Stella snorted. “Well, ‘adored’ is too strong a word in my opinion. Remember that period of time, what was it, like five years? Ten? After they got married but before she had Margherita? He was a miserable husband to her. Treated her like some annoying zanzara, mosquito. And his mother! Giulia just couldn’t do anything right by her. At one point I thought for sure she’d move back to her parents’ house to get away from Massimo’s devotion to Anna.”
Patrizia demurred, “All Italian men are like that. If I had a euro for each time Giuseppe grieved that my ragù wasn’t as good as his mother’s . . .” Patrizia chuckled. “It’s true though. I don’t know what she puts in it, but mine has yet to come close,” she mused, stirring the dregs of her coffee thoughtfully.
Stella shook her head emphatically. “Of course Italian men are all more or less mammoni, that’s no surprise. But please, Massimo? Those apron strings tie like a noose. Anna resented Giulia, you can’t deny it. And Massimo always followed his mother.”
Chiara had heard this before, of course. Massimo and Anna’s entangled relationship was a source of some whispered hilarity, but Chiara herself had never found it particularly amusing. In fact, whenever she witnessed Anna trying to hold hands with her young adult son, or saw the naked longing in Anna’s eyes as she droned on and on about what a perfect father and husband Massimo was, Chiara just felt queasy. Perhaps you feel the same.
Patrizia wondered aloud, “I always thought that was the stress of trying to have a baby for so long. That can make people irritable and anxious. I mean, it took Giuseppe and me a year, and it was the hardest year of our marriage.”
Stella conceded, “Once Giulia got pregnant with Margherita, it’s true Massimo treated her like a queen. For awhile anyway.”
Patrizia reminisced, “Being a mother brought her so much joy. Remember? She and Margherita were always together. Poor little dove, losing her Mamma so young. What was she, a year old? Less?”
Stella nodded, “And the way she died . . .”
The eyes of all three women looked over at Fabrizio who studiously turned the page of the paper while taking a noisy sip of his coffee. Stella ducked her head closer to her friends. “I mean, really. Suddenly dying in the shallow waters of the Adriatic? That never happens.”
Patrizia looked horrified. “Stella, what are you implying?”
“Nothing I haven’t said before. And I’m not alone, loads of people agree with me. The match was always a strange one. Everyone seemed unhappy, and then poof! She’s dead. Dead from drowning in two feet of calm water. Don’t tell me that’s not bizarre.”
Chiara couldn’t help herself, “But remember right before they left for the sea? Massimo was so tender toward Giulia. The two of them were happy, really happy. Always touching each other like they shared a secret. Stella, I remember you yourself said that it looked like Massimo’s restless youth was over and he was finally settling down as a husband and father.”
Stella scowled, but nodded in agreement. She did remember Giulia and Massimo walking down the street, hand in hand like newlyweds, Margherita perched high on her father’s shoulder. That was only a week or two before Giulia’s death, but it had been such a change, seeing Giulia radiant after months of her growing more and more ashen. She hadn’t been able to forget it.
Chiara went on, “Anyway, seriously think about what you’re saying. A husband killing his wife? For what? A world where that can happen—I can’t stomach it. Massimo has always been a bit . . . aloof, it’s true, but we’ve known him since he was a child. He’s not a villain. It’s much easier to believe that there was some sort of freak accident than to assume he had a hand in Giulia’s death.”
Stella looked chastened. “You could be right. But it doesn’t change the fact that he found a new wife a year from his old wife’s death who looks just like her, down to the worshipful infatuation.”
Patrizia reluctantly murmured agreement.
The door opened.
Vale entered, jingling his keys. “Buongiorno!” He caught sight of Stella, and his face split into a grin that reminded Chiara of a child being offered his first cioccolata calda of the season. Stella blushed and stammered a good morning before turning to hunch over her coffee. Vale took up a spot beside her and leaned over the counter to ask for un cappuccino. Chiara nodded.
Patrizia watched with curiosity as the red in her friend’s cheeks flushed and receded. “Tutto a posto, Stella?”
“Sì, sì, why shouldn’t everything be okay? Oh! Chiara! What do you think about holding the sagra up at the castle?”
Vale and Patrizia looked at her quizzically. Patrizia said, “Is it? How do you know?”
Stella began, “Dante, last night, told . . .” but her voice trailed off. Vale flinched and leaned a hair away. He focused on his right thumb rubbing the area of his left hand between his thumb and forefinger.
Chiara broke in, feeling Fabrizio’s eyes on her, “Yes, I heard. At first I thought it was a terrible idea, but it’s growing on me. It’s about time we reclaim that castle. It’s been sitting there in disrepair since before I was born.” She watched Fabrizio lean back to peer out the window at the steps of the castle. He ran his tongue over his teeth as he pondered the street, before returning his attention to the newspaper.
Stella added in a rush, “Yes, Magda’s idea. Which means, of course, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
They all chuckled, but Chiara was glad to note that the tenor wasn’t mean spirited. Stella braved a glance at Vale, who caught her gaze and held it, his thumb momentarily pausing its worrying path over his hand. Stella leaned against Vale, almost imperceptibly. Chiara’s eyebrows flew up. She turned to
