Margherita apparently decided that the water was unpleasant, as she raced back into the bleached grass to search for more lizards.
Massimo drew Isotta down onto the sand beside him, breaking her reverie. “Off season is nice because was have the beach to ourselves, though I do miss the chairs.”
“But, Margherita . . .”
“She’s fine,” Massimo said firmly. He pulled her face toward his own, kissing her lightly, then more firmly. Isotta fought a rising sense of panic. Her mind screamed, “Watch the child!” but Massimo’s tongue was nudging her lips open to receive him, and she knew he’d be livid if she didn’t allow him to exert his authority. Still, she couldn’t quell the feeling that any child needed to be watched near water, especially this one.
Though her thoughts scratched at her heart like a mouse clawing at a wall, her fear of Massimo’s reaction kept her silent. He pressed her back against the sand, his hand roaming over her shirt, before sliding underneath it.
What was Massimo thinking? He couldn’t possibly be thinking of having sex here? Outside? With his daughter so near the water’s edge?
As if hearing her thoughts, Massimo murmured, “Relax, I’m not going to take you here. I just want a taste.” Massimo began enumerating where he was going to touch her and where he wanted her hands, his breath getting short and his hands sliding under the waistband of Isotta’s jeans until she was worried that he wouldn’t wait until they got home.
She ventured, kissing him along the cords of his neck, “Oh, darling, I want you too . . . but Margherita . . . let’s just check if she’s okay.”
Massimo pulled back and said, sharply, “I said she’s fine!” He leaned forward again and began to kiss the swell of her breasts, “Now, please, just stop worrying.” His mouth became more insistent as his hands moved from stroking her to cupping and practically pinching her, as if he wanted to prove she was real. Isotta opened her eyes, unable to feel aroused. Massimo’s face was roving over and under her shirt, oblivious to her lack of response. He shuddered, moaning, as his hands became frenzied and he murmured, “It’ll be okay. Let me. Let me make it right, Giulia.”
Isotta leapt to her feet. She sputtered, unable to form thoughts, let alone sentences. Massimo scowled and then as the reality of his words hit him, his face collapsed and he turned away from her. Isotta stormed away, scanning the shore. Margherita was no longer among the grasses. Isotta ordered herself to stay focused, to stay upright, as her knees began buckling and her heart skidded recklessly in her ribcage. Margherita, where was Margherita? Isotta forced her jumpy eyes to smoothly scan the water.
There! Margherita’s head, surrounded by her favorite pink sweater billowing around her. She’d wandered too far in, or perhaps stumbled on trying to escape the cold water, and unable to find her footing was growing frantic, her mouth filling with water. Isotta rushed into the sea, her eyes fixed on the bobbing splash of rose. The icy coldness of the November Mediterranean created merely a momentary sensation of curiosity as she flung herself forward. A few more leaps and she snatched Margherita out of the water, clutching her firmly against her chest.
Margherita clung to Isotta, the two of them crying as they left a dripping trail out of the water.
Massimo ran to them, his mouth a dark O, his forehead creased with worry. He reached for his daughter, but Isotta twisted her body away from him, holding her more tightly. She whipped her head around to give Massimo a glare of pure steel.
Massimo, for perhaps the first time in his life, blanched.
Magda bustled into Bar Birbo, ignoring Chiara’s searching expression.
She’d already admitted too much to that bar-owning busybody. The final straw was Chiara pressing her on the amulet. Next she’d be asking about the box under the bed! No, this was far enough by half. Magda was only glad she had been able to plead a headache and get Chiara out of the house that day. If only the woman would stop looking at her like she was damaged. She wasn’t! If anyone was damaged, it was Chiara.
Magda’s husband may have gotten himself declared missing in Thailand, but at least the shame wasn’t directed at her. No matter what the whispers suggested. No, she was fine. Gustav was an idiot. It was that simple.
Steadfastly examining the bottles of liquor lining the wall, Magda successfully avoided making eye contact with Chiara. Who, frankly, looked distracted anyway. Probably brooding over that gangster. He didn’t look like a gangster to her, he moved far too dreamily through town to be a mafioso. If he was really involved in organized crime, shouldn’t he swagger or at least strut? Then again, who knew? Germans were too civilized a lot to have to wrestle with such questions, and she was no different.
The espresso cup clattered down to the saucer and Magda pushed back from the bar to drop a euro onto the copper plate before hustling out and to the macelleria.
She pushed the door open with a whoosh, practically colliding with Stella, who was walking out with her bag of paper-wrapped meat. Irritably, Magda waited for Ava, who was asking far too many questions about the provenance of the pork chops. Then the annoying woman—she didn’t even have a husband did she? Who was she cooking for?—had the consummate gall to equivocate for a staggeringly long time between the ages of pecorino. It was all Magda could do not to push forward and order for Ava. Finally Ava left, tremulously offering an apologetic smile to Magda who rolled her eyes in response. Come to think of it, why was Ava single? She was attractive enough, at least for an Italian.
No mind, there was work to do.
She sailed up to the counter. “Giuseppe!”
The butcher, who had been rinsing his hands, turned slowly, carefully drying each
