“No trouble.”
“I was just apologizing to Elisa for my absence in the last month or so. I imagine it must’ve been very difficult.”
Fatima looked over at Elisa who was nibbling a cookie and crosshatching a drawing of a persimmon tree, heavy with fruit. Fatima sighed, like a world-weary old woman. Then she began pouring the tea. “Yes, that wasn’t so good.”
Luciano nodded, chastened. “I really am sorry.”
“I know. I’m glad you are better now. I hope . . .”
“You hope, what?”
Fatima handed out the cups and then sat down across from Elisa and Maestro. “I don’t want it to happen again.”
“It won’t.”
Elisa looked up. “It won’t?”
Maestro’s mouth formed a grim line and he repeated, firmly, “It won’t.”
“How do you know?” Both girls asked in unison, their brown eyes beseeching him in a way that pulled his heart.
“I lit a candle.”
The girls looked at each other, was this code for something? What did he mean?
Luciano sighed. How could he explain it? The walks in the groves, once a day, sometimes twice. His thinking sharpening, his memories losing some of their old shame and taking on the patina of silver and sage green. His realization that there was more path open ahead of him.
Fatima queried, “Maestro?”
He shrugged, “I suppose I realized I’m not useless.”
“You were never useless!” Fatima countered, hotly.
Luciano reached to wrap her small fist in his hand. “I know that now.”
Elisa, nose pressed to paper, asked as she returned to her drawing, carefully scribing another heavy orb, “Luciano?”
“Yes?”
Elisa sat up, regarded her art with a skeptical gaze before putting it down to look at Fatima, helplessly.
Fatima rolled her eyes at her friend. “What Elisa can’t say is that we saw you with Massimo’s new wife. And we kind of worried that it would make you drink again.”
Maestro nodded and pulled the plate toward himself, selecting his favorite cookie filled with apricot. “Yes, I’ve talked to her several times. And no, it hasn’t made me want to drink. That’s actually why I’m fairly certain I’m on the other side.”
Fatima leaned forward. “What’s she like?”
Luciano took a noisy sip of his hot tea, wondering how to answer.
“Maestro?” Elisa ventured.
“Allora, when I first saw her, I thought she was my daughter.”
Both girls shook their heads, appalled.
“She looks just like her. Actually, now that I know her I don’t see it quite as much, but at first . . . it was uncanny.”
Fatima chewed a cookie thoughtfully, while Elisa began to crosshatch shadows of the persimmons against the glowing tree.
Finally, Fatima asked, “Maestro? I hope you don’t mind my asking . . .”
“Anything, cara.”
“What about Margherita?”
Elisa looked up suddenly from her drawing, amazed at her friend’s daring.
But Maestro just selected another cookie before answering, “Well, Isotta often has Margherita with her. I was able to play with her at the park yesterday for the first time since Giulia . . . died.”
“It’s okay,” he added in a rush at the matching set of furrowed eyebrows. “I’m okay. It’s probably better that I accept this as having happened. Talking about it as if it’s real keeps me from feeling the tug of wanting to numb away my life. Anyway, Margherita doesn’t remember me, but to play with her again, even as just another old man . . . to help her on the swing, and hear her laugh. Oh, girls, that was something.”
Fatima broke off a corner of the cookie and tossed it to a sparrow eyeing her on the fence. “But, Maestro? Does Isotta know who you are? Who your daughter was?”
Elisa added, “And who your granddaughter is?”
Luciano pushed his glasses further onto his nose and took a deep breath. “No. She doesn’t. But think it’s time she found out.”
Isotta waved merrily as Luciano approached.
“Ciao, Luciano!”
“Ciao, bella,” Luciano wished he’d brought his cane. His balance was better, but the uneven ground was difficult.
Isotta placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder, “Are you okay?”
“Sì, sì. I’ve been under the weather for some time. I’m trying to increase my stamina, but it seems like old bodies don’t rebound like young bodies do.”
Isotta grinned, “Oh, you are still young.”
Luciano put his hand to his heart and staggered backward, as Isotta laughed.
Isotta slowed her footsteps to match Luciano’s slower pace, “Looks like we had the same idea. These warm days are a call to the mountains, aren’t they?”
Luciano smiled, saving his breath.
Brushing a stray olive branch out of their way, Isotta went on, “That’s one advantage Santa Lucia has over Firenze. In a city it is such work to breathe clean air.”
Luciano asked, “Do you miss Firenze, cara?”
“Only when it rains.”
Luciano stopped walking in confusion. Isotta hooked her arm through his to continue strolling down the path, “Santa Lucia shuts down when it rains. Everyone stays indoors, there’s just nothing to do. In Firenze . . .” Isotta sighed, “the city is always humming. Rainy days are an excuse to duck into a museum or to see a show or, I don’t know—explore a cathedral. I’ve lived in Firenze all my life, and still, every day, I could find something new.”
“How about your family. Do you miss them?”
Isotta’s arm jerked a little. “Would you judge me terribly if I said not really?”
Luciano clucked, and shook his head before responding, “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a family that deserves to be missed.”
Isotta nodded. The two of them walked quietly until she said, “I miss my sisters sometimes. We started getting closer before my marriage. Before that, they were merely the meter stick my mother used to find fault with me.”
“Hmm . . . You have a lot of sisters?”
“Four.”
“And you weren’t
