Chapter 8: The Roof in the Rain

I did not speak to him all day.

I scaled fish for Gaspare in a borrowed apron.

Santo sat at the far end of the market with a ledger I knew was not fish accounts.

Every time I looked up, he was looking at me, and not at anyone else.

By nightfall the sky over the harbor had gone the color of a bruise.

The storm broke at ten.

I climbed to the roof to bring in the widow's washing, because it was the only thing in the building that needed me.

The rain came sideways off the sea.

I got the last sheet into the basket and turned, and he was standing in the stairwell door, soaked to the skin.

"Go inside, Viola."

"Tullio said you can't stop looking at her."

"Inside."

"Tell me you don't want Nerina."

"Never," he said, so fast it startled me. "Not once. Not the way you mean."

"Then what way?"

"I'll tell you on Saturday. In front of your brother, and in front of her, where it can't be unsaid."

His voice was rough.

"Can you give me until then?"

"I don't trust you."

"I know."

"I don't trust you at all."

"I know that too."

Thunder rolled over the harbor, and the rain ran down both our faces.

"Then give me something true tonight," I said. "One thing."

He looked at me for a long time.

"I haven't stopped wanting you," he said, "since you put a loaf in my hand and told me to eat while it was warm."

I dropped the basket.

I crossed the roof in three steps, took his wet shirt in both fists and kissed him.

He made a sound against my mouth that I felt in my knees.