Page 17 of The Unraveling of Julia

Anna Mattia waved with a flourish. “All furnish antique from Florence. Signora love antique.”

Julia eyed the furniture, which did look antique, so it had an excuse for being old and vaguely macabre. There was a long couch of coral velvet and several mismatched chairs around a heavy wood coffee table. Ancient brass fixtures hung on heavy chains, and there were old spindly ceramic lamps on the end tables. A large stone fireplace had beautiful tan, brown, and caramel-hued stone. There were no photos, books, or other personal effects, but they could have been in storage.

Anna Mattia smiled. “Signora love ’er villa. You like?”

Julia didn’t want to offend Anna Mattia, but didn’t know what to say. “Yes, but I think it might need some fixing, right?”

“To me, yes.” Anna Mattia pointed to her chest. “But Signora say no change, no fix. Piero want to cut vine, fix roof. Signora say no.”

“Why?” Julia asked, mystified.

“Don’ know. She fix for Wi-Fi but no TV. Only comput’.” Anna Mattia gestured vaguely around the living room. “Signora like very clean ’er villa. I make clean, for ’er.”

“I see.” Julia noticed that the tile floor glistened, the windows sparkled, and the air smelled lemon-scented. Its cleanliness was the only thing making the villa habitable, like an immaculate dump.

“Come.” Anna Mattia led, and Julia followed her into a large dining room with a heavy wood table and high-backed chairs in the same dark curved wood. There was a smaller fireplace with another stone surround, and Julia ran a finger over its rough surface.

“What kind of stone is this?”

“Alberese. Only in Tuscany.” Anna Mattia spread her arms. “Benvenuto a casa, welcome ’ome. Sorry, my English not so good. Signora teach.” She turned to an older man who entered with Julia’s suitcase and set it down. “This my Piero.” Anna Mattia said something in Italian that must have reminded him to smile because he did so, his dark eyes flashing from deep crow’s-feet. He was so tan that his wispy white hair stood out on his dark scalp. He had a short, burly build in a baggy white shirt and long green pants, grass-stained at the knees.

“Piacere.” Piero extended a hand to Julia, and she liked the meaty roughness of his palm.

Anna Mattia rolled her eyes. “Piero, speak English.”

“It’s okay,” Julia interjected, smiling. “I’m happy to learn Italian.”

Anna Mattia motioned to her. “Come.”

Julia followed Anna Mattia into a large kitchen. It had a deep white sink of real porcelain above a window with unvarnished sills that were rotting and water-damaged. A long farm table in the center matched cabinets of unvarnished oak. The walls were dingy, the floor tiles cracked. The appliances were outdated, but clean. There was no dishwasher or microwave.

“See, bruschetta, prosciutto. Fresh.Buon appetito.” Anna Mattia lifted the domed ceramic lid off a plate on the table, revealing wedges of thick yellow cheese and goat cheese, furls of prosciutto, and bruschetta of tomatoes and purplish cabbage on thick pieces of crusty bread. Delicious aromas of fresh tomato, sharp cheese, and spicy meat filled the air.

“Wow, thank you!” Julia took a bite of bruschetta, loving the crunch of the bread, the tartness of the tomatoes, and the salty sweetness of the balsamic. “This is delicious!”

“Grazie.” Anna Mattia crossed to a cabinet and pulled out a largeglass and a bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva. She unpeeled the metal top, grabbed a corkscrew, and opened it with the skill of a sommelier. “Chianti from local grape. Best ChiantiinChianti.” Anna Mattia rested a hand on the bottle, with pride. “This Super Tuscan.”

“What’s that?”

“Better Chianti.”

Julia wanted to piece together the villa history. “So you and Piero came thirteen years ago. Was this a vineyard when you came?”

“No.”

“Did Signora have help before you?”

“Don’ know. She get sick,tumore al seno.” Anna Mattia gestured to her breast. “I ’elp ’er, I take care. Piero, ’e ’elp, too, ’e carry ’er.”

Aw.“How long was she sick for?”

“Maybe five year. We stay one month more. Signora give us some money, and we go. We ’ave son in Chieti and granchildr’, two boys.” Anna Mattia brightened, handing Julia a glass with a generous pour. “Cin-cin.”

“Cin-cin.” Julia raised her glass. “To Signora Rossi.”

“Sì, Signora Rossi.” Anna Mattia smiled with approval, and Julia sipped the wine, which tasted amazing. She’d never been a Chianti fan, but this wine had refinement, with body, brightness, fruit, salt, sugar, and even a little earthy taste.

“Okay?” Anna Mattia asked, and her Italian accent made it sound adorable, likeO-kayee?

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