“Are you okay, signore?”
Th man’s mouth worked like a fish gasping for breath.
“Signore?”
The man’s breath slowed and his face eased. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. You just startled me there for a moment. That and the cat. And the dog.”
“Yes, that was a lot of commotion.”
“Well, not just that, but . . . I mean, allora, just a temporary startle. I’m fine. I’m more worried about the cat. Yours?”
“No, my neighbor’s. But don’t worry, he’s fine. See there? He’s cleaning himself in the piazza.” Isotta gestured down the street.
The man followed her finger to locate the cat, who was indeed furiously cleaning his tail while steadfastly glaring at the dog who turned down an alley as if on a mission. The man laughed, coughing a little.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m an old man, but my heart is good.” He thumped on his chest for emphasis.
Isotta studied his eyes, warm and alive, and nodded.
“I’m Isotta,” she announced, offering her hand, then instantly regretting this big city gesture in a town where cheek kissing was a more customary first time greeting.
But the man smiled without suspicion and reached easily for her hand.
“I’m Luciano.”
Chiara watched as Fabrizio peered into Bar Birbo before nodding in approval at its emptiness. Her mouth compressed into a faltering line as she turned toward the glasses marching predictably across the shelf. She willed him to keep walking.
The door opened. “Chiara, can I speak with you? Privately?”
She sighed. “Edo could back any minute. And I have work to do, besides.”
“As I can’t ever get you alone, I’ll have to take my chances.”
Chiara turned away and started unloading clean cups from the dishwasher.
“Chiara? Why can’t you look at me?”
“What do you mean?” she answered, carefully stacking the saucers.
Fabrizio grinned despite himself. “Well, for starters. You aren’t looking at me.”
Chiara sighed and turned around. “What do you want, Fabrizio?” She chided herself for the way her heart skipped a bit as she looked levelly at Fabrizio’s face, his eyes pleasantly creased with years spent finding humor in dark corners.
Before she could turn back, Fabrizio clasped her hand. Chiara felt betrayed by the catch in her breath. Why couldn’t her body get the message? This was over.
This was over before it started.
“Please, Chiara. Talk to me. How did I offend you? Let me make it up to you?”
“You didn’t offend me. But it’s no use pretending we can be something when we can’t.”
Fabrizio absently stroked her clasped hand. “Your words say we can’t be something, but your eyes say otherwise.”
Chiara breathed deeply, letting her fingers untangle from Fabrizio’s before resting them lightly on his chest and returning them to the counter. “There’s something I should have told you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess I just thought somebody else would, and I wouldn’t have to say the words aloud. Every time you walked in, I searched your face, wondering, does he know? I guess we can thank your natural standoffishness for the little time we had. But it’s not fair to you. Whatever secrets you’re keeping from me, I should have been honest with you about mine.”
“Hey, you’re scaring me. You don’t have a dead body back there do you?”
Chiara smiled wanly at Fabrizio’s attempt to lighten the mood. “No. But, in some ways that would be easier to explain. And I know I need to—”
The stillness was broken by the opening of the door. Stella strolled in.
Chiara was pleased to see her. Maybe she was as ready as Chiara was to forgive and forget? All the same, Stella’s timing couldn’t be worse. She approached the bar and stood beside Fabrizio. “Salve,” she said to him with a languid smile.
Fabrizio startled a bit at this unexpected bit of friendliness, but hesitated for only a moment before he said, “Salve, signora, come sta?”
“Oh, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Stella assured him before leaning toward Chiara, elbows resting on the bar. “I can’t stay, Chiara, Dante needs me. You know, a mayor’s wife has so many duties for the sagra. I just wanted to pop in and ask if you’ve heard from your husband lately?”
The door was shoved open again, as Dante ushered in a delegation of visitors. He waved his hand over the group and called to Chiara, “Coffee for everyone, Chiara. Siamo in fretta, please hurry, we have a castle garden to organize!”
Elisa slipped the paper underneath her math at the sound of Maestro’s footsteps.
He chuckled, “Elisa, you know you are welcome to draw here.”
Elisa startled, and then giggled. “Sorry, Maestro. I forgot. It’s been awhile since I was here and . . .”
Her voice trailed off, afraid she’d offended her teacher.
Luciano patted her shoulder before sliding the tray of biscotti onto the table. “It’s okay, Elisa. I know I haven’t been—goodness, this is a challenge. I haven’t been exactly reasonable lately.” Luciano shook his head in mute annoyance at his inability to express himself. “Oh, hang it. I was drinking, and I know that made your life challenging, and I’m sorry.”
Elisa blinked, unable to respond.
“Elisa?”
“Oh, yes, sorry Maestro. It’s just . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard an adult apologize before.”
Luciano regarded her for a moment before shaking his head. “That, my dear, is a shame. None of us is perfect. We all transgress, no matter our age.”
Elisa nodded and dared to add, “It was harder on Fatima than me.”
Elisa paused as Fatima herself stepped into the garden, carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups. A beam of light played across the shine of her hair.
“I suspect it was challenging on each of you in your own way. Fatima certainly feels some responsibility for me. But you, I think, need this time even more than she does?”
Luciano didn’t elaborate, as Elisa’s chewing her lower lip alerted him that he was treading dangerous waters. Instead he called out, “Fatima, dear! Thank you
