He had been married already?
What in God’s name was she thinking accepting the advances of a strange man who had already been married?
Isotta checked the time and realized that Massimo’s train was due to arrive any minute, if it actually arrived on time. She paid at the register and tried to release the lingering memories of her family’s outrage. She tried to hope that once they met him . . . but deeper fears outpaced her nascent optimism.
She rushed to the platform, and saw the train just arriving. Isotta exhaled with relief. If she had been late, Massimo would have been justly furious. She wiped her hands on her pants again and smoothed her cream shirt over her chest, so the opening was centered, revealing what Massimo had murmured were her best assets. She toyed with opening one more button, but decided against it.
There! There he was! Stepping off the train, his crisp blue shirt stark against the black train and billowing steam. He stood on the step, surveying the assembled crowd. Isotta stood breathless, her old impulse to hide behind something taking over. It was implausible that this man was searching for her. But he was. When his eyes met hers he smiled that slow perfect smile. Lightly, he leapt down the steps. Looking neither right nor left, he kept his gaze on her as he walked purposely through the crowd. Isotta noticed that the faint lines around his eyes made him, if anything, more handsome. Suddenly, he was in front of her, his hand stroking her arm, as he leaned down and kissed her lightly, just once. Isotta smiled at him, and felt, for the first time in her life, beautiful.
Clasping her hand, they walked out of the station. Past the chaos of passengers arriving and departing, she asked, “How is Margherita, and your mother?”
“Both fine, looking forward to the wedding and having you there.”
Isotta nodded. “Me too.”
Massimo smiled and they continued walking. “Nervous?” He asked.
“Well, yes, actually. Thanks for coming earlier than we planned. The tension in my house is awful.”
“Of course. It’s right that your parents be worried. You are their precious baby, after all.”
Isotta snorted. “I think it has more to do with what the neighbors will say. My family seems certain you’ll have two heads or a putrid skin condition.”
Massimo frowned. “Why?”
Isotta licked her bottom lip before saying, lightly. “Well, because you chose me, actually. It must mean there is something wrong with you.”
Massimo stopped and took Isotta’s other hand, gazing down into her eyes. “Now why would they think that?”
“Oh, Massimo. You know.”
“I don’t. Tell me. Is there something wrong with you I should know about? Do you have a putrid skin condition?” He grinned and tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek and leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “Because you seem pretty okay to me.”
“You haven’t met my sisters.” It struck Isotta that perhaps this was the cause of her sweat. Her sisters, unbeknownst to their parents, were terrible flirts. It wouldn’t be out of the range of possibility for one of them to come on to Massimo, and the thought of him flirting back . . .
It was so painful no wonder she’d pushed that fear down so deeply. She regarded the ground, frowning. Massimo tucked his finger under her chin and lifted it until he was searching her eyes again.
“Hey,” he said. “I love you. You love me. Your family will see that, and they’ll understand why this happened so quickly. I promise.” Isotta’s lower lip twitched down, but she tried to smile at his reassurance. “Anyway, I left my second head behind in Santa Lucia, so we should be fine.” Isotta looked confused for a moment before the planes of her face relaxed, and she laughed in earnest.
Massimo squeezed her hand and started walking again. Isotta noticed that the breeze caressed her skin, which was no longer sweating. She squeezed Massimo’s hand in return. “This way, we’re just past Santa Maria Novella.”
The meeting of the parents could be an entertaining, if predictable, scene. But not nearly as compelling as what would be happening at nightfall back in Santa Lucia.
The bell over the door tinkled and Chiara turned, ready to tell the late-arriving customer that she was closing. She stalled, damp cloth clutched in her hand, when she saw it was Fabrizio.
He nodded at Chiara, swallowed, and then turned to carefully close the door behind him, even though they both knew perfectly well the door shut on its own. He turned back to Chiara and watched her silent face as he moved to stand opposite her, the gleaming bar between them.
“Chiara?”
“Sì,” she breathed.
“I am aware that it is late. You must be closing.”
“Sì . . . I am, I was.”
“But you see, I was interrupted the other day, and then, what with all the people, I’ve been unable to finish what I was saying.”
“Finish?”
Fabrizio’s sideways smile rose to his eyes.
“Finish, yes. But Chiara, without my saying anything at all, you must know . . . you must at least suspect . . .”
Chiara bit her lower lip and looked down at the counter, “I don’t know you at all. You’re a riddle.”
Fabrizio nodded, “I’m afraid it’s true, I haven’t been completely forthcoming. And yet, you must have guessed how I feel.”
