Bella Cigna Page 6

  Most tourists knew the castle as a stronghold during Rome’s many sieges, but Sarah didn’t think of the fortress in that way. Neither would Meredith. Holding her phone at arm’s distance, Sarah snapped a selfie with the castle in the background. She added the label “Tosca” and clicked send. Meredith would be ecstatic. She’d taken her first official selfie—not one of the Rome Opera House, but close enough.

  Sarah leaned on her elbows and enjoyed the cool breeze blowing off the river. In the dim light of dusk, her silhouette shadowed the waterway below. A lone shadow. A shiver crept down Sarah’s arms, and her heart ached. The breeze picked up, and the wind tickled her bare arms, prickling her flesh with goosepimples.

  If Meredith were here, they’d have seen half the city by now. Back home, Meredith was probably busy shuttling Amber and Steven to the pool, preparing them lunches, and making pretend forts with sheets and chairs—although undoubtedly, Meredith would rather be in Rome. But where would I rather be?

  Again, Sarah stared up at the castle, and Meredith’s voice echoed in her mind—not her recent voice, but the bell-like soprano tone that had brought audiences to their feet at Meredith’s senior recital.

  “Vissi d’arte. Vissi d’amore.”

  The opening lines to Tosca’s aria were forever imprinted in Sarah’s mind. I lived for art. I lived for love. How fitting that Sarah now stood where Puccini’s heroine met her tragic end, taking her life after losing her love. Tosca’s lover had been ripped from her, just like Philip had been torn from Sarah.

  Sarah dropped her gaze to the Tiber, Tosca’s tomb. In a way, she had lost more than Tosca—not just a husband, but her family and her baby. But if she was honest with herself, that life had been taken from her long before Philip. Her own biology was set against her. Tears dampened her eyes, and Sarah lowered her head. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her exposed arms.

  But deep within warmth bloomed, over her chest and through her belly. The sensation pulsed to a familiar song. Tosca’s melody. Meredith’s voice vibrated through her. Sarah lifted her gaze toward the castle. “Vissi d’arte.” She stepped away from the edge of the bridge, closer to the castle.

  When was the last time she’d sat at an easel or drawn on a sketchpad? Wasn’t art what she had lived for—to mix colors on her palette or bring a scene to life with gentle brushstrokes? “Vissi d’arte,” she repeated. Warmth replaced the chill on her arms and smoothed her prickled flesh. Sarah picked up her smartphone. “Where’s the nearest art supplies store?” she said into the mic.

  Ditta G. Poggi, her search engine informed her, was half a mile away and closed in an hour. Sarah stepped off the bridge onto the street and paused. She stared at the directions on her phone, her hands shaking.

  Could she focus on art instead of her past? Could she push away the memories and create new ones—with her hands?

  Chapter 6

  SUBJECT: Booked my plane tix!

  As she opened the email from Mom, Sarah’s breath caught. Dear God, she really was coming. Sarah skimmed the email. Seven days. Not too long, but… wait.

  All right if I stay with you?

  She nearly fell off her wooden chair. In no way was Mom bunking with her in this tiny room. She sent a quick reply, snuffing the idea then snapping shut her laptop. She flipped the pages on the calendar and wrote “MOM” on the third week in December, then shuffled the pages back to August. She paused on October, where she had circled in bright red pen the sixth-month marker of her marriage separation—the date the divorce papers would most likely arrive.

  A tightness grew in her chest again. The minute hand on the wall clock tripped over the six with a thunk, and Sarah let go of a breath. With a shaky hand, she returned the calendar to its current month. She had thirty minutes left of designated “work time”—thirty minutes before she could return to the city where she could bask in the mellow melody of splashing water from fountains and the tickling of the breeze off the Tiber. She had thirty minutes until she could drown out the looming divorce with the pleasures of Rome.

  Her feet ached, and charcoal tinged her fingers, but a broad smile spilled over her sunburned cheeks. The past few days touring the city and recording the sights in her sketchbook had left her invigorated. She strummed her fingers on the desk. Thirty minutes really wasn’t enough time to get another project done—best end early. She packed her laptop in its case.

  “Buon pomeriggio.”

  Sarah jumped at the stern voice, banging her knee against the desk.

  Sister Maria stood in the doorway.

  “Sister…I mean, Suor Maria, buon pomeriggio.”

  Hands clasped, Sister Maria stepped into the classroom. She rattled off words in Italian and glided to the bulletin boards on the far wall.

  Scuola; giorni; preparato—the comprehensible words came infrequently. The final words left Sister Maria’s mouth with the traditional inflection of a question. When she turned, she had one eyebrow raised so high it nearly touched her headdress. Sarah’s jaw tightened. “Mi dispiace,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Frowning, Sister Maria stepped toward the desk.

  Did she expect Sarah to be fluent in Italian overnight? Sarah shifted her hands to behind her back. Hopefully, Sister Maria wasn’t the type to rap knuckles.

  “What are your plans for instruction?”

  “Well, as I explained during our interview, the instruction will be done through immersion. This method is what we utilized in the US, and how we taught in my ESL classroom.” Well, technically it hadn’t been her ESL classroom. She’d only covered for the teacher while she was on maternity leave. Sister Maria looked unimpressed.

  “And the parents?”

  Sarah grasped the handout she’d printed that afternoon. “I’ve got them covered, too. I’ve prepared this handout.” She handed Sister Maria the sheet. “It explains the benefits of immersion.”

  Scanning the paper, Sister Maria nodded. “And what about the open house?”

  Stumbling back, Sarah gasped. “Open house?”

  The head of school handed back the paper. “I’m sure Sister Angelica mentioned it. Monday night.”

  “Monday?” Her voice quavered.

  “Anna didn’t tell you either?”

  Sarah shook her head. Her pulse quickened, and she dropped her hands to her side. If Anna could stop pestering her about Marco, perhaps the topic would have come up. Monday. Parents. Oh, crud. She’d need more materials to share—daily schedules, sample lessons—and she’d have to be ready to converse.

  Oh no. She drummed her fingers against her thigh. What if they expected her to speak Italian fluently, too?

  As Sister Maria stepped away from the desk, she ran a hand over a book jacket stapled to the bulletin board. “I’m sure they will appreciate the effort you’ve put into decorating the classroom.”

  “Thank you.” She stared at the small Italian-English dictionary on her desk. Unless she grew a second brain overnight, she was screwed—absolutely screwed.

  “Most of the parents do speak English, Ms. Miller.”

  Heart still racing, Sarah heaved a sigh and realized she’d been holding her breath.

  Sister Maria raised her upper lip slightly.

  Was she smiling?

  “Most,” she repeated. “Not all.”

  Sarah nodded. Please let “most” be more like all but one—the one who happens to miss the open house.

  “But the whole school meeting will be in Italian. I expect you to introduce yourself accordingly.”

  “Yes, of course.” She could manage…well, could with a lot of cramming.

  Sister Maria clutched her rosary. “I also wanted to invite you to mass.”

  Sarah lifted a brow. “Oh. I…I’m not Catholic.”

  Softening her expression, Sister Maria fingered the red beads. “All are welcome.”

  Dropping her gaze, Sarah nodded. Even heathens who didn’t know the difference between Saint Francis and Santa Cla
us? Not likely.

  Sister Maria headed toward the door then stopped, wheeled around, and gave Sarah a once-over. “What size shoes do you wear?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Shoes.” She pointed toward Sarah’s feet.

  “Oh—an eleven. I mean, a forty-two in European sizing.”

  “I figured as much. I have some old ones you can have.” She motioned to Sarah’s sneakers. “You won’t want to wear those all the time.”

  Sarah looked down at her perfectly comfortable and presentable sneakers and slumped her shoulders. Couldn’t she get anything right? She’d failed the Italian test, and now she couldn’t dress to their standards either.

  Once Sister Maria left, Sarah returned to her chair and plopped down. The hard wood smacked the back of her legs. So much for an easy year. She eyed the clock. Twenty minutes left. And so much for leaving early.

  ****

  On Sunday, the dormitory students crowded the school’s chapel, their chatter bouncing off the stone walls.

  Sarah arched her back away from the stiff wooden pew. She’d spent two hours under Anna’s tutelage the day before, and she still couldn’t tell a rolled ‘r’ from a flipped one. Anna’s translations of the mass would have been helpful. Unfortunately, Anna attending a sunrise service was as unlikely as Sarah understanding a complete sentence in Italian.

  The priest chanted a foreign melody, and Sarah sighed. Great—Latin now, too? Resigning herself to her language ignorance, she relaxed into the back pew and wiggled her toes in Sister Maria’s black leather flats. Sister Angelica delivered them to her the previous evening. They weren’t all that different from a pair she’d brought from home, but the cork foot-bed offered more support for her high arches than the sneakers. Who knew?

  As the priest continued the Latin incantation, the hypnotic rhythm softened Sarah’s annoyance at her inability to comprehend it. No wonder so many people attended church—the service was quite therapeutic. Even if she had no idea what they were saying. When was the last time she’d been in church, anyway?

  Sarah stiffened, the memory resurfacing of Philip’s church—or rather, his mother’s—for their wedding. They’d wanted to be married by a justice of the peace, but Philip’s mom convinced them to use her church instead. Since she footed the bill for the reception, they’d felt obligated to accede to her request.

  At the altar, the priest lit a candle.

  This candle was a simple white taper, not like the braided unity one she and Philip chose. The blue and gold of the intertwined wax melded when they read their vows.

  “Joined forever,” the wedding official said.

  “My soulmate,” Philip called her.

  His eyes alight with passion, he beckoned her with his husky voice. She’d never doubted his sentiment.

  Perhaps, back then, he didn’t either.

  Bitterness clipped Sarah’s tongue, and she gripped the edge of the pew, digging her fingernails into the wood. Sarah looked away from the candle.

  Two men in ornate robes walked down the aisle with ornate metal containers steaming incense. A woodsy, balsam scent wafted in the air.

  Sarah peered through the haze to the swooshing robes. The cream fabric of the robes was the same shade as her wedding dress—an off-white satin, empire-waist gown, specially made to fit her five-foot, ten-inch frame. Philip told her she’d never looked more beautiful than she did in that dress, and she’d felt good—elegant, graceful, confident in her appearance.

  Sarah examined her current outfit—a washed-out shirt and black slacks. They were both a size larger than her wedding dress and both as simple as the tapered candle on the altar. She loosened her grip on the bench and slumped her shoulders. Kneeling boards opened with a thud, and Sarah sprang up in her seat.

  Around her, men and women lowered to the padded planks and bowed their heads in prayer.

  As the congregation prayed, Sarah hesitated, and then joined them. She clasped her hands, closed her eyes, and attempted to empty her thoughts. But her mind was restless—a board squeaked, a person sneezed, a paper rustled. When she finally tuned out the surrounding noise, the result was worse. Memories streamed in like flowing water: her father walking her down the aisle, Mom dancing with Philip, and her carefully manicured bouquet of white and blue hydrangeas.

  Sarah opened her eyes, and tears welled. A knot wedged in her throat, and her clasped hands shook.

  At the front of the church, Sister Maria, eyes closed, mouthed a silent prayer.

  All around were unfamiliar faces—calm faces, quiet faces, faces of people who knew nothing of her past. Steadying her hands, she dabbed at her eyes. This change was what she had wanted—a fresh start. This move was the best way to move on, to figure out what to do next…right?

  Again, she lowered her eyelids and diverted her thoughts from the past and toward the future—her future. God…Holy Mother…whoever it is up there. If anyone is listening, I just want to ask for some guidance. Where do I go from here?

  The priest chanted “amen,” and the congregation echoed.

  Sarah opened her eyes to the rustling sleeves of attendants crossing themselves. She started to stand but stopped. One request remained unasked. Dropping back to the kneeling board, she squeezed her eyes shut. And if it’s not too much to ask, please let me figure out this tongue-twister of a language…preferably before Monday.

  Chapter 7

  The air was thick on Monday. In her pint-sized dorm-room, Sarah spent longer than usual in front of the mirror. She pulled on the hem of her gray skirt until it hit her legs mid-calf and retucked the navy blouse that hugged her waist slightly more than when she’d arrived in Rome—the effect of not only the daily Choctella but revisiting the gelato shop. She pulled back her bangs into a barrette, applied a thin coat of black mascara, and smeared a light pink gloss on her lips.

  The parents of the local students would be convening in the auditorium in half an hour. As she walked into the bedroom, she rehearsed her introduction for the meeting. “Mi chiamano Sarah Miller. Io sono insegnante di ingl—” She stomped a foot and tensed her shoulders. Why did the Italian for “English teacher” have to be so complicated? And the stupid app wouldn’t get to occupations for another four modules. “Insegnante di inglese. Insegnante di inglese.” She relaxed her shoulders then started again. “Mi chiamano Sarah Miller. Io sono insegnante di inglese.”

  Yes! She slipped on Sister Maria’s old shoes and repeated the sentence under her breath as she headed toward the main building.

  A short while later, she sat with the dozen or so other teachers in the chairs lining the small wooden stage. Sister Maria’s podium stood front and center. A crowd of at least two hundred parents packed the auditorium.

  With her chin up and shoulders squared, Sister Maria addressed the audience in Italian.

  Sarah waited patiently as the indecipherable syllables echoed throughout the room. Then, at last, the moment arrived.

  Extending her arm, Sister Maria turned toward the teachers. She gestured to the woman on the end of the row, three seats to Sarah’s left.

  The woman stood. “Adriana Pannetta,” the primo tre teacher announced.

  She continued beyond her name and title, saying something about tennis—no, or was it apples? What did it matter? All of the words were spoken in perfect Italian. Perfect. A tightness cinched Sarah’s chest. “Insegnante di inglese,” Sarah mouthed to herself.

  The man beside Adriana stood. “Roberto Errani.”

  He, too, stated his position and said something else Sarah didn’t understand. The parents even laughed at what must have been a joke—hell, everyone laughed, except her. Sarah’s heart pounded faster than the native speakers rattled their names.

  “Flavia Vinci,” the woman beside Sarah said.

  The thumping in Sarah’s chest drowned out the rest of Flavia Vinci’s introduction. Then the teacher’s muffled voice ceased, and only Sarah’s heartbeat remained; all gazes in the audience were on her.

&nbs
p; Clasping her hands, Sarah sprang to her feet and opened her mouth. She enunciated each vowel. She flipped her r’s. She muted her t’s. The pace at which she spoke would identify her as a non-native Italian, but hell, weren’t her blonde hair and blue eyes already a dead giveaway? At least, she’d recited the words correctly.

  Then her part was over. As she found the seat beneath her, she caught Sister Maria out of the corner of her eye. A light smile painted the sister’s face. Sarah relaxed into her chair, her pulse simmering. By the time the remaining teachers finished their introductions, Sarah was busy doing a mental victory dance across the stage.

  Sister Maria dismissed them, cutting Sarah’s fantasized moonwalk short. Correctly saying insegnante di inglese was just the start. The harder test laid ahead—the parents. As she floundered to her classroom on the far side of the building, she tensed, the unease in her chest returning.

  “Sarah!”

  Anna’s voice rang out as Sarah rounded the corner to the lower school classrooms. Sarah turned. “I thought you’d gone to your classroom.”

  “I’m going.”

  Anna pranced down the hall sporting cargo capris and a T-shirt that read Math teachers have problems. Sarah smiled. If Anna felt free to dress like this in front of the parents, perhaps she had been worrying for nothing.

  “A plus on the intro.” Anna gave a little wink.

  “Thanks.” Sarah remembered Sister Maria’s pleased look. “Thanks to you.”

  “I’m good for more than just solving math problems.” Anna stuck out her chest and continued briskly down the hall.

  Sarah followed. “I hope the classroom visits go as well.”

  “I told you, just start all the conversations in English.”

  “You’re sure they’ll follow along?” Sarah gazed down the corridor. Italian words inscribed the signs. A small Italian flag waved above the entrance. Everything in the building screamed Italian except Sarah’s classroom. She chewed her lip.

  With Anna by her side, Sarah walked to the end of the hall to her classroom. Anna put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”