“That’s better,” Anna grumbled.
Isotta sat on the couch and tucked her bare feet underneath her. Massimo and Anna had teased her relentlessly about her preference for bare feet, even as the weather shifted to the chill of November, but her baby habits died hard. She smiled thinking about how Margherita had started flinging off her shoes and socks.
That child. She was amazed how smitten she was with a child not of her blood. Isotta would never say it aloud, but she marveled at how Margherita resembled a more attractive version of herself. Like all her traits and been smudged and redrawn just a hair to make them more appealing. She wondered what Giulia had looked like, but her perfunctory efforts at snooping hadn’t revealed any photographs. Which, she supposed, made sense. Massimo would not choose to be reminded of the tragedy of his wife’s loss. Or maybe it was in deference to her? The thought softened Isotta’s resentment. She leaned back into the couch.
Looking around, Isotta realized that there was actually only one framed photograph in the house, of Massimo as a toddler in his mother’s arms. In the photo, Anna smiled at her son, only a sliver of her face turned toward the camera. Even with her features only partially revealed, Isotta could see how besotted Anna was with her little boy. Isotta plucked the photo off the side table and examined it more carefully.
Interesting.
Anna had the same rounded chin that Isotta did. And Margherita. Well, that explained why Margherita looked a little like her, she and Anna both had small chins. It wasn’t exactly an unusual feature, Isotta was embarrassed that she had internally relished the vague similarity between her and Margherita, when the resemblance came down to something as basic as one kind of chin over another just as common. Isotta suddenly understood that she had been looking for a similarity between her and Margherita, to match the increasing bond she felt with the child.
Isotta peered more closely at the photograph in her hands. Anna’s eye shape was round, like her own. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before, but she supposed age and gravity shifted a face’s edges.
Not for the first time, Isotta wondered about Massimo’s father. Massimo and Anna never mentioned him, and when Isotta asked when he’d died, they both grew tight lipped. Anna finally said that he’d had a heart attack during Massimo’s final year at university. The response didn’t encourage Isotta to ask further questions, though she couldn’t contain her curiosity. She gathered from the tenor of that one conversation that he wasn’t a well-loved man, at least in this household. Did he know that? Did he regret it? Did he deserve it?
She wished at least one photograph remained so she could chart the family resemblance. Massimo looked so little like his mother beyond height and expression, Isotta wondered how much he took after his father. As an aside, if Isotta could have seen a photograph of Massimo’s father, she would have been gobsmacked by the resemblance. It is unfortunate that Isotta never found the photograph that revealed the father-and-son likeness. Well, to be more precise, she did find it, but by that point, she was far too frantic to note something as mundane as the inheritance of intense eyelashes. But one mustn’t get ahead of oneself.
Isotta rested the picture back on the table. Funny that that was the only photo on display. Isotta made a mental note to charge her camera battery overnight. If tomorrow was a pretty day, maybe she could take photos of Margherita in the groves. Framed, they would make charming gifts for Massimo and Anna. And frankly a few whimsical photographs would cheer up a house that was a bit prone toward dark stuffiness.
Massimo cheered at the TV, breaking through Isotta’s rambling thoughts. She startled, and he looked over at her and laughed. A loud voice and tinny jingle began, signaling the start of the halftime commercial break. Massimo came and sat on the couch next to her, pulling her close. “Are you going to watch the game with me?”
“Yes, of course, if you’d like me to.”
“I would. And then after the game . . .” Massimo leaned over and kissed the base of her neck. Once, twice, and then nibbling a little before sliding his lips up to kiss the place where her ear met her jawbone. Isotta felt the familiar flutter at her core, which irritated her for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
Bang, bang, bang!
Magda stirred under her heavy blankets.
Bang, bang, bang!
Groaning, she reached a hand out to grab her aged clock with its cheerful round face and brass cap, but inadvertently shoved it off the nightstand. Its clattering surprised her into sitting up.
Bang, bang, bang!
“Gottverdammt,” Magda muttered. She cleared her throat and then called out, “Arrivo!”
The banging continued.
Magda found her robe in a heap on the floor and clumsily worked it over her arms and shoulders, tying it around her waist while she called out, more loudly this time, “Arrivo!”
The banging stopped. Magda located her slippers and shoved her feet into them, wondering who could be at the door this early. Or was it early? She seemed to remember collapsing into bed, just last night. Or was it last night? Now that she thought about it, she remembered waking up to both sun and starlight, punctuated with trips to the bathroom. How long had it been? Her eyes were at least dry now, though a quick pass with her hand told her they were crusted with sleep. She wondered if she had time to wash her face and teeth.
The thought of the banging propelled her to the door. She flung it open to see Chiara glowing in the sunlight. Chiara smiled broadly. “There you are!”
“Yes. Where else would I be?” Magda gestured faintly toward the living room, and walked backward, allowing Chiara in.
“Permesso,” Chiara
