Edo didn’t look like he believed her, but he nodded and looked back at the clock.
“Go,” Chiara prompted.
“What?”
“It’s quiet. You’re young. Go. Have fun. You deserve it.”
Edo stopped himself from impulsively saying that Chiara deserved fun too. He couldn’t figure out what would prompt him to say such a thing. She seemed perfectly content with her life of running the bar and occasionally playing cards in the evening at a table pushed into the center of the room, or walking with her friends. He hated it when people pried into his personal life, so he avoided doing the same. Instead, he stifled his irritation and gave Chiara a quick hug on his way up the stairs. “Look, Zia! I’m practicing! Skipped the third step!”
Chiara laughed and then, as the bell above the door tinkled, she called out, “Buona sera, come stai, Stella?”
The women’s chattering and laughing nagged at Edo as he rounded the top of the steps and entered his room. Not quite his, yet, perhaps. He had yet to unpack his CD collection, and some of his socks were still in the suitcase.
As he pulled off his vest and green shirt, he noticed a headache forming behind his eyes. Now that he stopped to pay attention to it, his stomach was also upset. He felt almost motion sick, and a little dizzy. Deciding it was nothing, he started the water running for his shower. That would perk him up.
Toweling off, Edo shrugged on the crisp plum-colored shirt he’d ironed last night and added a dab of product to revive the angle in his hair. His mind was already buzzing in anticipation. So was his heart. In fact it was beating sort of erratically. Probably just excitement. Hurriedly, he swept up his wallet, his leather jacket, and with one nod at his reflection he bounded out of the room and down the stairs.
“A dopo!” he called, dashing out into the darkness.
Massimo softly closed Margherita’s bedroom door. He whispered to Isotta, “She’s asleep. Let’s go to dinner.”
“But what if she needs you while you’re gone?”
“She knows to get her grandmother in the night. It has always been this way. Well, at least since . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, I’m sorry Massimo. I didn’t mean to . . .”
Massimo shook his head and replaced his surly expression with a light one. “No matter. Shall we?” He crooked his arm toward her and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Isotta laughed and took his arm. She was glad that his wife’s memory caused not more than a blip in his mood.
They bid Anna, who was watching TV while her dinner reheated in the oven, goodnight.
As they closed the door, Isotta asked, “Does she mind that I’m staying here? Before we’re married, I mean?” She felt her cheeks warm a bit at the word “married.” She could hardly believe this was serious. Not a pretend wedding like she and her sisters staged as children.
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“I don’t know. If we did this at my parents’ house, they’d need to debate whether to first kill me or disown me.” Massimo squeezed Isotta’s hand. She continued, “Which is strange, now that I think about it. It’s not like they think my sisters are chaste. All of them have had . . . have had . . .” Her voice trailed, shyly.
Massimo offered Isotta his broad grin, the one that jellied her legs, “If you can do it, you should be able to say it, darling.”
Isotta nodded. “Sex,” she whispered. “They’ve had sex,” she added, more strongly. The words rang out between the stones of the ancient buildings, ricocheting until they landed into the alley where a group of old women were seated, each with a bowl of greens in her lap. The women cackled merrily at the unexpected plop of ribaldry. They ducked their heads together as they continued sorting their leaves into piles for salad, piles for frittata, and a wilted pile for Bea’s chickens.
Massimo’s laugh boomed over the top of her embarrassment. He pulled Isotta to him and hugged her with one arm as he directed her steps to the piazza.
“I’m sorry for laughing, cara mia. You were saying?”
Isotta, warm with Massimo’s arm wrapped around her, said, “Well, you know. They are all active. That way. Our parents must know. My sisters’ excuses border on the ridiculous. Who spends all night cleaning the train station as a public service? Sometimes I think my sisters vie for who can tell the most outlandish story to explain their absence. But my parents just turn a blind eye and pretend they are raising virgins.”
Massimo thought about this. “I suppose it’s a parent’s prerogative to ignore what can’t be helped and would only aggravate.”
They walked for a few moments in silence.
Then Massimo continued, “Soon you won’t have to worry about your parents’ displeasure, Isotta. I promise to make an honest woman out of you. And which of your sisters can say that? Now look, see here? That is the macelleria, where Giuseppe the butcher cuts the most perfect pork chop and has a secret for making chicken sausages more flavorful than you can imagine.”
Isotta peered into the window, still lit against the gathering darkness. “It’s so busy!”
“Yes, the population of Santa Lucia may not break a thousand people, but since this is the only butcher shop, and thank the Madonna Giuseppe doesn’t take advantage of this as he might, everyone comes here. You will too.”
Isotta tried to imagine standing with these locals, leaning over the counter to chat with the butcher about how the beef was raised. She was struck with gratitude that she knew how to cook. Her mother’s fascination with dressing up her more beautiful daughters and parading them down the banks of the
