It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. That’s Italians for you. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. “Well?” she said. . I was—I was a corespondent. Even Shari’s graduation party was put off until later in the summer when they could afford it.
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