Trevor nodded quickly. With his booming baritone, he relayed the information both in English and Italian to the assembled tourists, adding that they needed to clear the streets quickly so the townspeople could do their work. He aimed them to the piazza, and then snagged Edo’s elbow as he fled Bar Birbo and raced up the castle steps, fire extinguisher in hand,.
“Let me help!”
“What? Oh, no, there is nothing, without an extinguisher there is nothing . . .”
“You don’t have another one?”
Edo stopped, thinking. He nodded and ran back into the bar, snatching up the fire extinguisher at the door leading to the terrace. His gut tugged, as he thought of Chiara. Where was she? What if she’d gone into one of the open rooms of the castle and was trapped, a wall of flames preventing her escape? His breath grew shallow, and he launched the extinguisher to Trevor. “Let’s go!”
The two men joined the gathering group of townspeople rushing up the stairs.
Edo felt a hand close over his wrist and startled. It was Chiara, standing with Magda. “Edo. You’re okay.” It was a statement.
“Sì. You?”
“Yes. I’ll get the other one.”
“No, I’ve given it to him.”
Chiara’s eyes followed Edo’s to rest on Trevor, stymied in his attempt to crest the stairs by the wall of bodies moving down the stairs.
There was no time for questions. Chiara nodded, “Be safe.”
“I will. You too. Stay out of here, okay, Zia?”
Chiara nodded, her attention caught by Magda’s horrified expression as she backed away from the fire-lit steps.
Stella broke away from Vale, mid-kiss. He leaned toward her, his hand between her shoulder blades, bringing her back against his chest. She pulled away. “Vale? Do you hear that?”
“It’s nothing, amore. Just everyone enjoying the sagra.” His hands ran down Stella’s back, lingering on the welcoming swell of her hips.
“Seriously, Vale.”
“Mmm, yes, I’m very serious.” Vale nibbled the base of her neck, and allowed his hands to run up her side, to her ample bosom. “I’m taking this very, very seriously.” He cupped his hands around her and sighed.
A shout, closer now, stalled his caress. He jerked his head up.
They held their breath, listening.
Stella turned to Vale, “Do you smell smoke?”
“A little, but I always did . . . I think this room was once the kitchen of the castle.”
“No, it’s different.”
Vale inhaled, “Yes, I smell it.”
More shrieks cut the air.
Vale straightened, “I’ll go check what’s going on, you wait here.”
“Vale!”
“Sì?”
Stella pulled him closer, “Please, be careful.”
Vale looked into Stella’s eyes, filled with warmth he easily drowned in. He leaned down and lightly touched his lips to hers. She pulled his head down, pressing their mouths together, and her passion enflamed him. No woman, ever, had set his loins trembling like this one. She may be middle-aged and a mother and married to that detestable mayor, but there was a vitality to her that quickened him more than he ever dreamed possible. Though he knew he needed to leave, he almost couldn’t remember why. With his tongue he opened her mouth more deeply and drank her in, his hands pulling her up and against him. They were both moaning now, hands searching each other’s bodies. Lighting like butterflies, then pressing with increasing fervor.
The voices in the doorway sounded like the memory of a dream. Until Dante’s voice bellowed, “Stella! Vale?”
The townspeople bore down, fire extinguishers thrust out like armor. Giuseppe quickly located the violently burning thread of flame, shouting for assistance. The heat seared his face as he rushed forward, into the belly of the blaze. He loosed a blast of chemicals from the hose, howling as an ember branded his cheek. Patrizia joined her husband and soon many stood together, dousing the flames. Luigi, the owner of l’Ora Dorata—who was so paranoid about fires that he had more than the strictly required number of extinguishers in his trattoria—called out to the waiters he’d outfitted. They fanned around Giuseppe, spreading out among the tables and twisted wisteria vines, shouting invectives at the fire. They held their collective breath as the blaze slackened in the face of the onslaught.
Meanwhile Edo and Trevor, along with Giovanni and Sauro, attacked the knots of fire raging within the arms of the olive trees nearest the castle. The flames, which had licked up at the promise of aged olive wood, submitted to the spray and began to falter.
Triumphal shouts rang through the castle garden. The common fist around their internal organs released its hold. It would be okay. Finally it could be okay.
The celebration cut off suddenly as the froth from the fire extinguishers slowed to a trickle. Despair filled the townspeople, they were out of ammunition. Where were the fire trucks?
Without the fall of liquid, the fire surged, redoubled. A tree exploded into flame. The one beside it quickly caught, the branches crackling for a moment before fire erupted through the boughs.
It would pain you to notice how the brilliance of the blazing trees made a mockery of the light that characterized Santa Lucia. The townspeople, of course, were spared that particular anguish. They were far too focused on the inferno before them. Every creak and moan of the trees as they shuddered with heat shot through their hearts. Their trees. Their trees were dying.
Just then, a dozen or more townspeople clamored up the stairs, shouting. They ran clumsily, buckets of water weighing down their arm. Shoving their neighbors aside, they rushed toward the trees and threw water at the fire.
“The falls!” they shouted. “More water!”
A brigade quickly formed, townspeople
