Smitten as she was, it didn’t occur to her to wonder about Anna’s proprietary control over her domain. Those further removed from Massimo’s magnetic smile will more easily guess the truth—Isotta would never cook in that kitchen.
“Now, over here,” Massimo continued, breaking her reverie, “is the forno. It has been in this spot since before my family arrived in Santa Lucia in the late 1800’s. The cornetti are not quite sweet enough for me, so I get plain ones and fill them with my mother’s jam. My mother’s jam is simply the best.”
Isotta smiled at how boyish Massimo sounded, praising his mother’s cooking. “I’m sure it is, if her torta is any indication.”
Massimo kissed her hand, still wrapped in his own. “Her secret is that she always knows what’s missing. Always.” He leaned down to brush his lips over Isotta’s, before tugging her forward, down the street.
Isotta found his enthusiasm infectious, a change from his usual imposing air. “And here on the left is Bar Birbo. Aspetta, let’s go through. I must show you the falls.”
She followed him, laughing, until she caught sight of the Madonna in her azure niche. Isotta stopped, her hand slipping from Massimo’s to step closer to the glowing figure. Florence had instilled an appreciation for religious iconography, but this Madonna invited observation for more than artistic reasons. There was an expression of consummate adoration and tender compassion on Mary’s face.
Long ago, Isotta had lost her childhood upswell of warmth at the sight of Mary, the mother of God. The Madonna had become more of an intellectual figure, to compare the talent of artists and the depth of art historians. But this Mary . . . Perhaps she lacked the sophistication of her later Renaissance cousins, but she utterly captured the purity, the simplicity of Mary’s love. Her love for her son and her love for the world. Her hands reached out in gentle blessing, and Isotta wanted to answer the unspoken call, to touch the ethereal figure, but Massimo pulled her hand. Isotta cast one last glance at the Madonna before allowing herself to be catapulted into the bar. Immediately, the burble of voices stalled.
Massimo called out, “Chiara! Edoardo! I’m just going to show her the falls!”
Chiara was startled out of pouring a glass of wine for a man with a burgundy velvet smoking jacket. The man was paused mid-gesture. Isotta noticed Chiara’s eyes widen as she took a step back, bumping into a thin young man, who must be Edoardo, behind her. The younger man didn’t react to the contact. He was standing stock still, staring.
Isotta squeezed Massimo’s hand in confusion, but he was focused on striding out the back door and ignored her mute entreaty. Once outside, he drew her to the end of the terrazza, where there was a clear view to the falls.
“Isn’t it beautiful? Its hard to appreciate its full impact at night, of course, but the lights they have inset between the boulders allow you to get a sense of the falls at least.”
Isotta was momentarily distracted from the scene at the bar by the enchanting play of light over the dancing water, the music made by eddies tapping and rustling around the rocks. The water sprang free about 20 meters below them into a free-fall down to the bottom of the mountain. She inhaled the scent of the water, like a frozen forest floor. She felt Massimo wrap his arms around her, his chin on the crown of her head. “Beautiful isn’t it?”
“Sì,” Isotta sighed. She relaxed against Massimo’s chest and breathed in both the light and the airy play of the water cascading where it was loosed from spaces in the stones at the level of Bar Birbo, and the crashing power of the falls as they struck shelves of boulders on their rush down the mountain. After a few moments of companionable silence, Isotta whispered, “Massimo?”
“Hmm?”
“When we walked into the bar, the people looked . . . surprised.”
“They did?”
“Sì. Why would that be?”
Massimo thought for a moment. “I guess they aren’t used to seeing me with anyone. They probably thought I’d be single forever. I know I did. Until I met you.” Gently, Massimo turned Isotta until she faced him. He lifted her chin up and leaned to press his full lips against hers. He whispered again, “Until I met you.”
October
“Your teacher called.”
Elisa froze at the sound of Concetta’s voice from the kitchen. Her mother was rarely up when she got home from school. But there she was, sitting at the table. A stream of smoke sailed toward the dusty light fixture. Elisa suddenly noticed that only one of the four bulbs was giving light. The rest were dull, without even the memory of warmth.
“Elisa!”
“Sì, Mamma?”
“I said your teacher called.”
“Which one?”
Her mother snorted. “You expect me to remember the names of your teachers? The man, the math teacher.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Is that all you can say? Oh?” Her mother stood and moved toward her. Elisa backed away. “Where are you going? You stay right here! Sit down!”
Elisa scuttled around her mother to the kitchen chair and dropped into it, hugging her backpack to her chest. Her head dropped to the heavy nylon that still smelled a little musty from the last rain.
“Your teacher says you are failing. Failing! Do you know what your father will do if he finds out? What am I supposed to do?” Her mother’s voice quavered and she dropped into the seat across from Elisa. “What am I supposed to do? He’ll blame me.”
Elisa’s voice was tight, “I’m trying, Mamma. I really am. I just
