The door swung open and Magda strode in. “Did you hear about Massimo? He’s getting married!”
To the silence that greeted her pronouncement, Magda added, “To a woman who is the spitting image of his dead wife.”
This had the desired effect. All faces swiveled to her like sunflowers. She smiled roundly at everyone, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. She stepped between Arturo and Bea and announced, “I’ll have my usual, Chiara.”
Finally, the parade of customers ran out of ways to recycle their limited facts about Massimo and his betrothed. One by one, they filed out into the hastening dusk.
The stranger looked up from his paper and caught Chiara’s glance. “Pardon me, but if you don’t mind my asking—that woman who just left, where is she from? I can’t place her accent.” He gestured with his chin towards Magda’s back, receding down the street.
“Magda? She moved here from Germany, oh, twenty years ago? Now she lives around the corner. She owns ‘Villa Tramonte.’ I assumed you were staying there. You’re not?” Chiara couldn’t figure out why she added that last part. She only knew she wanted the conversation to continue.
“Ah, no.”
Chiara bit her lip to keep from asking where he was staying. She looked up from putting Magda’s coffee cup into the dishwasher and saw that the stranger was watching her. A smile crept across his face until he was chuckling.
“What?” Chiara asked, smiling too, despite herself.
“You want to ask where I’m staying, don’t you?”
Chiara set down her towel. “And why would I want to know that?”
“Oh, Chiara, even with just the couple of weeks I have been in Santa Lucia, I can see that you are at the center of everything. No problem is too great or too small for people not to come in here and lay it at your feet. For there to be information you don’t have, it must kill you, no?”
Chiara toyed with indignation and protest. But there was something about this man that made her not want to adopt any artifice. Instead, she leaned forward on her elbows and grinned. “It is true that you are a bit of a mystery. We don’t get many mysteries around here. I’m afraid I’m out of practice.”
The man chuckled and folded his newspaper along the creases. “What do you want to know?”
“We could begin with your name. It’s rather unfair that you know mine.”
“It would be impossible not to know yours. But mine is Fabrizio,” and with this the man gave a mock bow, which was more of a flirtatious head tilt.
“All right then, Fabrizio. Where are you staying, if not at Magda’s?”
“At the apartment of a friend of a friend, on the edge of town.”
“Do you know what family owns the apartment?”
“Yes, Benito di Pasqua. Do you know him?”
“A little. I knew his grandparents when I was small, before they moved. Now the family rarely visits. Sometimes at Ferragosto or when it’s hot in Rome.”
“Yes, that sounds about right.”
Chiara leaned back and debated asking another question.
Fabrizio smiled his slow grin again. He said quietly, “Go ahead, Chiara.”
“So why are you here? With your notebooks and papers. Some people have said—oh, never mind.”
“What have they said, Chiara?”
Chiara shook her head and turned her back. She began polishing the flawlessly shiny La Pavoni.
Fabrizio hazarded, “I bet I know at least two theories. They think I’m either a private investigator hired by Arturo to see if his French wife is in fact cheating on him or a government agent sent to check to see if properties match what they pay in taxes.”
Chiara whirled around, her face confused, “How . . .”
Fabrizio stood and tucked his paper under his arm. “It’s a small town, Chiara. That everything is public is Santa Lucia’s worst kept secret. You should know that better than anyone. But I’ll let you in on a little truth.” He walked to the bar.
Chiara leaned toward him, eyes drawn to his.
Fabrizio rested his arms on the bar and let his face drift down to Chiara’s, until his warm breath bushed against her cheekbones. Fabrizio touched her hand with his forefinger and murmured, “I’m not sure how sinister this will seem to you, Chiara, but . . .”
“Ciao! Chiara!” A voice hailed from the doorway. Chiara reflexively stepped back from Fabrizio who immediately straightened, dropped a two euro coin in the copper plate and nodded his goodbye to her, stepping briskly out the door.
Chiara gaze lingered after him. When they drifted to the counter she noticed the uniformed figure before her. “Ah, ciao, Marcello. How is your mother?”
Marcello’s scowled. “Improving. She just returned home Thursday. What was that?”
“What was what?” Chiara widened her eyes and shrugged.
“That man. Why were you so close to him Chiara? You looked like you were kissing.”
Chiara attempted to laugh this off while she ground espresso beans.
“I’m serious, Chiara. That man is dangerous, I don’t even think you should be alone with him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Were you kissing him?”
“Mind your place, Marcé.” Chiara chided. The effect of the statement would have been stronger if both she and Marcello hadn’t noticed the blush beginning at the base of her neck. She swept on, “I am your elder, one of your mother’s oldest friends, not your peer. But to avoid fanning flames of gossip, I’ll tell you that no, I wasn’t.”
Marcello scratched his chin and approached the bar. “Chiara, no disrespect, but you looked awfully friendly. I’m telling you, you need to watch yourself. I know it’s your nature to be welcoming, but that stranger is no good for you.”
Chiara pretended a level of nonchalance she did not feel. “Oh, really? Why?”
“Ma dai, I can hardly discuss that with you.”
“Has he done something illegal?”
“Not exactly. He’s perfectly polite. Too polite if you ask me. Like he has something to hide. Chiara, trust me. Between the two of us, who is the
