“Scraped? Luciano, give me the candle, I want to see.”
“No, it’s fine. Please don’t worry over me.”
Massimo’s voice called out again, “Isotta! Come out! Isotta!”
Isotta gave Luciano a searching look, trying to evaluate this wound through the dim light. She bit her lip before standing. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Isotta, no!”
“I know he won’t hurt me.”
“How can you be sure?”
Isotta paused and squeezed Luciano’s hand before letting go. “Because he couldn’t hurt Giulia again.”
To Luciano’s puzzled expression, Isotta added, “It’s okay. I’ll be right outside. I’ll shout if he lays a hand on me.”
Luciano nodded, reluctantly.
She smiled and said weakly, “One way or another, at least it will be done.”
She walked through Luciano’s house and opened the door, just as Massimo was beginning to pound again. Before he could sidle into the house, Isotta stepped into the street and closed the door behind her with a sharp click.
Massimo, panting heavily, whispered, “You’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay.”
“The fire. Someone was taken to the hospital, someone . . . small. I was so scared it was you.”
“Someone was hurt?” Isotta’s mind darted. “Margherita?”
“No, not her. She’s with Mamma. They never even made it to the sagra. Their train was delayed.”
Isotta sagged with relief and leaned against the door. “Grazie Dio.” She took a breath and then straightened. “Well, now you know it wasn’t me. Goodbye, Massimo.”
“Wait! Why aren’t you home? You’re supposed to be home.”
Isotta’s laughed with shards of flint, “Supposed to? Come off it, Massimo. I know. I know about Giulia. I know about your perverted game. It’s over between us.”
“No! You can’t mean that! We’re married!”
“Marriages end, Massimo. That can’t come as a shock to you.”
“Not ours, Isotta! We’re supposed to be together forever . . . till we . . . till we die.”
Isotta’s face contorted. “You’re delusional.”
“But I worked so hard, it felt so right—”
Isotta cried out, “You worked hard! I was the idiot who went along with anything you told me. Who believed you. Who let you control every bit of my life. I made it pretty easy for you Massimo. Now is where it gets challenging because you’ll have to deal with the truth that Giulia is gone.”
“I know she’s gone!”
“Well, I’m not going to be her replacement.”
“Is that what you think? That you’re her replacement?”
“It’s the truth. The truth that everyone is this town saw before I did.”
“But I didn’t . . . I never—”
“Goodbye, Massimo.”
“Wait! What about Margherita?”
Isotta turned back from the door. She asked softly, “What about her?”
“She’s asking for her mother. What am I supposed to tell her?”
Isotta reminded herself that this was Massimo’s way of manipulating her. “You should have thought of that earlier. This is not on me.”
“No! Isotta, you’re right, I didn’t start this for the right reasons, but I love you, I love you!” Massimo dropped to his knees in front of Isotta and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed his cheek against her and sobbed,”Please, please let me prove it to you. We’ll start over. We’ll start fresh. We’ll move out! My mother. My mother pushed me into this. She was mad with grief when Giulia died. She convinced me—”
“You did this Massimo. You did. Only a weak man blames his mother.”
“Okay! Yes! It’s my fault, but I can make it right. Just tell me what you want, I’ll do anything.”
Isotta’s hands hovered above Massimo’s head as she fought the urge to thread her fingers through his hair.
Fabrizio wearily pushed open the door of Bar Birbo.
He stood in the entryway, waiting for Chiara to notice him.
“We’re closed,” she called over her shoulder, stacking the dishwasher.
“I know.”
Chiara whipped around. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry for intruding, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard . . .”
“I’m fine. Well, not fine, strictly speaking, but,” Chiara spread her arms and noted her clothes streaked with dirt and soot and charred bits of Magda’s box. She’d been up all night. “I’ll live.”
“The girl who was taken to the hospital, someone you know?”
“A little. I’ve seen her, but she doesn’t come in. Fifth graders don’t have much need for coffee,” Chiara smiled wryly. “But I’ve watched her. She came to Santa Lucia a couple of years ago, maybe? I can’t remember. Luciano took her family under his wing, as he does with immigrants. I know he’d spoken of her with admiration. A sunny child. I hope she’s okay.” Chiara bit her lower lip and turned away. She ran the water over her hands and said, “But I’m fine. It was nice of you to check.”
“Chiara, when the fire started and I couldn’t find you—”
“I was with Magda.”
“I didn’t know. I just knew you had been there, and then you were gone, and I panicked.”
Chiara’s chin ducked down to her chest. She said nothing, but reached for a towel to dry her hands before slowly turning back to Fabrizio.
He stepped to the counter and reached across to her. Without meaning to, Chiara took his hand. “Fabrizio, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Because I’m also done with secrets and holding back.”
Chiara blinked, confused.
Fabrizio picked up Chiara’s hand and kissed it. “I should have told you before Chiara. I’m not just here for vacation.”
“I didn’t think so.” Chiara girded herself. A spy? A land developer? Mafia?
“I’m a writer.”
Chiara released his hand, “A writer?”
“Yes. Books. I write books,” he finished, lamely.
“What kind of books?”
“Gialli, mysteries.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? That doesn’t sound like a terrible secret.”
“Being a writer isn’t, perhaps, but well, I’m here for inspiration. My next book is set in a small town, and I needed space to breathe and concentrate and imagine a life different than mine in Bologna. I just didn’t want people acting differently because they knew I was watching them.”
“But they did act differently.”
“Yes, it took me awhile to realize that. I didn’t count on the fact that inserting myself into a small town would change the way people behave. Like a pebble
