Elisa just shook her head. She had to get out of here. Fatima took her hand and pulled her toward the back door. Elisa shot one more glance over her shoulder at her escape, but as she couldn’t think of a way to explain her leaving, she allowed herself to be guided out the door. She’d just stay for ten minutes. And then she’d figure out an excuse to go. That would be better, if she left while the others were still outside, she’d be able to pluck something on her way out. It didn’t look like Maestro’s house would have any money, but there were a few brass knickknacks she might be able to pocket. Maybe Stefano would take those in lieu of money.
Once outside, she gasped.
Fatima smiled, “Yes, that’s how I felt the first time, too.”
The view was different from what Elisa was used to. From here, the mountains across the valley didn’t look so far away, in fact, they seemed to fold greenly against Santa Lucia. She could hear the waterfall from around the mountain, and the birds swooped and dove, carving lines into the startlingly turquoise sky. The garden itself was overgrown with weeds, but Elisa could tell it would be a restful space with just a little work. Round concrete benches surrounded several fruit trees, and there was an olive tree in the corner of the garden, hanging heavy with darkening fruit, and a line of bay bushes against the back of the garden wall. Rosemary lined the iron fence facing out over the valley. The grass was too long and dry, or scraped bare in places, but still gave the garden a stretched-out, welcoming appearance.
Fatima sat at the stone table, unpacking the treats from the forno onto waxy paper napkins. Luciano appeared with a tray and three teacups. Elisa sat down with a sigh. “This is just beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it. I’m not out here as often as I should be. Some days it’s easiest to stay in the dark of the house. But you are always welcome.”
Elisa blinked back tears of surprise.
“Okay,” Luciano said gently. “Let’s talk math.”
It was late.
Chiara knew she should close the bar, but last week Fabrizio had come in for a glass of wine right at closing time. She hadn’t been able to talk to him because the bar had been full of neighbors swapping theories about Massimo. After greeting the bar patrons in his customary formal way, he’d asked for a glass of Sagrantino and taken it outside. Probably to watch the falls while enjoying his red wine and the fennel seed rings she nestled next to the glass. But maybe he had been waiting for her? To join him? To have a word in private? She couldn’t decide.
At times it seemed like Fabrizio was interested, and sometimes he seemed so remote. It was aggravating. Her impatience to know if he liked her was even more aggravating. What was she, some errant school girl with a crush on a handsome college boy? It was ridiculous. The more ridiculous because even if he did like her, it wasn’t like she was in a position to pursue a relationship. Even if he wasn’t a stranger, and Santa Lucia’s newest source of suspicion.
And yet, here she was, wiping down counters that were already clean and polishing the faucet that was already so reflective she couldn’t escape the sight of her wistful face.
She heard Edo step softly down the stairs and open the landing door. “Need help closing up, Chiara?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.”
“Okay, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, caro.”
She turned out the light.
Florence’s train station wasn’t all that hot, and yet Isotta wiped her hands on her pants. Again. Why did her body choose today of all days to start manifesting anxiety as sweat? She longed for the familiar jerking of her gut. And this wasn’t just any sweat, it was a prodigious sweat. An old woman in a blue cardigan cast Isotta a curious look as the younger woman fanned her chest with her light silk shirt. Isotta dropped her hand.
If only it were summer so she could pass off this sweat as heat related. She was betrayed by the cool October breeze. No, it wasn’t heat, but rather the threat of her secret Massimo-world colliding with her family reality. She couldn’t decide if she was more nervous about her family rejecting Massimo, or Massimo seeing her through her family’s eyes and rejecting her. She landed on the latter. Partly because she couldn’t imagine anyone rejecting Massimo, he was far too . . . “grand” was the only word that sprang to mind. But also partly because she nursed a shred of doubt about what Massimo saw in her. Isotta had enough self-awareness to know that she was intelligent and could even be witty if circumstances allowed her to feel comfortable, but with Massimo she was often tongue-tied, and spent more time listening. Maybe that was what he liked about her. Her ability to listen, which friends had often told her was a gift, though it seemed to Isotta the most basic of functions.
The train from Perugia had another ten minutes before its slated arrival. Isotta added an extra ten minutes to account for predictable delays. She was too jittery to stand on the platform for twenty minutes, or even ten, and decided to go into the station bar. The coffee was dreadful, but she didn’t think caffeine would be helpful anyway. Walking into the bar, she chose a post at the end of the counter, and in answer to the barista’s inquiring expression, ordered an orzo, a toasted barley drink. She could never decide if she liked orzo, but she couldn’t wait for tea to steep, and it would give her hands something to do. She smoothed her hair with her still-damp hands. Memories of her talk with her mother intruded into her attempts to still her nerves.
News of the engagement had not gone over
