Isotta felt a rush of warmth released in her chest, and the tears she hadn’t even known were building rise to behind her eyes. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she had begun to doubt Massimo’s love for her. When she spoke, she often noticed him gritting his teeth, as if he found her voice grating.
Wasn’t this gift proof of his adoration, though perhaps mercurial, had not evaporated? Her relief had wilted the tension in her shoulders.
“What is it?” Massimo asked, frowning.
“Nothing! Nothing! Just . . . I’m really touched.”
Massimo had grinned. “Well, open it then, darling.”
Isotta had carefully unwrapped the box, taking as long as she could to savor the feeling of expectation. She’d lifted the lid of the box, folded back the sheer tissue paper to reveal a black negligee.
Unsure of how to respond, Isotta simply took it out of the box and held it up by the straps. The style was dated and the color was wrong. When did she ever, ever wear black? Hadn’t she even told Massimo, during one of their voluble conversations over heady wine at l’Ora Dorata that her mother, who always wore black, was so dour, that as a child, Isotta had decided that her mother’s bitterness was a direct result of wearing black? And that she’d resolved to never wear it herself? Yes, she had told him that because then he’d asked how she’d gotten a job, never wearing black, and she’d grinned and told him that that’s why God made brown tweed. They’d laughed, she remembered, and she’d admitted that even after she learned about superstition and realized that nothing bad would happen to her if she wore black, she just couldn’t bring herself to wear it.
Isotta had wondered what to say, as she’d continued holding up the negligee. It even smelled odd. Musty. Scrabbling to find a place to land her voice, she ventured, “Massimo, I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s beautiful isn’t it? I thought it would really shape your body. Put it on, I want to see it on you.”
Without meaning to, Isotta quickly shook her head.
Massimo narrowed his eyes. “What’s the problem? Margherita is sound asleep. I checked on her myself.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it, pray tell.” Massimo’s voice hardened.
Isottta grabbed his hand and brought it to her chest. “Don’t be mad, please. I just . . . It’s just . . . it’s black.”
“So? Black is sexy.”
“Not to me.” The words had shot out of her, and instantly Isotta wished she could recall them.
“If black is good enough for other women, why shouldn’t it be good enough for you?”
Isotta whispered, “I told you why. Remember?”
Massimo shook his hand free of Isotta’s and waved her off. “Oh, come off it, Isotta. Don’t be so neurotic.”
The tears sprang to Isotta’s eyes. Massimo sneered, “And being a crybaby won’t help. Jesus.”
Isotta’s breath constricted and she stumbled to answer, “I don’t like it.”
Massimo let loose a string of invectives, and soon Isotta found herself apologizing, crying, kissing his hands, and promising that she’d wear it. Just not that night. It was too late. Massimo claimed not to care, she was too blotchy and sniffly.
Now here she was, all decked out in this garment that didn’t feel like it could ever belong to her. And he was absorbed in his magazine.
Isotta wriggled a little.
Nothing.
Finally, she noticed her lotion on his nightstand. She leaned over him, muttering an apology for reaching. She moved back to her side of the bed, lotion in hand. Without looking to see if he’d noticed, Isotta uncapped the bottle and poured a little of the lotion onto her hands. She rubbed her hands together to warm the cream before bringing her knee up to her chin and smoothing it over her calf in sure, solid strokes. Noticing that Massimo hadn’t turned the page, Isotta dared a glance at him from below her lashes. He was staring at her, immobile. She grinned slightly before offering Massimo the bottle, “Would you mind putting some on my shoulders?”
Massimo took the bottle and put a dab on his palm. He moved her hair off of her back with one hand, and started etching the lotion along her shoulder blades with the other. Soon both hands were sliding down her arms, his fingers brushing the sides of her breasts. He kissed the back of her neck and breathed, “You’re wearing it.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never looked lovelier. Turn around.”
Isotta got on her knees and pivoted toward Massimo, feeling suddenly exposed. He ran a finger down the plunging neckline, loitering at the deepest part. He placed his hands on either side of her face and pulled her toward him, kissing her gently on the lips. But before Isotta could lean into the kiss, Massimo pulled back slightly. Smiling he said, “There’s one more thing.”
November Begins
Midnight, and the gibbous moon bloomed over Santa Lucia. The air was flush with pearly light from millions of olive leaves. A soft pad-pad-pad echoed as Carosello jogged up the hill, trailing the scent of mint, dust, and pine.
Passing underneath the arch that marked the entry into the village, the dog ignored the ancient stonework stretching high above him. Instead, his steps propelled him onward, past the row of homes standing between the cobblestone street and the valley spread below. He barely glanced at Degas, asleep in a neighbor’s pot of hosta. The cat had missed Luciano’s call for dinner, and would produce the most wounded of wails in the morning when summoned for breakfast. Pitiful bawling could on occasion produce mortadella. Poor Degas would stalk out the door when Luciano, spent from a night of tossing and turning—didn’t Isotta deserve more than to be cast as an understudy for a ghost? Was it his job to tell her the truth? Or could he in good conscience stay away from the inevitable debacle—irritably reminded Degas that without electricity, there was no mortadella chilling in the refrigerator.
After a few more minutes
