The Stillness of Swallows: Book Three of the Santa Lucia Series

For Cinque Insieme

A Note on the Italian

Italian words in the text are followed by the English translation or can be understood by context. For interested readers, there is a glossary in the back of this book.

Cast of Characters

Main Characters

Chiara · The owner of Bar Birbo, she therefore hears all the rumors and secrets

Edo · Chiara’s nephew who lives with her and helps at Bar Birbo, he recently acknowledged to himself and others that he is gay

Luciano · A retired schoolteacher who lost his daughter and wife, which drove him to lose himself

Vito · Luciano's brother

Enrico · Luciano's nephew

Massimo · Father to Margherita, he was once married to Giulia, Luciano’s daughter who died. A year later, he married Isotta, Giulia’s virtual twin

Livia · Massimo’s relation, she comes to help with Margherita after Anna’s death

Pietro · Livia’s husband and a restaurant owner, he purchases the burnt-out L’Ora Dorata

Leo & Sonia · Livia and Pietro’s twins who just graduated from high school and find work in Santa Lucia

Anna · Massimo’s mother

Elisa · An 11-year-old girl who struggled in school until Luciano began tutoring her. She is Fatima’s best friend.

Fatima · A 12-year-old immigrant girl from Morocco, injured in an accidental fire during the village festa at the castello. She is Elisa’s best friend.

Salma · Fatima's mother

Omar · Fatima's father

Ava · The daughter of a florist, she is Santa Lucia’s guerrilla gardener and perennially unlucky in love

Alessandro · The owner of the derelict castle, newly arrived to Santa Lucia

Madison · His very American wife

Fabrizio · A writer from Bologna, he and Chiara recently began a relationship

Francy · Fabrizio brings Francy to Santa Lucia

Villagers

Magda · Moved to Santa Lucia from Germany years ago with her husband who has since disappeared in Thailand.

Bea · Santa Lucia’s source of fresh eggs and fresh gossip

Patrizia · Chiara’s best friend who helps her husband, Giuseppe, in his butcher shop

Giuseppe · Patrizia’s husband and the maker of Santa Lucia’s famous chicken sausages

Sauro · Santa Lucia’s baker

Giovanni · The joke-telling owner of the little shop on the piazza

Fabio · Ava’s brother and her opposite In almost every way. He accused both the gay tourists and Santa Lucia’s immigrants for starting the fire.

Salvia · Ava’s mother

Concetta · Elisa’s mother

Arturo · Older villager who is sure his French wife is cheating on him

Rosetta · The school principal

Paola · The owner of the fruit and vegetable market

Marcello · The town cop, his mother is desperate for him to get married and give her a grandchild

Spring

At dawn in Santa Lucia, the streets lay silent.

The distant sun casts more shadow than light, and the dimness masks street signs and water meters and recycling bins. Obscuring those emblems of twenty-first century progress. All appears as it used to. For generations.

In the tender shadows, a goat bleating down Via Romana would cause less surprise than a car honking. The ghost of Chiara’s distant ancestor or Luciano’s great-great grandfather in a fur-trimmed tunic would not trigger even a ripple of disbelief. Edo’s credit card-sized phone is irrelevant to this unfolding scene. Not even alarm clocks belong. The only alarm that makes sense is Bea’s rooster, currently asleep with his head tucked beneath his wing.

The quiet lingers, steeping the streets in a bygone era.

An intake of breath.

And shadows hoist like a curtain. Bringing light to Santa Lucia.

The twirling dawn fills the alleys, rising along the walls, illuminating the ancient iron circles pounded into the sides of buildings to hitch horses long dead and forgotten. With barely a murmur, the hidden shadows in the crevices of rock and behind the pots of flowers leap into the light. Mingled light and shadow tangle like kittens in play, leaping forward now to the Madonna, secure in her niche of heavenly blue, spangled with fading stars. The Madonna smiles, as if in agreement with the honeying air. Her hand rises in benediction.

As if seeking a permission now granted, the mingled light and shadow rush forward, an ocean wave, up the stairs to the castello that presides over Santa Lucia. Over and around the hammers and buckets and rags left scattershot throughout the yard by Ale’s crew, they tumble down into the valley behind the castle.

For a moment, all is quiet again. A sense of waiting fills the hills. Fills the alleys. Fills Santa Lucia. The perpetual dancing of the olive trees stops, almost as if the trees themselves are holding their breath. Suddenly, the undulating light and shadow explode into the air.

Blink once.

Swallows. There are swallows, meeting the sky now, shivering in gladness.

The birds billow across the strengthening sky. Spiraling swallows, like streamers unspooling across vast cobalt heavens. The birds divide and rejoin, collapsing and expanding, their warbling song carrying unimpeded across a canvas painted blue. Forked tails slice the warming air, whipping it into a further celebration of shadow and light, as the swallows’ iridescent bodies send sprays of blue and red into their wake.

Their dance continues, wingbeats languid now as the songbirds swoop gracefully over a creeping rustling below.

The women of Santa Lucia—old ones in dark sweaters leading young ones in pastels—emerge from stone arches. Into the groves. White grocery store bags, puffed with air like carefully crafted spherical kites, trail behind them. Hands rustle in the greens, snapping tender stalks. Tonight there will be frittatas and pastas brightened with the greenness of wild asparagus.

Shading their eyes from the reverberating light, the villagers pause to watch the swallows dance, their wings whipping the blue of the sky into a blur of motion. As the birds scatter into the four winds, the women murmur and nod and continue their hunt.

All around the villagers, red poppies overflow with sunshine. The flowers glow in jewel-tones, redoubling and sweetening the light before sending it back to the disappearing swallows. Spiraling now, wheeling, fading away, into the distant hills.

Chiara stepped into the bar from her upstairs apartment and softly closed the door behind her. She didn’t want to wake Isotta and the baby. Or, when it came to it, Edo and Francy, who had arrived home late last night. She scratched her head as she flicked on the lights, trying to remember where they had gone. A movie? A nightclub? Oh, right. Out to dinner with Ale and Ava. Must have been some dinner. They had stumbled home, giggling and shushing each other, far after she had turned off her light. She stood for a moment with her hand on the counter, glowing in the streaming sunshine. Francy . . . giggling. So unexpected from this serious young man.

And so different from his father, who seemed always on the edge of laughter. As she tied a freshly laundered apron around her waist, she remembered their walk last night. He had bragged about tortellini in Bologna, and she’d countered with tales of her nonna’s Umbrian pasta. It shouldn’t have been a funny conversation, and yet they both had tears of mirth in their eyes when their conversation turned to Santa Lucia, the villagers, and their families. Fabrizio wanted to know everything. He said the universal could be found in the smallest village interaction. And Chiara had said that he had never heard Magda arguing with Giuseppe to get the last bit of beef tongue at a discount.

Chiara looked up at the sound of the door opening. Her face warmed into a wide smile. Buongiorno, Patrizia.

Patrizia smiled in return at her oldest friend before turning to hang her sweater on the coat rack. She had expected a far cooler morning. Ciao, Chiara, she said, stepping to the bar.

Chiara began preparing Patrizia’s customary cappuccino as Patrizia settled on a stool. Over the sound of the frothing milk Chiara asked, Giuseppe going with you today?

Patrizia shook her head. No, he’s got a beef delivery to process. With the warmer weather, everyone wants thin-sliced beef to sauté with arugula.

Chiara nodded as she set the cup in front of Patrizia. You gather asparagus yet?

Reaching for a pack of sugar, Patrizia said, Yesterday. Don’t worry, I didn’t harvest any where you hunt. She shook the sugar. I wanted to though, seeing so much, like you haven’t gotten a stalk yet.

Chiara ground the beans for her own caffè and replied, I know. With Isotta here the past few weeks, and the baby . . .

As if in confirmation, from upstairs came the cry of a baby. Within a few moments, the sound faded.

Patrizia smiled. They move back to Luciano’s soon, don’t they?

Within the next week. The doctor said with Luciano’s heart rate stabilized, he’s in great condition for a seventy-two-year-old man. She took a sip of her espresso and continued. It’s about time, too, he’s been impatient to have Isotta back.

Patrizia stirred her cappuccino. Everybody who comes into the macelleria still talks about the birth.

Chiara smiled. Here, too. I heard Graziano—the accordion player, not the stonemason—is working on a song. A ballad, really, given his troubadour ways.

Embellishing, if I’m not mistaken.

Chiara’s eyes danced. It is an accordion.

Patrizia’s eyes crinkled as she laughed. Stilling herself, she asked, Speaking of musicians. Francy . . .

Chiara grinned and pointed upstairs. It’s quite crowded above stairs.

Patrizia grew still. Are you okay? With all that?

Chiara cocked her head to the side. All what?

Chiara. We all love Edo, but . . . this can’t be easy. It’s not how we were raised.

Chiara shook her head. I can’t afford to think that way.

Patrizia started to say more but stopped at the set of Chiara’s jaw. Instead, she asked, And Massimo. How is he?

You haven’t seen him?

No. Patrizia tipped her head onto her hand. Which is strange.

Chiara shifted uneasily. He’s . . . not himself. Still.

Patrizia sipped her cappuccino. No wonder, I suppose. For Jacopo’s sake, I hope he’ll patch things up with Isotta. Maybe after burying his mother. They should have done that already. It’s been weeks since she died!

That’s what everyone says. All I know is that given Anna’s . . . state . . . after the accident, they had to cremate her. And Massimo hasn’t been able to organize a service. She dropped her voice. To tell you the truth, I predict it will be awhile.

Patrizia clucked sympathetically. Seems like bad luck, waiting so long.

Chiara smiled. I think where Anna is, she won’t need luck anymore.

Chiara!

They both laughed.

Patrizia remembered, Oh! Speaking of Massimo . . . have you met his uncle or cousin . . . the man buying the restaurant?

Pietro? Not yet. Chiara considered. Magda met them, of course. Or Pietro, at least. She claims she’s not impressed. But the man had a successful restaurant in Perugia, so it may simply be Magda being Magda.

Patrizia took out her purse, prompting Chiara to say, Let me know how the doctor’s visit goes today. How is Filamena feeling?

Pretty sick. So Bea insists it’s a boy.

What do you think?

Patrizia grinned. My money is on a girl.

A girl?

Yes, Marco calls the baby his sister and even though the teachers say he’s slow, I think in some ways he’s more aware than any of us.

All these babies. So wonderful.

But Patrizia couldn’t help noticing the fleeting sadness in Chiara’s smile.

Isotta stirred at the knock on the door. Tugging her robe around her body, she peeped quickly at the sleeping baby before tiptoeing to the door.

Massimo.

She smiled. Come in. I think he may be extra beautiful today.

He stood beside the cradle, his hands in his pockets and said nothing.

Isotta peered into his face, her smile eager.

Finally, Massimo nodded slowly. He looks like my father.

He looks like you.

Massimo fiddled with his watch. When will he wake up?

Isotta shrugged. He’s been sleeping for an hour. So maybe soon. You can stay if you want to wait. Or I can call you when he’s awake.

A shadow crossed Massimo’s face. He’s my son, Isotta. You don’t control when I hold him.

I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . Isotta lifted her hands helplessly.

Massimo shook his head and sat on the edge of the chair. He stared at the baby, sleeping peacefully. The sound of the falls drew Massimo’s eyes out the window. He watched for a moment, the play of light splashing against the stones. Isotta watched with him. Waiting for something. She wasn’t sure what.

With a nod, Massimo said, Chiara gave you a good room. Isotta frowned. Why did Massimo mention this every time?

She offered her stock answer. "It was her mother’s. They never use it, I can’t imagine—"

When are you coming home? He interrupted.

Softly, Isotta said, Massimo. We talked about this.

He shook his head.

Did he not remember? She went on, Bringing Jacopo to the house, it would be too much pressure. For us. I’m willing to see if we can make things work . . . Her smile faltered. After Jacopo was born, she’d had a rush of affection for Massimo. She still felt it sometimes. But it always seemed to evaporate when he walked through the door.

She didn’t finish the sentence. And Massimo didn’t notice. He put out a hand toward the baby, and Isotta tensed. Under his breath, Massimo said, He looks like my father.

Isotta tried for a teasing tone, hoping to prod Massimo into noticing that he seemed to be circling through the same corners of his brain. Edo says he looks like me.

Storm clouds passed over Massimo’s face. Don’t, Isotta. He stood and strode from the room.

Isotta looked after him, stunned. Massimo had told her he found her as beautiful as a Renaissance painting until she had almost believed it. Could he have been lying about that, too? She dropped her head, suddenly unsure.

And why did he storm out, virtually every visit? Isotta looked up as he burst back into the room, decreeing as if he’d never left, You may have birthed him, Isotta, but you don’t get all of him. You don’t get . . . His voice trailed off.

Isotta shook her head and opened her mouth briefly before she reconsidered and closed it. Then, How is Margherita?

He looked up at her with his old familiar grin. She can’t stop talking about how she’s a big sister now. Thank you for letting her come yesterday. And the day before. I know you need rest, but she wanted to see the baby . . . to hold him . . . His voice cracked and his gaze lingered on his bassinet.

I want them to be close.

I never had a brother. Or a sister.

I know.

It would have been easier. Maybe Mamma would have been different . . . If it wasn’t only me. Maybe she would have had someone else to sink her attention into. Or maybe more children would have made Babbo more attentive to her. If their marriage had been better . . . Isotta noticed the tears welling in Massimo’s eyes. This, she understood. She felt the same, always on the edge of weeping. She sat beside him and wiped her eyes free of the easy tears.

Massimo didn’t notice, lost in memories. She’s gone now.

Isotta nodded. I know.

I don’t miss her.

Of course.

She was awful. Really, really awful. Suddenly Massimo looked like a lost little boy, hands gripping each other. And also like he might bolt again. Isotta hesitated before placing her hand over his. The man carried so many shades of grief. Was it any wonder he had a hard time finding himself? Isotta couldn’t help wondering which self was the real one, anyway? The charming man she fell in love with couldn’t be him. That swagger only obscured his brokenness. But this Massimo, full of erratic cracks . . . this couldn’t be the real Massimo either.

Looking up at her touch, Massimo noticed Isotta’s tears. He put an arm around her shoulder. Isotta winced. But the gesture seemed to imply nothing more than comfort. And eventually, he clasped his hands on his knees again.

At the sound of stirring in the cradle, Isotta stood. She watched as Jacopo’s eyes fluttered open. Isotta smiled and slid her hands beneath Jacopo, hugging him to herself for a moment before resting him in Massimo’s arms.

The tension around Massimo’s jaw loosened as he whispered in wonder, My boy. He ran a finger across the baby’s cheek, tracing his features, brushing back his hair. Isotta could barely hear Massimo as he murmured, He looks like my father.

Moonlight drifted through the sheer curtains. Edo propped himself on his elbow, his eyes trained on Francy, glowing in the beam of light. Guitar held so easily it could be a part of him.

Francy stared deep into Edo’s eyes as he strummed and sang, his voice deep and husky—

Rooms become forests

The trees wild and ancient

A freefall of stars, if I’m beside you.

Edo’s breath caught. He watched Francy’s full lips surround the words, his voice rich and full on the last verse.

Suns rise and set as one

The heat of my whole life

Your beating heart, when I’m beside you

The last chord echoed, faded away. A surge, a tide, crushed Edo’s heart. Trembling, Edo asked, Yours? You wrote that?

Francy, his eyes on his hands still lingering on the guitar, shook his head with a small smile. Luca Passarelli.

I’ve never heard it.

It’s old. My favorite.

Mine, too.

Francy looked up with a grin. You’ve never heard it.

It’s my favorite. Now. Edo held out his hand. Come back.

Francy wove his fingers through Edo’s. His voice throbbing, Francy said, Will it end? This wanting you, always?

Edo shook his head. Never.

Ava and Elisa crested the stairs of the castello and crossed the yard to the arbor, the entrance to the kitchen garden. Elisa hesitated. Ava cast a curious glance at her daughter before smiling reassuringly and holding out her hand. It’s okay. The entrance to the castle’s cellar is well closed. Ale made sure. And we’ll walk by it quickly, I promise.

Elisa tried to smile in return. I know it’s stupid.

Ava shivered. How had the same word that haunted her childhood also haunted her daughter’s? Firmly, she said, Not stupid at all. Of course this part of the castello brings back bad memories.

Elisa shook her head and stared into the darkened room. Ava pulled Elisa in for a light hug, breathing in her scent of soap and pencil shavings. Until a shadow fell across the path, light as a butterfly. Elisa beamed, Fatima!

Fatima stepped into the courtyard. I’m not here to lurk, I promise. Or sneak back into the cellar.

Ava laughed. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. The hatch is boarded.

Fatima nodded somberly. Probably for the best. Her gaze drifted into the room . . .

Ava asked, You’re still curious?

Fatima shrugged.

Elisa grabbed Fatima’s hand. Enough of the underground. Ava and I are going to plant wildflowers, do you want to help?

Fatima smiled. Sure! She stopped and looked to Ava. I mean, as long as . . .

Ava wrapped her hand around Fatima’s elbow and pulled her forward. Many hands make light work.

Ava led the girls to the planter boxes she’d built around the kitchen garden, at the edge of the olive trees. I thought we’d plant perennials here. At Elisa’s frown, Ava added, They’ll bloom every year, so we can pick them whenever we like. You, too, Fatima. You help plant, you gather as many flowers as you like.

Fatima grinned. Cool! My mamma loved when we brought those bouquets, remember, Elisa?

The girls started chattering, the words a blur of memories mixed with storytelling. They seemed not to notice when Ava slipped trowels into their hands, but they did simultaneously kneel, turning the earth over in erratic piles. Their work lacked order or even rhythm. Rocky jumbles sat on top of shallowly turned dirt.

Ava tensed.

Should she correct their effort? Should she shrug it off? Should she fix it later?

She thought of what her mother would do. Her mother would yell over the tide of teen girl conversation and order Elisa and Fatima to focus, to do their work properly.

Ava decided to do the opposite. What did this tiny part of the garden matter? Besides, she reminded herself, wildflowers grow in the poorest conditions.

Kneeling on the ground across from the girls, Ava allowed the happy chatter to wash over her. She sank her hands into the loamy earth, bringing it up and over, raking it with her fingers. The sunshine warmed her shoulders and she decided that after planting, she’d treat the girls to gelato.

Funny. Ten minutes earlier she’d wrestled with how to mother a teenager. Now she smiled easily along with the girls laughing about, well . . . Ava still wasn’t sure. It sounded like a student had accidentally taped his mother’s receipt for bunion medicine into his quaderno. But it didn’t matter that Ava didn’t understand, or that her daughter relaxed so much more fully with Fatima than with her.

She hoped all parenting dilemmas would be as simple to resolve as not micro-managing the planting of perennials. But something told her that mothering Elisa would not be as easy as growing wildflowers.

Francy lifted his suitcase over the threshold into Bar Birbo.

Edo watched Francy navigate around the door. I can’t believe you’re leaving. Already. His heart twisted.

Parking his bag in the corner of the bar, Francy placed his hands on his hips and glared at the offending luggage. The river flows swiftly when we wish it would stand still. He leaned across the bar and brushed a kiss on Edo’s lips before touching him lightly on the nose with his forefinger. I’m going to miss this face.

Edo clasped Francy’s hand. This face will miss you. The men grinned at each other, eyes dreamy. Edo broke the spell with a sigh. Are you sure you have to go?

Shrugging, Francy replied, My name is on the marquee. I can’t see how to send someone in my stead.

Is your picture on the marquee? Maybe nobody will notice if someone else is up there.

But Edo knew that was ridiculous. Francy’s face, his whole bearing, bore the markings of musical nobility. A heartthrob version of Roberto Vecchioni. Nobody would be fooled by an impostor. He ordered himself to stop acting desperate. To not ruin their last moments together.

Francy didn’t seem to notice Edo’s self-recrimination as he put his wallet and phone on the bar. He glanced back out the window and said, I’m glad I got to see the spring light in Santa Lucia. He turned back to Edo and grinned. With you in it.

Edo blushed and asked, "Caffè?"

Cappuccino. Let’s not hurry.

Edo nodded and turned to grind the beans. As he placed the basket under the La Pavoni, Francy said, I expect you to keep me up to date on the Santa Lucia news. How Isotta and the baby are, what’s happening at the castello . . . everything.

Setting the cup in front of Francy, Edo blinked back tears. You can count on it.

Francy reached for a sugar packet. Good. Because Babbo’s news from Chiara is going to be limited to the old people.

Edo laughed and felt his heart click into place. Santa Lucia is pretty much my entire conversational ore mine. I can promise you lots of stories.

And Edo, Francy paused. I know it’s hard for you to get away. But please. Come.

Edo’s heart plunged into his belly. The thought of seeing Francy. On stage. Wouldn’t it be a little too much like having Leonardo DiCaprio step down from the Titanic poster he’d had on his wall as a child, pretending he’d had a crush on Kate Winslet?

Francy stirred his coffee and mused, I’d love for you to meet my friends. They are an interesting lot. You’ll love Giancarlo, his stories of biking through Switzerland have gone viral.

Edo hesitated. Your friends . . . they all go to your shows?

When they can. It’s always a party afterward. Lots of people to meet, new ideas. You’ll love it.

Edo nodded, suddenly doubtful. Leonardo DiCaprio stepped back onto his doomed ship. Edo smiled weakly, running his fingers through his hair. His new volumizer didn’t seem to work at all. He could tell his hair had fallen.

Francy sipped his coffee. Stop fussing. You know you look gorgeous enough already.

Edo leaned forward to kiss Francy, but just then Bea shoved open the door and shepherded in a woman who looked to be in her early forties. As she approached the bar, Edo realized the woman was older than he initially thought. Her hair color confused him. Middle-aged women in Santa Lucia usually dyed their hair coal-black or cherry-red, a solid wall of color. The dark mahogany of this woman’s hair lilted with highlights and lowlights. She seemed to realize her hair and her pale blue dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt, elevated the fashion of her surroundings. Her chin jutted up a touch as she gazed around.

That’s enough, there. Bea announced, as Edo pulled back reluctantly. This here is Livia, Massimo’s cousin once removed or however you calculate that. His relation, as it were. She’s helping with Margherita and her husband Pietro is considering buying L’Ora Dorata. Needs a lot of work! Bea added as an aside to Livia.

Livia nodded in greeting to Edo and Francy before turning to Bea. Yes, it does. Not only the fire damage but the general neglect. It’s in far humbler state than my husband’s other restaurants. For Edo and Francy’s edification, she added, My husband has two other establishments. One in Perugia and one in San Gemini. You won’t have heard of San Gemini, I’m sure.

Edo raised an eyebrow and said, Sure I have. It’s outside Terni, isn’t it? On the way to Carsulae?

Francy took a sip of his coffee and said, It is.

Livia smiled indulgently. Of course. Carsulae. Everyone will have been to the ruins.

Francy tilted his head in thought. A small town. I would have thought any restaurants there would be owned by residents.

Livia laughed. True enough. Pietro bought it from his brother who lived there. As a favor, you see.

Bea asked, Chiara here, Edo?

Edo shook his head. She and Fabrizio drove to pick up napkins. Somehow we forgot to order them.

I bet you did! You’ve had plenty to distract you. Bea laughed good-naturedly. Turning to Livia, she added, I’ll introduce you later. Chiara knows everyone and everything about Santa Lucia. More than she ever lets on, right Edo?

Edo mugged, I’ll never tell.

Bea guffawed. "Good boy. Now Livia, I’m getting a caffè, can I order you one to welcome you to our village? Or a cappuccino?"

Livia brushed crumbs off the stools before choosing one to sit on. "How hospitable! Yes, I’d love a caffè, grazie. I’ll tell you how it compares to Perugia. My son worked at an excellent bar through most of high school. I’d always have him make mine."

Edo stepped to the La Pavoni, Francy following to better continue their conversation. Edo’s head tipped to the side to better hear Francy’s words over the sound of the grinding beans. Francy leaned forward, speaking more quickly, using his normally reserved hands for emphasis. The men laughed, punctuating the end of the story.

Bea settled herself on a stool. Your children are in Perugia still?

Yes, graduating high school this month.

Bea frowned and said in realization, Both? Oh! Twins?

Livia nodded, then lowered her voice as she gestured to the luggage in the corner. His suitcase. He’s leaving?

Bea tried to modulate her volume as well, but her voice rang through the bar. Yes. Poor Edo. He just got his boyfriend here, and off he goes again.

Gay? Livia sighed, not waiting for an answer. Hard enough, but long distance? Of course, living as we do in a major city, we know many people in that community. Some who try to make a go of it with far away partners. It’s like I was telling my son—

Patrizia’s entrance into the bar cut off Livia’s words.

Bea introduced Livia to Patrizia, who nodded her regular coffee order to Edo as he placed two diminutive white cups of espresso on the gleaming wooden bar.

Livia leaned toward Patrizia. You’re not going to believe this, she said. Patrizia looked around, wondering if Livia might be speaking to someone else. But no, the woman’s gaze seemed fixed on Patrizia as she went on, Francy is leaving. Already!

Patrizia looked up at Francy leaning across the counter, speaking earnestly to Edo, his eyes dancing. Leaving? She asked. "Oh! For Bologna. Yes, he has a show—"

Livia drew herself up. Mark my words. This is a recipe for disaster.

Ciao, Edo, Chiara greeted her nephew. Good nap?

Edo yawned and scratched his head. Too soon to say.

Chiara grinned. Did you see Francy off okay?

Edo grinned in return. None of your business.

Chiara turned and chuckled to herself. Looks like I got my answer.

Edo shoved her playfully out the way to grind the beans for his coffee. I’ll make it. Thanks for letting me sleep.

Chiara shrugged. No problem. It’s been quiet. She gazed around the bar, drinking in the cat curled up on the chair Fabrizio usually occupied, the sunlight slanting in through the door, propped ajar to allow the breeze, tinged with the scent of green, to drift in.

Edo whistled as he pulled his shot of espresso.

Chiara put down her cleaning cloth and turned to Edo. Edo we need to talk. About the living situation.

Oh no. Here it came. He’d been waiting for her to say something about him and Francy. Yes, she liked Francy, as her boyfriend’s son she sort of had to, even without knowing it was Francy who saved the bar from her ex-husband’s greedy clutches. Still, she couldn’t possibly be comfortable with Francy spending so many nights in Edo’s room. Edo knew he should’ve gone to Francy’s, at least some nights, but having to open the bar so early . . . and he and Francy just worked here. Like magic. They spent half the night with their fingers threaded together, talking with an ease that felt fairly ridiculous for people who should barely know each other.

But, Edo reasoned, Chiara’s Catholic upbringing couldn’t spare him this moment. She’d been fine with his sexual orientation in theory. Up until the point that she woke up in the middle of the night to Francy and Edo whispering as they made their way from Edo’s room to one of the rooms that overlooked the falls, wrapped in a blanket with a bottle of wine.

Edo forced down a gulp and leaned against the counter. What’s that?

The door shoved open, and Bea barreled into