Page 26 of The Unraveling of Julia

Julia slipped on her sunglasses and smoothed down her white cotton sweater, which she had on with jeans and espadrilles. She got her phone and checked Google for a walking map. Evidently, Croce was a village of about twenty winding streets, built on a hill with its town center at the top.

She headed uphill on a cobblestone walkway and into the charming village. Its scale was small, and both sides of the walkway were lined with cozy stone homes topped by red tile roofs. Most of the entrances were arched and each had a different door of unvarnished oak or a tasteful green, mauve, or tan. Over each house flapped a long, multicolored pennant that looked like it was from the Renaissance.

She followed the street around a curve, passing terra-cotta pots full of geraniums, small lemon trees, and jasmine, scenting the air with a natural perfume. Ivy climbed on stone facades, and palm trees sprouted here and there. Oddly, there was no one on the walkway, but she could hear people inside the houses talking. Occasionally, the aroma of brewing coffee wafted from an open window.

She walked under a beautiful arch that connected both sides of the street, then continued uphill. She passed a small statue of the Virgin Mary embedded in the wall, then noticed a silhouetted figure behind a curtain, watching her from a window.

Ahead a small sign readCAFFETERIA, and outside it two older men sat at a table under a tan awning. The glass door stood open, with a colorful line of stickers advertisingLOTTERIA ITALIA,PUNTO LIS, andSEGAFREDO ZANETTI. She headed there and when she reached the store, nodded at the old men. They looked away.

She entered, looking around. The store was empty, and there was a display case that held a variety of pastries and panini. Behind the counter were stacks of M&M’s, Haribo candies, and Chupa Chups next to stacks of cigarettes and Bic lighters.

She shifted over to the register and waited for a clerk. Long strips of lottery scratch-offs hung behind the counter, and there appeared to be an office to the right, but nobody came out.

“Hello?Buongiorno?” Julia called out, but there was no reply. She walked to the end of the counter and peered into the office. She couldn’t see anybody but she smelled cigarette smoke. Somebody was there, but they weren’t helping her. Maybe they were on break.

She let it go and left, smiling at the old men out front, but they looked pointedly away again. She continued uphill but the street wound this way and that, so she couldn’t see around the corner. She was heading toward the village center, where the elevation was highest, and she heard voices and an engine revving up.

Suddenly a young man on a white Vespa veered around the corner. Julia sprang out of the way, but he sped past laughing, the sound echoing against the stone. She wondered where the stereotypically friendly Italians were, but maybe it was better this way, so she didn’t have to make conversation.

She followed the curving walkway to a small, sunny piazza lined with houses and shops around a pretty marble fountain. Opposite was a gorgeous medieval church tower, a few more houses with rows of mailboxes, then a barbershop and a women’s boutique with a colorful dress in the window.

Julia flashed on the photo of Rossi in the pretty yellow shift and on impulse, she went inside the boutique. There were no other customers, and the store was bright, with racks of summery dresses along white walls. Murano glass pendants illuminated a mirrored counter in the back, where an older saleswoman looked up from over her reading glasses.

Julia crossed the room. “Buongiorno. Do you speak English?”

“Yes.” The saleswoman’s graying hair was pulled back into a lowponytail, and she had on a pink cotton dress. She was an attractive seventy-something, and Julia realized she would be about the same age as Rossi.

“Did you know Emilia Rossi? She passed away recently.”

“No,” the saleswoman answered flatly. “May I help you with something?”

“Are you sure you didn’t know her?”

“I am sure.”

“She must’ve come in shopping. I can show you her photo—”

“I am not here to look at photos.”

Whoa.“Are you new? Maybe that’s why you don’t know her?”

“Signora, I am the proprietor. I am here every day we are open, for almost seventeen years.”

“Can you tell me where another dress store is, in town?”

“There is no other.” The saleswoman gestured at the door. “If you’re not here to shop, please leave.”

“Okay, sorry, thank you.” Julia turned and left, mystified. Rossi had to have been in the shop once, especially if it was the only dress shop in Croce. It wasn’t likely that the saleswoman didn’t know her, but Julia had no idea why she would lie. She stopped at the pharmacy, asked about Rossi, and showed the clerk the picture, but he said he didn’t know her, either. She even went next door to the bakery, but the baker said the same thing, coldly. She felt like the whole town was unfriendly, for some reason.

She left the bakery, crossed the piazza, and headed down the walkway to the realtor’s office.

16

EXCLUSIVE TUSCAN PROPERTIES, read the sign, and Julia entered Franco’s office, which was classy/rustic, the trademark Tuscan vibe. A sleek rectangle, it held three empty desks on black easel legs with black ergonomic chairs. Architectural spotlights shone on overhead tracks, and artsy framed posters of London, Paris, and Prague lined the white walls.

Franco approached from a back room, smiling in another striped shirt and trim dark suit. “Good morning, Julia! Great to see you! May I get you some coffee or water?”

“Water, thank you.”

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