Page 35 of Tangling Hearts

Chapter Twenty-Three

Christiano

Saturday Afternoon: outdoor market in Lucca, Tuscany. Mood: crap.

“Cinque euro,” Maria argues, waving the bundled arugula at me in her balled fist.

In Italian, I argue, “Maria, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying that.” She eyes me, sucking on her teeth between closed, tight lips. “Uno euro, e non di piú.

“Bah!” She throws it on the pile and juts her elderly chin at me, refusing my price.

Normally, I’d laugh, but not today. Today I walk away without a backward glance, disinterested in engaging further. Pulling out my phone, I look to see if I missed a call. We had a short text conversation yesterday and Annie promised we’d talk today, and it’s all I can think about. That, and of Sophia’s naked body, her wild hair, her musky smell.

Merda. Life is not kind.

Tucking the only thing I’ve bought so far under my arm – a paper-wrapped loaf of rosemary bread – I text Annie: “Quando?” It would have been just as easy to type: When? I know when she reads it, she’ll know the mood I’m in.

“Christiano!” a friendly voice calls. Before I even look, I know exactly who it is.

“Francis!” He walks to give me a hug, wrapping his arms firmly around me and smacking my back twice before letting go. “It’s good to see you, old friend. What brings you to Tuscany?”

With a buoyant grin, he points at the sky. “Look at this sun, eh? You think the Brits have this in London?”

Looking up at the day, I argue, “Then why did you move there? Are you a glutton for punishment?”

He laughs, his big belly rocking with the sound. “I must be. It would explain my three ex-wives! Eh? Come! Let’s shop together.” He picks up a grape while a young vendor has his back turned. “Ah, it’s good to be home. And to be speaking with our mother tongue! Speaking of mothers, how is yours?”

I step out of the way of running children to answer, “Well! And yours? How is Liana?”

“Fine! Fine!” He waves to people as we pass, faces who beam at him with recognition. “Won’t stay out of my personal business, but that’s her job, right? I think it keeps her young.”

I laugh in full agreement. “Mine as well. If she didn’t have me to ask about non-existent grandchildren – an ever-present request… no, demand! – then what would she have to wake up for?”

He shakes his head at the truth of it. “Is that Sophia?” He throws me a look that implies her beauty is on his mind. “She looks incredible!”

I glance and catch the darkness of her stare before she turns away. Francis is about to raise his hand to call her name, but I grab it before it goes up and silence him in the process. A cloud descends on my heart, but I keep my voice the same as best I can. “She gets better with the years, Francis. But let’s leave her be. I don’t want to share you just yet. When did you get back?”

“Just last night! Only for a short visit. Ah, Antony!” Francis turns and hugs another from our neighborhood and I watch as they exchange idle conversation, catching up for a quick moment.

Sophia, Francis and I used to play together as children. Her younger brother Eduardo joined us when we let him. But the three of us, we are all the same age, though Francis now seemingly wears more years. A financial tycoon, he has been the prize of several wives. He works too hard and now his hair is almost entirely gray, where mine is salt and pepper. To add to all that, his weight bears forty pounds more than it should. But his demeanor always brightens any room and his presence is welcomed by all.

I believe it is this charm that has him three times married, and his ambition, three times divorced.

“Caio, Antony!” Francis turns to me, and we continue on through the crowded market, but he steals a glance Sophia’s way and I peek, too, curiosity getting the better of me. Her back is to us, her legs slightly visible thanks to the sun shining through her dress. It traces outlines on the long waves of her hair, too, and Francis and I almost run into a cart of zucchinis from distraction. He laughs. “No woman I know in London has the sex appeal of that woman. I’ll have to visit her. Is she still single?”

A sting of jealousy takes me by surprise, and I falter. “Sí.”

His round cheek pinches in with a solitary dimple. “Look at that face! Did something happen between you?”

Looking away to cover the truth, I scoff, “No! Of course not.”

His eyes narrow, but I stop to pick up an heirloom tomato, squeezing it and bringing it to my nose for inspection. From behind me, he asks, in English, “And what of your American girl?”

Handing the tomato to the young girl behind the fruit baskets, I’m reluctant to answer. “She is back home. America – not my home. For now.” To the girl, I say, “Cinque del tuo meglio. Grazie.” She smiles, her fresh face flawless around sweet brown eyes. Her little hands get to work selecting five tomatoes she thinks are superior.

Francis leans in toward me, switching back to Italian. “Are you telling me your American is gone, Sophia is single, and you are here with me? Are you insane? When are you going to wake up?”

I snort, looking to the sun, letting it blur my vision and squint my eyes. “You just asked about Sophia for yourself. Make up your mind.”

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