how Jason factored into my equation either.
The first infiorata at the entrance to the festival was an elaborate depiction of Castello di Luce. It was done in a carpet of thick petals, seeds, and grass, all in pastel shades. I caught my breath at the precision of the piece; each castle stone was done in exacting detail. I knew the artist had been working on it for days, and by the end of the day’s festival, it would be gone.
“Questo è magnifico!” Marcellino said.
“It’s incredible,” I said.
“That’s wicked awesome.” Jason nodded.
A little girl who looked to be about four years old, in a darling white dress and wearing a wreath of blue delphiniums and baby’s breath perched on her honey-colored curls with trails of blue and white ribbons dangling off the back, approached me with a flower. It was a rose, a single perfect pink rose. She shyly handed it to me and then ran and hid behind her mother’s skirt. I held the flower up to my nose and called, “Grazie, bambina.”
And so it went with every stop we made to appreciate the elaborate works of flower-petal art done in the middle of the street; young children would come forward and give me a flower. I was charmed all the way down to my toes by them, and when we reached the center of the village, which was marked by a large fountain, my arms were full of the beautiful blooms.
The tiny town consisted of three-story stone buildings that housed businesses on the ground floors and residences above. There were all the usual shops—grocer, baker, butcher, leather goods, pharmacy, hardware—and even a small lending library tucked into a corner building. An enormous church resided on the far end of the main road, with a cemetery adjacent. I had walked through the cemetery before and had been awed to find headstones that dated back centuries, their epitaphs faded and covered in lichen.
Together, the three of us ate everything from arancini di riso, which were fried rice balls, to zeppole, a sort of doughnut without the hole. We drank copious amounts of Chianti, of course, watched people dance in front of the street musicians, and enjoyed the performance artists doing their skits and juggling and pantomime. It was a perfect, beautiful, amazing day that rolled into a gorgeous evening.
After a final walk around town, we paused at the fountain that marked the center of the village. It was lit up, accentuating the various parts of the life-size statue. It was a couple, mostly nude, in a passionate embrace with a sheet draped artistically around them while leaving their very accurately depicted gender-specific parts in view. The couple were staring into each other’s eyes, and it looked as if they were about to kiss, but behind her back the woman held a lethal-looking dagger.
“La tragica luna di miele, the tragic honeymoon,” Marcellino said as we paused to study it.
“So not a happily-ever-after?” Jason asked.
“No. The story is that Dante fell in love with Francesca, and even though she told him she would not marry him, he went to her father and got permission to marry her for the price of a flock of sheep. On their wedding night, she vowed to kill Dante and herself before she would submit to a man she did not love.”
“That seems like overkill—pardon the pun,” Jason said. “Speaking as a guy, a simple ‘I’m just not that into you’ would do it, no need for stabbing.”
Marcellino laughed and clapped Jason on the shoulder, almost sending him into the fountain. “I agree, my friend, no stabbing required.”
Being the only female present, I hoped they weren’t indirectly talking to me. Did I seem like the stabby type?
“Marcellino!” A woman hurried toward us; she was young and beautiful and cast a quickly masked expression of resentment in my direction before she began to speak in rapid Italian.
Jason turned to me. “Damn it—I like him.”
“It’s impossible not to,” I agreed. I glanced down at my flowers, which were looking sad after such a long day despite the wet cloth I had wrapped them in.
“He’s handsome,” he said.
“And charming,” I added.
“Successful.”
“Kind.”
“He has a good sense of humor.”
“He’s also very intelligent and speaks three languages.”
“Of course he does, and let’s not forget he owns a castle,” Jason said. He turned away silently, staring at the fountain. “I think this is where I leave you, Martin. Marcellino is clearly the better man. I hope you’ll be happy. You deserve it.”
My heart stopped. The