Elisa said, “Which can’t ever happen.”
Fatima nodded, “Right. But you can come to mine. I hadn’t thought of it before, because we never have guests. My parents are suspicious about locals looking down on us because we’re stranieri, and not just any foreigners, but from Morocco. Anyway, it might be awkward. At least at first. But we always had a houseful of people in Morocco. It would be good to bring people into our quiet house.”
“I can’t even imagine what a quiet house is like.”
Fatima unwound her arm from Elisa’s shoulder and squeezed her hand.
“Anyway, maybe you coming can change our habit. Of being only us.”
“But what if I do something wrong?”
“Don’t worry. Just don’t say anything about my eating pork or the shirts you made me or the . . . oh, you know. All the stuff they can’t know. They’ll worry too much. Ascolta, why don’t you come home with me now?”
“Really?”
“Really. At least to come in out of the rain. Stay for a few minutes to dry, which will get my mother used to the idea.”
Elisa wiped her eyes. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”
The girls rose and Fatima situated the umbrella over their heads. Their shoulders adhered together, they dashed through the streets, giggling. They moved through the town, into the edge of Santa Lucia. “Here we are,” Fatima said as they stood in front of a blue front door, the streetlight full and resonant as it reflected the sheer raindrops. Fatima shook out her umbrella and then opened the door. Elisa grabbed her hand, “Fatima! I’m scared.”
“It’ll be okay. I promise. Better than being out in the rain, right?”
Fatima pulled Elisa into the house and took off her shoes, gesturing for Elisa to do the same. Elisa cocked her head in question, but then followed suit. Calling out in a language Elisa couldn’t understand, Fatima took off her coat. An answering voice echoed from what must be the kitchen, given the sizzling noises and curious smells. Fatima whispered, “Good so far, Mamma seems to be in a good mood.” She held out her hand to take Elisa’s thin, sodden jacket. Elisa was pulling her arms out of the sleeves, when she remembered the Moroccan coin, still in the inside pocket. She hadn’t yet found a way to get it back, and if Fatima noticed it . . . if Fatima took her friendship away . . .
Fatima grinned and snatched the coat away. “Slowpoke! I’ll take it.”
Elisa held her breath, watching Fatima’s hands as they brushed over the coat to remove the raindrops and hang it straight. Her hands paused momentarily at the lining, and Elisa thought she might faint. Fatima hung the coat and looked at her friend with concern. “Elisa? Are you okay?”
Elisa nodded, her stomach pinched. Fatima led her friend into the kitchen. In slow Italian, she said to her mother, a short stocky woman with her black frizzy hair escaping from its bun, “I brought my friend here to meet you. This is Elisa.”
Fatima’s mother looked up from grinding spices. Her gaze raked over the thin girl. Elisa’s overlarge eyes were still red-rimmed and drops of water fell from the ends of her hair. “Buona sera, Elisa. Piacere. I’m Salma.”
“Piacere,” Elisa managed to say, and gave a hesitant smile and what may have been a slight curtsy.
“Mamma, can Elisa stay for a little bit?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Can she peel carrots?”
Chiara ran her thumb along the edges of the envelope in her pocket. The hum in her fingers skipped up her arm until she was smiling again. She seemed to be unable to stop smiling.
As Arturo and Sauro entered the bar, she called out merrily, “Buongiorno, signori! Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
Arturo and Sauro glanced at each other before squinting back out over their shoulder at the sodden sky. Arturo answered, “Actually, we were just saying how brutto it is. Last night’s rain has left everything slippery.”
“Yes, well, the clouds are leaving now. The sky is clearing. You can tell today will be glorious.”
Arturo narrowed his eyes at Chiara and smiled, “Okay, Chiara whatever you say. Un cappuccino, please.”
Sauro raised his index finger, “For me, too, Chiara.”
Edo opened the landing door and stepped into the bar, greeting Arturo and Sauro before dropping a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. “Sleep well?” he asked her.
“I did, actually.”
Was she blushing?
Chiara turned away to grind the beans.
The bell chimed again and Ava entered, smiling her shy smile at Edo, who welcomed her warmly. “Ciao, Ava. I hear you’ve been working hard at the castle.”
Ava nodded, clearly pleased at the notice. “Yes. It’s looking good, though the hedges aren’t cooperating.”
She rested her hands on the bar, and everyone gathered to cluck over the scratches lining her arms.
“You should’ve worn a long-sleeve shirt,” Edo chided with a frown, as he picked up Ava’s hand to peer more closely at the scrapes on her wrist.
Ava took a shuddering breath. “I did. Ruined the shirt. Those thorns . . .”
Arturo said, “Rub olive oil into the cuts. That’ll clear it right up.”
Sauro nodded, “Yes, that’s a good idea. I got a burn from the bread oven last week, rubbed olive oil into it after the pain subsided, and the mark healed in no time.”
Ava and Edo rolled their eyes lightly. Smiling, Ava said, “Sure, I’ll try that. My Mamma said the same.”
Chiara shook her head and turned away, dipping her hand into her apron pocket to touch the letter again. “My dear, Chiara . . .” She had memorized it already.
She calculated when she could see Fabrizio again. Tonight, maybe? Edo had offered to help her with a make-over, to get her style out of the dark ages, as he’d said with a teasing smile. He was still unaccountably quiet lately, but he was smiling more. Yes, maybe tonight, after the makeover. Fabrizio might come by late, as he’d been doing lately. She’d have
