Margherita's Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page A

it.”
    Armando gazed at her adoringly.
    Gualtiero, the fishmonger, a sprightly sixty-two-year-old, never missed a chance to add his two cents. “Maybe if everyone starts dancing, it’ll help them digest the wild boar even better!”
    He broke out into noisy laughter and was joined by the others.
    â€œWhen a person’s holding the ladle, he can make the soup any way he wants, fishmonger! Oh, and by the way, you can forget about your sardine fair!” Bacci answered back, still visibly piqued. Besides being a town councilor, he was the most famous butcher in town.
    Baldini, the last one in the group, chipped in as well. “You’re wrong there; at least it’s something new. We’ve had enough pasta, wild boar, and ribollita fairs!”
    They were still arguing when they were joined by Salvatore, a thin man with ferretlike eyes.
    â€œWhat’ll you have? Drinks on me today! To hell with being tightfisted!”
    The five of them turned around as if they couldn’t believe their ears.
    â€œWhat are we celebrating?” Armando inquired.
    Salvatore, waving a check in front of everyone’s eyes, informed them that he’d just sold his land.
    â€œThat’s a load off my back, and anyway, if it hadn’t been me, my heirs would have seen to it! At least I can enjoy this pittance myself.” Then he turned to Baldini and added, “What are you waiting for? Careful, he might take back his offer . . .”
    Armando gave Baldini an inquisitive look. “Are you selling out, too?” he asked him.
    His friend shook his head and sighed. “I’m not really sure, it all depends on my son; I’m waiting for him to tell me what he thinks.”
    â€œThe property’s yours, and you’re still thinking about it?” Salvatore insisted. “Sell it all and enjoy the money, that’s what I say!”
    â€œBut I don’t want to sell,” Baldini replied. “Not having any land would make me feel like a snail without its shell!”
    While the others laughed, only Armando seemed to sense the bitterness in his old friend’s words. He gave him a pat on the back. “Come on, you’ll see, everything will turn out all right.” Then he pointed toward Giulia. “Why don’t you come with us? It’ll take your mind off things. Dancing the tango works miracles, and Giulia is an exceptional teacher.”
    Baldini shook his head. “You go, go and have fun. I’m waiting for my son to call.”
    Armando took Giulia’s arm. “Well, then, it’s just you and me, Madame Teacher!”

    The echo of the church bell had ceased by the time the station wagon with Margherita and her tribe on board drove past the sign that said WELCOME TO ROCCAFITTA .
    Home, at last.
    Just like every other time she returned, she felt a powerful emotion that brought a lump to her throat. This small town perched on a hill in the heart of Maremma, with the sea just a stone’s throw away, its streets filled with tourists, and so much green, so many flowers, and so much happiness, was her home. Margherita rolled down the window and breathed, filling her lungs with air. She had always believed that Roccafitta had a unique scent, a combination of sunflowers, bread that’s just come out of the oven, leather, and a hint of brackishness. The scent of home, she thought, as she steered through the alleyways, miraculously skirting clusters of tourists of multiple colors and languages stationed here, there, and everywhere.
    Finally, she stopped in front of a house that looked like it could use some repair, surrounded by a garden that threatened to turn into a jungle. On the door was a sign: I’M NOT HOME , COME BACK LATER .
    I should have let him know I was coming.
    She got out of the car and rummaged around in her Mary Poppins–style bag, searching for her keys.
    I can’t believe it . . . I hope I didn’t leave