She’d been wan with morning sickness and a little daunted at the prospect of mothering a toddler and a newborn, but two children was far more than she had dared hope for just a few years before, so she waved off her discomfort with her usual grace and cheer. He’d wanted to make her a bowl of pasta with olive oil to help with the nausea, but she’d laughed that Anna had forced her to keep a cup of tea in her hand for the same purpose. Luciano had startled at this. To own the truth, he’d always suspected Massimo’s mother resented the presence of another woman in her home.
Massimo had at times seemed to harbor that same resentment, but when the couple sat on the sofa, hands clasped, and shared their news, he, too, had been thrilled. Massimo treated Giulia like she was the Madonna herself. Careful, tender, his hand always on her to steady her. Her first pregnancy he’d been the same, but this time seemed more striking.
Boy or girl, they never found out. Giulia drowned the very afternoon she shared the news with her parents.
Now there was this stranger walking through Santa Lucia with Margherita on her hip and a proprietary smile of affection for Luciano’s granddaughter.
Yes, Luciano wanted to hate her.
But watching her as he had, soberly, he’d realized that she wasn’t a bad person. She had a ready, if shy, smile for everyone. When Margherita misbehaved, she didn’t lose her temper; rather she got on her knees and spoke firmly but lovingly to the child. When they went to the park, Isotta’s laughter as she pushed Margherita on the swing was as light and joyous as his granddaughter’s. Luciano had seen Isotta rush to catch up with Bea stumbling on the cobblestones. He’d watched her hand over money for her groceries, down to the cent, even before Giovanni had finished ringing up her purchases. He’d seen her pause and smile in pleasure at the sight of Edo strolling beside his student Kamal, pointing out objects and naming them slowly in Italian.
Through all this watching, he learned enough about Isotta to wonder—did she have any idea at all about the role she had slipped into?
Their lingering goodnight kiss was interrupted when Chiara realized they were being watched.
She jerked back and looked down the alley with a gasp.
Fabrizio startled, “What is it?”
Laughing Chiara said, “Sorry, nothing, it’s just Carosello.”
“Carosello?”
“You haven’t met Carosello? I’d call him over to introduce you, but he’s either deaf or utterly unbiddable. See? Down there?” Chiara pointed and Fabrizio peered into the darkness and saw a dim beige shape.
“That dog?”
“Yes, sorry. I guess I felt his stare. It’s okay, look he’s leaving now.” With a resigned wave of his tail, the dog was trotting into the darkness.
Fabrizio turned her head with his fingertips, “Hey, so, as we were?” He leaned toward her.
Chiara ducked her chin and said, “No, I actually better get back. I open tomorrow early and there’s a lot to do before the sagra on Friday.”
Fabrizio pulled her closer, “At the sagra, do you think we can take this thing—you and me—out for a spin in the open?”
Chiara shifted her weight, “You mean—”
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“C’mon, Chiara, I know you don’t care what people think about us. And anyway, we’re not doing anything wrong.”
Chiara looked away.
“Chiara?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t feel like inviting a lot of conversation.”
“Chiara, if you feel even a little bit of what I feel when we’re together, you know this is going to have to come out sooner or later.”
“Look, you have to know what people say about you. Nobody knows who you are. I don’t even know who you are.”
“Yes. You do.”
“Fabrizio, what are you doing here? Why the secrecy?”
“I’m not ready—”
“Well, then, neither am I.”
“Listen, I could lie about it, Chiara, but I don’t want to do that. And what I’m doing here has nothing to do with who I am. Not really.”
Chiara laughed mirthlessly. “Look, there’s no sense in being open about our relationship or whatever you want to call it—”
“Relationship works for me.”
“—If we can’t be open about who we are to each other.”
“I promise, there’s not much I haven’t told you.”
“Well, maybe there are things I haven’t told you.”
“Like what?” Fabrizio asked, frowning.
“Never mind. Forget it.”
“No, tell me.”
“You tell me. Why are you here?”
Fabrizio stared at the wall above Chiara’s head.
She sighed. “Look, this was futile. I never should have pretended I could do this. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Chiara stepped away from the wall under the Madonna, nestled in her blue niche. Chiara’s hand instinctively reached to touch the hem of the stone gown, but she focused on walking away, into the darkened bar. Prayers would wait until tomorrow.
“Chiara, please. What are you doing?”
“Not this, I can’t do this anymore. It was fun, it was. But it’s not going to work. I knew it wouldn’t. I was a fool to try.”
“Chiara!”
She walked into Bar Birbo and locked the door.
Isotta entered the bedroom, and paused to ask Massimo, “Shall I turn off the lights?”
Massimo didn’t look up from the magazine he was flipping through. “No, I want to read a bit longer.”
Isotta bit her lip, her hand hesitating around the light switch, before climbing into the bed. She lay on top of the covers and darted a look at Massimo.
He turned the page with a crackling sound.
Isotta considered getting under the covers. After all, the room was chilly and her arms were speckled with goosebumps (hardly sexy). But she needed Massimo to see her.
Or at least what she was wearing.
How they had fought about that negligee.
He had given it to her a few days ago, wrapped with a large bow. The grin when he handed it to her had made her hopes soar.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“I saw it
