She snorted and took a swing at him. She’d noticed that hesitation. But his reply still gave her a smile. “You were born to be hung, Benito. I ain’t pretty! Now, according to that Sarispelli girl, if only you could kiss as sweet as you talk, you’d be inside the pants of every girl in town.”
* * *
Benito felt himself blushing. He had thought that he didn’t do that anymore. Still, she’d spotted that hesitation. Merda. Women didn’t feel the same way about this as men did. Well, except for Marco. But Caesare just did what a real man did. Played the field. At the same time he also felt for Maria. She so wanted Caesare. But there was no way she’d keep him except as a part-time lover.
And the funny thing was that Maria Garavelli was pretty. She was more than just pretty. She was . . . Maria. Tough as nails. She had to be, as a woman alone, working small cargos on the canals. But there was a gentle side to her too. She really was quite something, compared to, say, Lisa Sarispelli who was only a year younger than Maria, but good only for kissing, and . . . well a bit of fumbling experimentation. Maria was worth ten of her. Maria was working so hard with her speech, and getting Marco to teach her to read now . . . All to try to raise herself up to Caesare’s level. To keep him. Regretfully, Benito knew that there was just no way she could do it. Caesare . . . well, he and Marco owed him. But Benito could sense that Caesare had ambitions that went a long way beyond a canaler wife. It would all come apart one day. And Benito didn’t want to be around when it happened. Best to try to lead off the subject.
“I’m workin’ on the kissing,” Benito said, with a shrug. “I mean, how’s a fellow supposed to get better without getting some experience?”
Maria snorted. Benito noticed she was smiling, however. “Just be careful it don’t end up with her up the spout or you with the French pox, ‘Nito.”
She walked off. When she was well gone, Benito exhaled. Long and slow. He’d better have a word with Caesare about this. Men had to stick together.
* * *
Maria was too preoccupied to be keeping a proper lookout. Normally this was what she did well. Nobody could sneak up on her. It was a lesson a woman learned quickly out on the water . . . or else. Especially on a foggy morning like this. She knew she wasn’t looking out properly . . .
But Caesare’s infidelity was preying on her mind. Should she confront him? Did she hope it was just a once-off? Just pretend it had never happened. So many times she’d said to herself: Just enjoy now. Don’t even dream about tomorrow. Just be grateful for what you have got, now. He was so beautiful. So refined. She was just a canal girl. . . .
Something bumped into her boat. Maria nearly dropped her paddle and jumped overboard. To her relief it was only a hooded girl in an even shabbier gondola than her own.
“Idiot! Look where you’re going!” snapped Maria.
The girl held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry. This fog. I misjudged the distance. I just wanted to ask you something.”
Maria had placed her now. Working nights—as she did sometimes for Giaccomo’s cargos—she’d seen her before. Also, lately, in the early mornings. She was the one the canalers called “the Spook.” Someone who sculled a gondola like she was canal born and bred, but nobody knew her. She was nobody’s family. Looking at that dress under the hooded cloak, Maria guessed it was because she wasn’t anyone’s family.
The dress was old, but had once been very good. Too good for canal. And word was out on the water that you stayed clear of her. Word was she had connections that could get you hurt. Strega. Maria tensed. She really didn’t need any more trouble now.
“Yeah? What?” she asked warily. She can’t be more than a year older than me, thought Maria. And I’ve got bigger shoulders. I could tip her into the water and hit her over the head with a paddle. In this fog, nobody’d be the wiser. Hear what it was she wanted and if it was trouble . . . In her heart of hearts she wondered if she could do it.