“Oh, God, Isotta. That’s enough. Nobody invited the dead wife to the wedding.”
“But it’s just so odd. He clams up whenever Giulia comes up. Not like he’s sad. Like . . . there’s more to it. His mom, too. She actually sounds bitter or something. And they both change the subject really quickly. It makes me think neither of them is over her death. And why would they be? It was tragic. Isn’t it too soon to start over?”
“Seriously, Isotta. Stop it. How is a man—or his mother, even—supposed to act when he’s talking about his former wife in front of his bride? And so he’s moody. You just haven’t been with enough men to know. They are all that way. It’s like they have one gear. If they are happy, they can’t remember feeling otherwise, and when they are down, they take that on like their permanent personality. It’s enough to give a woman whiplash, and make us feel like we’re delusional for remembering all the other gears. That’s just men, Isotta. Don’t worry.”
“Really? Because sometimes . . .”
“Really. I promise. Why do you think it’s so hard to find one we like? Because they are different Monday than they were Thursday. Seriously, if they didn’t have all the right equipment for getting me off, I’m not sure they’d be worth the bother.”
Isotta looked quickly at her sister, worried she was having her leg pulled.
“Yes, I’m joking, but just a little. Relax. Massimo loves you. Mamma and Papà would never let you marry him otherwise. And they know. Remember they wouldn’t allow Ilaria to marry that foot doctor? The guy seemed nice enough, but then he ended up getting busted for embezzlement. They are our clearer minds. And they approve.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Of course it is. Now put on a happy face, you’re getting married! I can’t wait to meet your step-daughter.”
Isotta smiled at the thought of Margherita. “You’ll love her.”
“I already do.” The eight cars filed into the parking lot and out poured Isotta’s family—sisters, father, mother, aunts, grandparents. She blinked back tears. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was getting married, becoming a mother, and here was her family, beautifully dressed and arrayed, here to support her, surround her.
Her mother hurried over. “Too fast! Isabella, you drove too fast! We almost lost you. You could have gotten in an accident!”
Isabella sighed. Then she took Isotta’s hand. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“That’s my girl.”
A voice called from the farther car. “Isotta! Do we go straight to the church? We have an hour before the wedding. Should we get a coffee?”
Isotta laughed, “I can’t, Zio, I need to get to church. But if you want to stop on the way, there’s time.”
Her uncle nodded and conferred with his wife.
The group began making its way through town, filling the quiet streets with their excited chatter. Isotta’s grandmother took her arm, “It’s so peaceful here, cara, but is there enough for a young woman to do? You’ve been raised at the heartbeat of the world, will you be okay here?”
“Sì, Nonna. I like it. And I can’t be bored, I’ll have Margherita.”
“Sì, sì,” her nonna muttered.
“What?” Isotta asked, yanking her arm back a bit.
“Nothing, dear. Just . . . so much has changed so quickly.”
“Yes, that is definitely true.”
They walked amicably, nodding at the townspeople they passed.
“Isotta? Why is everyone staring at you?”
Isabella had just joined them, “Ai, Nonna, what do you think? She’s a bride!”
Isotta nodded, slowly. It was surely that. Soon she’d be a regular fixture in Santa Lucia and wouldn’t get such disarming stares. After a lifetime spent shrugging away from notice, it was oddly disquieting to be the focus of so many intent eyes.
Isotta pointed out Bar Birbo to her uncle, and the men stopped with him, while the women continued to the church. They stepped through the giant wooden doors, pausing to allow their eyes to adjust. The smell of incense filled their bodies, a scent of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. From an alcove a priest bustled toward them.
“Isotta! How lovely you look!” He caught her hands and beamed at her. She blushed and nodded her thanks before introducing her family. Don Alfonso greeted each of them before turning back to Isotta, “Dear one, let’s get you settled, I have a room prepared.”
Isotta took his proffered elbow and allowed herself to be led deeper into the shadows of the church.
Magda stalked out of the alimentari, her bag heavy with pasta, packages of Ementhal and würstel to make rice salad for her supper, and a tin of the olive oil that was cheaper than the one locals tried to pass off as superior just because it was pressed in their precious mill, but wasn’t all that special. As she stepped outside, she sneered at the two women arguing by the salumi. They were debating if Laura should take one or two tablespoons of olive oil a day to ward off another heart attack. Such superstitious fools.
In the piazza she stopped to gawk at Patrizia on her knees by the bushes.
Patrizia didn’t see her. She was focused on her grandson. Magda could never remember his name. The boy was sitting on the ground, calling one of the cats who resided permanently under the bushes.
Magda stopped and watched Patrizia try to cajole her grandson, wheedling him to get up off the ground, pointing at the bakery, no doubt offering the child a treat for doing what he should be doing anyway, which was minding his grandmother.
Not for the first time, Magda regretted that she never had offspring. She saw so many children growing up without a tight rein. She was sure she would have made an excellent mother. The best, really. Because what did children need more in life than strict adherence to guiding principles? An image blew across the canvas of her mind—a girl huddled behind the couch while her mother smacked a ruler impatiently against her palm. Magda shook it away. Never mind, never
