The Chapel by Michael Downing Read Free Book Online

pie. I sobered up on sparkling water and the heavy airof an almost-summer night. I mightn’t have said anything at all, but T. occasionally prompted me to ask a question by bumping his knee against mine.
    The sisters had been born in Malo, just a few miles northwest of Padua, but Anna, the slightly taller and slightly younger of the two, had married an American when she was twenty. She lived with her son and his family in Tallahassee now that her husband was dead, and this was her first time coming home to Italy. The trip was a gift from her six children. Here, the older sister, Francesca, held up both her hands, extending three fingers on each, looking wowed. She spoke almost no English, but whenever Anna or T. translated bits of the conversation for her benefit, she would retranslate the essence into a little pantomime. Anna told us that, as a girl, she had never even traveled as far as Florence or Pisa, and Francesca leaned sideways in her chair, as if on cue. Both sisters broke out in laughter. Francesca had once been to the States, when Anna’s husband was still working for Ford in Detroit, and after a brief pause, Francesca took hold of an imaginary steering wheel. “Uffa, you and your big Ford cars.” She pointed to the piazza. Every citizen of Padua was walking by. “Better, no?”
    Shelby took the lead, asking the sisters about the kind of food their mother cooked and recipes she’d passed on, until the bill came. It was only then I learned that Francesca still lived in Malo, with her husband, and this was her last night with her sister until Anna circled back up north with the tour at the end of the month. Apparently, this was not news to Shelby or T., but I was surprised enough to thoughtlessly ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely if you were able to see the whole country together?”
    Francesca understood that much English. She held up her hands, rubbed her fingers together, and shrugged.
    I was humiliated. “Of course, it is expensive. Forgive me.”
    Anna shook her head, not happy.
    This was bad enough, so to torture myself further, I conjured a little ramshackle stone hut with a thatched roof, a chicken in the living room, Francesca bent over a black cauldron of soup. Feeling in need of an ally, I turned to T., whose gallant nature had apparently been diluted by the wine. He just raised his eyebrows at me.
    â€œ Denaro, denaro, denaro .” Anna spit out the words. “ Troppo denaro when it’s something for her. Her Mario is a rich man with his boats and two-thousand-year-old brandies and suddenly he comes down with this fever about how she has to save for the future? He is the reason I never visit my home. I promise you, no money will be enough money if this one dies. Mario will have to hire ten nurses, and two cooks, and a secretary and a gardener to replace her. Him, he’s been to China and Dubai. Right, Francesca? Francesca? She’s never even seen Rome.”
    Francesca ignored her sister. She held her wineglass toward T. for a refill. He did the honors. She pointed at Anna’s empty glass, and though Anna told T. she’d had all she wanted, Francesca took the bottle and filled her sister’s glass. She said, “Anna, Anna, Anna. Abbiamo questa sera .”
    Anna’s face softened. “She says we have this night.” She leaned into her sister’s shoulder and said, “ Ecco, ecco, ecco .”
    T. tilted toward me, pressing his arm against mine, as if goodwill was circuiting the table, bringing us all into contact with each other.
    We traded partners for the walk home. Francesca grabbed my hand, and Anna looped her arm around Shelby’s, and T. patiently followed, alone. As we neared the hotel, he said he felt like Father Goose. One of the green-vested valets held open the door. T. waved us all inside and didn’t even pause to pretend that he would follow along.
    Shelby stopped in the middle of the lobby and said,