league.
She straightened the napkins on the bar, deep in thought. When she glanced up, she found the newcomer observing Dante.
Feeling Chiara’s eyes on him, the man looked at her and smiled, a slow and slightly crooked smile. Again, Chiara felt her heart lurch. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t some schoolgirl. She was a grown woman with a bar to manage, a nephew to worry over, and a town to look after. What were these quivery feelings when there was so much to occupy her? Still. She couldn’t help but be aware of nerve endings she thought had died long ago.
Darting a glance at him, she noticed the stranger watching her, the smile still playing around his sensitive lips. This time she held his gaze.
Luciano winced and opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, pained, and he reached for his glasses. His hand stumbled over the coffee table and then he felt his glasses slide into his hand. He looked up into Fatima’s worried, brown eyes.
“What time is it?” he croaked, then coughed, clearing what felt like a week’s worth of debris out of his throat.
“I’m not sure. Almost dinner time.”
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home?”
“It’s okay. After Patrizia and I brought you home from the alimentari, I went home and told Mamma you were sick, and she sent me back to you with this bottle of broth. It’s still warm, do you want some?”
Luciano wasn’t really hungry. It felt like he’d never be hungry again, but he nodded.
Fatima rose, “Let me get a glass of water for you.”
Luciano’s thoughts pinwheeled, and then he remembered that he couldn’t let Fatima turn on the water, she’d notice, she’d see. But before he could formulate the right words, Fatima was back with a glass. “I brought some water with gas, that always helps me when I don’t feel well.”
The fizzing and popping of the water made Luciano wince anew, but he endeavored to smile and nod before taking an experimental sip. Fatima handed him a cup of warm broth with
