Isotta laughed nervously, trying not to focus on the way her skin seemed to melt under Massimo’s touch. She hoped that he wouldn’t feel the sudden heat through her polyester knit dress and her light wool coat.
They walked toward the elevator, and Massimo’s hand slipped off her back. Did Isotta imagine that he brushed against her hip a little longer than necessary before letting his arm swing in time to his walk? He gestured her into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor before asking, “Any place you like in the neighborhood?”
“No, actually this is my first time in Rome.”
Massimo paused as he exited the elevator, “It is? How can that be?”
Isotta smiled. “Strange, I know. But I grew up in Florence, and Florentines never think there is an adequate reason to leave the region. And my promotion is recent, so I’m only now invited to these meetings.”
“But you must have gone for a school gita. A trip to see the Colosseo? I can’t believe you’ve never been here.”
“There was a school trip, that’s true. I think, two? But I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
Isotta knew it was a nosy question, but it was impossible to be affronted when she looked up into Massimo’s face and saw his eyes crinkled in concern. She focused on not stumbling down the steps to the sidewalk to give herself time to answer. “Well, my parents lost the permission form.”
“They lost the form? More than once?”
“That probably makes them sound like bad people. They aren’t. I’m the youngest of five, and my sisters kept my mother busy, and anyway she never really recovered from the last miscarriage.” Isotta stopped herself. “I’m sorry, that’s probably far more than you wanted to know.” Her face flushed. Talking about miscarriages in front of this man with movie star good looks. Her foolishness knew no bounds.
Massimo reached for her hand to stop her from walking. When Isotta rallied her courage to look up at him, he gazed at her and used one finger to move a stray tendril of blond hair from her cheek to behind her ear. “I asked,” he said, simply. Isotta nodded and smoothed her dress over her hips. She tried to force out a nonchalant laugh, as she’d seen girls do on the street, but it came out as more of a gasp. Coughing to cover the strange set of noises emanating distressingly from her throat, Isotta started walking. Far too aware that Massimo still held her hand.
“Well, my novice traveler,” Massimo said with a grin, “It is my duty to make sure this first trip to Rome is a good one.”
“Are you here a lot?”
“Just for meetings. I discovered this excellent trattoria on the next block a few years ago. It’s not elegant, but it is a comfortable place to eat, and the chef makes a worthwhile plate of gnocchi on Thursdays.”
“That sounds perfect.”
They walked in silence, still hand in hand, until Massimo gestured to the restaurant and broke contact to open the door for her. As she passed him, she imagined she felt his gaze on her back. As a realist, Isotta knew that plain might be the best word to describe her, but she’d worked at her figure and dressed to highlight her assets. Her cropped coat, for instance, flared at the waist. She flushed at the possibility that Massimo might like what he saw. That self-conscious glow suffused her features, and as she sat down she had no idea how ethereal she looked—blond hair floating around her shoulders, large blue eyes that were usually hooded now open and bright, drawing attention toward her burnished complexion and away from the nose that she knew was a bit too large and the chin that she knew was a bit too small. As Massimo sat down across from her, he thought that she looked like a Renaissance angel.
Isotta beamed at him and their gaze held. The waiter noted the quiet intensity of the moment and moved away with their menus, resolving to drop them on their table when the spell broke. All thought fled from Isotta’s skittering brain. She was lost, drowning in the blissful sea created by this potent, intangible contact. Finally, Massimo reached for Isotta’s hand, and she slipped her fingers between his. When he pressed his other hand over hers, she felt an explosion of warmth low in her belly.
Finally Massimo arched one eyebrow and suggestively whispered, “Do gnocchi sound good?”
Isotta laughed, not nervously this time, but full-throated. Yes, gnocchi sounded very good indeed.
Magda grumbled as she hefted her bags from the macelleria counter. Yes, Giuseppe the butcher had saved her the capon as he’d promised, but he had failed to implement even one of the suggestions she’d made to increase tourist traffic. Seething, she’d once again pointed out that making a sign that advertised his famous porchetta, sandwiches stuffed with rolled and roasted pork, thick with herbs, would draw in new visitors. Who would undoubtedly also purchase the vacuum-packed salami and glass containers of special, locally made grape jam or tartufata sauce of olives, mushrooms, and truffles. Yes, especially the tartufata. Tourists went bananas for anything with truffles in it, even the old and woody stuff, or the infinitesimal pinch of truffles added to rancid olive oil and touted as “truffle oil.” Add a sign for the dumbos who couldn’t connect tartufata to truffle, and he could be raking in euros.
Giuseppe laughed off her advice, as usual, and tried to change the subject. As usual. Magda had noticed a chill descend over the patrons waiting for him to grind beef or slice prosciutto.
How infuriating, she thought, as she looked up into the sky now gaining clarity, the fog evaporating.
Why work so hard to bring in tourist dollars if the whole town fought
