Read Online Ardor by Lily Prior - Free Book Online

biscuit in the kitchen; if, when we were riding the highways and byways of the region, her eyes had taken to scanning the horizon restlessly in search of a figure who sometimes, often, never came; if she allowed me to walk slowly, meanderingly, on the homeward journey rather than trot—did that make her foolish?
    These small things they could do. He could accelerate. She could slow down. The law of averages or probabilities decreed that sometimes, yes, they would meet. And then what outwardly imperceptible but seismic flutterings would discomposethem. Yet, in spite of this enormous polyp of tenderness that existed inside each, they were never able to cross the gaping chasm that separated their professional relationship from the possibility of one that was personal. The same pattern was always repeated. There was never any likelihood of their deviating from the script. They had been playing the same game of chess for the past twenty years, and the game always ended in stalemate. And because each precious longed-for encounter was invariably so dissatisfying—stilted, awkward, frustrating—before they had even parted from one another, each was already yearning for the next opportunity when they would meet, and perhaps then things would be different.
    The time of the rain of feathers was a defining moment. The conversation they had then was one of their most personal ever, and one that the nurse would always cherish as such along with her vial of down. Concetta Crocetta, an eminently sensible woman, had years ago given up hope of them being anything other than what they were to one another. Too many of her best years had been spent sighing over the doctor. She loved him yes, but she expected nothing.

CHAPTER TWO
    M eanwhile, Arcadio Carnabuci was stinging from the hole that had been rent in his dreams by Fernanda Ponderosa’s bucket of water. In his mind he went over the scene a hundred times. What had he done wrong? He couldn’t understand it. He took the precaution of cursing himself although he was still baffled as to his crime. How could it have turned out so badly? Had he not sung well enough? He considered it the performance of his life. But perhaps he was wrong. He no longer knew what to think. He tossed and turned a million times. His pajamas twisted into a straitjacket.
    And yet, he still had hope. After all, she had come. She was here. Just next door. The river of true love never did flow smoothly he remembered his mother saying, and the elder Carnabuci’s courtship had, from all accounts, not been a textbook case. He had to take heart. He would make things right. In the morning he would approach her again. It was too late now. By morning she’d see that she had acted hastily.
    Later this would be something they would joke about withtheir fine family of sons. Yes, it was a temporary blip. She was tired after her journey. She was, after all, grief-stricken over the sudden shock of her sister’s death. Perhaps only his timing had been at fault. He had surprised her. And he took consolation from this and resolved as soon as it was light to try again.
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    A short distance away, Fernanda Ponderosa had found the long-abandoned bedroom and slumped down wearily on the bed. Her own furniture would have to remain outside—she couldn’t bring it in now, and perhaps tomorrow she would be moving on again. There seemed little reason for her to stay.
    She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and that the night ahead would be long. Silvana was dead. Still she couldn’t really believe it. Although their rivalry stretched back to the time before they were even born, when each fetus had struggled for her own space, her own survival, there was a bond holding them together, and that neither could sever.
    In her tired mind, scenes from the past relived themselves vividly—birthday parties, bike rides, ball games, incidents so trivial she couldn’t think why they occurred to her now,