As Massimo predicted, it did make her look more sophisticated, but she’d always secretly prided herself on her blond hair. It wasn’t common in Italy and was one of her few features she’d never found fault with. But she’d had to concede Massimo’s point—she didn’t have to look at it as much as he did, and he found her much more attractive with dark hair. It was true that he’d been much more enthusiastic about their lovemaking again. He was tender and joyful, touching her with a reverence she hadn’t felt since their first night together in Rome. She just wished she could trust it. His moods darted like dandelion fluff in a windy valley, and she couldn’t remember why she ever found that charming.
She shook her head and ignored the ends of her black hair scratching against her cheek. She reminded herself, as her sister extolled, that marriage was about compromise, and that she and Massimo were still so newly one that of course they were still navigating the waters of how to meld together.
A soft voice within her wheedled that maybe what she wanted should matter more? Massimo was authoritative, but did that really mean he was always right? It had been her instinct to keep her eye on Margherita on that disastrous day at the beach, her instinct which she’d choked back in favor of Massimo’s confident assurances. And who had been right? She had.
The whole scenario made her queasy whenever she thought about it, which was more often than she wished. Beyond the bone-chilling memory of being called by his dead wife’s name, how could a man who lost his wife to the ocean be cavalier with his daughter anywhere close to the water?
The swings in her thinking were alarming.
She knew she was lucky to have Massimo. She knew it. Her mother told her so, her sisters told her so, and besides, it seemed empirically obvious. When had any man given her the time of day before Massimo? She was lucky, unbearably lucky. She couldn’t—shouldn’t!—question him. His approval was everything.
The push and pull within her was increasingly unbearable. Which was why she’d finally capitulated and dyed her hair.
Unfortunately, the change didn’t quiet her doubts. And she hated how alarmed the townspeople were by her dark hair. A new hush followed her as she walked, and even Luciano had looked aghast at the change. Eventually, holding onto a stone wall for support, he’d been gallant and complimentary, but it hadn’t escaped her that even though he casually invited her over for coffee in his garden, his eyes hadn’t left her hair.
She hoped he’d be used to it by now. She was looking forward to visiting with him. Isotta had heard from the nice lady, Chiara, at Bar Birbo that Luciano had once taught in the elementary school. Isotta wanted to ask him if he knew who to contact about volunteering at the scuola dell’infanzia. Being with Margherita had made her realize how much she enjoyed children and she liked the idea of being there when Margherita started next year.
Isotta continued down the street, and angled toward the edge of Santa Lucia, to the light-grained door surrounded by wisteria that Luciano had described. She knocked and heard within his quiet response of “Arrivo!”
Though Luciano’s eyes did travel spontaneously to her hairline, he otherwise greeted her without a trace of astonishment.
She kissed his weathered cheeks and followed him to the garden, where a moka, cups, and a cloth-covered tray waited on the table. Such a gentleman, she thought, glad again of their burgeoning friendship.
“What a lovely view you have!” Isotta said, gesturing to the expanse stretching before her, edged with verdant hills and a lacework of distant snow-covered mountains. Luciano smiled, “Yes, I enjoy it even on chilly days, like today. I hope you don’t mind sitting outside. My house is rather dim, and I prefer sunshine, even when it’s cold.”
Isotta smiled, and patted her jacket. “I’m the same. Anyway, I’ve got the sangue bollente, hot blood, you know.”
Luciano gestured for Isotta to sit down and then he took a seat across from her. He poured coffee into each of the two cups, and when Isotta didn’t immediately reach for hers he said, “It’s not as good as Chiara’s, I’m afraid. I have never really gotten the knack.”
Isotta said, “I’m sure it’s delicious. But my stomach is feeling off today. I drank milk to finish the bottle this morning, and milk never agrees with me.”
Luciano’s silver-threaded eyebrows bent in concern, “Would you prefer orzo? I have some. I often take it when I have indigestion.”
“No, please, this is fine. I’m sure I’ll drink the coffee in a little bit.”
Luciano smiled slightly, looking as if the effort pained him. Isotta’s eyes moved to the tray, wondering if Luciano was going to offer her a cornetto from under the napkin. She hoped not. The idea of any pastry made her queasy, and she didn’t want to reject anything else. Instead, he closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead.
“Luciano? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m just . . . no, actually. I’m afraid I have something to tell you that will pain the both of us.”
“What do you mean, what is it?” Isotta sat up straighter, and felt her breath catch.
“It is hard to begin.” Luciano closed his eyes and drew a deep intake of breath. He ran his hands over the tablecloth until his fingertips buzzed, and then he nodded and looked searchingly into Isotta’s eyes. “You know that Massimo has been married before?”
“Yes, of course. To Margherita’s mother.” Isotta sighed in relief. It was very sweet and protective of the old man to be worried about her not knowing this. But—that couldn’t be the painful news, could it? Obviously she’d have to have known that she wasn’t Massimo’s first wife.
“Yes,
