Bella Cigna Read online

They walked through the foyer, turned right, and stopped at the first door on the right.

  Anna used her key to unlock the door, and then removed a key from her pocket and handed it to Sarah. “Make sure you don’t lose this, okay? Sister Maria would have my head!”

  Sarah clutched the key. What would the room serving as her only private quarters be like? Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she pushed open the door. Darkness obscured the room and its contents.

  Anna bent her arm around the threshold and flicked on the light switch.

  Inside, a twin bed, a dresser, and a desk sparsely furnished a room about the size of her former master bathroom. Only a thin cotton bedspread and two pillows outfitted the bed. The desk was so small it might have even been for a child. Beige walls, which smelled recently painted, stood bare except for a cross above the bed. Without a doubt, this accommodation was Sarah’s most pathetic since her college dorm room.

  Sarah didn’t cross the threshold. Stale air burned her lungs, and a knot formed in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently willing that when she reopened them the room would change. But when she did, everything was the same. Sarah just kept staring.

  “You must be tired,” Anna said.

  Sarah nodded.

  “My room is just above yours, so shout if you need anything.”

  Shout? Sarah scanned the room. No phone. No jacks visible. She drooped her shoulders. Nope—this room was way worse than the college dorm. Sarah turned her back on the room. “Would you happen to have a change of clothes?”

  Anna looked Sarah up and down. “Umm, I have a shirt you could sleep in. Be right back.”

  The slap of Anna’s flip-flops echoed through the hall. Sarah hovered for a minute before creeping over the threshold, one foot, and then the other. Inch by inch, the lump in her throat swelling with each step, she waded into the room.

  Swallowing hard, she dropped her purse on the desk, eased onto the edge of the bed, and did a rough estimation of the length. Was it her imagination or had twin-sized beds shrunk? Her feet would hang off for sure. She fingered the thin coverlet. Would the blanket even cover her?

  She stood, the springs squeaking, and took the few steps to the bathroom. Lime green tiles screamed 1970s. A pedestal sink and bare walls gave no indication of any storage space. The windowsill would have to serve double duty.

  Beads of sweat dampened her brow, and Sarah was suddenly aware of the stifling heat. She opened the window, which screeched as she nudged it up. But the air outside wasn’t any better. She stepped back into the bedroom and scanned the walls. The room contained no fan, no window AC, and no thermostat. Only a radiator sat below the window. Was she really expected to live in such antiquated conditions?

  Above her, floorboards creaked. Anna.

  “I told you I’ll be by later,” Anna said.

  Her voice sounded through the ceiling as clearly as if she were in the same room.

  “I’m just finishing things up here,” Anna continued.

  Sarah sighed. She could cross privacy off the list of amenities, too. The noise of Anna’s footsteps and voice above ceased. A few moments later, Anna appeared in the doorway.

  “Here you go.” Anna held out a fútbol jersey and a bar of soap. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the local shops, and you can pick up whatever else you might need.”

  “Thanks.” Sarah took the items and clutched them to her chest.

  “I’ll see you in the morning then.” Anna turned to leave but then stopped. “This place isn’t so bad. Once you start exploring the city, you won’t mind the shabby room.” She smiled. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Sarah closed the door. She washed her underwear and bra in the sink with the bar of soap and hung them to dry on the shower bar. Then she put on Anna’s shirt and slid into bed. The size XL jersey hung on her shoulders like her dad’s old flannel shirts and reeked of men’s aftershave, the bed’s metal coils poked her back, and her feet most definitely hung off the end. But she had a place to sleep, a nightshirt to wear, and a city, just steps away, that demanded to be explored. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she smiled. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new Sarah.

  ****

  9:00 a.m.—St. Peter’s Basilica

  11:00 a.m.—Castel Sant’Angelo

  12:30 p.m.—Piazza Navona

  Sarah added the word “lunch” before Piazza Navona and picked up the guidebook from her desk. Now for her afternoon plans. Head east to the Pantheon or south to the Campo d’ Fiori? What did the travel guide recommend? She flipped through the book’s write-up on the Campo d’ Fiori.

  Unease over her new surroundings had faded, not only because she’d almost mapped out a day of touring, but also because her suitcase had been delivered while she was out gathering necessities with Anna. She was now the proud owner of a pair of palazzo pants that fit her more like Bermuda shorts—she shoved those in the bottom of her dresser—an international cell phone, and even a quasi-acceptable tin of tea.

  Anna had been quite tight-lipped throughout the morning shopping trip; perhaps she was hung over. But her disposition was a relief, as it meant she made no age comments or smarty-pants rebukes. She didn’t even snap her gum when Sarah fumbled to count out change. Who knew Italians didn’t use one-euro bills? Only coins.

  Seated in her desk chair, Sarah dove into the guidebook, a smile tickling her lips. “The market at Campo d’ Fieri closes in the early afternoon.” The Pantheon it is! She added the landmark to her list. Four architectural feats in one day. If this excursion wasn’t enough to make up for the lack of AC, she didn’t know what would.

  A floorboard squeaked above. Sarah looked upward. Cracks etched the stucco ceiling and plaster clung by a lifeline. What a miracle pieces of the dilapidation didn’t crumble under Anna’s footsteps. Anna was dainty—she also knew the city as well as a local. Should she invite Anna to tag along? No—the spunky brainiac would have to get up before lunch, and based on her zombie-like demeanor at half-past nine today, that awakening time seemed unlikely. So much for using her for travel assistance. But the tram couldn’t be too hard to figure out, could it?

  She thumbed to the transportation section in the guidebook. Ticket types galore: standard tickets, twenty-four-hour tickets, even weekly. They seemed easy to get ahold of, too. She’d just need to stop by the newsstand on the corner or find a machine in the metro station—

  On the desk, Sarah’s new smartphone jingled to let her know the battery was fully charged. Time to give the app Anna recommended for learning Italian a whirl. She dog-eared her page, swiped the phone’s screen, and scanned the home screen for the app. She hesitated opening it. Should she call Mom? She picked up the phone, rotating it in her hand. Want and should were totally different things, but if she put off calling Mom for another day, her mom might just board a plane and hunt her down.

  She started to punch numbers. After a few tries, she figured out how to tap in the international number correctly. Apparently +39 was to dial into Italy, not out. But, at last, the phone rang—an unfamiliar, muffled, machine-gun fire of beeps. Sarah pulled the phone from her ear, crossed to the bed, and fished her slippers from underneath. The beeps stopped.

  “Sarah! I was so worried.”

  Mom’s tone was one of typical exasperation. “I’m fine, Mom. Long couple of days, but fine.” Sarah slipped on her fuzzy slippers and leaned back on the bed. But her feet still felt cold, and the bed was somehow even more uncomfortable than before.

  “Well, you sound exhausted. I told you this trip wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Mom.” Sarah shut her eyes and prepared herself for Mom’s haranguing, the constant, albeit well-intentioned, reminder of Sarah’s state of affairs.

  “I mean to just up and leave in the middle of a divorce is absolutely unheard of.”

  “Mother, please.” Sarah’s pulse quickened, and she tightened her hands around the thin coverlet’s edge. “Everything’s settled. We just have to sign the papers.”
/>   Her mother’s snort crackled the receiver. “Settled? You should have taken that skirt-chaser to court.”

  Stiffness bounded her jaw. She clenched her teeth. Just a few more minutes. I can get through this conversation. Sarah focused on the coverlet, grasping a loose thread and unraveling the hem. Destructive, yes, but at least the motion kept her from clicking off. Or worse, hurling the phone across the room.

  “You deserve more than just an even split, honey.”

  Sarah wound the thread around her fingers.

  “You can still come home.”

  Tighter.

  “Take him to court.”

  Tighter still.

  “That Casanova deserves—”

  And snap. “Enough!” Sarah’s voice echoed off the plaster walls. Her fingers throbbed. The hem of the blanket was unraveled.

  Silence reverberated through the receiver.

  Sarah rolled her lower lip under her teeth. She needed to change the subject—fast—before she further damaged their already strained relationship. Standing, she returned to the desk, and picked up the guidebook. “Why don’t you come and visit? You said yourself you always wanted to tour Italy.” Sarah spoke in a steady tone.

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I haven’t traveled since your father passed.”

  “I know, I know. But maybe now’s the time to start again.”

  A sigh rushed the line. “Well, maybe.”

  They chatted a few more minutes, the conversation sticking to non-confrontational topics: the weather in D.C., Amber and Steven, and the great deal Mom scored on a sundress from the department store. The usual stuff.

  When at last Sarah clicked off, she was relieved the talk hadn’t veered back to Philip, or worse, Amanda. She returned to her tour planning. School started in a week, and if she had any hope of squeezing in sightseeing before she threw herself into preparations, tomorrow would have to be it. Hopefully, she’d find the tram stop. And, even more of a hope, she wouldn’t miss her stop—or worse, find herself lost amongst a throng of non-English speaking locals.

  ****

  The gravity of Sarah’s offer didn’t hit until the next morning.

  I asked Mom to visit? She choked on her tea, inciting a coughing fit, and clutched the edge of the counter in the kitchen she would share with the residential students and teachers. What had she done? If she could maintain a civil conversation with her mother, perhaps she wouldn’t have to resort to rash measures. But polite discourse was much easier when her past wasn’t constantly thrown in her face.

  Sarah released her grip on the counter and sipped her Earl Grey. Things would be fine—Mom probably won’t come, anyway. The tickle in her throat subsiding, she took a seat at the empty table, and stared at her breakfast—high-fiber bread smothered in Choctella and purchases she’d made with Anna the previous day. She picked up the toast, sinking her teeth into the chocolate gooiness. Wow! No wonder they didn’t sell peanut butter in Italian grocery stores. Who would want that after tasting—mmm, she took another bite—Choctella?

  She licked her fingers, restraining herself from gobbling the rest in one bite. She examined the nutritional contents of the jar instead. The language read as gibberish. Probably better she didn’t know. Undoubtedly, the spread had more sugar than the American standby, but the splurge was worth it, and she wasn’t about to search for an international foods store.

  International foods. She smirked. Who would have thought she’d ever live somewhere where American food was sold in an international store? As she retrieved her carefully crafted list from her pocket, she resisted the urge to tap her feet. She checked the clock on the wall. Eight thirty. Just enough time to catch the tram to Vatican City.

  “Buongiorno,” a voice chimed.

  Sarah jumped, dropping the list on the floor. A petite, middle-aged woman in a habit stood in the doorway. “Buongiorno,” Sarah replied in her best Italian accent, which was total crap.

  “I’m Sister Angelica,” the woman continued in English. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No.” Sarah bent and retrieved her list. “I was just finishing breakfast.” Sister Angelica gave a small smile, the white of her bandeau a stark contrast to her olive skin.

  “Sister Maria sent me to get you.”

  “Oh.” Sarah shoved the list back into her pocket. “Of course.”

  With a bob in her step, Sister Angelica led Sarah out of the dormitory, across the courtyard, and into the main school. They weaved through the halls of the building, not so different from any other school Sarah ever taught in. White linoleum floors, offensive fluorescent lighting, and uniformly placed wooden doors decorated the building. At least this part wouldn’t be an adjustment.

  A few turns later, they reached a door with a large metal plate that read, “Preside della Scuola.” President of the school? Principal? Sarah would have to search the Internet later.

  Sister Angelica gave a perfunctory knock on the door, poked her head inside, and spoke in Italian to the preside.

  But instead of Sister Maria appearing, a man well over six feet tall emerged from the office. His gaze hung on Sarah for a moment, before he turned his attention to Sister Angelica. He spoke in rapid-fire Italian, but Sarah made no effort to decipher his words. She was too busy studying his face: his tan skin, his narrow Greek nose, and his curly black hair, sprinkled with gray.

  “Buongiorno, Signore Rossini,” Sister Angelica said.

  He nodded to the nun, and then shifted his gaze to Sarah. “Buongiorno.”

  The warmth in his voice matched that of his eyes. Sarah struggled to find her voice, and she was pretty sure her silence had nothing to do with her inferior Italian. “Buongiorno,” she croaked.

  The man—Mr. Rossini—smiled back before striding down the hall.

  His broad smile lifted his glasses right off his nose. His long legs moved in a steady gait. Something about him was oddly familiar.

  Sister Angelica cleared her throat.

  Sarah snapped her attention back.

  “When you’re finished, please come to my office, and I’ll show you to your classroom.” She pointed to a door across from Sister Maria’s then gestured for Sarah to enter.

  Sarah fought against the lump in her throat, swallowing hard. Please let Sister Maria be more tolerable than Mr. Rosen. Please.

  Chapter 5

  As Sarah took a step inside, the odd feeling that she’d seen Mr. Rossini before was replaced by an uneasiness in her gut. Maybe Choctella wasn’t best before noon? She smoothed her shirt. Were simple khaki pants and a yellow knit T-shirt acceptable in a Catholic school? If Sister Maria provided advance warning, she would have worn her “work clothes”—a solid-colored, A-line skirt and a button-up, cotton blouse. Better yet, she could have dressed in all black—then she’d at least have blended in.

  The office was large, about twice the size of Sarah’s new living quarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the courtyard and the dormitory beyond. File cabinets, a plain wooden desk, and chairs filled the space. Sister Maria sat at the desk under a five-foot-tall cross. Her outfit was a bit different from Sister Angelica’s—a longer veil, with a rope belted at the waist. If Sarah had been raised Catholic, she would have understood the significance in the variation. Add that to the list for Internet searches.

  Sister Maria lifted a hand and spoke in Italian.

  A blur of muted t's and flipped r’s spilled from the nun's mouth. Sedia, chair. Phew. At least she'd caught one word. Sarah took a seat in the armchair on the right. “May we speak in English?”

  “Very well.” With pursed lips, Sister Maria picked up the top file from the stack on her desk and opened it. “I see you come to us highly recommended. Perhaps this reference will make up for your shortcomings in our native language.”

  Sarah bit her lip and nodded. She really needed to spend more time with that language app.

  Sister Maria flipped through the file. “You have considerable experience in the classroom, and much mo
re familiarity than most of our American teachers.” She looked up. “May I ask what prompted you to leave your post in the States?”

  With the nun’s steely gaze on her, Sarah shifted in her seat. She might have been ignorant of many Roman Catholic practices, but everyone knew the church frowned upon divorce. Yet, how could she answer the question without bringing it up? “Some problems arose…” She chose her words. “Some issues in my personal affairs.”

  “I see.”

  Sister Maria cast her gray eyes over Sarah, and the silence in the room enveloped the two women. Sarah held the sister’s gaze and strained to keep her lips curved upward, but the nervous energy pulsing inside made her lower lip quiver.

  “Would these issues have anything to do with your husband not being with you?”

  The words lodged in Sarah’s throat, and she flushed. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Sister.”

  Sister Maria stayed quiet, and her gaze bored into Sarah.

  “My husband. He asked for a divorce.” Sarah dangled her hands like awkward appendages. She scrunched her fingers then released, but the nervousness remained. She scratched the fabric on her thighs but still found no relief. Finally, she felt for her list in her pocket, removed it, and wriggled the paper as she waited for Sister Maria’s response.

  Sister Maria bowed her head in prayer.

  She muttered a language Sarah didn’t understand. Latin? Italian? Sarah wasn’t sure. Was she praying for Sarah? For her marriage? A knot formed in her throat, and she wrung the paper.

  Rosary clutched in her hand, Sister Maria crossed herself, and then raised her head. “Should you require any counsel, my door is always open.”

  “Thank you.” The tightness in her throat eased, and she loosened her choke-hold on the paper. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Yes, well, I like to keep my staff under my care.” Sister Maria rose. “Now, if only I could keep that young Anna from prowling around in the night like a thief, then my conscience would be clear.”

  Sarah couldn’t contain her smile. She stood as well and was surprised to find Sister Maria at eye level. Taciturn and tall. Perhaps Sarah would get on Sister Maria’s good side yet.