Chiara felt a magnet behind her heart draw her forward, she wanted to reach across the bar and lean her forehead against Fabrizio’s and drown in the gold flecks of his eyes.
Fabrizio licked his lower lip. His breath seemed to shallow. The air between them fairly hummed, tumbling the gears of Chiara’s thoughts. Hesitating for only a moment longer, Fabrizio took up Chiara’s hand and slowly drew it to his lips. The kiss was soft, and then raising his head, his other hand closed over Chiara’s and he gently pulled her closer to his chest. A jolt of energy coursed down her ribcage and loosed the tendons behind her knees. Chiara’s mind flooded with warmth and confusion. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t let this happen, but oddio, she felt drawn to Fabrizio in a way she hadn’t to anyone in years. She wanted to trace the lines on his face and talk to him about the statue newly unearthed in Rome and how she was the only person in her family to not adore snail stew. She wanted to feel his arms around her, she wanted to lean into his shoulders and feel his strength, and smell the fabric softener deep in his shirt material.
His voice thick with gravity, Fabrizio asked, “May I join you behind the counter?”
“Fabrizio, I hardly know you, I’m not sure—”
“You know enough. I know you feel it too. There is something between us. Please, Chiara, let me come back there. I want to talk to you without this bar between us.”
Chiara checked the racing of her brain. Her life had been so even for so many years, which was just how she wanted it. She’d had enough drama for a lifetime. She couldn’t, she couldn’t invite the possibility of unrest into her gently rhythmic days. And yet, she couldn’t deny the delicious fluttering in her chest. Yes, he was a stranger here for reasons unknown, but somehow, that only seemed to add to this feeling of twinkling possibility. A road had suddenly opened. She couldn’t bear the thought of turning back now.
She untied her apron, “No, you can’t come back here.”
Fabrizio sagged, “I can’t?”
She turned back with a grin, “The health department would never let me live it down. Let’s get out of here.”
Fabrizio’s eyes searched hers, looking for teasing or jest.
Chiara grinned, and stepped down and around the counter to stand in front of Fabrizio. He moved to place his hands on her shoulders, cautious as butterflies. Finally he lightly slid his hands down her arms to hold her hands. He raised them to his lips and kissed one, and then the other. Chiara’s breath grew uneven and her face tingled in an unfamiliar craving to rest against his. Gazing at Chiara, Fabrizio’s smiled rakishly. “I don’t suppose you would fancy a walk?”
Chiara nodded, “I would, as a matter of fact.” She pushed away the sirens going off in her mind, jangling that this was ridiculous and short-sighted. She concentrated instead on the warmth of Fabrizio’s crooked smile, the humming of her arm clasped in his. She wanted to feel this feeling a little longer.
He ran a finger over her cheek as she smiled, probably like an idiot, she thought, up at him. She was suddenly aware of the difference in their heights.
His brow furrowed, “But you’ll be cold.”
Still smiling, Chiara answered, “I have a coat, up on the hook.”
Fabrizio nodded and strode to the jacket rack, plucked the only covering still hanging, and held it out for Chiara to shrug on. Looking up from zipping the jacket to her neck, she asked, “Would you like a nighttime tour of the groves?”
“The groves? Won’t it be too dark to navigate?”
“I know those groves like I know the patterns in the stone of this counter. I’ll lead you.”
Fabrizio chuckled and placed a hand over Chiara’s snug in the crook of his arm. “I put my life in your hands.” As they moved to the door, Fabrizio added, “I bet those groves have quite a history.”
Chiara nodded, serious now. “They do. Those olive branches look like any others, perhaps, but I promise you, their gnarled knobs have born witness to some spectacular stories.”
“I want to hear them all.”
“Maestro!”
Luciano’s gaze broke away from the Madonna in her niche.
He smiled, “Ciao, Edoardo.” Turning back to the statue, he continued, “It’s so strange, I feel like I haven’t seen this Madonna in years. Look how the color of her niche exactly matches the color of the sky. And see here? The hem of her robe is glossy from our ancestors brushing their fingertips across it.”
He turned to Edo in time to see the young man put his hand on his forehead to ward off a dizzy spell.
“Edo? Are you quite well?”
The dizzy spells were less frequent now, but still popped up when Edo moved suddenly, as he had when he’d spotted Luciano outside the bar. “Mi dispiace, Maestro, I’m out of shape.”
“I’m familiar with the feeling.”
Edo smiled and straightened.
“I’m okay now.”
“Ah, to be young and resilient.”
“I’m not sure about that, but I wanted to ask you something.”
“Fire away.”
“Well, I was thinking about how you used to tell me about the immigrant families that you tutored. I wondered if you thought I could do something like that.”
A wide smile lit Luciano’s face. “Indeed! How marvelous!”
“Really? I wasn’t sure if you’d think I was suitable. Didn’t get past high school, and I’m not exactly a pillar of the community.”
“Neither of those matters in this work. Only patience and a willingness to reach outside your sphere of comfort.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I’m good at either of those.”
Luciano narrowed one eye and peered closely at Edoardo. Edo nervously wiped his face and fluffed his hair. It’d been two weeks since the accident. Luciano couldn’t possibly sense the darkness that lingered around Edo’s edges like a stubborn stain, could he?
As if silently agreeing with himself, Luciano nodded. “You’ll do just fine.”
“Really, but I said—”
“I heard what you
