sells sunscreen.’’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘‘You didn’t share these important financial details about your neighbors with me.’’
‘‘Somehow I didn’t think you’d be interested.’’ She smiled, shrugged. ‘‘We’re a nation of merchants. It’s how we’ve survived all these years in spite of conquerors, imperialists, Nazis—and now, terrorists. We bend, we accommodate, we compete with each other and we help each other. It’s why we’ve been content to remain a monarchy. Let the Sebastianis do most of the hard work of government and leave the rest of us free to pay attention to important matters.’’
‘‘Such as how much Signora Serminio paid for her goddaughter’s fioreanno?’’
‘‘Exactly. Oh, look—we have to be quiet now. Speech time.’’
The father spoke first. He had a long list of people to thank, rather like an actor at the Oscars who feels obliged to mention every member of his family, every friend and friendly influence—including, but far from limited to, his third-grade teacher—as well as the Almighty and various business acquaintances. Then the priest blessed the young girl, her family and all those attending, closing with a special prayer for the guidance of the king in ‘‘these difficult times.’’ At last, to everyone’s relief, the talking was over and the band started playing once more. Some of the guests began drifting across the street for the dancing, while others headed for the bar.
Drew commented, ‘‘The priest is Orthodox.’’
‘‘Of course. The family is Greek.’’
‘‘But many of the guests are Catholic. That’s typical of Montebello, though, isn’t it? There isn’t much religious friction here, though you have Orthodox, Catholic and Protestant churches. Not to mention the mosques.’’
‘‘And if we could get our Muslim neighbors to come to more fioreanni, there would be even less strife. They’re wary of the dancing and the naked faces and opinions of the women at these affairs, but I have been to fioreanni that had Muslim guests. This is how we make it work, you see. We remind ourselves how much we have in common, how much we need each other.’’
Drew was frowning, but not in skepticism. More as if he was trying to understand. ‘‘By giving coming-out parties for your young women?’’
‘‘All this—’’ she spread her arm, indicating the café, the piazza, the people ‘‘—it’s really about connections. I’ve made you think the money is what counts, but by itself the cost of a fioreanno means nothing. Anyone who spends enough could give a good party, but that alone wouldn’t make them an important family, one that other families want their sons or daughters to marry into. It’s the connections that matter.’’
‘‘So while the cost of the flowers is interesting, the second cousin who’s a florist is more important?’’
She smiled, pleased with him. ‘‘Exactly. This, tonight, is how Signor Anaghnostopoulus says, ‘Look at my family. We are stable, settled. We know how things work. We know these people in the merchant community, these in government, these in the Church. And maybe, if you are lucky, your family can join with mine through this, my beautiful daughter, and our connections will grow and we will all prosper.’’’
For the first time that evening he touched her deliberately, taking her hand. He played idly with her fingers and looked at her, and she wondered if he could feel what happened to her pulse the way she’d felt his change earlier. ‘‘Did you have a grand fioreanno when you were sixteen, with fresh flowers on every table?’’
She didn’t let her smile slip. ‘‘I’m afraid not. A father is necessary for the occasion, you see, even though it’s the godmother who gives the party.’’
He still held her hand. ‘‘You are an orphan?’’
What she saw in his face wasn’t as trite as sympathy—more like a vast, incurious acceptance, as if he couldn’t be moved to shock, pity or any intrusive emotion, no matter what she said. As if it was safe to tell him anything. ‘‘My mother never married. I don’t know who my father was. And that,’’ she said, smiling brightly, ‘‘is one of those things that everyone knows, but such old history it won’t have been part of many of the stories told tonight.’’
‘‘I think we’ve exchanged enough stories for now.’’ He stood and drew her to her feet. ‘‘I’d very much like to dance with you.’’
* * *
The moon was mostly full, a child’s lopsided white circle painted on a charcoal sky. Cyprus and oak filtered the lights and sounds of the street on three sides of the piazza. On the fourth side the band stood on its modest platform with the curved wall at the back, designed to catch and reflect the music outward. Later, when mostly young people remained, they would probably try out more modern music; now they played the old songs. So far, the trumpet player was behaving himself.
The dancers were all ages, from nine to ninety. Drew led Rose to the edge of the square, where she slipped into his arms as easily as if they had danced together a hundred times before. A waltz was playing…and oh, the man knew how to waltz.
He held her correctly, one hand warm at her waist, the other clasping hers lightly, with the prescribed distance between their bodies. And he looked into her eyes as they moved in smooth, swooping circles, their bodies joined by movement rather than touch, the lilt of the music riffed now and then by laughter.
Did he know how seductive this graceful courting was, when her body learned to follow his while still separate and sovereign, so that each turn became an act of surrender?
She smiled up into his eyes. He knew.
After the waltz came a lively country tune that invited the dancers to romp. To her surprise and delight, after watching the others for a moment he abandoned formality and spun her around the crowded square as if he’d been dancing like this since childhood. There followed another quick country dance, which left her breathless and happy.
Then they played ‘‘Moon River,’’ and he pulled her close.
Her head fitted his shoulder perfectly. His shirt smelled faintly of starch. His skin had its own perfume, which passed like a secret through her senses, and her heart beat fast and hard.
So did his.
They circled slowly now, gliding together in a dark, closed space bounded by music. She felt the movement of his legs and the way the linen moved over his body as she stroked her hands from his shoulders to his waist. The skin beneath the thin cloth was heated, slightly damp. Already, an ache had begun, growing larger as they drifted—easy, langorous, important.
It didn’t occur to Rose to hide what she felt from him. She was sweetly, dreamily aroused. She wanted him to know. She lifted her head so she could look in his eyes and let him see hers.
What she saw on his face wasn’t sweet or dreamy. His jaw was taut. His focus on her was so intense, so complete, her breath caught in her throat. He lifted a hand and traced the side of her face with his fingers carefully, as if all he knew of the world must be drawn to him through his fingertips. She shivered. He bent his head, and she glimpsed his eyes before her own closed—the lids heavy, the pupils dark but gleaming from some fugitive reflection.
His lips touched
