She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true, I hear all of that here.”
“Yes, but no one expects you to do anything about it.”
This was also true.
“Whereas for me, people are always angry because I’m not fixing their exact problem. Like I’m God as well as mayor! I swear, every time I see that German, Magda, I duck into an alley. She’s the worst! ‘Why don’t you make a city website that features my special rentals? The Del Fiacco family moved to Lazio, why can’t I have their uliveto? Why can’t you change the angle of the sunrise so my rooms don’t get so hot in the morning?’ Jesus.”
“Now, Dante, that’s unfair.”
“Maybe a little,” he conceded. “She doesn’t actually order me to fix the sunrise. Just complains about it.” He smiled, wearily.
An idea bubbled into Chiara’s consciousness. “Have you thought of stepping down? Let someone else be mayor? Might be nice for you to have a break. And I’m sure it would do you and Stella good to have time together without the children or the town making demands.”
“Stella? What does she have to do with this?”
“Nothing really. I was just thinking, if it’s hard to be mayor, it’s probably hard to be the mayor’s wife. You two can’t have much time together. Maybe a vacation?”
Dante waved off her words. “Stella’s fine. She knew what she was getting into when she married me. I’m civic minded. When I’m no longer mayor, you know I’ll still be involved.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice—”
“I’m fine, Chiara. Thank you for the coffee and for listening to me carp, but I just needed to blow off steam. Everything is fine.”
Chiara wished she could believe it.
The walk through Santa Lucia passed in a blur. Sooner than Isotta expected, Massimo stopped at a wooden door set into a rock arch, bushes of hydrangeas under the adjacent windows. When they burst forth in a riot of blue and purple, they would be spectacular.
The door was apparently kept unlocked because Massimo turned the handle and it immediately gave. Isotta brushed her hair with her hands, worried that the drive and the parking lot embrace made her look less than presentable to Massimo’s mother. Massimo grinned and leaned to kiss her. “You look perfect. They’ll love you.”
Isotta wondered who the “they” could refer to. Perhaps there was more family in Santa Lucia to meet? She attempted a smile and then followed Massimo into the house. “Ciao!” he called, “I brought my visitor!”
The sound of an oven door closing preceded the appearance of what could only be Massimo’s mother. As the woman walked out of the kitchen wiping her hands, Isotta noted that Massimo had inherited his mother’s height. And also the proud expression, which creased into a forced smile as she moved to greet Isotta. Other than that, Massimo and his mother didn’t really resemble each other. Massimo must have gotten his strong and chiseled features from his father.
Before Anna was halfway across the room, Isotta was startled by the sound of fluttering footsteps. A child, no more than two years old, careened around the corner and flung her arms around Massimo’s legs. Massimo ran his fingers through the child’s tangled black curls. “Isotta,” he began, “This is Margherita.” Isotta waited to hear him explain the relationship. Was this a visiting niece, daughter to a sibling waiting in the kitchen? The child herself was far too young to be Massimo’s sister. Besides, his mother’s dyed black hair did nothing to disguise the fact that her childbearing days ended before Berlusconi was prime minister. Isotta looked at Massimo, waiting.
His lip nudged upward into a smile as he softly added, “Margherita is my daughter.”
Isotta took an involuntary step away. Massimo’s eyes narrowed before he hooked his hands under Margherita’s arms and pulled her up against him. The child curled against her father and her thumb crept into her mouth. Instantly, her eyelids started to droop.
“Your . . . daughter?”
“Yes, my daughter. And this is my mother, Anna.” The acidity in Massimo’s voice pushed Isotta out of her confused stupor.
“Ah, yes. Anna, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Anna’s face lost some of its stiffness. “And I you. Massimo has told me much about you. It seems the connection between you was lightening fast. Like fate.” Isotta couldn’t tell if Anna’s tone was bemused or sardonic.
Isotta tried to smile. She looked at Massimo, who was swaying a bit while whispering what sounded like a lullaby to his daughter. The image was beautiful, and Isotta lost some of her panic in the very domesticity of the scene. She moved a little closer to Massimo and touched Margherita lightly on the arm. The child’s drowsy eyes flew open, but then she smiled around her thumb still lodged in her mouth. “Ciao, Margherita, come sei bella. How beautiful you are.”
Margherita lunged her head forward to rest on Isotta’s shoulder and Isotta was surprised by the sudden rush of affection she felt for this little person.
Massimo looked over the top of his daughter’s head, resting on his lover’s shoulder and shot a look at his mother as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you?”
Anna imperceptibly tensed, but she nodded, with a scrape of a smile. “I have coffee ready, and I baked a torta. Come into the kitchen.”
At the mention of sweets, Margherita’s head bolted upright. “Torta?”
Anna said, “Yes, torta, you sure love your dolci. Put her in her seat, Massimo, I’ll serve. Sit down, Isotta, sit down! You will be part of this family, you mustn’t wait to be invited in.”
Massimo put his hand on the small of Isotta’s back and guided her ahead of him into the kitchen. Isotta attempted a level of cheeriness that her awkwardness scrambled. “What a lovely kitchen! Do you share it?”
Isotta felt silly asking the question, sure that given the fact that she and Massimo were presumed to be getting married, she should know about the structure and function of
