People kept coming over to the table, locals who knew Franco and were curious about his beautiful companion. Marie smiled and shook hands every time. Everybody was so polite, almost reverential, that Marie wanted to return their friendly gestures. And so, to Franco’s astonishment and the delight of the other guests, she sprinkled a few Italian phrases into her remarks in English.
“How on earth do you know my language? And why have you never let on before now? Do you have another admirer hidden away somewhere?” Franco asked jealously.
“Well if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you!” Marie replied teasingly. Then she laughed and told him how the Italian migrant laborers had come to Lauscha twenty years ago to help build the railroad. “Two young fellows stayed behind and married village girls. Lugiana is the daughter of one of those families, and she comes by twice a week to help us with the housekeeping.” She shrugged. “Over the years I’ve picked up a word or two from her. But to tell the truth, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself speaking broken Italian to you.”
“I’d hardly call it broken—you speak it very well!” Franco seemed offended that she had kept this a secret from him until now.
“The signorina is not just beautiful but clever as well! A woman like that is rarer than a Lombard truffle,” said Stefano, the restaurant owner. He looked at Franco with respect. “May I pour the lady another glass?”
Marie shook her head. “Two glasses is enough, thank you. I know that I shouldn’t refuse de Lucca wine, but I don’t want to end up tipsy.” She already felt a little light-headed. But before she could mention this to Franco, the next visitor came to the table. He was the owner of another nearby restaurant, and unlike the rest of the well-wishers he was rather reserved as he spoke to Franco in a low voice. Marie expected Franco to tell her what the man was saying, as he had with all the others, but she waited in vain.
She frowned. She had never seen Franco’s eyes glow with that strange, cold light before.
“Is there anyone in this neighborhood who you don’t know?” she asked, almost in annoyance, once the man had gone. She suddenly felt nauseous from the smell of cigarette smoke, garlic, and cooking odors.
Franco frowned. “It’s more the other way around. The people here know me, or they know my father. I have trouble putting a name to every face.”
He was still talking, but suddenly Marie couldn’t hear his words. She felt ill. She swallowed hard.
“Marie, what is it? What’s wrong, my darling? You’re pale!”
Marie couldn’t even answer. It took all her concentration just to keep breathing. She was so dizzy, her throat felt tight . . .
She mustn’t faint . . .
The first thing that Marie noticed when she woke up was the smell of linen drying in the sunshine. It reminded her of home. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. These walls, the beige curtains, the green striped wallpaper—all of it was strange. Her muscles tensed up as though in response to some hidden threat.
“Mia cara . . .” She was with Franco! The tension drained away at once.
“What happened? The festival . . .” She wanted to sit up, but Franco pushed her gently back down.
“You fainted. It was probably from the heat. Stefano and I carried you here to my apartment so that you can recover.”
His apartment.
No more strangers around them.
No noisy crowds.
No more feast of Saint Rocco.
Marie sat up with some effort. Her dress clung to her back. She wanted to lift the cloth away from her skin, but the bodice was too tight.
“You still don’t feel well? Should I call a doctor?”
Marie shook her head. “I need a little more air, that’s all. I’m so hot.” She pointed to the buttons that were hidden in the seam down her back. “Perhaps you could . . .”
Their eyes met. Marie saw a mixture of concern and desire in Franco’s gaze, and it electrified her. A hot shudder ran through her body when she felt Franco’s hands at the back of her neck. As the first button eased through its elaborately embroidered buttonhole, then the next, she had to make an effort not to cling to him. She felt the urge to tell him to go faster.
Then at last he was at the last button.
It was now or never. Marie wriggled out of the bodice and threw it down next to her without looking to see where it landed. The thought that soon she would feel Franco’s hands on her naked skin almost drove her out of her mind.
She turned her face toward him and came closer to his mouth, opened her own mouth for his questing tongue. They kissed, tiny kisses as light as a feather. Franco’s hands wandered up and down her back, his fingers fumbling with the satin strap that held her corset together. Soon this too fell to the floor.