Chiara bit her lip. Part of her was relieved to see her oldest friend’s face rinsed of the aggrieved lines that had taken up shop around her eyes. But more of her was worried. The mayor’s wife couldn’t play around. Shenanigans would be too easily spotted. Especially in a town as small as Santa Lucia. True, the children were grown and safe from the mud that would no doubt be splattered if Stella wasn’t more careful. But Chiara knew that being the subject of waggling tongues would kill Stella. She was already self-conscious of her position and her weight.
Though now, as Stella spoke earnestly to Vale while he steadily regarded her, Chiara could see that the weight settled around her friend differently. Rather than being an anchor of heaviness, it seemed a conduit to glow in a round, luscious sort of way. Certainly, Vale’s eyes moved appreciatively from Stella’s animated face to the curves moving intriguingly under her dress.
As Chiara watched, Vale plucked a loose strand of hair from the front of Stella’s dress, his fingers brushing and lingering for a scant moment before he twined the hair in his fingers and tucked it into his breast pocket. Stella laughed and placed her hand on Vale’s chest. Playfully, Chiara thought, but also familiarly. The two ducked their heads in conference for a moment before they straightened and adopted a pose of nonchalance. They kissed each other’s cheeks perfunctorily, then separated with just the barest suggestion of lingering hands. Vale called out “Ciao!” and then walked away, catching Chiara’s eye to wave before sauntering to the piazza.
Stella walked into the bar. She noted Chiara considering her before hurriedly moving to make coffee. Stella swallowed and said good morning with determined cheerfulness. Chiara knew her “buongiorno” was on the muted side.
Silence.
Chiara cleared her throat and asked, “Un caffè o un cappuccino stamattina?”
“I don’t know, Chiara. If you are going to be strange, I’ll just have un caffè. But if you’ll be normal, then I’d like to have un cappuccino and talk. It’s been awhile.”
“I’m sorry, Stella. I was just caught off guard. I’ll make your cappuccino. I’d like to catch up.”
Stella scraped her top lip against her bottom teeth and thought for a minute. Finally she said, “How’s Edo?”
“Okay, I think. He’s not going out anymore. Well, he goes out, but just to run or bike. So he looks healthy, getting a lot of exercise and fresh air, which makes him eat more. You know I like that. But I don’t know . . . he still looks like he’s about to cave in on himself.” Chiara set the cappuccino in front of Stella.
Stella reached for a sugar packet, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Something is troubling him. He seems like a fruit with a small bruise, and that bruise is darkening and spreading. I’m probably making too much of it. But before when he was partying, he at least had some joy. He’s really quiet.”
Stella stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Strange that he won’t talk to you.”
“That part doesn’t surprise me. He never really talks to anybody. I think he used to talk to Luciano, before Luciano went off the rails.”
“Oh! That reminds me. Have you seen Luciano lately? He was looking sober for awhile, but now he’s as deep as he’s ever been.”
Chiara nodded. “I know. I think he saw Isotta, Massimo’s fiancée. Earlier this week I saw him leave the macelleria looking normal. Then a few minutes later, I saw Massimo with Isotta. It stopped my heart, I can only imagine what it did to Luciano. They must have passed in the street.”
“That situation is so weird. Do you think the girl knows?”
“That she’s a dead woman’s doppelgänger? I doubt it.”
Stella sipped her coffee while Chiara emptied the tiny dishwasher.
“Stella?”
“Hmm?”
“You know I love you.”
“Yes, of course. I love you, too.”
“So, please hear this in the right spirit. Be careful.”
Stella furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just that. Be careful.”
Luciano stumbled toward the door. The rapping was like a knife digging into the area behind his eyes. He had to make the rapping stop. He flung open the door.
In front of him were two strange little people. Not so little, maybe. And no, they weren’t strangers. An insistent voice within him assured him that they were his friends. Sources of happiness. But how could sources of happiness make such a racket and cause him so much pain?
“What?” he bellowed at them, and tried to ignore the twisting of his heart as the fairer girl cringed. The darker one—why couldn’t he remember her name?—reached for the other one’s hand to stay her.
That same one murmured, “Maestro? It’s Fatima. Remember? And here is Elisa. We were supposed to come today. Elisa finally agreed to show us her whole collection of drawings.” Fatima peered around Luciano into the dimness of the house. She could see chairs tumbled over and papers scattered across the floor. A photograph that usually had pride of place in the entryway was smashed against the corner.
Luciano muttered incomprehensibly.
Elisa pleaded, “Fatima, let’s go. Maestro isn’t . . . well.”
Fatima reached a hand to touch Luciano’s arm. He flinched and made a low growling sound in his throat. She withdrew her hand but took a small step toward him to whisper, her voice settling into a receptive part of his brain, quiet and soothing like a cat’s purr. Come to think of it, where was his cat? He wasn’t sure he had seen it. A dim memory of an angry moment. Did he swipe at Degas? Throw something at him when he meowed for food? Luciano groaned and tripped backward.
“Maestro!” Fatima clutched his arm. She steadied him and started to lead him to the couch. “Elisa! Help me! He’s too heavy!”
“I . . . I can’t . . .”
“Elisa! Maestro needs our
