Collecting herself, Magda stretched her lips over her teeth in an approximation of a smile before demanding two chicken sausages, a container of tartufata sauce, and her favorite shaved beef mixed with fresh arugula. “Is it fresh?” she asked, as always.
“Of course,” Giuseppe answered, as always.
Lifting her jacket from the post by the door, Isotta whispered to Anna, who was washing the lunch dishes, “I’m going to go get those light bulbs before the ferramenta closes for pranzo. Anything else we need?”
Anna turned off the water, “Margherita’s sleeping?”
“Yes, that’s why I thought I’d go now. She’s hard to follow in the store.”
Anna nodded, “Yes, she’s become quite a climber. I’ll have to get Massimo to bolt back that bookcase.” She thought for a moment, “Can you pick up cookies for when she wakes up? The chocolate kind with stars?”
“Sure,” Isotta nodded and slipped out the door. She was grateful that the stiff patch between them had dissolved.
You’re wondering, of course, how in the world that happened, how the fight between Isotta and Massimo resolved, or if it resolved at all.
Massimo had spent the drive to Santa Lucia apologizing, attempting his native charm by rakishly owning that he couldn’t help himself when she was near. Isotta ignored his justification. He added that maybe she shouldn’t have worn that green shirt with the plunging neckline. It wasn’t all that appropriate for a family lunch anyway.
At this, she’d grown only stonier and kept her vision fixed to the horizon the rest of the drive home. Once they returned to Santa Lucia, and Margherita was bathed and fed and tucked snug into her bed, Massimo had pulled Isotta into the bedroom, ignoring Anna’s quizzical stares at the prickliness between the couple. He’d held her hands and apologized in earnest for letting himself get distracted at the water’s edge.
Isotta’s removed her hands from his. “I heard what you said.”
“What did I say?” he smiled weakly.
“You called me Giulia.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“That’s not true, you misheard.”
“You were the one unhinged, not me. I heard you quite clearly.”
Massimo silently rubbed his eyes with his fists. He looked so forlorn and childlike, Isotta felt something like pity for him. She turned her head away, staring out the window.
Massimo began speaking slowly. “Okay, you’re right, I probably did. There have been many times I have almost said her name and caught myself, so I suppose it should not be a surprise that her name came out when I was least guarded.”
Isotta bit her lip and stared at the floor.
Massimo went on, “Look, it’s not easy to suddenly have her name be forbidden, when she was part of my life since I was a child. The harder I try not to say her name, the stronger the impulse is to say it. As today would indicate.”
Massimo tentatively reached for Isotta’s hand. She offered no resistance and he threaded her fingers through his.
Softly, she asked, “Why did you think you couldn’t talk about her?”
Massimo thought for a moment. “I judged that it would be in poor taste. That you would be offended.”
Isotta sighed. “Why would I be offended? I’m not your first love, it would be ridiculous to pretend I am. She was a huge part of your life. Huge. It actually concerned me that you never mentioned her.”
“I thought that was the right thing to do.”
“No, being honest is the right thing to do.”
“Okay. I’ll remember that.”
They hadn’t spoken any more about it, but he’d held her tenderly the whole night through, like she was made of glass, and when she rose in the morning, Massimo had left her a love note on her pillow. When she had come downstairs for breakfast, Anna, too, had been particularly conciliatory.
She supposed these were the hurdles people had to overcome in any marriage, and her marriage was no doubt complicated by Massimo’s loss and their impetuous union. There was bound to be a rocky adjustment period. The air felt so much clearer between them now that she couldn’t help an upswell in optimism. It would all be okay. Better than okay.
Door closed gently behind her, Isotta faced the olive groves rising to her right and breathed for a moment, before turning around and walking to Via Romana. Now that the townspeople had grown accustomed to her, Isotta looked forward to her daily outings. Yes, there was still a bit of awkwardness at times, but for the most part, she found the warmth of people whose names she was still learning to be charming. She knew that Fabio, the friendly man who owned the ferramenta where she bought oil for the squeaky door and today’s light bulbs played the tuba in the local band, and she planned to ask him if there were any upcoming performances she could bring Margherita to. The child loved music.
“Ciao, micio!” She greeted a calico cat who yawned and stretched on the neighboring step. The cat purred at the notice and trotted to lunge his head at Isotta’s knee. Isotta laughed and scratched him behind his ears. The cat looked up at her with dewy eyes. “Such a sweet kitty,” Isotta murmured, before straightening.
“Okay, micio, I have to go now.’
The cat meowed, as if in assent.
Isotta walked down the alley to Via Romana, the cat trotting at her heels. As she turned the corner, the one-eyed dog loped down the street. The cat hissed and tore away, darting between the legs of an old man Isotta recognized as the one who often sat alone in the piazza. Knocked off center, the man lost his balance, and Isotta reached to steady him. He began to thank her and then catching sight of her face, he gasped and pushed her hand off of his arm.
As he backed away, he tripped over an uneven spot in the street, and Isotta once again tried to
