started to cry and hugged her mother as if she were being torn away at that very moment. The words she said were muffled against the cloth of her mother’s dress.
“I should go.”
After Catarina and Celestina talked, her mother settled her into bed for a rest and quietly left the house. She made her way to the Carlucci home and then lifted the heavy metal knocker and rapped it against the front door. Signor Carlucci opened the door—his eyes widening slightly when he saw Catarina’s mother standing on the threshold, but he recovered quickly and kept his features bland.
“Signor Carlucci,” she said, taking in his bruised nose with some element of satisfaction, “I’d like a word.”
Signor Carlucci opened the door and motioned her in.
“Would you like a seat?” he asked, gesturing to a chair, his mask of superiority firmly in place.
“No, I would not sit in this home,” Celestina spat out her words. “Instead I’ll come right to the point. My daughter will no longer be working in this household.”
“Catarina told me what you did. And I want you to know this: I know every woman in this village and we talk. And if you say a word against her, I’ll tell every one of them what you did to Catarina today—starting with your wife.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Signora. I’ve done nothing. I’m a respectable man,” he laughed mirthlessly and waved his hand as if dismissing her words.
“Maybe you’re a businessman and I’m just a farmer’s wife, but our family has been here for generations. I saw Catarina with my own eyes as she ran through the square trying to get away from you. And then, of course, your broken nose speaks for itself, “ she gestured to his face—a falsely sweet smile on her lips and her eyebrows raised in challenge.
“What is it that you want from me, exactly, Signora?” he asked, as if giving in to a troublesome child, a sigh of resignation escaping him.
“What I want is for you to keep your ugly lies to yourself. Don’t you dare speak my daughter’s name in this village or anywhere. Capisci?”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you hear any talk against Catarina, you can be assured, it didn’t come from me. I can’t speak for any other man that little tease might provoke,” he sneered.
Before she realized what was happening, Celestina reached out and slapped his face. It was as if her hand acted on its own, but it felt good to slap the sneer off of him.
“Don’t,” she said, and with that, let herself out.
She wiped her hand on her skirt as if to remove any trace of contact with the loathsome man. Catarina would be gone in a few months, and then, once she knew she was safely away, she would casually drop a word or two to her friends at the water pump about Signor Carlucci, just to make sure that this never happened to any other girls in the village.
She sighed and made her way home to start cooking dinner for her family. She thought about losing Catarina to America and Franco Brunelli, and for the first time felt not fear but hopefulness for the life her daughter would lead.
JULIETTE, IMMERSING HERSELF IN ITALIAN, AND SHOPPING FOR MOZZARELLA IN THE CHILL AUTUMN AIR
Out in the market, large crimson canvas tote bag in hand, Juliette wove her way along the market stalls. Taking in new sights and sounds was a welcome distraction—even exciting—but the smells were what she found intoxicating. The aromas of pungent cheese and heavy-scented flowers filled the chilly late-autumn air and woke up her senses. She was suddenly seeing things vividly again after the haze she’d been in since the accident: as if her senses had woken up when the plane touched down in Italy, during the train ride from the Florence airport to Lucca while passing olive orchards and vine-covered hillsides, and finally during her long, dreamless sleep.
She walked up to a cheese stall and stood back, observing the huge variety. She was shy to dive in and speak the language after realizing how rusty she’d been while trying to communicate at the train station.
As she hesitated, a man walked by, accidentally brushing her arm as he approached the vendor.
“Mi scusi, Signorina,” he said, turning to Juliette with a smile.
The response Juliette was forming in her mind immediately left her consciousness and only a confused sound came out of her mouth.
The man was absolutely beautiful as only Italian men can be.
“Ciao, Roman,” the cheese vender smiled and clapped the man on the back in a friendly manner. “Come stai?”
“Bene, bene. I need some cheese for my class this week, Vito,” he said in rapid-fire Italian. “The new term is beginning, so we’re going to start with something simple. I’m thinking about gorgonzola because I don’t want to intimidate the students. Polenta with gorgonzola. How does that sound?”
Juliette stood to the side, trying to comprehend the words he was saying to get her brain into Italian mode. She enjoyed listening to the rich language being spoken all around her. It revived early childhood memories of spending the night at her grandparents’ house and gradually wakening in the morning to the murmur of Italian being spoken in the kitchen, but that was more than a few years ago and she worried about being able to keep up with the torrent of words rushing at her.
She purposefully focused on the cheeses in front of her instead of looking at the two men speaking. They spoke quickly so Juliette didn’t quite catch all of what they said, but the phrases she picked up, while pretending to look around the stall, seemed to indicate that the younger man buying the cheese was some sort of chef, which piqued her curiosity further.
While the gorgonzola discussion continued in Italian, a younger woman who also worked at the cheese stall—instantly reminding Juliette of Julia Ormand in one of her early films—stepped up to help.
Juliette had decided on some mozzarella. She was in the mood for crusty bread with mozzarella slices and olive tapenade to go with a roasted artichoke. Even though she was quite accomplished at sophisticated Italian dishes, Juliette’s real love was basic peasant food.
She gathered her courage and spoke to the young woman in Italian, and was rewarded with a smile and plenty of encouragement.
The younger man stopped speaking and turned towards Juliette again with a look of interest before turning back to the vendor to finish his purchase.
She felt her face flush. She was afraid she had made a fool of herself with her imperfect accent, but she decided to keep going in Italian anyway.
She looked away from him and back to the woman who leaned towards Juliette.
“Watch out for that one,” she whispered in heavily accented English and winked.
Juliette waved her hand to indicate that the last thing she was looking for was romance.
“He is handsome, no?”
“Si, in a different way than American men.”
“Sei americana?”
Juliette nodded and reached across the stall to shake hands and introduce herself. “I’m Juliette Brice. I just moved here.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Juliette. I’m Odessa Savelli.”
“Nice to meet you,” Juliette responded. “Odessa is a beautiful name, but isn’t it French? How did you come by it?”
“Simple, really. My mother’s French and my father’s Italian,” she smiled. “Maman’s family also makes artisan cheese, so when my parents met at a seminar for cheese makers, it was a match made in heaven.”
Juliette couldn’t