The image struck Chiara, and she wondered—perhaps they were all pebbles, with interlocking waves creating a design beyond her imagining.
Fabrizio squeezed her hand, recalling her to their conversation. “Anyway, talking about my writing usually serves to fade it. It’s hard to explain, but the more I talk about my writing, the less I’m able to actually write. I needed to protect that.”
Chiara nodded and then startled. “Wait, how do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Given how reserved I’ve been, I figured you may not easily believe me. I know the rumors. People in Santa Lucia don’t speak as quietly as they think they do. My favorite theory was that I’m really from Rivaldo, that town in Tuscany that also is big on cinghiale, and I was here to steal secrets about what makes Santa Lucia’s sagra so popular.”
Chiara arched her eyebrows, “I hadn’t heard that one.”
“It’s less colorful that the mafia one. I admit, I’ve used these rumors about me as character development for my book. Which reminds me, I was saying—” Fabrizio released Chiara’s hand to reach into the wide pocket of his coat. Sheepishly, he pulled out a book and laid it in front of Chiara.
She picked up the book. “You wrote this?”
He nodded.
Chiara ran her hand over the embossed cover, simple, no design, just the title, “The Blade’s Edge” and a name “Fabrizio Mariani.”
Gently, Fabrizio took the book from Chiara’s hands, allowing his fingers to pause for a breath over her hands, before turning the book to the last page. Softly he said, “In case you don’t believe me . . .”
Chiara looked down, and smiled at the photograph. It was taken a few years ago, surely, but it was unmistakably Fabrizio.
She looked up and grinned, “And you write mysteries.”
He clasped her hands in his and leaned forward. “I’m tired of mysteries.”
Edo took the steps down to the bar one at a time. At the bottom, he hesitated before pushing open the door.
“Buongiorno, Zia.”
“Buongiorno, Edo. You’re up early.”
“Yes, I figured there’d be lots of business what with people heading up to the castle to clean.” Edo looked around at the empty shop and gave a wan smile, “I guess not.”
“Not yet, anyway. It was a late night, everyone may be sleeping it off. Un espresso?”
“Please.”
Chiara nodded and began grinding the beans. She hummed tunelessly and smiled at some inner thought.
Edo pulled a stool up to the other side of the bar. “Zia?”
“Sì?”
“I have something to tell you.”
Chiara switched off the La Pavoni and turned back to place the delicate white cup into her nephew’s outstretched palm. “That sounds serious.”
Edo nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Chiara rested her towel on the bar, and pushed the sugar container to Edo. “What is it?”
“I don’t know how . . . how . . . to say this,” he stammered. All in a rush he went on, “I don’t like women. Well, I like them and all, I mean, I like you and my mother and Patrizia,” Edo was stammering, now.
Chiara nodded, silently allowing him to continue without interruption.
Edo closed his eyes and took a breath, “I’m gay.”
Chiara closed her hand around Edo’s clenched fist. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Looking back it seems like I always knew. But I guess I’ve only known that I’ve known for about a month. Or two maybe.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“But . . . but . . . why should you be afraid?”
“Little person, if you weren’t ready to tell me, what good would it do to force the conversation?”
Edo blinked back tears of relief and confusion. “But if you’d told me, I wouldn’t have worried.”
“You were worried?”
“Of course!”
“About what?”
“What do you mean ‘about what’? You’ve seen how this town treats . . . gay people.”
Chiara tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yes. Santa Lucia is changing, but not quickly enough in some ways. But Edo, you couldn’t have thought I would judge you?”
Edo stood straight and frowned, “Why not? People have been judging me my whole life, even when they didn’t know, or I didn’t know. Or at least I wasn’t acknowledging it to myself.”
“They have Edo, it’s true. But not me. Not ever me.”
Relaxing his posture Edo said, “Yes, I guess so. It was just easy to lump you in with the rest of them.”
“Well, we never talked about the issue in general, so I can see why you wouldn’t know where I stood.”
“And, well . . . Zia? Where do you stand?”
Chiara sighed. “Edo, I’m in favor of more love in this world. And that’s all there is to it.”
Edo nodded, then wiped his eyes.
Chiara noted the gesture, “You okay, sweet boy?”
He nodded.
Chiara hesitated, “Edo? Have you told your parents?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone.” He paused as his thoughts skirted to Trevor and the bicyclists and the vague memory of the random mouths and hands in the clubs. “But last night, after we put the fire out and all of us were still up at the castle, some of the people were trying to figure out who started the fire—”
“What do you mean who started it? Wasn’t it just the fire catching on something? The papers or the vines? Ava’s been after us for years to clean up those vines.”
“Yes, that’s what I think too. But you know people, they always look for someone to blame. Anyway, someone thought maybe it was the group of tourists, some of whom were gay, and I just realized, by not saying anything, I’m basically allowing it to continue.”
“Edo.”
“No, it’s okay, Chiara, I needed to figure it out, and I have. Or at least I’m working on it.”
Chiara nodded. “They don’t still blame the tourists do they? That’s just absurd.”
Edo shook his head. “No, by the time I was walking away, they’d circled back to blaming the Moroccan immigrants.”
“What?”
“Yes. You know how it is. With
