Read Online The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucretia Grindle
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no exception. I leave him searching for a tie, and walk back across the river to buy the morning paper and the bitter marmalade-filled croissants that Billy and I have become addicted to.
The shop just down from our building is always crowded in the morning. The bakery trays arrive early and sell out fast, and the papers arrive at about the same time, tied in bundles, which makes it an acquired art to pull one out without ripping it in half. In the normal course of things, the large barrel-shaped signora rushes here and there, her dyed red hair bouncing up and down in a solid helmet of curls as she throws pastries into paper bags, works the till, and keeps a hand free to tug down her very short skirt and swat at children who are fingering the fruit.
For the last few mornings, however, the shop has been less chaotic than usual. I figure that this must be due to the fact that the âHelp Wantedâ sign thatâs been in the window since I arrived is gone, so now the signora has time to join her customers, most of whom hang around before and after theyâve shopped to chat about the weather and the prime minister and the shocking price of housing. When I come in, sheâs in rapid-fire conversation with a wizened old man whose dachshund is lifting his leg on a crate of wine bottles. She nods when she sees me eyeing the pastry tray and shouts, â Allora , Marcello!â without taking so much as an extra breath.
Marcello is presumably the result of the sign. He appears from behind the beaded curtain at the back and shuffles to the counter, eyes lowered and shoulders hunched. A solid young man in a dark sweater, thereâs something oddly insubstantial about him, as if he wishes he could disappear. Taking my coins, he almost drops them, but when he mumbles â dispiace â and suddenly looks me in the eye, Iâm struck by how sweet his face is, oval and almost childlike, although he must be in his early twenties. His eyes drop, long lashes brushing the rising pink on his cheeks. The poor guyâs so painfully shy that his hands actually tremble as he gives me my bag.
When I get home it turns out there are six croissants in the bag instead of the four I paid for. Maybe a mistake, I think, and then flatter myself with the idea of maybe not. Silly as it is, this gives me a little flush of pleasure. Itâs the hair, I guess. Or perhaps thereâs truth in the old saw after all, that being in love makes you beautiful. I lay the croissants on a plate, almost tenderly, proof positive as they are of the new me. Then I spread the paper to see if thereâs anything in it about Ginevra Montelleone.
There isnât a word. It looks like Pieroâs right. This isnât his paper, but she isnât a story for this editor either. At least not today. Most of the headlines are taken up by arguments about immigration and the economy, and by a piece on Vatican politics. So Iâm not surprised to find Massimo DâErreti staring out at me from the bottom of the page. I study him, looking to see if he really does look like those paintings of Richelieu, and have just about decided he doesnât, not even a little bit, when Billy comes up behind me.
âWhoâs the hunk?â she asks, making me jump so badly I almost choke on my coffee.
âJesus, I wish you wouldnât do that!â I wipe my chin with the back of my hand, and she grins and reaches over me for a croissant.
âJumpy? Didnât get much sleep last night?â
A shower of crumbs falls onto the cardinalâs face, and as Billy brushes them away with the back of her hand, I realize sheâs right, he is handsome. Itâs something of a revelation. I never thought of him that way before. Billy smirks and glides out of the kitchen without making a sound. This is something Iâve learned in the month Iâve lived with her, for a very tall person, Billy is unusually silent.
Itâs disconcerting. Last
The shop just down from our building is always crowded in the morning. The bakery trays arrive early and sell out fast, and the papers arrive at about the same time, tied in bundles, which makes it an acquired art to pull one out without ripping it in half. In the normal course of things, the large barrel-shaped signora rushes here and there, her dyed red hair bouncing up and down in a solid helmet of curls as she throws pastries into paper bags, works the till, and keeps a hand free to tug down her very short skirt and swat at children who are fingering the fruit.
For the last few mornings, however, the shop has been less chaotic than usual. I figure that this must be due to the fact that the âHelp Wantedâ sign thatâs been in the window since I arrived is gone, so now the signora has time to join her customers, most of whom hang around before and after theyâve shopped to chat about the weather and the prime minister and the shocking price of housing. When I come in, sheâs in rapid-fire conversation with a wizened old man whose dachshund is lifting his leg on a crate of wine bottles. She nods when she sees me eyeing the pastry tray and shouts, â Allora , Marcello!â without taking so much as an extra breath.
Marcello is presumably the result of the sign. He appears from behind the beaded curtain at the back and shuffles to the counter, eyes lowered and shoulders hunched. A solid young man in a dark sweater, thereâs something oddly insubstantial about him, as if he wishes he could disappear. Taking my coins, he almost drops them, but when he mumbles â dispiace â and suddenly looks me in the eye, Iâm struck by how sweet his face is, oval and almost childlike, although he must be in his early twenties. His eyes drop, long lashes brushing the rising pink on his cheeks. The poor guyâs so painfully shy that his hands actually tremble as he gives me my bag.
When I get home it turns out there are six croissants in the bag instead of the four I paid for. Maybe a mistake, I think, and then flatter myself with the idea of maybe not. Silly as it is, this gives me a little flush of pleasure. Itâs the hair, I guess. Or perhaps thereâs truth in the old saw after all, that being in love makes you beautiful. I lay the croissants on a plate, almost tenderly, proof positive as they are of the new me. Then I spread the paper to see if thereâs anything in it about Ginevra Montelleone.
There isnât a word. It looks like Pieroâs right. This isnât his paper, but she isnât a story for this editor either. At least not today. Most of the headlines are taken up by arguments about immigration and the economy, and by a piece on Vatican politics. So Iâm not surprised to find Massimo DâErreti staring out at me from the bottom of the page. I study him, looking to see if he really does look like those paintings of Richelieu, and have just about decided he doesnât, not even a little bit, when Billy comes up behind me.
âWhoâs the hunk?â she asks, making me jump so badly I almost choke on my coffee.
âJesus, I wish you wouldnât do that!â I wipe my chin with the back of my hand, and she grins and reaches over me for a croissant.
âJumpy? Didnât get much sleep last night?â
A shower of crumbs falls onto the cardinalâs face, and as Billy brushes them away with the back of her hand, I realize sheâs right, he is handsome. Itâs something of a revelation. I never thought of him that way before. Billy smirks and glides out of the kitchen without making a sound. This is something Iâve learned in the month Iâve lived with her, for a very tall person, Billy is unusually silent.
Itâs disconcerting. Last
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