“That, you need.” Nonna snorted. “Does he come from a good family?”
“Yes.”
“Last name?”
“Simone.”
“His mother is the female doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Very nice. What about the other one, who thinks he’s Enrico Caruso?”
Elisabetta smiled. “Marco. His father owns the bar on Tiber Island.”
“Bar GiroSport? His father is Beppe Terrizzi?”
Elisabetta detected a chill in Nonna’s mood. “What’s the matter?”
“Terrizzi’s not for you.”
“Why?”
“Elisabetta,” Nonna said with a rare sharpness. “Just mark my words. And get back to work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marco
January 1938
Marco left Casa Servano with Sandro, falling into stride as they walked through Trastevere. It was a cold night, but bars and restaurants were busy, and the street was full of families, couples, and tourists. Marco didn’t know what to say, given that both he and Sandro had evidently begun to court Elisabetta, on the very same evening. It made him uncomfortable, and Sandro hadn’t said a word to him about his intentions. In fairness, Marco hadn’t told Sandro, either, so he was in no position to blame him. Obviously, the situation needed to be sorted.
“Well.” Marco shrugged. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”
“I didn’t expect to see you there.” Sandro laughed, and Marco joined him. Humor seemed to release the pressure between them, and Marco felt like himself again.
Sandro looked over. “So, I gather our feelings for Elisabetta have grown.”
Marco nodded. “We both have excellent taste.”
“If poor timing.”
Marco noticed Sandro was better dressed than usual. “For once, you bathed.”
Sandro smiled. “Yes.”
“And a fancy scarf?”
“They wear them at La Sapienza.”
“I assumed. Very nice.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t sing, like you. A serenade, of all things!”
“I know, I’m more direct these days. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a guitar. I should have, since the song is about a guitar.”
“Yes, but you brought flowers. That was a good move.”
“Ah, but you gave her a book. She loves books.” Marco flushed, knowing he couldn’t compete on that level with Sandro. Marco was curious about the book, but didn’t want to ask. “So are you wooing Elisabetta now? Is that what I’m to understand?”
“Yes, and you are, too? Albeit off-key?”
“How dare you.” Marco chuckled. “I sang beautifully.”
Sandro nodded. “Just like an alley cat.”
Marco recoiled in mock offense. “I sing with gusto.”
“You do everything with gusto.”
“Exactly! That’s what’s so great about me!” Marco threw up his hands, exulting comically, then turned abruptly serious. “But what are we going to do, brother? We’re best friends—and we want the same girl.”
“What’s there to do?” Sandro shrugged.
“It’s obvious.” Marco shot him a sly look. “You need to move along. Elisabetta is taken.”
Sandro chuckled. “Sorry, but no. My heart is set on her.”
“You really can’t court another, Sandro?”
“I’m not interested in another. Only Elisabetta.”
“Since when?”
Sandro shrugged.
Marco asked, “Did you kiss her by the river that day?”
“Yes, and she kissed me back.” Sandro winked. “Come on, what about you, Marco? Why don’t you court another? You can have your pick. Angela is crazy about you. They all are. They swoon.”
“Elisabetta’s the one I want. I suggest you step aside before further embarrassment.”
Sandro’s eyes widened theatrically. “Me?”
“Yes, sacrifice yourself on the altar of love. That would be so like you.” Marco clapped. “Bravo, noble Sandro!”
“Do you want to be the one to tell her that we made her decision for her?”
“An excellent point.”
They walked along, quiet for a moment until Sandro spoke. “Our friendship is strong enough to withstand a test, don’t you think?”
Marco thought it over, for it was a serious question. “Absolutely,” he answered, after a moment.
“I don’t mind a friendly competition, do you?”
“No. If I have to compete for Elisabetta, so be it. You’re worthy of her. If it isn’t to be me, I’d want it to be you.”
“I feel the same way. May the better man win.” Sandro extended his hand, and Marco shook it firmly, then grinned.
“You know she’ll choose me. How could she not?”
“Incredible.” Sandro chuckled. “I was just thinking the same thing. About me.”
Marco smiled. “You know, we have so much in common, we should be friends.”
“Agree!” Sandro threw an arm around him, and they walked home together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Elisabetta
January 1938
Elisabetta waited for Marco, checking her reflection in a window. She looked pretty enough, in her dark blue cloth coat and one of her best dresses, paired with brown pumps that had looked worn until she had wiped them with a damp cloth. She had on reddish lipstick borrowed from Paolo’s wife, Sophia, which made her feel grown-up. She had curled her hair and even used some French perfume that her mother had left behind,