Men In Uniform: Burning For The Fireman. Barbara McMahon
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at Rosa. He hadn’t worked there in years, but some memories didn’t fade. Even when he wished they would.
“Cristiano, sit anywhere. I’ll be there soon,” Emeliano called out as he deftly transferred the tray from his hand to the stand beside the table he was serving.
Cristiano walked toward his favorite table, near the big window overlooking the town square. It was occupied.
He walked past and sat at the next one, then looked at the woman who had taken the table he liked best.
She had blonde hair with copper highlights. She was cooing to a small baby and seemed oblivious to the rest of the restaurant. He didn’t recognize her. Probably another tourist. Even keeping to himself, he still kept tapped into the local rumor mill—enough to know if someone local had a new baby visiting. Italian families loved new babies.
The woman looked up and caught his gaze. She smiled then looked away.
He stared at her feeling that smile like a punch to the gut. From that quick glimpse he noted her eyes were silver, her cheeks brushed with pink—from the sun or the warmth of the restaurant? Glancing around, he wondered idly where her husband was.
“Rigatoni?” Emeliano asked when he stopped by Cristiano’s table, distracting Cristiano from his speculation about the woman.
“Sure.” He ordered it almost every time he ate here.
“Not as good as what you get at Rosa,” Emeliano said, jotting it on a pad.
“I’m not at Rosa,” Cristiano said easily. He could have quickly covered the distance between Lake Clarissa and Monta Correnti for lunch, but he wasn’t ready to see his family yet. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be ready to go back home.
“Saw you on the lake. You could get killed.”
He and Emeliano had played together as kids, challenging each other to swim races, exploring the hills with his brother Valentino. Cristiano grinned up at him. “Could have but didn’t.” Didn’t Emeliano know he felt invincible?
“You need to think of the future, Cristiano. You and Valentino, why not go into business with your father? If Pietro didn’t already have three boys, I’d see if he’d take me on as partner,” Emeliano said.
“Go to Rome, find a place and work up,” Cristiano suggested, conscious of the attention from the woman at the next table. He didn’t care if she eavesdropped. He had no secrets.
Except one.
“And my mother, what of her? You have it great, Cristiano.”
He smiled, all for show. If only Emeliano knew the truth—all the truth—he’d look away in disgust. “How is your mother?”
“Ailing. Arthritis is a terrible thing.” Emeliano flexed his hands. “I hope I never get it.”
“Me, too.”
Cristiano met the woman’s gaze again when Emeliano left and didn’t look away. She flushed slightly and looked at the baby, smiling at his babbling and arm waving. Covering one small fist with her hand, she leaned over to kiss him. Just then she glanced up again.
“I saw you on the Jet Ski,” she said.
He nodded.
“You fell in the water.”
“But I didn’t fall.”
She shrugged, glancing at the infant. Then looked shyly at him again. “It looked like great fun.”
“It is. How old is your baby?” He looked at the child, trying to gauge if it were smaller than the one from last May. He wasn’t often around infants and couldn’t guess his age.
She smiled again, her eyes going all silvery. Nice combination of coloring. He wondered again who she was and why she was at Lake Clarissa.
“He’s almost five months.”
A boy. His father had two boys and a girl. Wait, make that four boys and a girl. He still couldn’t get used to the startling fact his sister shared a few months ago—about two older half-brothers who were Americans. Too surreal. Another reason to keep away from his family. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his father keeping that secret all his life.
The infant had dark hair and dark eyes. His chubby cheeks held no clue as to what he’d look like as an adult, but his coloring didn’t match hers at all.
“Does he look like his father?”
“I have no idea. But his mother had dark eyes and hair. Maybe when he’s older, I’ll see some resemblance to the man who fathered him. Right now to me he looks like his mom.” She reached out and brushed the baby’s head in a light caress.
“He’s not yours?”
She shook her head.
“A nanny?” So maybe there was no man in the picture. Was she watching the baby for a family? She seemed devoted to the child.
She shook her head again. “I’m his guardian. His mother died.” She blinked back tears and Cristiano again felt that discomforting shift in his mid section. He hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He never knew how to handle a woman in tears. He wanted to slay dragons or race away. Unfortunately he all too often had to comfort women—and men sometimes—in tears at their loss. He always did his best. Always felt it fell short.
Emeliano arrived with a tray laden with rigatoni, big salad and hot garlic bread. He glanced at the woman, then Cristiano. “Want to sit together?”
“No,” Cristiano said.
At the same time she replied, “That would be fine, if he doesn’t mind.”
“Oops,” she said immediately. “I guess you do mind.” She put on a bright smile. “I’ll be going soon.”
He felt like a jerk. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. “Come, sit with me. I could use the company while I eat.” He tried to make up for the faux pas, but she just gave a polite smile and said, “No, thanks anyway, I have to be going. This guy likes to ride in the stroller to see the sights.” She fumbled for her wallet and began pulling out the euros to pay her bill.
Emeliano served Cristiano, gave him a wry look and hurried away to look after another customer.
By the high color in her cheeks, he knew she was embarrassed. They’d been talking; it seemed churlish to refuse when his friend made the suggestion. Now he wished he had waited a second, thought before he spoke.
She rose and gathered her purse and a diaper bag and quickly carried the baby to the front of the restaurant without looking at him again. There he saw the stroller he’d missed when he first entered. In a heartbeat, they were gone.
His sister would have scolded him for his bad manners. His father would have looked at him with sadness. Of course his father seemed perpetually sad since their mother had died so long ago. He’d never found another woman to share his life with.
Cristiano began to eat. The food was good, not excellent, but good. What did it matter? Seeing the baby reminded him of his friend Stephano’s young daughter. Too young to have lost her father. Cristiano still couldn’t believe his best friend had perished in the instant the second bomb had exploded. Many days he could almost believe he was on leave and would go back to work to find Stephano and the others on his squad ready to fight whatever fires came their way.
But his friend was gone. Forever.
Cristiano ate slowly, regretting his hasty refusal of sitting with the woman with the baby. Learning more about her would have kept his mind off his friend and his other worries.
Mariella bundled Dante up and placed him in the stroller. She couldn’t get out of the restaurant fast enough. She felt the wave of embarrassment wash over her as she remembered offering to have the man sit at her table. He had definitely been annoyed. He probably had women falling over themselves to gain his attention