Fabrizio moved his body in front of Chiara’s. Resting his hands on her shoulders he said, softly. “Please. We need to talk.”
“So, talk, but quickly. I need to get this over with and move on.” She ignored the wounded look in Fabrizio’s eyes.
“Chiara, how can you be married?”
She ducked her head, “The usual way I suppose. Fall in love, go to church, say some words.”
“You know what I mean. I’ve never seen you with a man. I asked around. There hasn’t been a man around you in years.”
“You asked around?” Chiara frowned.
“Casually, Chiara. Not in a way to spread gossip, I promise.”
Chiara sighed. “My husband. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Where is he?”
“Jail.”
“Jail? What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Though I’m surprised people didn’t leap to tell you every sordid detail.”
“This town loves you, Chiara. They want to keep you safe, from outsiders, from me particularly.” His laugh was a short bark. “But I need to know what happened.”
“You need to know? But what gives you the right? It’s not like you’ve been so open.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I misspoke. I just want to understand.”
“The only thing you need to understand is that there can’t be anything between us. We’re finished. So drop it. It’s not your concern. You’re just passing through anyway, and I should’ve known better than—”
Her voice broke. Fabrizio asked softly, “Known better than what, Chiara?”
Chiara stared at the ground.
Gently, Fabrizio lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “Cara, what is it? Why won’t you tell me?”
Voice cracking, Chiara said, “I can’t. I just can’t do . . . any of this. I can’t fall for . . . I can’t be with anyone, and I just can’t. It was stupid to pretend.” She pressed her hands into her eyes to push back the tears that threatened to rise.
“Hey,” Fabrizio soothed, pulling her to him. “It’s okay. I know it’s okay. I know you well enough to know, if you are married, that marriage must be over. In your heart if not on paper. And if you feel something for me . . . you do feel something for me?”
Chiara nodded and pressed her cheek against Fabrizio’s chest.
“Then that feeling is good and right.”
“But I don’t know why you are here, or for how long, and Fabrizio, I don’t want to talk about what happened with my husband, but I will tell you that I lived in the dark for too many years. I don’t want any more secrets. I want my life lived out loud.”
Fabrizio’s arms tightened around Chiara and he breathed in her scent of earthy coffee grounds and caramelizing sugar. “I don’t want secrets either.”
Ava and the other volunteer gardeners had clipped and primped to exhaustion. As a structure, you might find the castle a touch windswept and desolate, with the slumbering vines creeping up the walls, pockmarked with crumbling corners. But somehow the grey and somber edifice rose as a worthy backdrop to Santa Lucia’s trademark festival. It elevated the colors in the stands set up throughout the day, and the dour presence of the ancient monolith served as a foil to the musical laughter and drumming cadence of shouted greetings.
The smoke curling into the watery blue sky carried a rich scent, with a touch of crackle. The fire beneath the turning wild pig flickered steadily, and farmers hauled more wood to light under massive black kettles, into which their wives poured wine and sautéed herbed onions and cubed cinghiale meat. As the afternoon progressed, countrymen arrived with the iron grills. They loaded the backs of the grills with dry wood that they lit to merry resonance, raking the coals forward to cook the sausages. The snap of the sausages added another layer of scent and sound to the quickening afternoon.
Tables filled. The farmer above town arrived with toys whittled from olive wood. The couple that lived in the plains at the base of Santa Lucia set out their collection of slow-cooked apricot preserves and cherry wine. A group of laughing men arranged literature about the Santa Lucia arm of the communist party. A weathered man from nearby Abruzzo came, as he did every year, with his collection of honey from lime and chestnut trees. A spectacled old woman with a festive shawl settled herself in her seat, her granddaughter beside her, weaving softened branches into baskets. A sprightly young man arrived with his truffle dogs and slabs of pecorino flecked with the pungent fungus.
Table after table filled with scarves, tea-colored postcards, rusted cooking implements, baked goods splashed with red liquor and scattered with sugar, bottles of beer flavored with elderflower from the new brewery in Girona, and a display of photographs from festivals past.
As the men and women gossiped and laughed under an amiable ultramarine sky, surrounded on one side by the ancient castle and on the other three sides by their treasured olive groves, not one of them guessed the terror that awaited them.
Elisa sprinted down Via Romana. She couldn’t wait to tell Fatima about her math score. A ten! She’d never gotten a dieci on a math test before! She pictured her friend’s eyes widening in surprise like Luciano’s just did.
Plus, it was uncharacteristically warm, a San Martino’s summer, and she felt so lucky, she was sure she’d finally be able to get the Moroccan coin into Fatima’s pocket when they put their coats on a bench to fetch a square of pizza. As long as she remembered this time, and she felt sure she would.
As Elisa took off her coat in anticipation, she caught sight of the Madonna in the niche. She rushed to it and pressed her fingertips against the stone feet in thanks, breathing a small prayer.
She noticed her heart was as light as her feet. Things were getting better, they really were. Luciano was Luciano again, with the tourists
