Chiara tried not to laugh aloud. “Taking notes? Really, Stella, that’s hardly a behavior worthy of all this cloak and dagger, sottovoce suspicion.”
Stella blinked theatrically. “Chiara, don’t be dense. Why is he taking notes? In fact, every time I see the man, he’s taking notes. What is he up to?”
Chiara pushed back the memory of Fabrizio’s hands tracing the neckline of her shirt, his cheek nuzzled against her neck inhaling her scent. Why hadn’t he acknowledged that night? Not once, beyond that unreadable expression. Wasn’t that odd? Yes, it definitely seemed odd. She answered Stella lightly, “Okay, I’ll play along. What do you think he’s up to?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But a man doesn’t just move to an out-of-the-way place like Santa Lucia without a reason, and I think that reason has something to do with why he’s always writing in that damn notebook. And why you seem to be the only person he speaks to.”
“Can’t a man just move here for a change of scenery? We get plenty of tourists this time of year—”
“Tourists! He’s not a tourist, and you know it.”
“Stella, what in the world do you think he’s doing?”
“To tell you the truth? I think he’s a spy.”
This time Chiara couldn’t keep from laughing. “A spy? For whom? Who cares what the vigili in Santa Lucia are talking about? Or the coffee drinkers?”
Stella sniffed, “You know as well as I do that this country was founded on layers upon layers of ruthlessness. For all I know he’s a spy for the mafia, and there is someone in Santa Lucia who has crossed them. There are definitely shifty characters in town. Magda for one. Hasn’t she been acting strangely lately? Or! Maybe he’s spying for a development company. Maybe they are trying to develop the swamp again. Chiara, you know that would ruin Santa Lucia.”
Chiara opened a drawer and took out a fresh white cloth. Reaching below the counter she grabbed a spray bottle, and began spritzing the counter. Silently, she buffed the stone.
“Chiara? What is it?”
“I don’t know what to say. Now, not only is Fabrizio—”
“Oh, you know his name?”
Chiara sighed and said, “Yes, I know his name. Not only is Fabrizio guilty of some vague crime, but Magda is too?”
“I didn’t say that for sure, I just said it was possible.”
“Please. She’s guilty of nothing more than being different. Doesn’t mean she’s in league with the mafia.”
“I never said she was in league with them.”
“Hiding from them, then. Or that there is some catastrophe around the corner. I happen to think that Magda has a good heart, she’s just . . . complicated.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “I’ll say.”
“I don’t understand your desire to manufacture danger. Aren’t our lives full enough as it is? Especially you, Stella.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Chiara put down the spray. “You know what I mean. You’re so busy assuming Magda is wrapped up with the mafia or Fabrizio is spying for some nefarious corporation or that Massimo killed his first wife and has designs on doing in his second, that you can’t see the mess that’s brewing at your feet.”
Stella’s voice was chilly, “Don’t say it, Chiara. Don’t say what can’t be unsaid.”
“I will say it, because it’s time to attend to the fact that your own house is on fire. You are married to the mayor. Do you think you can have an affair with the town handyman and not have it blow up in your face?”
Stella plucked her coat from the chair and began putting it on, glaring at Chiara. “I won’t stay here to be schooled like a child.”
“You’re blinded! I love you, and if you get branded as an adulteress, you won’t be able to show your face around here. I can’t have that happen to you. Because I love you.” She repeated, lamely.
“This isn’t love, Chiara. This is nosiness. You think just because you’re privy to everyone else’s secrets and gossip, you’re entitled to know about my life. Nosy, yes. Nosy and vindictive. Trying to ruin the first bit of happiness I’ve had in a good long while. Vale makes me happy, okay? He makes me feel alive. He makes me feel important. He wants to know what I’m thinking and pays attention when I speak. How dare you take that and stomp all over it?”
Chiara’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you felt all that about him, Stella. Even so, can’t you see? Can’t you see what’ll happen?”
Stella snatched up her purse and hitched it over her shoulder. “All I see is that you’re jealous. Yes! Jealous. I have someone to love me and you . . . well, the less said about that the better. You’re lonely and spiteful and just want to spit on my relationship. Instead of warning me of my house on fire, Chiara, maybe you should look to your own.”
Chiara drew back as if slapped.
Stella went on, “Yes! Your own house! You’re a lonely aging woman who seems to have a crush on a suspicious man and your nephew isn’t . . . right. He isn’t right, Chiara! So maybe you should deal with that instead of stirring up dirt in other people’s gardens!”
And with that, she swirled her coat around her shoulders and swept out the door. A little melodramatic, perhaps, but it had the desired effect. Chiara slumped against the counter and pressed her hands against her eyes.
It was a week since Edoardo met the group of gay cyclists. He tried not to think about it. But it was hard. Much harder since the interaction hadn’t been hazed over with liquor and drugs. He realized now—all those nights of firm hands moving over his hips, all those nights plunging his own hands down the muscular stomachs of men whose faces were obscured in darkness. All those nights were in a venomous shade. Coated with confusion, they were easy to push aside, to forget.
But
