Chapter 4
The maddening thing about losing someone close is that although time stills in the space of one moment for you, everyone else carries on.
Nets are mended, meals are eaten, accounts are paid, and gardens planted as if your shattered heart isn’t having to rebuild itself piece by piece.
Byssus, too, carries on, and Allegra and the family who remained learned to find some measure of comfort in the predictable routine of their work.
“We’re stewards,” her mother said. “We steward the sea’s offerings, the gift of our family, and we also steward our pain.”
“How can we possibly do that?” she’d asked, in the time just after Ella had gone.
“It’s what we’ve been given, and we can make something of it, as hard as it is, so it’s not wasted. All these tears must be watering something.”
Allegra sighed. “There have been enough to fill an entire well.”
“We have to see what we can draw from it. Maybe not today,” her mother admitted. “But something will spring from this if we let it.”
Ella’s absence constantly reminded Allegra how quickly ties can be severed.
The loss of her sister became a sort of beacon to her, a warning to take care and treasure those she loved.
She fashioned a delicate pouch made of byssus with a simple drawstring enclosure and placed in it a lock of Ella’s hair and the five fish scales she’d kept from that day in the market.
The family still had each other, their health, and work that needed doing.
Though it sometimes made her grit her teeth, life marched forward, in spite of it all.
Fully a year after Ella’s death, Allegra sensed herself growing around the stone of loss that seemed mortared into her heart.
She still missed Ella, still thought of that day in the market and likely always would, but she was slowly learning how to bear the stone’s weight as she went about her days.
It no longer anchored her in place and restricted her breathing.
She recognized pleasure again, able to enjoy the sun on her face or the brine of an oyster.
The small town of Sant’Antioco, where Allegra and her family lived, rarely saw tourists or visitors.
It was on an island’s island, a dot off the southwest coast of Sardegna itself.
They called it Sardegna’s beauty mark. Their community numbered only a few hundred, and those were families of farmers, fishermen, miners, and a few shopkeepers.
Business owners lived in the town, and those who worked in the sea and fields made their homes on the outskirts.
There was a small school and a church for the Catholics.
If a boat sailed into the quay, its occupants would have a full view of most of the town and the homes of those who lived there with just a slight swivel of their heads.
Allegra’s family, along with most of the families associated with weaving the byssus, lived two miles or so outside of town, such as it was.
They belonged to the small Jewish community on the island, their synagogue an informal back room in their neighbor’s house.
On holidays, they pooled their resources—a menorah from this one, candles from another.
They were scattered in homes beyond the tide’s reach, but close enough for a brisk walk to the byssus cove.
Although she knew practically everyone on their side of the island and some from farther afield, she was sure she’d never seen the boy she spotted knocking barnacles off the blue and white fishing trawler at the docks.
Allegra was on her way to the small market with a list from Mamma when the image of the young man with the tanned back and dark curls stopped her in her tracks.
Muscled and wiry, he was waist deep in the harbor near the quay, holding his boat steady with one hand while scraping the hull with a wooden spatula in his other.
He waved and called good-naturedly to the pescatori in the other boats motoring in.
She put a hand up to shade her eyes from the sun and see better. Who was that in the water?
That, of course, was the exact moment the young man chose to toss his tool into the boat, launch himself up and over its side, and turn his face toward the market area.
The wide grin that spread across his face told her he’d seen her obvious ogling—that, and the way he casually tipped his head to nod at her as he righted himself in the boat.
Allegra dropped her hand and turned on her heel with a swish of her black skirt, disappearing into the safe and much less intimidating interior of the shop behind her.
Like many of the negozios that lined the main street along the quay, the windows of the dry goods store displayed small byssus weavings—handkerchief-size tapestries or light linen embroidered with the golden thread.
Not for sale, they highlighted and honored the unique art of the area.
Allegra stopped for a moment to admire the handiwork and catch her breath from the hasty retreat she’d made.
A few different patterns reflected the light today.
One of the weavers must have recently brought some for the display.
Allegra could usually recognize the weaver by the subject matter.
Some wove native fishes and boats, some focused on flora like the purple-flowered saffron or strawberry tree laden with gold and yellow ripening fruits, while others—like her mamma—were skilled enough to depict an entire story within a small square.
Her favorite was a tapestry the size of a pillowcase that her mamma had woven over a span of two years: the night sky with constellations glittering in place over a moonlit ocean, with a gap in the heavens where the fingers of God’s hand seemed to pry back the night to peer below.
It was stretched in a wooden frame now, hung on the wall of their gathering room, above the loom where she’d woven it.
Allegra glanced at the list in her hand and remembered why she’d come. Flour, soap, and molasses, if it was available. She turned and searched the small shop for its owner.
“Signor Sanna?” she ventured. “Do you have any molasses in today?”
The man popped up from where he’d been bent behind the broad wooden counter.
“Ah, Allegra. After something sweet?” He wiped his hands on the white front of his apron, stretched tight across his ample girth, and walked her to a tidy shelf in the back, the floorboards creaking beneath his tall boots.
“Brought over from Roma just yesterday, so you’re in luck.
” He handed her a glass bottle of the dark treacle, stoppered with a bit of cork.
“Perfetto,” she said. “Mamma wants to make some small cakes, and she was hoping to add something special.” The shop door’s bell jingled, and Signor Sanna left her to the rest of her list.
As she headed to find the soaps, the unmistakable voice of the young man from the harbor reached her ears.
She ducked down and peered around the end of the aisle.
There he was, joking and chatting with Signor Sanna.
He’d donned a shirt, its white linen collar damp where his dark curls still dripped seawater from beneath his long stocking cap.
Even from her vantage point, Allegra noticed he stood tall, his lithe form as apt to haul in nets full of fish as dance the tarantella.
As he spoke, his hands hastily buttoned the front of his mastruca, the familiar sleeveless jacket made of sheepskin.
“Buongiorno, Signor Sanna. Have you any seada?” he asked.
A sweet tooth, thought Allegra. She, too, loved the traditional pastry, fried and filled with lemon pecorino.
Her mouth watered as she imagined the honeyed taste on her tongue.
She found the soap and sugar and headed to the counter for her purchase while the shopkeeper wrapped the young man’s parcel in thin brown paper.
“Found all you need, Allegra?” the older man asked. Nodding to the young man, he gestured to her. “If you will permit—”
“Of course, of course. Take your time.” The young man smiled at her, fixing her with his merry nut-brown eyes.
Allegra nodded her thanks and paid for the groceries.
She didn’t risk casting a backward glance as she left the store.
All this nonsense for a stranger, she thought, dismissing the flush that crept up her neck.
He likely hadn’t noticed her at all, and all her flutter was her imagination on a fool’s errand.
She quickened her steps on the path toward home, kicking up flashes of the red and green fabric in the panels of her skirt as she walked.
“Allegra!” She stopped and turned. She’d made it as far as the end of the quay and had been heading toward the edge of town.
“Allegra!” he called again. It was the young man.
He trotted after her, his parcel in hand, and closed the distance between them, not in the least winded.
“Scusami,” he said. “I heard Signor Sanna say your name.”
She waited, her eyes drinking in his features up close. His fine, sharp nose; a jaw darkened by a few days’ beard growth; brows that rose upward with an unspoken question.
“I saw you from the boat,” he began. “In the water.” The corners of Allegra’s mouth curved with his display of nervousness.
Perhaps she hadn’t conjured the encounter after all.
“Forgive me for chasing you,” he backpedaled.
“I’ve seen you before.” He gestured back toward town.
“Walking on the quay with others. More than once, walking into Signor Sanna’s.
But I was always working on the boat or had my hands full of fish. ”
She still hadn’t spoken a word, and he tried another tack. “I wondered if you might like some seada?” He held out the parcel she’d watched the shopkeeper wrap. “I bought them to share with you.”
“You don’t even know me.” She realized as she spoke that her words came across as rude.
He grinned at her. “But I’d like to. I’ve inquired.
” This surprised her. In their closeted hamlet, people talked, and no gossip had reached her about a handsome sailor asking after her.
And he was handsome. When he smiled like that, his eyes sparkled and teased, so she couldn’t help but smile in return.
He swept his dark curls away from his face.
His brows rose again as he answered the questions she had wanted to ask while he unfolded the paper, revealing the golden sugared pastry, its sweet citrusy scent wafting out. “My name is Johann Renda. I’ve recently arrived from east of Cagliari. The capital is too much city for me.”
Allegra had only been to Cagliari once, years ago, sailing two hours around the southern edge of the island to attend a wedding with her family.
Compared to their slow and sleepy mariner town, she remembered the place as a confusing maze of streets and shops, constantly busy with people and carts. Too much city, indeed. She nodded.
“You already know my name, it seems,” she said, and she picked a seada from the package he offered. “So you’re a pescatore, then. Like my father and brothers.” The seada was still warm, and a bit of the lemony cheese oozed out as she bit into it. She closed her eyes, savoring it. “Mmm, delicious.”
She could see her response pleased him, and she was glad.
Her sister Ella sprang to mind then, and a stab of guilt pricked her heart.
Should she be allowed this pleasure? This—whatever this was—could go no further unless they had an understanding.
It wasn’t unusual for courtships to form quickly if families agreed.
“Why Sant’Antioco?” she asked. “Why not Corsica or elsewhere?”
“My father used to come here in his childhood to visit relatives. He told stories at dinner about how special it was.” There was the grin again.
“He made up things about mermaids and how beautiful all the women were. When I grew tired of the capital, I had to see for myself. I haven’t seen a mermaid yet, but the rest seems true. ”
Allegra felt her face flame, and she dropped her head, hiding a smile.
“Would it be all right to walk with you?” he asked.
Allegra swallowed the seada. “That depends,” she answered. “Did you notice the woven tapestries displayed in the storefront? If you’ve been here only a short time, what do you know about the women who weave them?”
“The water women?” He brushed an unruly lock from his face. “They’re a sect, aren’t they? A tribe of artists? Some say what they do is la magia.”
Allegra licked her fingers, sticky from the remains of the sweet pastry. “Magic?” She pursed her lips. “I hardly think so.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because I’m one of them,” she replied, searching his face. “Now, do you still wish to walk with me?”
Johann’s lips curved into a wide grin, and he nodded. “Definitely,” he said. “Lead the way.”