The man, Trevor apparently, shook his head. “I can’t catch all of it, the dialect is different than the Roman one, but the men at that table are making fun of someone.”
“For what?” The woman craned her neck, looking for someone doing something ridiculous and worth mocking.
“For being gay, as far as I can tell.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Nope, not kidding. This is why I couldn’t live in a small town like this, no matter how beautiful it is. Full of blooming idiots.”
Edo gasped aloud.
Trevor looked up and grinned, “Salve! Buona sera!”
Edo looked around to be sure the man was talking to him. He blinked rapidly then muttered, “Salve.”
Trevor continued in almost flawless Italian, “Are you from Santa Lucia? Or just passing through?”
Edo took a step out of the darkness, closer to the table lit with candles and the smiling faces of the guests who felt lucky to have stumbled upon this one-of-a-kind traveling experience. He looked around and managed to smile, “I’ve lived here all my life.”
Trevor scooted to the side, making room for Edo. He tucked his chin at the empty seat. “Please, join us.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I was just getting another plate.” He considered, then asked in halting English, “I bring a person something? Some . . . wine maybe?”
The table sighed appreciatively, “Oh, he’s so nice! Italians are so nice!”
It’s true, Edo was quite welcoming, but you must know that to English speakers, anything said in an Italian accent receives bonus points.
Someone piped up, “Can you imagine a Londoner asking a tourist if he could get him anything?” The table roared with laughter.
Edo, who hadn’t quite caught the words smiled awkwardly. Trevor touched Edo’s hand lightly before saying in Italian. “It’s okay. They’re just surprised that you would be so welcoming. We live in London, and being welcoming isn’t part of our DNA.”
Edo nodded, trying to ignore the way his heart flickered as a line of electricity snaked from his hand at the stranger’s touch. He started to mutter good evening before moving away, but Trevor reached out again, “Please, we’d love for you to join us.”
Edo scanned the faces looking up at him expectantly with a mixture of curiosity and welcome. Definitely no hostility. He smiled at Trevor and nodded. “Sì, I’ll be right back.”
“Luciano! Luciano!”
Luciano sighed deeply before turning around to face Massimo.
“Sì, Massimo?”
“Where is my wife?”
“Excuse me?”
“My wife! My wife!”
When Luciano didn’t answer quickly enough, Massimo moved closer to him, forcing the old man to take a step backward. “She’s gone, and I’ve talked to two different people who said they saw her on your doorstep.”
Luciano sighed. The busybodies of Santa Lucia. Even when the alleyways seemed clear, there was always an old woman who may pretend blindness but could spot a hair out of place from across the street and through gauze curtains. Leave it to them to find a way to tell Massimo that his wife had sought refuge at the home of the town drunk.
Only Luciano was not drunk.
And for that he was grateful, because this situation required great facility of mind.
“If you want to speak to Isotta, why not call her?”
Massimo made a low, growling sound. “I tried, she’s not answering her phone.”
“How odd.” Luciano smiled and moved away.
Massimo grabbed his arm. “Look, there may have been a little . . . quarrel . . . that perhaps she took more personally than she should have. You know women, always going off half-cocked at the tiniest problem.”
“Actually that’s not at all how I would describe my wife. Or my daughter.”
Massimo took a half-step back at the mention of his dead wife. “Well, no, Giulia wasn’t like that.”
“Hmm . . . no. One wonders from what well you draw your ideas about women.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone knows how moody and unpredictable women are. I’m hardly making that up.”
“As is your privilege,” Luciano started to turn away again, but Massimo’s hand stayed him.
“Not so fast old man. I want to know where Isotta is now.”
“I thought you said you knew?”
“Yes! But I went by your house. No one answered the door!”
“Well, then. That must have been some ‘quarrel’.”
Massimo’s grabbed Luciano’s arm. “Stop being coy. I must speak with her.”
Luciano’s gaze darted around, but the pocket of darkness shielded them from notice. No one even glanced in their direction. “Due respect, Massimo. But if she’s not answering your calls or your knock, it sounds like she doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“Well, like it or not, she’s going to have to.”
“The thing is, Massimo, she doesn’t have to do anything. I think that’s the place where you’ve been confused. She’s not your puppet, and she’s not your toy.”
Through clenched teeth, Massimo sneered, “Just what are you implying?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” Luciano lifted his arm in an attempt to disentangle it from Massimo’s grip. Then he stopped. “Actually, you know what, Massimo? I am going to tell you the thing nobody seems to have the courage to tell you. You are sick. A sick, sick man.”
Massimo jeered, “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take the words of a drunk loser too much to heart. You are hardly the man to judge me, you chose wine over your own granddaughter. What kind of deadbeat does that?”
Luciano’s eyes shuttered. “Yes. I did wrong by her, and in that way, I did wrong by my daughter. But here’s what I know: At least I am honest with myself about my mistakes, and I
